On Wednesday night, as they did every Wednesday, the parents went to the movies. The boys, lords and masters of the house, closed the doors and windows and broke the glowing bulb in one of the living room lamps. A jet of golden light as cool as water began to pour out of the broken bulb, and they let it run to a depth of almost three feet. Then they turned off the electricity, took out the rowboat, and navigated at will among the islands in the house. This fabulous adventure was the result of a frivolous remark I made while taking part in a seminar on the poetry of household objects. (The youngest son) asked me why the light went on with a touch of a switch, and I did not have the courage to think about it twice. "Light is like water," I answered. "You turn on the tap and out it comes."
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
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