The list could surely go on, and there is nothing more wonderful than a list, instrument of wondrous hypotyposis.

With irony we say the opposite of truth.

What is a saint supposed to do, if not convert wolves?

Colorless green ideas sleep furiouslythree old owls on a chest of drawerswere screwingthe daughter of the doctor.But then the mother called them,colorless green ideas slepp furiously.

But what use is the unicorn to you if your intellect doesn't believe in it?