One Hundred Years of Solitude

closing doors. Her eternal
smile seemed to have been
brought on by the credulity of
her customers, who accepted
as something certain an
establishment that did not
exist except in the
imagination, because even the
tangible things there were
unreal: the furniture that fell
apart when one sat on it, the
disemboweled phonograph
with a nesting hen inside, the
garden of paper flowers, the