One Hundred Years of Solitude

listen to the methodical,
stubborn, heartless scales and
think that that music was in
the world while she was
being consumed as she wove
funeral wreaths. Her mother,
perspiring with five-oclock
fever, spoke to her of the
splendor of the past. When
she was a little girl, on one
moonlit night Fernanda saw a
beautiful woman dressed in
white crossing the garden
toward the chapel. What