Why were you so old when we met? I answered with the truth: Age isn't how old you are but how old you feel.

The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.

Both described at the same time how it was always March there and always Monday, and then they understood that José Arcadio Buendía was not as crazy as the family said, but that he was the only one who had enough lucidity to sense the truth of the fact that time also stumbled and had accidents and could therefore splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room.

A man knows when he is growing old because he begins to look like his father.

In some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absense, Jose Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary.

Ultimately, literature is nothing but carpentry. With both you are working with reality, a material just as hard as wood.

Fame is very agreeable, but the bad thing is that it goes on 24 hours a day.