I have come to the borders of sleep,The unfathomable deepForest where all must loseTheir way, however straight,Or winding, soon or late;They cannot choose.
Many a road and trackThat, since the dawn's first crack,Up to the forest brink,Deceived the travelers,Suddenly now blurs,And in they sink.
Here love ends,Despair, ambition ends;All pleasure and all trouble,Although most sweet or bitter,Here ends in sleep that is sweeterThan tasks most noble.
There is not any bookOr face of dearest lookThat I would not turn from nowTo go into the unknownI must enter, and leave, alone,I know not how.
The tall forest towers;Its cloudy foliage lowersAhead, shelf above self;Its silence I hear and obetThat I may lose my wayAnd myself.
A blog formerly known as Bookishness
By Charles Matthews"Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo ... became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for a character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who had paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many ... decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings."--Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude