“As he set foot on O’Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things.”—James Joyce - Ulysses
On a chance we tried an important-looking door and walked into a high Gothic library, paneled with carved English oak, and probably transported complete from some ruin overseas.
A stout, middle-aged man, with enormous owl-eyed spectacles, was sitting somewhat drunk on the edge of the great table, staring with unsteady concentration at the shelves of books. As we entered he wheeled excitedly around and examined Jordan from head to foot.
'What do you think?' he demanded impetuously.
He waved his hand toward the book-shelves.
'About that. As a matter of fact you needn't bother to ascertain. I ascertained. They're real.'
'Absolutely real—have pages and everything. I thought they'd be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they're absolutely real. Pages and—Here! Lemme show you.'
“Life seemed to him to be inexhaustible — the illusion was obstinate although youth had already begun to fade. But Drogo had no knowledge of time. Even if he had had before him hundreds and hundreds of years of youth that, too, would have seemed no great thing to him. And instead he had at his disposal only an ordinary simple life, a short human youth, a miserly gift which could be counted on the fingers of two hands and which would slip away before he had even got to know it.”—Dino Buzzati - The Tartar Steppe
“West and east and south and suddenly there you were: in Dublin itself, its wet streets slick and shiny in the streetlights, seeming to leap from the pages of Joyce. Were you really there, or did the book take visible shape? You shivered a little in the rain and were glad of its physical reminder. You stepped back into time, into deadline and decision and detail.”—"Standard Time," Judith Kitchen
I was following the pack all swallowed in their coats with scarves of red tied ’round their throats to keep their little heads from fallin’ in the snow And I turned ’round and there you go And, Michael, you would fall and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime..