The narrator of Handke’s novel The Fruit Thief is walking through the city when he encounters familiar cast-iron covers for cables and pipes. They are made by a company called NORINCO, whatever that means, he wonders, a company that seems to have a monopoly on all such covers. That kind of repetition can make one tired, he thinks, and then considers the Norinco covers further:
Most of the thick heavy covers had worked their way out of their settings in the tar and asphalt over the years, and more recently often in the course of a few weeks. Yes, it seemed to me as if, increasingly, they were not even tightly fitted when installed. The result: As soon as a pedestrian stepped on one it clattered, cracked, crashed and the next quickly following picardian cast-iron mat again and so on along the sidewalks, streets, and squares the clattering, cracking, crashing everywhere enhanced immediately by the next pedestrians and especially by the automobiles and even more especially by trucks — a willfully incessant, wild cast-iron din exploding up from below.
If the narrator had access to the internet, he might find that the NORINCO company is a Chinese conglomerate that produces light industrial products like the resounding covers he walks over, but more importantly grenade launchers, anti-tank weapons, assault and battle rifles, autocannons, sniper rifles, and submachine guns.
A din exploding up from below.
After reading this paragraph, a reader must consider the alliterative beauty of a single sentence enhanced by the exploding irony.