Nobel Laureate Gabriel García Márquez, author of One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera, tells a powerful tale of. Written with compassionate realism and wit, the stories in this mesmerizing collection depict the disparities of town and village life in South America, of t. NO ONE WRITES TO THE COLONEL (El coronel no tiene quien le escriba)by Gabriel García Márquez, The Nobel Prize-winning Colombian writer Gabriel .

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Search the history of over billion web pages on the Internet. He removed the pot from the fire, poured half the wrifes onto the earthen floor, and scraped garccia inside of the can with a knife until the last scrapings of the ground coffee, mixed with bits of rust, fell into the pot. While he was waiting for it to boil, sitting next to the stone fireplace with an attitude of confident and innocent expectation, the colonel experienced the feeling that fungus and poisonous lilies were taking root in his gut.

A difficult morning to get through, even for a man like himself, who had survived so many mornings like this one. For nearly sixty years— since the end of the last civil war— the colonel had done nothing else but wait.

October was one of the few things which arrived. His wife raised the mosquito netting when she saw him come into the bedroom with the coffee. The night before she had suffered an asthma attack, and now she was in a drowsy state. But she sat up to take the cup. The colonel had forgotten the funeral. While his thr was colonell her coffee, he unhooked the hammock at one end, and rolled it up on the other, behind the door.

The woman thought about the dead man. She was scarcely more than a bit of white on an arched, rigid spine. Her disturbed breathing made her put her questions as assertions. When she finished her coffee, she was still thinking about the dead man. But her husband paid no attention. He opened the window. October had moved in on the patio.

Contemplating the vegetation, which was bursting out in intense greens, and the tiny mounds the worms made in the mud, the colonel felt the sinister month again in his intestines. The colonel would have preferred to wrap himself in a wool blanket and get back into the hammock. But the insistence of the cracked bells reminded him about the funeral. Only then did he remember the rooster tied to the leg of the bed.

It was a fighting cock. After taking the cup into the kitchen, he wound the pendulum clock in its carved wooden case in the living room.

Unlike the bedroom, which was too narrow for an asthmatic’s breathing, the living room was large, with four sturdy rockers around a little table with a cover and a plaster cat. On the wall opposite the clock, there was a picture of a woman dressed in tulle, surrounded by cupids in a boat laden with roses.

It was seven-twenty when he finished winding the clock. Then he took the rooster into the kitchen, tied it to a leg of the stove, changed the water in the can, and put a handful of com next to it.


A group of children came in through a hole in the fence. They sat around the rooster, to watch it in silence. One of them began playing the chords of a popular song on his harmonica. Because of his wife’s asthma, his white suit was not cooonel. So he had to wear the old black suit which since his marriage he used only on special occasions. It took some effort to find it in the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in newspapers and protected against moths with little balls of naphthalene.

Stretched out in bed, the woman was still thinking oen the dead man. He found an enormous old umbrella in the tmnk.

His wife had won it in a raffle held to collect funds for the colonel’s party. That same night they had attended an outdoor show which was not interrupted despite the rain.

The colonel, his wife, and their son, Agustin – who was then eight – watched the show until the end, seated under the umbrella. Now Agustin was dead, and the bright satin material had been eaten away by the moths. Above his head a mysterious system of little metal rods opened.

But the woman didn’t marsuez the trouble to look at the umbrella. His trousers, almost as tight on his legs as long underwear, closed at the ankles with slip-knotted drawstrings, were held up at the waist by two straps of the same material which passed through two gilt buckles sewn on at kidney height. He didn’t use a belt. His shirt, the color of old Manila paper, and as stiff, fastened with a copper stud which served at the same time to hold the detachable collar.

But the detachable collar was torn, so the colonel gave up on the idea of a tie. He did each thing as if it were a transcendent act. The bones in his hands were covered by writse, translucent skin, with light spots like the skin on his neck. Before he put on his patent— leather shoes, he scraped the dried mud from the stitching.

No One Writes to the Colonel and Other Stories

His wife ganriel him at that moment, dressed as he was on their wedding day. Only then did she notice how much her husband had aged.

The colonel was getting ready to go out when his wife seized him by the sleeve of his coat. He tried to subdue his steel-colored, bristly hair with a bone comb.

But it was a useless attempt. The woman examined him. She thought he didn’t. The colonel didn’t look like a parrot. He was a dry man, with solid bones articulated as if with nuts and bolts. Because of the vitality in his eyes, it didn’t seem as if he were preserved in formalin. The humidity kept up but the rain had stopped. The colonel went down toward the plaza along an alley with houses crowded in on each other.

As he came out into the main street, he shivered.

No One Writes to the Colonel – Wikipedia

As far as the eye could see, the town was carpeted with flowers. Seated in their doorways, the women in black barcia waiting for the funeral. In the plaza it began to drizzle again. The proprietor of the pool hall saw the colonel from the gwbriel of his place and shouted to him with open arms: I’m all right this way.


The men dressed in white with black ties – were talking in the low doorway under their umbrellas. One of them saw the colonel jumping between the puddles in the plaza. He made room under the umbrella.

But he didn’t gzbriel the invitation. He entered the house directly to give his condolences garcla the mother of the dead man. The first thing he perceived was the odor of many different flowers. Then the heat rose. The colonel tried to make his way through the crowd which was jammed into the bedroom. But someone put a hand on his back, pushed him toward the back of the room through a gallery of perplexed faces to the spot where – deep and wide open— the nostrils of the dead man gabril found.

There was the dead man’s mother, shooing the flies away from the coffin with a plaited palm fan. Other women, dressed nl black, contemplated the body with the same expression with which one watches the current of a river. All at once a voice started up at the back of the room. The colonel put one woman aside, faced the profde of the dead man’s mother, and put a hand on her shoulder.

She opened her mouth and let out a howl. He felt himself being pushed against the coipse by a shapeless crowd which broke out in a quavering outcry. He looked for a firm support for his hands but couldn’t find the wall.

Full text of “No One Writes To The Colonel Pdf”

There were other bodies in its place. Someone said in his ear, slowly, with a very gentle voice, ‘Careful, colonel. But he didn’t recognize him because he was stiff and dynamic and seemed as disconcerted as he, wrapped in white cloths and with his trumpet in his hands.

When the colonel raised his head over the shouts, in search of air, he saw the closed box bouncing, toward the door down a slope of flowers which disintegrated against the walls.

A moment later he knew he was in the street because the drizzle hurt his eyelids, and someone seized him by the arm and said: The band struck up the funeral march.

The colonel noticed the lack of a trumpet and for the first time was certain that the dead man was dead. Sabas cleared his throat. He held the umbrella in his left hand, the handle almost at the level of his head, since he was shorter than the colonel. They began to talk when the cortege left the plaza.

Sabas turned toward the colonel then, his face disconsolate, and said: At that moment a shout was heard: He saw the mayor on the balcony of the barracks in an expansive pose. He was dressed in his flannel underwear; his unshaven cheek was swollen.

The musicians stopped the march. A moment later the colonel recognized Father Angel’s voice shouting at the mayor.