In Colonel no one writes , Gabriel García Márquez gave an account of human decadence and bureaucratic sloth in a nameless village in the Caribbean jungle.
A retired colonel, a former combatant in a civil war, waiting vain for a veteran's pension. Lost in the maze and the public administration's rhetoric lies his record. The colonel, with anxiety and frustration, awaiting the arrival of mail every Friday in the spring of his people. Fifteen years of the same routine expecting a letter to confirm it as a pensioner.
The colonel and his wife live surrounded by the hope of a pension that is less and the memory of a murdered son and revolutionary, of which only left them a fighting cock who fed it to fight three months after in season roosters, to receive money from gambling.
No other means of subsistence that the sale of household items and with the remote hope of the triumph of a rooster if you have your meals a day, unlike their owners, the colonel and his wife were only is dealing with their illnesses, their dignity and the progressive withering of old age decline in poverty.
A retired colonel, a former combatant in a civil war, waiting vain for a veteran's pension. Lost in the maze and the public administration's rhetoric lies his record. The colonel, with anxiety and frustration, awaiting the arrival of mail every Friday in the spring of his people. Fifteen years of the same routine expecting a letter to confirm it as a pensioner.
The colonel and his wife live surrounded by the hope of a pension that is less and the memory of a murdered son and revolutionary, of which only left them a fighting cock who fed it to fight three months after in season roosters, to receive money from gambling.
No other means of subsistence that the sale of household items and with the remote hope of the triumph of a rooster if you have your meals a day, unlike their owners, the colonel and his wife were only is dealing with their illnesses, their dignity and the progressive withering of old age decline in poverty.
Colonel uncapped the jar of coffee and found that there was more than a teaspoon. Remove pan from stove, poured half the water in the ground floor and scraped with a knife inside the jar over the pot until it fell off the latest chips, coffee powder stirred with tin oxide.
While waiting to boil the tea sitting beside the stove of clay in an attitude of trusting and innocent expectation, the colonel felt a feeling of being born fungi and lilies poisonous in their guts. It was October. One morning, overcome difficult, even for a man like him who had survived so many mornings like that. V For fifty-six years since he ended the last civil war, the colonel had done nothing other than wait. October was one of the few things that came.
His wife raised the net when he saw him enter the room with coffee. That night
had suffered an asthma attack and now undergoing a state of torpor.
But he rose to receive the cup.
"And you," he said.
"lied" I took the colonel. There was still a big spoon. At that time
began doubles. The colonel had forgotten burial.
While his wife took the coffee, took down the hammock at one end and rolled on the other, behind the door. The woman thought dead.
-Born in 1922-said. Exactly one month after our son. The April 7. Continued sipping coffee breaks its rocky breath. She was built just in white cartilage on a curved spine and inflexible. Respiratory disorders caused her to question affirmatively. When he finished the coffee was still thinking of the dead.
"It must be horrible to be buried in October," he said. But her husband paid no attention. He opened the window. October had been installed on the patio. Contemplating the green vegetation burst into intense, the tiny shops of worms in the mud, the colonel returned to feel unlucky month in the intestines. "I have
wet bone," he said.
"It's winter," replied the woman. Since it started to rain I'm telling you to sleep with your socks on.
"A week ago I'm sleeping with them.
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