One Hundred Years of Solitude

the chestnut tree. He did not
feel fear or nostalgia, but an
intestinal rage at the idea that
this artificial death would not
let him see the end of so
many things that he had left
unfinished. The door opened
and a sentry came in with a
mug of coffee. On the
following day at the same
hour he would still be doing
what he was then, raging with
the pain in his armpits, and
the same thing happened. On