The word “athwart” has been employed in literature to evoke a striking sense of crossing or opposition, whether used in a physical or a more abstract, metaphorical manner. In nautical narratives, for example, it often describes a ship's movement or placement relative to another object—as seen in Dana’s depiction of sails moving “athwart our hawse” [1, 2] and Stevenson's casual remark in “Treasure Island” [3, 4]. Beyond the realm of seafaring, authors use “athwart” to sketch vivid scenic images and dramatic interruptions; Dante’s and Longfellow’s translations of the Inferno employ the term to describe elements that cut across the sky or air, imbuing the scene with an almost tangible turmoil [5, 6, 7, 8]. Meanwhile, in works ranging from Mark Twain’s narrative directions [9] to the poetic inscriptions of H.G. Wells and Victor Hugo [10, 11, 12], “athwart” serves as a versatile device that positions, divides, or even contrasts ideas and images, reinforcing a visual or symbolic intersection that can be as much about physical placement as it is about thematic contrast.