One Hundred Years of Solitude

not put the blame on her
staggering old age or the dark
clouds that barely permitted
her to make out the shape of
things, but on something that
she herself could not really
define and that she conceived
confusedly as a progressive
breakdown of time. The years
nowadays dont pass the way
the old ones used to, she
would say, feeling that
everyday reality was slipping
through her hands. In the