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December 19, 2024 - January 11, 2025
MANY YEARS LATER, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
It was a truly happy village where no one was over thirty years of age and where no one had died.
He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.
a process of aging had taken place in him that was so rapid and critical that soon he was treated as one of those useless great-grandfathers who wander about the bedrooms like shades, dragging their feet, remembering better times aloud, and whom no one bothers about or remembers really until the morning they find them dead in their bed.
As had happened with the death of his wife, as had happened to him so many times during the war with the deaths of his best friends, he did not have a feeling of sorrow but a blind and directionless rage, a broad feeling of impotence.
“What shocks me about you,” she said, smiling, “is that you always say exactly what you shouldn’t be saying.”
the banana company did not have, never had had, and never would have any workers in its service because they were all hired on a temporary and occasional basis.
she felt that doors had been invented to stay closed and that curiosity for what was going on in the street was a matter for harlots.