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“Things have a life of their own,” the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. “It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.”
He considered it a trick of his whimsical fate to have searched for the sea without finding it, at the cost of countless sacrifices and suffering, and to have found it all of a sudden without looking for it, as if it lay across his path like an insurmountable object.
Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters.
Remedios in the soporific air of two in the afternoon, Remedios in the soft breath of the roses, Remedios in the water-clock secrets of the moths, Remedios in the steaming morning bread, Remedios everywhere and Remedios forever.
He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians.
“What did you expect?” Úrsula sighed. “Time passes.” “That’s how it goes,” Aureliano admitted, “but not so much.”
“The best friend a person has,” he would say at that time, “is one who has just died.” He
devil had probably won his rebellion against God, and that he was the one who sat on the heavenly throne, without revealing his true identity in order to trap the unwary.
the secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.
a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.”
he had won and lost for the same reason, pure and sinful pride.
“What did you expect?” he murmured. “Time passes.” “That’s how it goes,” Úrsula said, “but not so much.”
The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her.
“The world must be all fucked up,” he said then, “when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.”
races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
