One Hundred Years of Solitude

permission would be granted
that one morning he cut his
hair, which at that time
reached down to his
shoulders, shaved off his
tangled beard, put on some
tight-fitting pants and a shirt
with an artificial collar that he
had inherited from he did not
know whom, and waited in
the kitchen for Fernanda to
get her breakfast. The woman
of every day, the one with her
head held high and with a