One Hundred Years of Solitude

smelled of boiled cauliflower
where Rocamadour was to
die. Nevertheless, news about
him was slowly becoming so
uncertain, and the letters from
the wise man so sporadic and
melancholy, that Aureliano
grew to think about them as
Amaranta Úrsula thought
about her husband, and both
of them remained floating in
an empty universe where the
only everyday and eternal
reality was love.