However, formalism is not the flavor of the month in these posteverything times.

There is something very horrible in the laugh of a dying man: Hovering on the verge of both worlds, he seems to give the lie to both, and proclaim the enjoyments of one, and the hopes of another, alike an imposture.

He seems like an average businessman, but deep down he's an overgrown kid with a necktie.

Writers suffering from hyphenitis produce pages which look very much like a speckled hen.