Norks just kept coming, running out of the smoke and fire like demons, come to drag all us sinners to hell.

Death, grim Death, will fold / Me, in his leaden Arms, and preſs me cloſe / To his cold clayie Breaſt: […]

Given the paparazzification (a spur of the moment sniglet) of celebrity, what one does, wears or says is beamed out to millions in a nanosecond.

He writes well when he is describing moments of action—the miserable life of the peasants under the cruelty and oppression of the Karageorgević régime—but the book is discursive and baulkingly long, and the moments of drama are lost between pages of trivia and pretentious overwriting.