' The Preacher began to walk back and forth; his hands clasped behind him, a meagre figure, 'hunched over upon itself like that of one long immured in striving with the implacable earth.... He was like a worn small rock whelmed by the successive waves of his voice. With his body he seemed to feed the voice that, succubus like, had fleshed its teeth in him. And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice.'
An edited extract from The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner Reader, David Bauer