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“Al verla así, dentro del marco idílico de la ventana, no quise creer que aquella mujer fuera la que yo creía, porque me resistía a admitir que la vida terminara por parecerse tanto a la mala literatura.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Chronicle of a Death Foretold

“For Albertine’s death to have suppressed my suffering, the mortal blow would have had to kill her not only in Touraine, but within me. There, she had never been more alive. To enter inside us, people have been obliged to take on the form and to fit into the framework of time; appearing to us only in successive instants, they have never managed to reveal to us more than one aspect, print more than a single photograph of themselves at a time. This is no doubt a great weakness in human beings, to consist in a simple collection of moments; yet a great strength too; they depend on memory, and our memory of a moment is not informed of everything that has happened since, the moment which it registered still lives on and, with it, the person whose form was sketched within it. And then this fragmentation not only makes the dead person live on, it multiplies her forms. In order to console myself, I would have had to forget not one but innumerable Albertines. When I had succeeded in accepting the grief of having lost one of them, I would have to begin again with another, with a hundred others.”
― Marcel Proust, The Fugitive: In Search of Lost Time, Volume 6

“She devoted herself with such spirit of sacrifice to the care of her husband and the rearing of her children that at times one forgot she still existed.”
― Gabriel García Márquez, Chronicle of a Death Foretold

“En la furia de su tormento trataba inútilmente de provocar los presagios que guiaron su juventud por senderos de peligro hasta el desolado yermo de la gloria. Estaba perdido, extraviado en una casa ajena donde ya nada ni nadie le suscitaba el menor vestigio de afecto. Una vez abrió el cuarto de Melquíades, buscando los rastros de un pasado anterior a la guerra, y solo encontró los escombros, la basura, los montones de porquería acumulados por tantos años de abandono. En las pastas de los libros que nadie había vuelto a leer, en los viejos pergaminos macerados por la humedad había prosperado una flor lívida, y en el aire que había sido el más puro y lumimoso de la casa flotaba un insoportable olor de recuerdos podridos”
― Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude