We lay there hour after hour in terror and misery of mind so deep that I will not attempt to describe it, and listened to the wild storm-voices of that Tartarus, as, set to the deep undertone of the spur opposite against which the wind hummed like some awful harp, they called to each other from precipice to precipice.

[T]he old and tired purveyors of separatism in Québec continue to harp on what they contend Québec is not—essentially, “not the ROC”—in order to peddle their snake oil.

Lois Griffin, daughter of shipping industrialist Carter Pewterschmidt and passive-aggressivist Barbara Pewterschmidt.

Assured henceforth, where'er I go Asearch tho' loftiest solitude, Or in the thundering Vatican, There's naught sublime but Man!