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“A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.”
He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude.
They were, after all, schoolchildren playing at being grown-ups.
“Remember, old friend,” he told him. “I’m not shooting you. It’s the revolution that’s shooting you.”
Úrsula wondered if it was not preferable to lie down once and for all in her grave and let them throw the earth over her, and she asked God, without fear, if he really believed that people were made of iron in order to bear so many troubles and mortifications;
Aureliano Segundo was one of those who worked hardest not to be conquered by idleness.
There was no mystery in the heart of a Buendía that was impenetrable for her because a century of cards and experience had taught her that the history of the family was a machine with unavoidable repetitions, a turning wheel that would have gone on spilling into eternity were it not for the progressive and irremediable wearing of the axle.
