One Hundred Years of Solitude

and a thin silk ribbon tied in a
bow in place of a necktie. He
was ruddy and languid with a
startled look and weak lips.
His black hair, shiny and
smooth, parted in the middle
of his head by a straight and
tired line, had the same
artificial appearance as the
hair on the saints. The
shadow of a well-uprooted
beard on his paraffin face
looked like a question of
conscience. His hands were