One Hundred Years of Solitude

in the house where he had
been born, that the dry
herring still had the same
taste on a piece of toast, that
the waterfalls in the village
still took on a perfumed smell
at dusk. They were the
notebook pages again, woven
with the purple scribbling, in
which he dedicated a special
paragraph to each one.
Nevertheless, and although he
himself did not seem to notice
it, those letters of