One Hundred Years of Solitude

to the workshop. This is a
disaster, he said. Look at the
air, listen to the buzzing of
the sun, the same as yesterday
and the day before. Today is
Monday too. That night
Pietro Crespi found him on
the porch, weeping for
Prudencio Aguilar, for
Melquíades, for Rebecas
parents, for his mother and
father, for all of those he
could remember and who
were now alone in death. He