One Hundred Years of Solitude

the dust, nor the heat, both
had the atavistic vision of an
old man, his back to the
window, wearing a hat with a
brim like the wings of a crow
who spoke about the world
many years before they had
been born. Both described at
the same time how it was
always March there and
always Monday, and then
they understood that José
Arcadio Buendía was not as
crazy as the family said, but