One Hundred Years of Solitude

seventy-two chamberpots
piled up in the cupboards.
Then he turned on the light.
José Arcadio Segundo was
sitting on the edge of the cot,
ready to go, more solemn and
pensive than ever. In the
background were the shelves
with the shredded books, the
rolls of parchment, and the
clean and orderly worktable
with the ink still fresh in the
inkwells. There was the same
pureness in the air, the same