The latest from García Márquez. All that was left was to activate the purchase order on the screen when severe scruples began to bother me.

The same ones that come to me every time I see those who were football glories, today aged and flabby, jogging on the occasion of a commemorative match. I was not only afraid of finding myself faced with a sad case of diminished creative power, justifiable by the author's mental deterioration (this be said with all due respect) So instead of buying the book, I chose to pay the sincere tribute of not reading See You in August. I doubt that I can resist them for long.