beer, blood and manure
I'm often amused or bemused by some of the more bizarre lines I find in Thoreau's Journal and Pepys' Diary. Take these recent examples:
"R.W.E. tells me he does not like Haynes as well as I do. I tell him that he makes better manure than most men." Thoreau
"Lay long talking with my wife, then Mr. Holliard came to me and let me blood, about sixteen ounces, I being exceedingly full of blood and very good." Pepys
Of course, James Joyce's Ulysses is even stranger. Here's Bloom watching a barmaid pulling a pint of beer, or something:
"On the smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob (she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in pity: passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, a cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring."

check them all out on the links to the right >