us they went on living in a reality that was slipping away； momentarily captured by words； but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters。
At the beginning of the road into the swamp they put up a sign that said MACONDO and another larger one on the main street that said GOD EXISTS。 In all the houses keys to memorizing objects and feelings had been written。 But the system demanded so much vigilance and moral strength that many succumbed to the spell of an imaginary reality； one invented by themselves； which was less practical for them but more forting。 Pilar Ternera was the one who contributed most to popularize that mystification when she conceived the trick of reading the past in cards as she had read the future before。 By means of that recourse the insomniacs began to live in a world built on the uncertain alternatives of the cards； where a father was remembered faintly as the dark man who had arrived at the beginning of April and a mother was remembered only as the dark woman who wore a gold ring on her left hand； and where a birth date was reduced to the last Tuesday on which a lark sang in the laurel tree。 Defeated by those practices of consolation； Jos？Arcadio Buendía then decided to build the memory machine that he had desired once in order to remember the marvelous inventions of the gypsies。 The artifact was based on the possibility of reviewing every morning； from beginning to end； the totality of knowledge acquired during one’s life。 He conceived of it as a spinning dictionary that a person placed on the axis could operate by means of a lever； so that in a very few hours there would pass before his eyes the notions most necessary for life。 He had succeeded in writing almost fourteen thousand entries when along the road from the swamp a strange…looking old man with the sad sleepers？bell appeared； carrying a bulging suitcase tied with a rope and pulling a cart covered with black cloth。 He went straight to the house of Jos？Arcadio Buendía。
Visitación did not recognize him when she opened the door and she thought he had e with the idea of selling something； unaware that nothing could be sold in a town that was sinking irrevocably into the quicksand of forgetfulness。 He was a decrepit man。 Although his voice was also broken by uncertainty and his hands seemed to doubt the existence of things； it was evident that he came from the world where men could still sleep and remember。 Jos？Arcadio Buendía found him sitting in the living room fanning himself with a patched black hat as he read with passionate attention the signs pasted to the walls。 He greeted him with a broad show of affection； afraid that he had known him at another time and that he did not remember him now。 But the visitor was aware of his falseness； He felt himself forgotten； not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart； but with a different kind of forgetfulness； which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death。 Then he understood。 He opened the suitcase crammed with indecipherable objects and from among then he took out a little case with many flasks。 He gave Jos？Arcadio Buendía a drink of a gentle color and the light went on in his memory。 His eyes became moist from weeping even before he noticed himself in an absurd living room where objects were labeled and before he was ashamed of the solemn nonsense written on the walls； and even before he recognized the newer with a dazzling glow of joy。 It was Melquíades。
While Macondo was celebrating the recovery of its memory； Jos？Arcadio Buendía and Melquíades dusted off their old friendship。 The gypsy was inclined to stay in the town。 He really had been through death； but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude。 Repudiated by his tribe； having lost all of his supernatural faculties because of his faithfulness to life； he decided to take refuge in that corner of the world which had still not been discovered by death； dedicated to the operation of a daguerreotype laboratory。 Jos？Arcadio Buendía had never heard of that invention。 But when he saw himself and his whole family fastened onto a sheet of iridescent metal for an eternity； he was mute with stupefaction。 That was the date of the oxidized daguerreotype in which Jos？Arcadio Buendía appeared with his bristly and graying hair； his card board collar attached to his shirt by a copper button； and an expression of startled solemnity； whom ？rsula described； dying with laughter； as a “frightened general。？Jos？Arcadio Buendía was； in fact； frightened on that dear December morning when the daguerreotype was made； for he was thinking that people were slowly wearing away while his image would endure an a metallic plaque。 Through a curious reversal of custom； it was ？rsula who got that idea out of his head； as it was also she who forgot her ancient bitterness and decided that Melquíades would stay on in the house； although she never permitted them to make a daguerreotype of her because （according to her very words） she did not want to survive as a laughingstock for her grandchildren。 That morning she dressed the children in their best clothes； powdered their faces； and gave a spoonful of marrow syrup to each one so that they would all remain absolutely motionless during the nearly two minutes in front of Melquíades fantastic camera。 In the family daguerreotype； the only one that ever existed； Aureliano appeared dressed in black velvet between Amaranta and Rebeca。 He had the same languor and the same clairvoyant look that he would have years later as he faced the firing squad。 But he still had not sensed the premonition of his fate。 He was an expert silversmith； praised all over the swampland for the delicacy of his work。 In the workshop； which he shared with Melquíades？mad laboratory； he could barely be heard breathing。 He seemed to be taking refuge in some other time； while his father and the gypsy with shouts interpreted the predictions of Nostradamus amidst a noise of flasks and trays and the disaster of spilled acids and silver bromide that was lost in the twists and turns it gave at every instant。 That dedication to his work； the good judgment with which he directed his attention； had allowed Aureliano to earn in a short time more money than ？rsula had with her delicious candy fauna； but everybody thought it strange that he was now a full…grown man and had not known a woman。 It was true that he had never had one。
Several months later saw the return of Francisco the Man； as ancient vagabond who was almost two hundred years old and who frequently passed through Macondo distributing songs that he posed himself。 In them Francisco the Man told in great detail the things that had happened in the towns along his route； from Manaure to the edge of the swamp； so that if anyone had a message to send or an event to make public； he would pay him two cents to include it in his repertory。 That was how ？rsula learned of the death of her mother； as a simple consequence of listening to the songs in the hope that they would say something about her son Jos？Arcadio。 Francisco the Man； called that because he had once defeated the devil in a duel of improvisation； and whose real name no one knew； disappeared from Macondo during the insomnia plague and one night he appeared suddenly in Catarino’s store。 The whole town went to listen to him to find out what had happened in the world。 On that occasion there arrived with him a woman who was so fat that four Indians had to carry her in a rocking chair； and an adolescent mulatto girl with a forlorn look who protected her from the sun with an umbrella。 Aureliano went to Catarino’s store that night。 He found Francisco the Man； like a monolithic chameleon； sitting in the midst of a circle of bystanders。 He was singing the news with his old； out…of…tune voice； acpanying himself with the same archaic accordion that Sir Walter Raleigh had given him in the Guianas and keeping time with his great walking feet that were cracked from saltpeter。 In front of a door at the rear through which men were going and ing； the matron of the rocking chair was sitting and fanning herself in silence。 Catarino； with a felt rose