'In some of these strange Gothickal German towns,' he at last said, 'they have ancient clocks that are as big as houses, all sealed up most of the time, with a little door where a cuckoo pops out upon the hour to sing. But once a day, it does something special, involving more doors, and once a week, something even specialer, and, for all I know, at the year, decade, and century marks, rows of great doors, all sealed shut by dust and age, creak open, driven by sudden descent of ancient weights on rusted chains, and the whole inner workings of the thing unfold through those openings. Hitherto unseen machines grind into action, strange and surprising things fly out – flags wave, mechanical birds sing – old pigeon-shit and cobwebs raining down on spectators' heads – Death comes out and does a fandango – Angels blow trumpets – Jesus writhes on the cross and expires – a mock naval battle plays out with repeated discharge of cannons – and would you please take your arm out of my asshole now?'