Man at His Best, All Day Long.

Posted 6 days ago
That last time anyone saw him in this world he’d lost even the studs of his former splendor, and his soul was a shambles and his bones in disorder from the rigors of the desert, but he still had enough jingle bells left to reappear that Sunday on the socks of Santa Maria del Darien with his eternal sepulchral trunk, except that this time he wasn’t trying to sell any antidotes, but was asking in a voice cracking with emotion for the marines to shoot him in a public spectacle so that he could demonstrate on his own flesh the life-restoring properties of this supernatural creature, ladies and gentlemen, and even though you have more than enough right not to believe me after suffering so long from my tricks as a deceiver and a falsifier, I swear on the bones of my mother that this proof is nothing from the world, merely the humble truth, and in case you have any doubts left, notice that I’m not laughing the way I used to, but holding back a desire to cry.
"Blacamán The Good, Vendor of Miracles" by Gabriel Marcia Marquez.
Posted 6 days ago
The house was far from everything, in the heart of the desert, next to a settlement with miserable, burning streets where the goats committed suicide from desolation when the winds of misfortune blew.

Rest in peace, Gabriel García Márquez, writer of one of the best sentences — and some of the best stories — we’ve ever read.

(via The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Eréndira and Her Heartless Grandmother”)

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