One Hundred Years of Solitude

that so many knives and forks
and spoons were not meant
for a human being but for a
centipede, and the only one
who could tell with her eyes
closed when the white wine
was served and on what side
and in which glass and when
the red wine and on what side
and in which glass, and not
like that peasant of an
Amaranta, may she rest in
peace, who thought that white
wine was served in the