page 355 of 429 of One Hundred Years of Solitude

It’s as if the narrator of the novel got all their information from the half-lucid ghost of Ursula and assumed everything she said was true and it all happened just like she remembered it.

I wonder if it’s ever possible to be present at the exact moment when a story, say like the telling of an actual Theseus, turns into legend and supernatural myth? There’s probably no one moment, of course, only the path it took.