One Hundred Years of Solitude

unaware that nothing could
be sold in a town that was
sinking irrevocably into the
quicksand of forgetfulness.
He was a decrepit man.
Although his voice was also
broken by uncertainty and his
hands seemed to doubt the
existence of things, it was
evident that he came from the
world where men could still
sleep and remember. José
Arcadio Buendía found him
sitting in the living room