oh Pilar, Pilar, where are you?
obviously part two of the previous entry.....
Catarino put a hand on his shoulder and said to him: "it's going on eleven." Aureliano[, Jose Arcadio's younger brother,] turned his head, saw the enormous disfigured face with the felt flower behind his ear, and then he lost his memory, as during times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign, where Pilar Ternera stood in her slip, barefoot, her hair down, holding a lamp over him, startled with disbelief.
"Aureliano!"
Aureliano checked his feet and raised his head. he did not know how he had come there, but he knew what his aim was, because he had carried it hidden since infancy in an inviolable backwater of his heart.
"I've come to sleep with you," he said.
His clothes were covered with mud and vomit. Pilar...did not ask any questions. She took him to the bed. She cleaned his face witha damp cloth, took off his clothes, and then got completely undressed and lowered the mosquito netting so that her children would not see them if they woke up. She had become tired of waiting for the man who would stay, of the men who had left, of the countless men who missed the road o her house, confused by the uncertainty of the card. During the wait her skin had become wrinkled, her breasts had wihtered, the coals of her heart had gone out. She felt for Aureliano in the darkness, put her hand on his stomach and kissed him on the neck with maternal tenderness. "My poor child," she murmured. Aureliano shuddered. With a calm skill, without the slightest misstep, he left his accumulated grief behind and found [his fiancee,] Remedios changed into a swamp without horizons, smelling of a raw animal and recently ironed clothes.
When he came to the surface he was weeping. First they were involuntary and broken sobs. Then he emptied himself out in an unleashed flow, feeling that something swollen and painful had burst inside of him.
She waited, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, until his body got rid of the dark material that would not let him live...
--Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cien Anos de Soledad/One Hundred Years of Solitude
Catarino put a hand on his shoulder and said to him: "it's going on eleven." Aureliano[, Jose Arcadio's younger brother,] turned his head, saw the enormous disfigured face with the felt flower behind his ear, and then he lost his memory, as during times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign, where Pilar Ternera stood in her slip, barefoot, her hair down, holding a lamp over him, startled with disbelief.
"Aureliano!"
Aureliano checked his feet and raised his head. he did not know how he had come there, but he knew what his aim was, because he had carried it hidden since infancy in an inviolable backwater of his heart.
"I've come to sleep with you," he said.
His clothes were covered with mud and vomit. Pilar...did not ask any questions. She took him to the bed. She cleaned his face witha damp cloth, took off his clothes, and then got completely undressed and lowered the mosquito netting so that her children would not see them if they woke up. She had become tired of waiting for the man who would stay, of the men who had left, of the countless men who missed the road o her house, confused by the uncertainty of the card. During the wait her skin had become wrinkled, her breasts had wihtered, the coals of her heart had gone out. She felt for Aureliano in the darkness, put her hand on his stomach and kissed him on the neck with maternal tenderness. "My poor child," she murmured. Aureliano shuddered. With a calm skill, without the slightest misstep, he left his accumulated grief behind and found [his fiancee,] Remedios changed into a swamp without horizons, smelling of a raw animal and recently ironed clothes.
When he came to the surface he was weeping. First they were involuntary and broken sobs. Then he emptied himself out in an unleashed flow, feeling that something swollen and painful had burst inside of him.
She waited, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, until his body got rid of the dark material that would not let him live...
--Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Cien Anos de Soledad/One Hundred Years of Solitude