The Astonishment of Spam

An occasional glance at my Spam folder has revealed some lost literary masterpieces, which could even be said to aspire to a Joycean stream of consciousness. Who can forget the opening lines of "Nicolas," found in my Spam folder last June?

Guslar tut wade sung!
cloudy creasy blest.
guile guile.
nature nature.
slush anger wade nature!
bias fibril swan wilt!

Then again, there are those Spam-writing charlatans who simply cut-and-paste, point, and click. So, whichever plagiarist sent this to my Spam folder, you've been busted!

The count was delighted at Anna Mikhaylovnas taking upon herself one of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her. The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every moment, sat beside him.
When spring came on, the soldiers found a plant just showing out of the ground that looked like asparagus, which, for some reason, they called mashkas sweet root.
Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbé about the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young man's simple minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory.

These words above come from Tolstoy's War and Peace, and unless Tolstoy is squirreled away in a basement apartment in Cincinnati or Trouserpress, Nevada, spamming furiously, then I deduce: nicked!