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Everyone who spends time in this garden does so only in order to be in a garden. Probably she has now reached the right place at the right point in her life, for she too is spending time in her life only in order to be alive.

He felt more at home among the animals who sooner or later became his quarry than among human beings. Sometimes he stayed away from the village for a long time, and then he'd start coming again, so that you couldn't tell whether nor he'd died yet. Now it seemed the village no longer existed, but perhaps the hunter was till roaming through the woods. Or else he'd long since lain down among the animals and died there

Down on the bottom where the water was quite calm, on the streets and squares of this city, she could even make out people if she squinted, they were walking about, sitting or standing, leaning up against something or other- through the glittering surface of the lake she saw the silent throng of all those inhabitants of the city who had sunk beneath the waves along with it, who moved about quite normally

Embodying is the act of staying put is his profession. Creating an interior. Digging deeper and deeper in a place where there is nothing.

How bitter it is that he is having to bury everything. The porcelain from Meissen, his pewter pitcher and silver. As if it were wartime. He himself doesn't know whether he is burying something or simply laying in provisions for his return. He doesn't even know if there's any real difference between the two.

In a household where a death has taken place, the clock must be stopped at once. The mirror is covered with a cloth, otherwise you will see two dead people. The uppermost windows are opened, and if the roof has no dormers, one roof tile is removed so that the soul can escape. The dead person is washed and dressed. A man is dressed in a black walking coat, a woman in her black dress.

There was no mystery in the heart of a Buendia 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.

She finally mixed up the past with the present in such a way that in the two or three waves of lucidity that she had before she died, no one knew for certain whether she was speaking about what she felt or what she remembered. Little by little she was shrinking, turning into a foetus, becoming mummified in life to the point that in her last months she was a cherry raisin lost inside of her nightgown..

She finally mixed up the past with the present in such a way that in the two or three waves of lucidity that she had before she died, no one knew for certain whether she was speaking about what she felt or what she remembered. Little by little she was shrinking, turning into a foetus, becoming mummified in life to the point that in her last months she was a cherry raisin lost inside of her nightgown..

She was gigantic and sturdy, but her over colossal form a tenderness of femininity prevailed and she had a face that was so beautiful, hands so fine and well cared for, and such as irresistible personal charm that when Aureliano Segundo saw her enter the house he commented in a low voice that he would have preferred to have the tourney in bed and not at the table.

She was gigantic and sturdy, but her over colossal form a tenderness of femininity prevailed and she had a face that was so beautiful, hands so fine and well cared for, and such as irresistible personal charm that when Aureliano Segundo saw her enter the house he commented in a low voice that he would have preferred to have the tourney in bed and not at the table.

It was then that they saw to what a fantastic point her separation from the world had arrived and they understood that it would be impossible to rescue her from her stubborn enclosure while she still had a breath of life in her.

They promised each other to set up a breeding farm for magnificent birds, not so much to enjoy their victories, which they would not need then, as to have something to do on the tedious Sundays of death.

The rigour of the mourning for Remedios has been relegated to the background by the modifications of the war, Aureliano's absence, Arcadio's brutality, and the expulsion of Jose Arcadio and Rebeca.

After many years of death the yearning for the living was so intense, the need for company so pressing, so terrifying the nearness of that other death which exists within death, that Prudencio Aguilar had ended up loving his worst enemy.

No one was upset that the government had not helped them. On the contrary, they were happy that up until then it had let them grow in peace, and he hoped that it would continue leaving them that way, because they had not founded a town so that the first upstart who come along would tell them what to do.

It's like an earthquake.

But curiosity was greater than fear, for that time the gypsies went about the town making a deafening noise with all manner of musical instruments while a hawker announced the exhibition of the most fabulous discovery of the Naciancenes. So that everyone went to the tent and by paying one cent they saw a youthful Melaquiades, recovered, unwrinkled, with a new and flashing set of teeth.

Have been very busy off late, got married on 8th, couldn't have found time for Goodreads. Would be returning here soon to read wonderful reviews and updates from dear friends!
Missed this great place!!

Gently flows the gentle Don,
Yellow moonlight leaps the sill,

Leaps the sill and stops astonished
as it sees the shade

Of a woman lying ill,
Of a woman stretched alone.

Son in irons and husband clay.
Pray. Pray.

Black and enduring separation
I share equally with you.
Why weep? Give me your hand,
Promise me you will come again.
You and I are like high
Mountains and we can't move closer.
Just send me word
At midnight sometime through the stars
So again we triumph!
Again we do not come!
Our speeches silent,
Our words, dumb.
Our eyes that have not met
Again, are lost:
And only tears forget
The grip of frost.

From the great
Winter I have waited long,
Like a monk's white
Habit I have put it on.
Calmly I sit in the light
I shall return.
There's one place to cross,
The ancient ferry...Now
With the woman of Litezh
Nobody will go,
Not brother nor neighbor of mine
Will be there, nor my first
Husband-only a pine
Branch and a sunny verse
That I picked up
When a beggar let it fall...
In the house where I'll stop
Repose of my soul.

Dante

He did not return, even after his death, to
That ancient city he was rooted in.
Going away, he did not pause for breath
Nor look back. My song is foe him.
Torches, night, a last embrace,
Fate, a wild howl, at his threshold.
Out of hell he sent her his curse
And in heaven could not forget her.

Muse

When at night I wait for her to come,
Life, it seems, hangs by a single strand.
What are glory, youth, freedom, in comparison
With the dear welcome guest, a flute in hand?

She enters now. Pushing her veil aside,
She stares through me with her attentiveness.
I question her: 'And were you Dante's guide,
Dictating the Inferno?' She answers: 'Yes'.

Lying in me, as though it were a while
Stone in the depths of a well, is one
Memory that I cannot, will not flight:
It is happiness, and it is pain.

Anyone looking straight into my eyes
Could not help seeing it, and could not fail
To become thoughtful, more sad and quiet
Than if he were listening to some tragic tale.

I

When you spent your kopek's worth
Of happiness with your new friend,
And like a taste that sates the mouth
Your soul has recognized the end-
Don't come crawling like a whelp
Into my bed of loneliness.
I don't know you. Nor could I help.
I'm not yet cured if happiness.

We're all drunkards here. Harlots.
Joylessly we're struck together
On the walls, scarlet
Flowers, birds of a feather

Pine for clouds. Your black pipe
Makes strange shapes rise
I wear my skirt tight
To my slim thighs.

Windows tightly shut.
What's that Frost Thunder
Did you steal your eyes, I wonder
From a cautious cat

O my heart, how you yearn
For your dying hour...
And that woman dancing there
Will eternally burn.

- You've come to put me in the grave.
Where is your shovel and your spade?
You're carrying just a flute.
I'm not going to blame you,
Sadly a long time ago
My voice fell mute.

Memory of sun seeps from the heart
Grass grows yellower
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
hover,
Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels
Nothing at all will happen here again
Will ever happen
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan
The silk's torn off
Maybe it's better I did not become
Your wife
Memory of sun seeps from the heart
What is it-Dark
Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us
In the night

Memory of sun seeps from the heart
Grass grows yellower
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
hover, ho
Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels
Nothing at all will happen here again
Will ever happen
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan
The silk's torn off
Maybe it's better I did not become
Your wife
Memory of sun seeps from the heart
What is it-Dark
Perhaps Winter will have occupied us
In the night