One Hundred Years of Solitude

in the corners sticky with
cobwebs, and even in the
spaces that were supposed to
serve as passageways. On a
long table, also heaped with
old books and papers, the
proprietor was writing tireless
prose in purple letters,
somewhat outlandish, and on
the loose pages of a school
notebook. He had a handsome
head of silver hair which fell
down over his forehead like
the plume of a cockatoo, and