One Hundred Years of Solitude

necessary, so without pausing
he went along the eleven
blocks that separated the
house from the narrow street
where dreams had been
interpreted in other days and
he went panting into the
confused and gloomy place
where there was barely room
to move. More than a
bookstore, it looked like a
dump for used books, which
were placed in disorder on the
shelves chewed by termites,