One Hundred Years of Solitude

powder keg about to explode,
had dissolved into a vague
electoral illusion. Embittered
by failure, yearning for a safe
place where he could await
old age, the false homeopath
took refuge in Macondo. In
the narrow bottle-crowded
room that he rented on one
side of the square, he lived
several years off the
hopelessly ill who, after
having tried everything,
consoled themselves with