One Hundred Years of Solitude

growing old. When he passed
by the silver shop, which
Úrsula had prepared with
special diligence, he did not
even notice that the keys were
in the lock. He did not notice
the minute, tearing
destruction that time had
wreaked on the house and
that, after such a prolonged
absence, would have looked
like a disaster to any man
who had kept his memories
alive. He was not pained by