One Hundred Years Of Solitude Translations 소설 & 이야기

Since I didn’t own much, it didn’t take long. Then, I noticed something tucked beneath the bed. A navy blue journal. It was mine. Flipping it open, my eyes landed on memories I couldn’t recall but had once written. "Day one of our marriage. Shawn didn’t come home." "He said I was manipulative. That I drugged him to marry me. But I don’t even remember that night." "Attempt 1: He said even if I died in front of him, he wouldn’t flinch." "Attempt 100: If he still doesn’t care, and my parents still don’t love me, then maybe I’ll stop trying since no one in this world sees me."

"More than enough." I looked at her. Sixty two years old. Sixty years of carrying the book. Three years of translating it. Two years of watching what the translation built. Now reading novels. "Good," I said. She went back to her novel. I went back to the hall. Sat in the center. Felt the territory. The bond. The pack. The community. The fifty third name in the permanent record. The ordinary April afternoon. The path going. Still going. One name at a time. One ordinary day at a time. One step at a time.

The singer was way off-key, but everyone looked genuinely delighted. For people this lonely, hearing any singing itself was beautiful. It didn't matter whether it was good or not. Rosalyn stood silently by the door without going in. Watching their smiling faces that still couldn't hide their loneliness, she suddenly recalled a line from One Hundred Years of Solitude: 'In the end, all you're left with is your lonely self.' Looking at these elderly folks proved the quote right. Everyone would end up the same, so what was the point of fighting over love and scrambling for money? Did any of it matter in the end?

It doesn't matter that I don't see any; I'm aware of them now. I climb the stairs and can't resist pushing on a door that's partially open-cameras or no. It's directly across the hall when I reach the landing. I'm excited to find that it's a library with books lining tall oak shelves. There are two comfortable reading chairs and behind them a large business desk. I wonder if this is Moon's office. Snooping in different rooms is one thing. Going through his desk quite another, and I won't do it. I'll forget that Moon told me to treat his home as my own. Instead, I search the shelves and read titles. It's barely after twelve and I need to kill some time. I should have asked Mr. Thug where Moon

It was just a lot of questions I didn’t want at all so that’s why I don’t use the credit card on books. Pushing out a breath, I shoved the thoughts of my father to the back of my mind and refocused, running my fingers along the spines of the books I was returning. When I got to my new favorite, One Hundred Years of Solitude, I hesitated, tracing the title absentmindedly, perhaps I should give it a re-read and use it for my thesis? A voice suddenly spoke behind me, quoting a line from the book. “Death really did not matter to him, but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear, but of nostalgia.”

"Not translate. Read what was actually in the room when they were written. What the people felt. What they knew. What didn't make it into the words." A silence. "That's not something I had considered," Sister Benedetta says. "Neither had I until thirty seconds ago," I say. Another silence. "The oldest document," she says. "The one we can only partially translate." "Yes," I say. "She might be able to read what the translator cannot," she says. "When she's ready," I say. "When she's ready," Sister Benedetta says. We sit with that. The specific enormity of a thing arriving that has been moving toward this for six centuries.