One Hundred Years of Solitude

house, and he bought an
eternal ticket on a train that
never stopped traveling. In
the postcards that he sent
from the way stations he
would describe with shouts
the instantaneous images that
he had seen from the window
of his coach, and it was as if
he were tearing up and
throwing into oblivion some
long, evanescent poem: the
chimerical Negroes in the
cotton fields of Louisiana, the