One Hundred Years of Solitude

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eyes became moist from
weeping even before he
noticed himself in an absurd
living room where objects
were labeled and before he
was ashamed of the solemn
nonsense written on the walls,
and even before he
recognized the newcomer
with a dazzling glow of joy. It
was Melquíades.


While Macondo was
celebrating the recovery of its

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