Outside, in the dark, a wobbly patch of life upon the blue snow, the deer perhaps browsed, her soft blob of a nose rapturously sunk in the chilly winter greenery, her modest brain-stem steeped in some dream of a Cockaigne for herbivores.
-- John Updike, Toward the End of Time
Everyone was seeking renewal, a golden century, a Cockaigne of the spirit.
-- Umberto Eco, Foucault's Pendulum
