Sentimentality is the last thing that comes to mind in Schoenberg's Pierrot Lunaire, a 1912 piece seemingly without precedent, and an unrepeated stylistic cul de sac.

“Don't we know it!” Mrs. Henderson exclaimed. She exclaimed almost every short thing she said, and now that it'd been noticed, Mercy couldn't unnotice it.

Diana's lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman's part.

The critics of adventure games are quick to point out that, really, adventure games are not games at all, but merely a series of puzzles strung together with bits of story between them. The puzzles, regardless of their form, serve as locked doors […]