One Hundred Years of Solitude

meantime she sought relief
from her secret ailments with
recourse to her imagination,
because she would rather
have died than put herself in
the hands of the only doctor
left in Macondo, the
extravagant Frenchman who
ate grass like a donkey. She
drew close to Úrsula, trusting
that she would know of some
palliative for her attacks. But
her twisted habit of not
calling things by their names