Wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Harold Bloom (2009). “Gabriel Garci ́a Ma ́rquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude”, p.198, Infobase Publishing
