One Hundred Years of Solitude

that it was Monday. Then he
grabbed the bar from a door
and with the savage violence
of his uncommon strength he
smashed to dust the
equipment in the alchemy
laboratory, the daguerreotype
room, the silver workshop,
shouting like a man possessed
in some high-sounding and
fluent but completely
incomprehensible language.
He was about to finish off the
rest of the house when