One Hundred Years of Solitude

unhinging, which made
Fernandas bones tremble with
horror in her grave and which
kept them in a state of
perpetual excitement.
Amaranta Úrsulas shrieks,
her songs of agony would
break out the same at two in
the afternoon on the dining-
room table as at two in the
morning in the pantry. What
hurts me most, she would say,
laughing, is all the time that
we wasted. In the