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The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.
death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws. He was a fugitive from all the plagues and catastrophes that had ever lashed mankind.
It was a truly happy village where no one was over thirty years of age and where no one had died.
they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects,
Only when he began to take down the door of the room did Úrsula dare ask him what he was doing, and he answered with a certain bitterness. “Since no one wants to leave, we’ll leave all by ourselves.” Úrsula did not become upset. “We will not leave,” she said. “We will stay here, because we have had a son here.” “We have still not had a death,” he said. “A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.”
That was the way he always was, alien to the existence of his sons, partly because he considered childhood as a period of mental insufficiency, and partly because he was always too absorbed in his fantastic speculations.
