| Link | Quote | Stars | Tags | Author |
| ca3d76c | For the city, his city, stood unchanging on the edge of time: the same burning dry city of his nocturnal terrors and the solitary pleasures of puberty, where flowers rusted and salt corroded, where nothing happened for four centuries except a slow ageing among withered laurels and purifying swamps. | timlessness | Gabriel García Márquez |