Сто лет одиночества

           HeaskedthedeadfromRiohachaabouthim,thedeadwhocamefromtheUparValley,thosewhocamefromtheswamp,andnoonecouldtellhimbecauseMacondowasatownthatwasunknowntothedeaduntilMelquíadesarrivedandmarkeditwithasmallblackdotonthemotleymapsofdeath.JoséArcadioBuendíaconversedwithPrudencioAguilaruntildawn.Afewhourslater,wornoutbythevigil,hewentintoAureliano’sworkshopandaskedhim:"Whatdayistoday?"AurelianotoldhimthatitwasTuesday."Iwasthinkingthesamething,"JoséArcadioBuendíasaid,"butsuddenlyIrealizedthatit’sstillMonday,likeyesterday.Lookatthesky,lookatthewalls,lookatthebegonias.TodayisMondaytoo."Usedtohismanias,Aurelianopaidnoattentiontohim.Onthenextday,Wednesday,JoséArcadioBuendíawentbacktotheworkshop."Thisisadisaster,"hesaid."Lookattheair,listentothebuzzingofthesun,thesameasyesterdayandthedaybefore.TodayisMondaytoo."ThatnightPietroCrespifoundhimontheporch,weepingforPrudencioAguilar,forMelquíades,forRebeca’sparents,forhismotherandfather,forallofthosehecouldrememberandwhowerenowaloneindeath.Hegavehimamechanicalbearthatwalkedonitshindlegsonatightrope,buthecouldnotdistracthimfromhisobsession.