One Hundred Years of Solitude

the squalid woman, still
dressed in clothing of the past
century, with a few yellow
threads on her bald head, and
with two large eyes, still
beautiful, in which the last
stars of hope had gone out,
and the skin of her face was
wrinkled by the aridity of
solitude. Shaken by that
vision from another world,
Aureliano Triste barely
noticed that the woman was
aiming an antiquated pistol at