One Hundred Years of Solitude

had no end, and the bet that
he had won during the first
dinner because he had
recognized in the drinking
water on board the taste of
the nighttime beets by the
springs of Lérida. With the
passage of the days, however,
the reality of life on board
mattered less and less to him
and even the most recent and
trivial happenings seemed
worthy of nostalgia, because
as the ship got farther away,