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Authors: The Autumn of the Patriarch Quotes, Famous Quotations, Sayings
Related Quotes:  One Hundred Years of Solitude  Love in the Time of Cholera  Gabriel Gárcia Márquez
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Over the weekend the vultures got into the presidential palace by pecking through the screens on the balcony windows and the flapping of their wings stirred up the stagnant time inside, and at dawn on Monday the city awoke out of its lethargy of centuries with the warm, soft breeze of a great man dead and rotting grandeur.
The Autumn of the Patriarch
Opening lines.
Only then did we dare go in without attacking the crumbling walls of reinforced stone, as the more resolute had wished, and without using oxbows to knock the main door off its hinges, as others had proposed, because all that was needed was for someone to give a push and the great armored doors that had resisted the lombards of William Dampier during the building's heroic days gave way. It was like entering the atmosphere of another age, because the air was thinner in the rubble pits of the vast lair of power, and the silence was more ancient, and things were hard to see in the decrepit light. All across the first courtyard, where the paving stones had given way to the underground thrust of weeds, we saw the disorder of the post of the guard who had fled, the weapons abandoned in their racks, the big, long rough-planked tables and plates containing the leftovers of the Sunday lunch that had been interrupted by panic, in shadows we saw the annex where government house had been, colored fungi and pale irises among the unresolved briefs whose normal course had been slower than the pace of the driest of lives, in the center of the courtyard we saw the baptismal font where more than five generations had been christened with martial sacraments, in the rear we saw the ancient viceregal stable which had been transformed into a coach house, and among the camellias and butterflies we saw the berlin from stirring days, the wagon from the time of the plague, the coach from the year of the comet, the hearse from progress in order, the sleep-walking limousine of the first century of peace, all in good shape under the dusty cobwebs and all painted with the colors of the flag.
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... and one January afternoon we had seen a cow contemplating the sunset from the presidential balcony, just imagine, a cow on the balcony of the nation, what an awful thing, what a shitty country ...
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... he governed as if he felt predestined to never die ...
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... that's it, old friend, that's it, the trouble's over, from now on I'm going to rule alone with no dogs to bark at me ...
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... there was always another truth behind the truth.
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... She [The president's mother] had said I'm tired of begging God to overthrow my son, because all this business of living in the presidential palace is like having the lights on all the time, sir, and she had said it with the same naturalness with which on one national holiday she had made her way through the guard of honor with a basket of empty bottles and reached the presidential limousine that was leading the parade of celebration in an uproar of ovations and martial music and storms of flowers and she shoved the basket through the window and shouted to her son that since you'll be passing right by take advantage and return these bottles to the store on the corner, poor mother.
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... there comes my ever-loving general giving off crap through his mouth and laws through his poop ...
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... everyone ended up finding his place in the world, everyone except him ...
The Autumn of the Patriarch
... he walked about in the midst of the downpour [of the hurricane] wondering with an aftertaste of musk where can you be Manuela Sánchez of my bad saliva, God damn it, where can you have hidden yourself that this disaster of my vengeance hasn't reached you?
The Autumn of the Patriarch
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The Autumn of the Patriarch: The 1975 novel was written by Colombian author Gabriel Gárcia Márquez. Márquez was born on March 6, 1928. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982.

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