One Hundred Years of Solitude

would not make him happy.
Aureliano recognized him, he
pursued the hidden paths of
his descent, and he found the
instant of his own conception
among the scorpions and the
yellow butterflies in a sunset
bathroom where a mechanic
satisfied his lust on a woman
who was giving herself out of
rebellion. He was so absorbed
that he did not feel the second
surge of wind either as its
cyclonic strength tore the