MANY YEARS LATER, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. Gabriel Garcia Márquez, in One Hundred Years of Solitude Last month, I’ve reread One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Márquez. I needed to reread it because I love that story and the way it’s written. I needed some magic in the mundane to finish the year that never…