One Hundred Years of Solitude

recuperation and stimulation
were slowly changing into
pastoral letters of
disenchantment. One winter
night while the soup was
boiling in the fireplace, he
missed the heat of the back of
his store, the buzzing of the
sun on the dusty almond
trees, the whistle of the train
during the lethargy of siesta
time, just as in Macondo he
had missed the winter soup in
the fireplace, the cries of the