Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

There is no greater glory than to die for love.

Just imagine, a cow on the balcony of the nation, what an awful thing, what a shitty country.

In that way the long-awaited visit, for which both had prepared questions and had even anticipated answers, was once more the usual everyday conversation.

I don't have a method. All I do is read a lot, think a lot, and rewrite constantly. It's not a scientific thing.

My most important problem was destroying the lines of demarcation that separate what seems real from what seems fantastic.

If God hadn't rested on Sunday, He would have had time to finish the world.