One Hundred Years of Solitude

the innocent flattery of that
aunt who was poisoning his
nights with a flow of
tribulation, but the more he
avoided her the more the
anxiety with which he waited
for her stony laughter, her
howls of a happy cat, and her
songs of gratitude, agonizing
in love at all hours and in the
most unlikely parts of the
house. One night thirty feet
from his bed, on the silver
workbench, the couple with