One Hundred Years of Solitude

he could barely be heard
breathing. He seemed to be
taking refuge in some other
time, while his father and the
gypsy with shouts interpreted
the predictions of
Nostradamus amidst a noise
of flasks and trays and the
disaster of spilled acids and
silver bromide that was lost in
the twists and turns it gave at
every instant. That dedication
to his work, the good
judgment with which he