You have spoken of the past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to my call?
James Joyce, Ulysses.

What do you mean . . . ?
James Joyce, Dubliners.

I mean to say, . . .
James Joyce, Ulysses.

Here’s health to you. I wash you on your way.
Waiting for you to deliver,
I dream of horsebacked statues pale as chalk.
Erected to the discoverers of aspirin
Who walk in radiance by the streams of Lethe,
Bayer-assed, in starched hospital dickies.
X.J. Kennedy, Excerpt from the Poem, “Taking Apsirin.”

and if you said to Bloom:
James Joyce, Ulysses.

What would it mean if I took it–
Linden Crawford, Notes From One Year on Testosterone.

. . . Testosterone?

Rachel Rettner, What is Testosterone?


–James Joyce, Ulysses.

He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. 

James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

he would just say
James Joyce, Ulysses.

you are risking a heart attack, a stroke, or other damage to your body.
In Time Of Emergency A Citizen’s Handbook On Nuclear Attack, Natural Disasters.

I don’t even know what a heart attack is.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said, getting up to switch on the hi-fi.
Walter Bupp, The Right Time.

What then is your point of view?
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

It simply doesn’t matter.

–James Joyce, Ulysses.

Bloom who at all events was in complete possession of his faculties, never more so, in fact disgustingly sober, spoke a word of caution re the dangers of . . .
James Joyce, Ulysses.

. . . eggs and sausages and cups of tea.
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

Everything is so deep, Leopold.
James Joyce, Ulysses.

Aye, deep an’ cold, in Killinkere,
This many a year—this many a year!
Arthur Stringer, Excerpt from the Poem, “Memories.”

Deep be the darkness, and still be the slumber—
Dead be the Past and its phantoms to me!
Matthew Arnold, Excerpt from the Poem, “Faded Leaves.”