One Hundred Years of Solitude

trappings of the bedrooms, in
the dripping archways of the
garden of perennials. Until
puberty Fernanda had no
news of the world except for
the melancholy piano lessons
taken in some neighboring
house by someone who for
years and years had the drive
not to take a siesta. In the
room of her sick mother,
green and yellow under the
powdery light from the
windowpanes, she would