Gradually, but not as gradually as it seemed to some parts of his
 brain, he began to infuse his tones with a sarcastic wounding
 bitterness. Nobody outside a madhouse, he tried to imply, could take
 seriously a single phrase of this conjectural, nugatory, deluded,
 tedious rubbish. Within quite a short time he was contriving to sound
 like an unusually fanatical Nazi trooper in charge of a book-burning
 reading out to the crowd excerpts from a pamphlet written by a
 pacifist, Jewish, literate Communist. A growing mutter, half-amused,
 half-indignant, arose about him, but he closed his ears to it and
 read on. Almost unconsciously he began to adopt an unnameable foreign
 accent and to read faster and faster, his head spinning. As if in a
 dream he heard Welch stirring, then whispering, then talking at his
 side. he began punctuating his discourse with smothered snorts of
 derision. He read on, spitting out the syllables like curses, leaving
 mispronunciations, omissions, spoonerisms uncorrected, turning over
 the pages of his script like a score-reader following a presto
 movement, raising his voice higher and higher. At last he found his
 final paragraph confronting him, stopped, and look at his audience.
         -- Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis