The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation chairs - strapped in. Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been part of a bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.
The sweat stood out on ford Prefect’s brow, and slid round the elctrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment - imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumper - all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet’s thought was lost.
Arthur Dent sat and quivered.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
This is my favourite book of all time. I quote it everywhere in real life, so it’s past time I quoted it on here. A little passage for you about the power of language.