One Hundred Years of Solitude

memory that he had of her,
the afternoon when he had the
premonition that a pot of
boiling soup was going to fall
off the table, and he found her
broken to pieces. In an instant
he discovered the scratches,
the welts, the sores, the
ulcers, and the scan that had
been left on her by more than
half a century of daily life,
and he saw that those
damages did not even arouse
a feeling of pity in him. Then