Mikhail Bulgakov

The little man only came up to Poplavsky's shoulder, but he reduced him to mortal terror with his fang, his knife and his walleyed squint, and he had an air of cool, calculating energy.

“Gods, gods, why do you punish me? Yes, no doubt it is upon me again, again this terrible, invincible affliction … this hemicrania which grips half the head with pain … without remedy, without escape … I must try not to move my head. …”