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object:James Joyce
class:author
subject class:Poetry

subject class:Fiction

--- WIKI
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher, and literary critic. He contri buted to the modernist avant-garde and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, most famously stream of consciousness. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, his published letters and occasional journalism. Joyce was born in Dublin into a middle-class family. A brilliant student, he briefly attended the Christian Brothers-run O'Connell School before excelling at the Jesuit schools Clongowes and Belvedere, despite the chaotic family life imposed by his father's unpredictable finances. He went on to attend University College Dublin. In 1904, in his early twenties, Joyce emigrated to continental Europe with his partner (and later wife) Nora Barnacle. They lived in Trieste, Paris, and Zrich. Although most of his adult life was spent abroad, Joyce's fictional universe centres on Dublin and is populated largely by characters who closely resemble family members, enemies and friends from his time there. Ulysses in particular is set with precision in the streets and alleyways of the city. Shortly after the publication of Ulysses, he elucidated this preoccupation somewhat, saying, "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."

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now begins generated list of local instances, definitions, quotes, instances in chapters, wordnet info if available and instances among weblinks


OBJECT INSTANCES [0] - TOPICS - AUTHORS - BOOKS - CHAPTERS - CLASSES - SEE ALSO - SIMILAR TITLES

TOPICS
SEE ALSO


AUTH

BOOKS
Finnegans_Wake
Infinite_Library

IN CHAPTERS TITLE

IN CHAPTERS CLASSNAME

IN CHAPTERS TEXT
1.00_-_PREFACE_-_DESCENSUS_AD_INFERNOS
2.01_-_The_Road_of_Trials
2.05_-_Apotheosis
4.04_-_THE_REGENERATION_OF_THE_KING
The_Act_of_Creation_text

PRIMARY CLASS

author
SIMILAR TITLES
James Joyce

DEFINITIONS


TERMS STARTING WITH


TERMS ANYWHERE



QUOTES [5 / 5 - 1271 / 1271]


KEYS (10k)

   5 James Joyce

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

1171 James Joyce
   3 Joseph Campbell
   2 Stephen King
   2 Samuel Beckett
   2 Pamela Paul
   2 Murray Gell Mann
   2 Matthew Specktor
   2 Lorena Franco
   2 Joyce Carol Oates
   2 James Joyce
   2 Hal Duncan
   2 Frederick Lenz
   2 Delmore Schwartz

1:Quotations every day of the year. ~ James Joyce, Finnegans Wake,
2:[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend. ~ James Joyce, Ulysses,
3:A dark horse riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winning post, his mane moonflowing, his eyeballs stars. ~ James Joyce,
4:A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that they know. Wherefore they wail. ~ James Joyce, [T5],
5:A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy. ~ James Joyce,

*** WISDOM TROVE ***

1:I think perhaps the greatest book ever written was Ulysses by James Joyce. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove
2:My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest, stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness—what old and hard-worked staleness, masquerading as the all-new! ~ d-h-lawrence, @wisdomtrove
3:In one particular chapter in Ulysses, James Joyce imitates every major writing style that's been used by English and American writers over the last 700 years - starting with Beowulf and Chaucer and working his way up through  the Renaissance, the Victorian era and on into the 20th century. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove
4:The writers I care about most and never grow tired of are: Shakespeare, Swift, Fielding, Dickens, Charles Reade, Flaubert and, among modern writers, James Joyce, T. S. Eliot and D. H. Lawrence. But I believe the modern writer who has influenced me most is Somerset Maugham, whom I admire immensely for his power of telling a story straightforwardly and without frills. ~ george-orwell, @wisdomtrove
5:A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair. James, what’s wrong?' the friend asked. &

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Thalatta! Thalatta! ~ James Joyce,
2:Will ye, ay or nay? ~ James Joyce,
3:Here Comes Everybody. ~ James Joyce,
4:James Joyce’s Ulysses ~ Pamela Paul,
5:We must go to Athens. ~ James Joyce,
6:bowl of bitter waters. ~ James Joyce,
7:Introibo ad altare Dei ~ James Joyce,
8:Reefer was a wenchman. ~ James Joyce,
9:Amour aime aimer amour! ~ James Joyce,
10:Does nobody understand? ~ James Joyce,
11:Love loves to love love ~ James Joyce,
12:Places remember events. ~ James Joyce,
13:Shut your eyes and see. ~ James Joyce,
14:The world is before you ~ James Joyce,
15:I am, a stride at a time ~ James Joyce,
16:Love loves to love love. ~ James Joyce,
17:So weenybeenyveenyteeny. ~ James Joyce,
18:-C ést le pigeon, Joseph. ~ James Joyce,
19:Deal with him, Hemingway! ~ James Joyce,
20:Let my country die for me. ~ James Joyce,
21:Life is the great teacher. ~ James Joyce,
22:Love me. Love my umbrella. ~ James Joyce,
23:More mud, more crocodiles. ~ James Joyce,
24:maestro di color che sanno. ~ James Joyce,
25:First we feel. Then we fall. ~ James Joyce,
26:I'll tickle his catastrophe. ~ James Joyce,
27:Lips kissed, kissing kissed. ~ James Joyce,
28:Suck it yourself, sugarstick! ~ James Joyce,
29:Three quarks for Muster Mark! ~ James Joyce,
30:Može se umreti i u sunčan dan. ~ James Joyce,
31:Tenors get women by the score. ~ James Joyce,
32:There's no police like Holmes. ~ James Joyce,
33:As you are now so once were we. ~ James Joyce,
34:Every bond is a bond to sorrow. ~ James Joyce,
35:Ireland sober is Ireland stiff. ~ James Joyce,
36:Thought is a thought of thought ~ James Joyce,
37:Be just before you are generous. ~ James Joyce,
38:Heart of my heart, were it more, ~ James Joyce,
39:Redheaded women buck like goats. ~ James Joyce,
40:Tell me. Tell me with your eyes. ~ James Joyce,
41:The mockery of it! he said gaily ~ James Joyce,
42:We’re as old as we feel, Johnny. ~ James Joyce,
43:...and yes I said yes I will Yes. ~ James Joyce,
44:I am proud to be an emotionalist. ~ James Joyce,
45:Love, yes. Word known to all men. ~ James Joyce,
46:Quotations every day of the year. ~ James Joyce,
47:Too excited to be genuinely happy ~ James Joyce,
48:Were all important in god's eyes. ~ James Joyce,
49:He had tales of distant countries. ~ James Joyce,
50:Make me feel good in the moontime. ~ James Joyce,
51:Thought is the thought of thought. ~ James Joyce,
52:Unsheathe your dagger definitions. ~ James Joyce,
53:Važi li krštenje mineralnom vodom? ~ James Joyce,
54:... excrementitious intelligence... ~ James Joyce,
55:God made food; the devil the cooks. ~ James Joyce,
56:O Jamesy let me up out of this pooh ~ James Joyce,
57:Quotation marks quotato marks! Bah! ~ James Joyce,
58:Sentimentality is unearned emotion. ~ James Joyce,
59:shuttered for the repose of Sunday, ~ James Joyce,
60:As I am. As I am. All or not at all. ~ James Joyce,
61:Fall if you will, but rise you must. ~ James Joyce,
62:Hump for humbleness, dump for dirts. ~ James Joyce,
63:Life is too short to read a bad book ~ James Joyce,
64:Life is too short to read bad books. ~ James Joyce,
65:Only a fadograph of a yestern scene. ~ James Joyce,
66:This fellow has heresy in his essay! ~ James Joyce,
67:Winds of May, that dance on the sea, ~ James Joyce,
68:Have read little and understood less. ~ James Joyce,
69:...imagine it drinking electricity... ~ James Joyce,
70:Life is too short to read a bad book. ~ James Joyce,
71:Phall if you but will, rise you must. ~ James Joyce,
72:Wipe your glasses with what you know. ~ James Joyce,
73:Wipe your glosses with what you know. ~ James Joyce,
74:With will will we withstand, withsay. ~ James Joyce,
75:You cannot eat your cake and have it. ~ James Joyce,
76:Absence, the highest form of presence. ~ James Joyce,
77:If we were all suddenly somebody else. ~ James Joyce,
78:Ineluctable modality of the visible... ~ James Joyce,
79:—I think he died for me, she answered. ~ James Joyce,
80:Mistakes are the portals of discovery. ~ James Joyce,
81:You get a decent do at the Brazen Head ~ James Joyce,
82:A way a lone a last a loved a long the— ~ James Joyce,
83:He used to call her Poppens out of fun. ~ James Joyce,
84:no more pain. wake no more. nobody owns ~ James Joyce,
85:Reproduction is the beginning of death. ~ James Joyce,
86:round hat, set upon it sideways, looked ~ James Joyce,
87:There's no friends like the old friends ~ James Joyce,
88:..they were yung and easily freudened.. ~ James Joyce,
89:Time's ruins build eternity's mansions. ~ James Joyce,
90:We'll meet again, we'll part once more. ~ James Joyce,
91:All fiction is autobiographical fantasy. ~ James Joyce,
92:Hushkah, a horn! Gadolmagtog! God es El? ~ James Joyce,
93:Our end is the acquisition of knowledge. ~ James Joyce,
94:Sleep, where in the waste is the wisdom? ~ James Joyce,
95:There's many a true word spoken in jest. ~ James Joyce,
96:There's no friends like the old friends. ~ James Joyce,
97:The shortest way to Tara is via Holyhead ~ James Joyce,
98:the stone for my month a nice aquamarine ~ James Joyce,
99:Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. ~ James Joyce,
100:God and morality and religion come first. ~ James Joyce,
101:He is cured by faith who is sick of fate. ~ James Joyce,
102:I think of you so often you have no idea. ~ James Joyce,
103:...rapid motion through space elates one. ~ James Joyce,
104:They lived and laughed and loved and left ~ James Joyce,
105:With a pansy for the pussy in the corner. ~ James Joyce,
106:They lived and laughed and loved and left. ~ James Joyce,
107:You can still die when the sun is shining. ~ James Joyce,
108:All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. ~ James Joyce,
109:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. ~ James Joyce,
110:He longed to be master of her strange mood. ~ James Joyce,
111:My heart is quite calm now. I will go back. ~ James Joyce,
112:-Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position? ~ James Joyce,
113:Signatures of all things I am here to read. ~ James Joyce,
114:There was cold sunlight outside the window. ~ James Joyce,
115:whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow ~ James Joyce,
116:Ah, there's no friends like the old friends. ~ James Joyce,
117:Always see a fellows weak point in his wife. ~ James Joyce,
118:A man's errors are his portals of discovery. ~ James Joyce,
119:Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow. ~ James Joyce,
120:My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial ~ James Joyce,
121:Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him. ~ James Joyce,
122:The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue. ~ James Joyce,
123:A form of speech: the lesser for the greater. ~ James Joyce,
124:In the particular is contained the universal. ~ James Joyce,
125:Las mentes poderosas tienen ojos penetrantes. ~ James Joyce,
126:Les erreurs sont les portes de la découverte. ~ James Joyce,
127:Masturbation! The amazing availability of it! ~ James Joyce,
128:Time is, time was, but time shall be no more. ~ James Joyce,
129:All human history moves towards one great goal ~ James Joyce,
130:Nations have their ego, just like individuals. ~ James Joyce,
131:The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue... ~ James Joyce,
132:When I die Dublin will be written on my heart. ~ James Joyce,
133:Interpretations of interpretations interpreted. ~ James Joyce,
134:Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body. ~ James Joyce,
135:What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own. ~ James Joyce,
136:When I die, Dublin will be written on my heart. ~ James Joyce,
137:A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. ~ James Joyce,
138:always read with out reading u cant be any thing ~ James Joyce,
139:By thinking of things you could understand them. ~ James Joyce,
140:I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life. ~ James Joyce,
141:nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. ~ James Joyce,
142:Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. ~ James Joyce,
143:No serás el dueño de otros ni tampoco su esclavo. ~ James Joyce,
144:O asla sümkürmez. Bir anlatım biçimi bu:az ve öz. ~ James Joyce,
145:Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body. ~ James Joyce,
146:Children must be educated by love, not punishment. ~ James Joyce,
147:Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas. ~ James Joyce,
148:I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses ~ James Joyce,
149:It made me sad to see your eyes. I cannot say why. ~ James Joyce,
150:Quotations every day of the year. ~ James Joyce, Finnegans Wake,
151:A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out. ~ James Joyce,
152:He laughed to free his mind from his minds bondage. ~ James Joyce,
153:That ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia. ~ James Joyce,
154:He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage. ~ James Joyce,
155:Into the wikeawades warld from sleep we are passing. ~ James Joyce,
156:...like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. ~ James Joyce,
157:No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. ~ James Joyce,
158:The Book does not play James Joyce with the Universe. ~ Hal Duncan,
159:A nation is the same people living in the same place. ~ James Joyce,
160:(...) and, as a matter of fict, by my halfwife, (...) ~ James Joyce,
161:How mingled and imperfect are all our sublunary joys! ~ James Joyce,
162:Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and a bottle. ~ James Joyce,
163:No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse. ~ James Joyce,
164:Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places. ~ James Joyce,
165:We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts. ~ James Joyce,
166:All seemed weary of life even before entering upon it. ~ James Joyce,
167:Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free. ~ James Joyce,
168:I admire the mind of man independent of all religions. ~ James Joyce,
169:Let us leave theories there and return to here's hear. ~ James Joyce,
170:The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea. ~ James Joyce,
171:Where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green... ~ James Joyce,
172:Your mind will give back exactly what you put into it. ~ James Joyce,
173:Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. ~ James Joyce,
174:Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, ~ James Joyce,
175:If we must have a Jesus let us have a legitimate Jesus. ~ James Joyce,
176:Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good. ~ James Joyce,
177:The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action. ~ James Joyce,
178:There's music along the river
For Love wanders there ~ James Joyce,
179:Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet? ~ James Joyce,
180:Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. ~ James Joyce,
181:Límite de lo diáfano en. ¿Por qué en? Diáfano, adiáfano. ~ James Joyce,
182:Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? ~ James Joyce,
183:The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit. ~ James Joyce,
184:Visi atrodė pavargę nuo gyvenimo, dar nepradėję gyventi. ~ James Joyce,
185:We can't change the world, but we can change the subject ~ James Joyce,
186:What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete. ~ James Joyce,
187:The State is concentric, but the individual is eccentric. ~ James Joyce,
188:We are bound together by the sympathy of our antipathies. ~ James Joyce,
189:With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
190:Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for? ~ James Joyce,
191:Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood. ~ James Joyce,
192:God spoke to you by so many voices but you would not hear. ~ James Joyce,
193:He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life ~ James Joyce,
194:History ... is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake. ~ James Joyce,
195:I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter. ~ James Joyce,
196:Let us leave all theories there and return to here's here. ~ James Joyce,
197:One feels that one is listening to thought-tormented music ~ James Joyce,
198:over the bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow ~ James Joyce,
199:People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus. ~ James Joyce,
200:That is god... A shout in the street,' Stephen answered... ~ James Joyce,
201:we wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder, dwindle, die: ~ James Joyce,
202:Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. ~ James Joyce,
203:For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers. ~ James Joyce,
204:He read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry. ~ James Joyce,
205:His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide. ~ James Joyce,
206:History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening. ~ James Joyce,
207:Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound. ~ James Joyce,
208:Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes. ~ James Joyce,
209:The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. ~ James Joyce,
210:This is the way to the museyroom. Mind your boots goan out. ~ James Joyce,
211:Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well. ~ James Joyce,
212:To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher. ~ James Joyce,
213:After sound, light and heat, memory, will and understanding. ~ James Joyce,
214:and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. ~ James Joyce,
215:His heart danced upon her movements like a cork on the tide. ~ James Joyce,
216:-I bar the candles,.... I bar the magic-lantern
business. ~ James Joyce,
217:peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: ~ James Joyce,
218:Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper. ~ James Joyce,
219:The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious. ~ James Joyce,
220:And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen. ~ James Joyce,
221:Haun! Work your progress! Hold to! Now! Win out, ye divil ye! ~ James Joyce,
222:her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. ~ James Joyce,
223:if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness. ~ James Joyce,
224:Your mind will give back to you exactly what you put into it. ~ James Joyce,
225:An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile. ~ James Joyce,
226:Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions. ~ James Joyce,
227:drew the blankets over my head and tried to think of Christmas. ~ James Joyce,
228:her graceful beautifully shaped legs like that, supply soft and ~ James Joyce,
229:I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy. ~ James Joyce,
230:Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. ~ James Joyce,
231:- Se på havet. Hva bryr vel det seg om krenkelser? Buck Mulligan ~ James Joyce,
232:[She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.] ~ James Joyce,
233:The only decent people I ever saw at the racecourse were horses. ~ James Joyce,
234:Tienes cara da haber perdido a tu hija y encontrado a tu suegra. ~ James Joyce,
235:All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday. ~ James Joyce,
236:(Pantolon için, elden düşme değil)... götten düşme denmesi lazım. ~ James Joyce,
237:The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here. ~ James Joyce,
238:This in no life for man or woman, insults and hatred and history. ~ James Joyce,
239:We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways. ~ James Joyce,
240:A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. ~ James Joyce,
241:Aš tarp jų - tarp kovojančių kūnų margoj minioj, gyvenimo turnyre. ~ James Joyce,
242:Civilization may be said indeed to be the creation of its outlaws. ~ James Joyce,
243:The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot. ~ James Joyce,
244:The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed. ~ James Joyce,
245:Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!” (“The end of pleasure is pain!”) ~ James Joyce,
246:I love flowers, I’d love to have the whole place swimming in roses. ~ James Joyce,
247:It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked lookingglass of a servant. ~ James Joyce,
248:Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. Then tear asunder. ~ James Joyce,
249:My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions. ~ James Joyce,
250:To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life. ~ James Joyce,
251:You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think? ~ James Joyce,
252:Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days. ~ James Joyce,
253:For me, it's all about The Dubliners by James Joyce. I love The Dead. ~ Evan Dando,
254:Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. ~ James Joyce,
255:It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born. ~ James Joyce,
256:It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant. ~ James Joyce,
257:Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low. ~ James Joyce,
258:Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low! ~ James Joyce,
259:No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination ~ James Joyce,
260:What did it proft a man to gain the whole world if he lost his soul? ~ James Joyce,
261:If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European. ~ James Joyce,
262:Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion. ~ James Joyce,
263:No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination. ~ James Joyce,
264:O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? ~ James Joyce,
265:The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM! ~ James Joyce,
266:There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present. ~ James Joyce,
267:History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. ~ James Joyce,
268:It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. ~ James Joyce,
269:King Solomon says in Proverbs that there is nothing new under the sun. ~ James Joyce,
270:My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire. ~ James Joyce,
271:These are not misprints but beauties of my style hitherto undreamt of. ~ James Joyce,
272:Enigmas hastiados de su tiranía: tiranos, dispuestos a ser destronados, ~ James Joyce,
273:Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On ~ James Joyce,
274:Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. ~ James Joyce,
275:O, you poor fellow! Out there in the rain all that time! I forgot that. ~ James Joyce,
276:...shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart... ~ James Joyce,
277:So he had sunk to the state of a beast that licks his chaps after meat. ~ James Joyce,
278:The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius. ~ James Joyce,
279:YesIsaidyesyesyesyesyes...YesIsaidyes! andagainyesyesyes -- Molly Bloom ~ James Joyce,
280:--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. ~ James Joyce,
281:Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past. ~ James Joyce,
282:İnsan düşüncenin baskısı altındaki bir müziği dinlemekte olduğunu sanır. ~ James Joyce,
283:Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment. ~ James Joyce,
284:sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, ~ James Joyce,
285:The Gracehoper was always jigging ajog, hoppy on akkant of his joyicity. ~ James Joyce,
286:Forms passed this way and that through the dull light. And that was life. ~ James Joyce,
287:The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you. ~ James Joyce,
288:If you can put your five fingers throught it, it is a gate, if not a door. ~ James Joyce,
289:Look at the woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. ~ James Joyce,
290:James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself. ~ Samuel Beckett,
291:The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude. ~ James Joyce,
292:the park’s so dark by kindlelight. But look what you have in your handself! ~ James Joyce,
293:He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place. ~ James Joyce,
294:Oh Ireland my first and only love Where Christ and Caesar are hand in glove! ~ James Joyce,
295:[Shakes his head slowly.] Extraordinary little person! Were you not ashamed? ~ James Joyce,
296:She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. ~ James Joyce,
297:The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude. ~ James Joyce,
298:Unsheathe your dagger definitions; Horseness is the Whatness of All Horse... ~ James Joyce,
299:With thee it was not as with many that will and would and wait and never do. ~ James Joyce,
300:[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend. ~ James Joyce,
301:—I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become. ~ James Joyce,
302:I think perhaps the greatest book ever written was Ulysses by James Joyce. ~ Frederick Lenz,
303:I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me. ~ James Joyce,
304:And Jesus was a Jew too. Your god. He was a Jew like me. And so was his father. ~ James Joyce,
305:Conque leyendo dos páginas de siete libros distintos cada noche ¿eh? Era joven. ~ James Joyce,
306:Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? ~ James Joyce,
307:He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. ~ James Joyce,
308:Oh Ireland my first and only love
Where Christ and Caesar are hand in glove! ~ James Joyce,
309:God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. ~ James Joyce,
310:Grace before Glutton. For what we are, gifs a gross if we are, about to believe. ~ James Joyce,
311:Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her own behind all her propagandism? ~ James Joyce,
312:We are foolish, comic, motionless, corrupted, yet we are worthy of sympathy too. ~ James Joyce,
313:He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. ~ James Joyce,
314:obedience in the womb, chastity in the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. ~ James Joyce,
315:Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance. ~ James Joyce,
316:What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction? ~ James Joyce,
317:But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could. ~ James Joyce,
318:I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world. ~ James Joyce,
319:Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance. ~ James Joyce,
320:The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of soul sought no outlet ~ James Joyce,
321:The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. ~ James Joyce,
322:You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you... ~ James Joyce,
323:Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman. ~ James Joyce,
324:Dress the pussy for her nighty and follow her piggytails up their way to Winkyland. ~ James Joyce,
325:School and home seem to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to wane. ~ James Joyce,
326:Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton , a winedark sea. ~ James Joyce,
327:Welladay! Welladay!
For the winds of May!
Love is unhappy when love is away! ~ James Joyce,
328:Art is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end. ~ James Joyce,
329:I have left my book, I have left my room, For I heard you singing Through the gloom. ~ James Joyce,
330:It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God
could do that. ~ James Joyce,
331:Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. ~ James Joyce,
332:Flying a helicopter is like flying a magic carpet. It’s the most fun in all aviation. ~ James Joyce,
333:How beautiful must be a soul in the state of grace when God looked upon it with love! ~ James Joyce,
334:-Kai kurie žmonės, - sako Blumas, - mato krislą kito akyje, bet nemato rąsto savojoj. ~ James Joyce,
335:Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. ~ James Joyce,
336:White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak. ~ James Joyce,
337:(...) You cruel creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop. ~ James Joyce,
338:Braque and James Joyce, they are the incomprehensibles whom anybody can understand ~ Thornton Wilder,
339:he said it was sweeter and thicker than cows then he wanted to milk me into the tea... ~ James Joyce,
340:I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space. ~ James Joyce,
341:I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. ~ James Joyce,
342:It could not be a wall but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything. ~ James Joyce,
343:They listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. ~ James Joyce,
344:[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend. ~ James Joyce, Ulysses,
345:She ate the apple and gave it also to Adam who had not the moral courage to resist her. ~ James Joyce,
346:The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime. ~ James Joyce,
347:Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals. ~ James Joyce,
348:Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all. ~ James Joyce,
349:Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. ~ James Joyce,
350:Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. ~ James Joyce,
351:When I find a lady who is content with her own picture I will send a bouquet to the Pope ~ James Joyce,
352:But I am curious to know are you trying to make a convert of me or a pervert of yourself? ~ James Joyce,
353:Broken Eggs will poursuive bitten Apples for where theirs is Will there's his Wall ~ James Joyce,
354:If my Spreadeagles Wasn't so Tight I'd Loosen my Cursits on that Bunch of Maggiestraps... ~ James Joyce,
355:Oh rocks!' says Molly Bloom, drumming her fingers in impatience. 'Tell us in plain words. ~ James Joyce,
356:Shaw's works make me admire the magnificent tolerance and broadmindedness of the english. ~ James Joyce,
357:There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being. ~ James Joyce,
358:You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought. ~ James Joyce,
359:he knew the way to take a woman when he sent me the 8 big poppies because mine was the 8th ~ James Joyce,
360:Kyrie ! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind. ~ James Joyce,
361:Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does the possession of money. ~ James Joyce,
362:Thus the unfacts, did we possess them, are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude... ~ James Joyce,
363:Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. ~ James Joyce,
364:their tunics bloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. ~ James Joyce,
365:Yaşadığı değerler yüreğini acılaştırmıştı dünyaya karşı. Ama bütün umudunu da yitirmemişti. ~ James Joyce,
366:And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm. ~ James Joyce,
367:Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. ~ James Joyce,
368:My body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. ~ James Joyce,
369:The long eyelids beat and lift: a burning needleprick stings and quivers in the velvet iris. ~ James Joyce,
370:Wery weeny wight, plead for Morandmor! Notre Dame de la Ville, mercy of thy balmheartzyheat! ~ James Joyce,
371:Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods. ~ James Joyce,
372:It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. ~ James Joyce,
373:This race and this country and this life produced me, he said I shall express myself as I am. ~ James Joyce,
374:What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world if he suffer the loss of his immortal soul? ~ James Joyce,
375:A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery. ~ James Joyce,
376:A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery. ~ James Joyce,
377:Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eons of the gods. ~ James Joyce,
378:He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. ~ James Joyce,
379:Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
380:This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am. ~ James Joyce,
381:When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water. ~ James Joyce,
382:Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. ~ James Joyce,
383:He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. ~ James Joyce,
384:He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses. ~ James Joyce,
385:he wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld ~ James Joyce,
386:The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. ~ James Joyce,
387:But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. ~ James Joyce,
388:He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. ~ James Joyce,
389:...his monstrous dreams, peopled by ape-like creatures and by harlots with gleaming jewel eyes.. ~ James Joyce,
390:I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom. ~ James Joyce,
391:I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when it is insulted and spit on. ~ James Joyce,
392:The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works. ~ James Joyce,
393:The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole life to reading my works. ~ James Joyce,
394:—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces. ~ James Joyce,
395:The trees do not resent autumn nor
does any exemplary thing in nature resent its limitations. ~ James Joyce,
396:Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in your? Twang. It snapped. ~ James Joyce,
397:British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops. ~ James Joyce,
398:God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You ~ James Joyce,
399:Groangrousegurgling Toft's cumbersome whirligig turns slowly the room right roundabout the room.) ~ James Joyce,
400:He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. ~ James Joyce,
401:him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his ~ James Joyce,
402:It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish. ~ James Joyce,
403:O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once. ~ James Joyce,
404:Stephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twine-coloured hair. ~ James Joyce,
405:...the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. ~ James Joyce,
406:White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all! ~ James Joyce,
407:Ena milo melomon, frai is frau and swee is too, swee is two when swoo is free, ana mala woe is we! ~ James Joyce,
408:ere the hour of the twattering of bards in the twitterlitter between Druidia and the Deepsleep Sea ~ James Joyce,
409:I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame. ~ James Joyce,
410:it wounded him to think that he would never be but a shy guest at the feast of the world's culture ~ James Joyce,
411:perfume of embraces all him assailed
with hungered flesh obscurely
he mutely craved to adore ~ James Joyce,
412:Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life. ~ James Joyce,
413:What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of Milly, somnambulist, make to Stephen, noctambulist? ~ James Joyce,
414:You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman. ~ James Joyce,
415:Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end. ~ James Joyce,
416:It wounded him to think that he would never be but a shy guest at the feast of the world's culture. ~ James Joyce,
417:Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. ~ James Joyce,
418:When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once. ~ James Joyce,
419:When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once… ~ James Joyce,
420:All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. ~ James Joyce,
421:He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. ~ James Joyce,
422:He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place. (...) He wanted to cry. ~ James Joyce,
423:To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom. ~ James Joyce,
424:bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! ~ James Joyce,
425:Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has walked in the right path. ~ James Joyce,
426:Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. ~ James Joyce,
427:Oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history. ~ James Joyce,
428:People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. ~ James Joyce,
429:The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question. ~ James Joyce,
430:The origin of the name is an enigmatic quotation from James Joyce: “Three quarks for Muster Mark! ~ Stephen Hawking,
431:When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once... ~ James Joyce,
432:For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. ~ James Joyce,
433:Pero mi cuerpo era como un arpa y sus palabras y sus gestos eran como dedos que recorrían mis cuerdas. ~ James Joyce,
434:The past is consumed in the present and the present is living only because it brings forth the future. ~ James Joyce,
435:What dreams would he have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way? ~ James Joyce,
436:When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight. ~ James Joyce,
437:A gust of wind blows in through the porch with the sound of shaken leaves. The flame of the lamp leaps. ~ James Joyce,
438:But he was not sick there. He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place. ~ James Joyce,
439:I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. ~ James Joyce,
440:(bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonner ronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!) ~ James Joyce,
441:Birkaç gelişigüzel laf dışında hiç konuşmamıştık onunla, ama adı çılgın kanıma bir çağrı gibi geliyordu. ~ James Joyce,
442:His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost. ~ James Joyce,
443:Some of it is ugly, obscene and bestial, some of it is pure and holy and spiritual: all of it is myself. ~ James Joyce,
444:and with that he took the bloody old towser by the scruff of the neck and by Jesus he near throttled him. ~ James Joyce,
445:But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad. ~ James Joyce,
446:His eyes were dimmed with tears, and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost. ~ James Joyce,
447:I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. ~ James Joyce,
448:...the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend. ~ James Joyce,
449:There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. ~ James Joyce,
450:What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends? ~ James Joyce,
451:He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds. ~ James Joyce,
452:skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his ~ James Joyce,
453:Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women. ~ James Joyce,
454:But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? ~ James Joyce,
455:Firea lui simțitoare mai era încă aprig rănită de șfichiuirile unei vieți lipsite de elevație și demnitate. ~ James Joyce,
456:He is a bold man who, in his writing, dares to alter---even further to distort---what he has seen and heard. ~ James Joyce,
457:I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? ~ James Joyce,
458:I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. ~ James Joyce,
459:—Pascal, if I remember rightly, would not suffer his mother to kiss him as he feared the contact of her sex. ~ James Joyce,
460:Sako, perskaitysi savo paties nekrologą - ilgiau gyvensi. Suteikia antrą kvėpavimą. Nauja gyvenimo sutartis. ~ James Joyce,
461:Yaşlanıp acınası bir şekilde eriyip tükenmektense bir tutkunun ihtişamıyla öteki dünyaya göçmek daha iyiydi. ~ James Joyce,
462:A dark horse riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winning post, his mane moonflowing, his eyeballs stars. ~ James Joyce,
463:Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless? . . . ~ James Joyce,
464:between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour. ~ James Joyce,
465:Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America. ~ James Joyce,
466:Do you know what Ireland is?' asked Stephen with cold violence. 'Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow. ~ James Joyce,
467:He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself:
A day of dappled seaborne clouds. ~ James Joyce,
468:He found trivial all that was meant to charm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. ~ James Joyce,
469:I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe! ~ James Joyce,
470:Our souls, shame-wounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. ~ James Joyce,
471:Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home. JAMES JOYCE, AUTHOR ~ Mike Robbins,
472:Tillie Olsen. James Joyce. Robert Stone. I must have read Updike’s Rabbit, Run five times and Bellow’s Herzog ~ Pamela Paul,
473:What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. ~ James Joyce,
474:...before all this has time to end the golden age must return with its vengeance. Man will become dirigible... ~ James Joyce,
475:Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. ~ James Joyce,
476:He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching himself from it and tasting its mortifying flavor in secret ~ James Joyce,
477:His blood began to murmur in his veins, murmuring like a sinful city summoned from its sleep to hear its doom. ~ James Joyce,
478:His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory - if anyone remembered him. ~ James Joyce,
479:If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple. ~ James Joyce,
480:Luz dorada sobr el mar, sobre arena, sobre cantizales. El sol está ahí, los gráciles árboles, las casas limón. ~ James Joyce,
481:PADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my rates and taxes? BLOOM: Pay them, my friend. PADDY LEONARD: Thank you. ~ James Joyce,
482:James Joyce buried himself in his great work. _Finnegan's Wake_ is his monument and his tombstone. A dead end. ~ Edward Abbey,
483:Even if we are often led to desire through the sense of beauty can you say that the beautiful is what we desire? ~ James Joyce,
484:I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. ~ James Joyce,
485:The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. ~ James Joyce,
486:And you’ll miss me more as the narrowing weeks wing by. Someday duly, oneday truly, twosday newly, till whensday. ~ James Joyce,
487:It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained... ~ James Joyce,
488:James Joyce married a woman named Nora Barnacle. She once said to him, ‘Why don’t you write books people can read? ~ John Lloyd,
489:Knock knock. War's where! Which war? The Twwinns. Knock knock. Woos without! Without what? An apple. Knock knock. ~ James Joyce,
490:Mio padre /babam/ : en sıradan edimleri bile o önemseyerek yapıyor. Unde derivatur? /Kaynağı ne? Nereden çıktı? / ~ James Joyce,
491:No, it did a lot of other things, too.
[turning down fan who asked to kiss the hand that wrote Ulysses ~ James Joyce,
492:Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ~ James Joyce,
493:Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet! ~ James Joyce,
494:i know by heart the places he likes to saale, delvan first and duvlin after, by dredgerous lands and devious delts ~ James Joyce,
495:It was hard work-a hard life-but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life. ~ James Joyce,
496:Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. ~ James Joyce,
497:Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window curtains. ~ James Joyce,
498:I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear. ~ James Joyce,
499:Llegan, las olas. Los hipocampos crestiblancos, tascando, embridados en fúlgidos céfiros, los corceles de Mananaan. ~ James Joyce,
500:peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth ~ James Joyce,
501:slow eyes and parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where she was or where she was going. ~ James Joyce,
502:Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. ~ James Joyce,
503:I also am sure that there is no such thing as free thinking in asmuch as all thinking must be bound by its own laws. ~ James Joyce,
504:L'esthétique et les cosmétiques sont pour le boudoir. Je suis pour la vérité. La simple vérité pour un homme simple. ~ James Joyce,
505:Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead. ~ James Joyce,
506:He imagined that he stood near Emma in a wide land and, humbly and in tears, bent and kissed the elbow of her sleeve. ~ James Joyce,
507:Hell is the centre of evils and, as you know, things are more intense at their centres than at their remotest points. ~ James Joyce,
508:My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out. ~ James Joyce,
509:One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature. ~ James Joyce,
510:There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair. ~ James Joyce,
511:A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his eyes. ~ James Joyce,
512:I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. ~ James Joyce,
513:İşi zordu -hayatı zordu- ama şimdi tam da bırakıp gitmek üzereyken o kadar da istenmeyecek bir hayat değil gibi geldi. ~ James Joyce,
514:We are once amore as babes awondering in a wold made fresh where with the hen in the storyaboot we start from scratch. ~ James Joyce,
515:God and the Blessed Virgin were too far from him: God was too great and stern and the Blessed Virgin too pure and holy. ~ James Joyce,
516:I felt even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had been freed from something by his death. ~ James Joyce,
517:Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in grasp and ivoroiled overalls which he habitacularly fondseed... ~ James Joyce,
518:All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light. ~ James Joyce,
519:A novelist who ranks with Proust , Kafka , Musil and his friend James Joyce as one of the enduring pillars of Modernism. ~ Italo Svevo,
520:He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. ~ James Joyce,
521:I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day. ~ James Joyce,
522:A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that they know. Wherefore they wail. ~ James Joyce,
523:He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. ~ James Joyce,
524:Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. ~ James Joyce,
525:Tenía la costumbre de tratar los problemas morales como el carnicero a la carne, y en aquel caso había tomado la decisión ~ James Joyce,
526:There is an art in lighting a fire. We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts. This is one of the useful arts. ~ James Joyce,
527:Chuck Norris doesn't need to understand the work of James Joyce; James Joyce needs to understand the work of Chuck Norris. ~ Brian Celio,
528:James Joyce - an essentially private man who wished his total indifference to public notice to be universally recognized. ~ Tom Stoppard,
529:Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. ~ James Joyce,
530:Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ~ James Joyce,
531:His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. ~ James Joyce,
532:La gente aguantaba que les mordiera un lobo pero lo que verdaderamente les sacaba de quicio era que les mordiera una oveja. ~ James Joyce,
533:Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. ~ James Joyce,
534:Well, you know or don't you kennet or haven't I told you every
telling has a taling and that's the he and the she of it. ~ James Joyce,
535:We who live under heaven, we of the clovery kindgom, we middlesins people have often watched the sky overreaching the land. ~ James Joyce,
536:Wonderlawn's lost us for ever. Alis, alas, she broke the glass! Liddell lokker through the leafery, ours is mistery of pain. ~ James Joyce,
537:Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. ~ James Joyce,
538:Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. ~ James Joyce,
539:I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description ~ James Joyce,
540:--That's so, says Martin. Or so they allege.
--Who made those allegations? says Alf.
--I, says Joe. I'm the alligator. ~ James Joyce,
541:The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. ~ James Joyce,
542:We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh ~ James Joyce,
543:And I shall be misunderstord if understood to give an unconditional sinequam to the heroicised furibouts of the Nolanus theory, ~ James Joyce,
544:Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger. ~ James Joyce,
545:His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. ~ James Joyce,
546:—I'm a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple, glancing about him out of his dark oval eyes. Marx is only a bloody cod. ~ James Joyce,
547:I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction. ~ James Joyce,
548:A dream of favours, a favourable dream. They know how they believe that they believe that they know. Wherefore they wail. ~ James Joyce, [T5],
549:Careful, Arturo Bandini: don't strain your eyesight, remember what happened to Tarkington, remember what happened to James Joyce. ~ John Fante,
550:I believe you’re a good fellow but you have yet to learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of the human individual. ~ James Joyce,
551:I was into Virginia Woolf and James Joyce [at university] and I think we all thought that [Charles] Dickens wasn't that cool. ~ Felicity Jones,
552:Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish. ~ James Joyce,
553:Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no other word tender enough to be your name? ~ James Joyce,
554:As in the novels of James Joyce, so in those of Thomas Mann, the key to the progression lies in the stress on what is inward. ~ Joseph Campbell,
555:He had to undress and then kneel and say his own prayers before the gas was lowered so that he might not go to hell when he died. ~ James Joyce,
556:Ireland sober is Ireland stiff. Lord help you, Maria, full of grease, the load is with me! Your prayers. I sonht zo! Madammangut! ~ James Joyce,
557:James Joyce was a synthesizer, trying to bring in as much as he could. I am an analyzer, trying to leave out as much as I can. ~ Samuel Beckett,
558:[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life. ~ James Joyce,
559:Begin to forget it. It will remember itself from every sides, with all gestures in each our word. Today’s truth, tomorrow’s trend. ~ James Joyce,
560:Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall. ~ James Joyce,
561:Ineluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read. ~ James Joyce,
562:Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned. ~ James Joyce,
563:She was a little vulgar; sometimes she said “I seen” and “If I had’ve known.” But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? ~ James Joyce,
564:The leaning of sophists toward the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant quantity. The highroads are dreary but they lead to the town. ~ James Joyce,
565:Another life! A life of grace and virtue and happiness! It was true. It was not a dream from which he would wake. The past was past. ~ James Joyce,
566:For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I’ll slip away before they’re up. They’ll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me. ~ James Joyce,
567:Why was he doubly irritated?
Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded himself twice not to forget. ~ James Joyce,
568:And, as a mere matter of ficfect, I tell of myself how I popo possess the ripest littlums wifukie around the globelettes globes (...) ~ James Joyce,
569:He had not died but had faded out like a film in the Sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. ~ James Joyce,
570:A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her. ~ James Joyce,
571:He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this? ~ James Joyce,
572:My mind rejects the whole present social order and Christianity — home, the recognised virtues, classes of life, and religious doctrines ~ James Joyce,
573:She said he just looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse. ~ James Joyce,
574:What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? ~ James Joyce,
575:But Noodynaady's actual ingrate tootle is of come into the garner mauve and thy nice are stores of morning and buy me a bunch of iodines. ~ James Joyce,
576:for journalists words are simply tokens to be arranged and rearranged indifferently. But for an artist there can be only one ideal order. ~ James Joyce,
577:Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning, I just don’t care what my thwarters think. ~ James Joyce,
578:James Joyce wrote the definitive work about Dublin while he was living in Switzerland. We're all where we come from. We all have our roots. ~ John Guare,
579:We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ James Joyce Professor MacHugh ~ James Joyce,
580:Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it. ~ James Joyce,
581:He was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. ~ James Joyce,
582:—He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers. ~ James Joyce,
583:James Joyce is a cul-de-sac. [Ulysses is] ... an example how literature branched out and went into, lost itself in nowhere, no man's land. ~ Werner Herzog,
584:I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. ~ James Joyce,
585:I want to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book. ~ James Joyce,
586:There is an atmosphere of spiritual effort here. No other city is quite like it. I wake early, often at 5 o'clock, and start writing at once. ~ James Joyce,
587:We are an unfortunate priest-ridden race and always were and always will be tell the end of the chapter.... A priest-ridden Godforsaken race. ~ James Joyce,
588:Alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman cycles of activity chilled him and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving ~ James Joyce,
589:Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. ~ James Joyce,
590:...her who whose beauty is not like earthly beauty, dangerous to look upon, but like the morning star which is its emblem, bright and musical. ~ James Joyce,
591:It surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals for a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own. ~ James Joyce,
592:Onlar güzel insanlar,
Onlar güzel insanlar,
Onlar güzel insanlar,
Kimse inkar edemez.

Yalancı değillerse,
Yalan değillerse. ~ James Joyce,
593:The waxen pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly perfect. ~ James Joyce,
594:Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined. ~ James Joyce,
595:An improper art aims at exciting in the way of comedy the feeling of desire but the feeling which is proper to comic art is the feeling of joy. ~ James Joyce,
596:Every physical quality admired by men in women is in direct connection with the manifold functions of women for the propagation of the species. ~ James Joyce,
597:I confess that I do not see what good it does to fulminate against the English tyranny while the Roman tyranny occupies the palace of the soul. ~ James Joyce,
598:No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove. ~ James Joyce,
599:Stephen Dedalus / Class of Elements / Clongowes Wood College / Sallins / County Kildare / Ireland / Europe / The World / The Universe goodreads ~ James Joyce,
600:There is only one thing that makes any one athlete better than another, his heart. We all put our underwear on feet first, so we are all human. ~ James Joyce,
601:To say that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic merit, is no better than to say he is rheumatic or diabetic. ~ James Joyce,
602:What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down. ~ James Joyce,
603:What was after the universe?

Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? ~ James Joyce,
604:A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. ~ James Joyce,
605:Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory. ~ James Joyce,
606:Now patience; and remember patience is the great thing, and above all things else we must avoid anything like being or becoming out of patience. ~ James Joyce,
607:What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent? ~ James Joyce,
608:Why was the host (victim predestined) sad?

He wished that a tale of a deed should be told of a deed not by him should by him not be told. ~ James Joyce,
609:That is horse piss and rotted straw, he thought. It is a good odour to breathe. It will calm my heart. My heart is quite calm now. I will go back. ~ James Joyce,
610:They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn’t broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too late.
Ulysses ~ James Joyce,
611:And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes. ~ James Joyce,
612:It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. ~ James Joyce,
613:Damn it, I can understand a fellow being hard up but what I can't understand is a fellow sponging. Couldn't he have some spark of manhood about him? ~ James Joyce,
614:Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, ~ James Joyce,
615:—What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners. ~ James Joyce,
616:Early morning: set off at dawn. Travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. ~ James Joyce,
617:O, not in the least tragic. I shall become gradually better, they tell me, as I grow older. As I did not die then they tell me I shall probably live. ~ James Joyce,
618:James Joyce seemed like the most arrogant man who ever lived, had both his eyes wide open and great faculty of speech, but what he say, I knew not what. ~ Bob Dylan,
619:riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. ~ James Joyce,
620:I smiled at him. America, I said quietly, just like that. What is it? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact. ~ James Joyce,
621:I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad. ~ James Joyce,
622:Jesus was a bachelor and never lived with a woman. Surely living with a woman is one of the most difficult things a man has to do, and he never did it. ~ James Joyce,
623:So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined. ~ James Joyce,
624:Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why. ~ James Joyce,
625:Departe, de-a lungul cursului leneșului Liffey, catarge zvelte tărcau cerul și, mai departe încă, urzeala tulbure a orașului zăcea prosternată în pâclă. ~ James Joyce,
626:Most people have some purpose or other in their lives. Aristotle says that the end of every being is its greatest good. We all act in view of some good. ~ James Joyce,
627:The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with enthusiasm, is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is the beginning of death. ~ James Joyce,
628:Tineretea are un sfârsit: sfârșitul e aici. Nu va mai fi niciodată. O știi prea bine. Și atunci? Scrie-o, blestematule, scrie-o! La ce altceva ești bun? ~ James Joyce,
629:Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. ~ James Joyce,
630:The Irish are people who will never have leaders, for at the great moment they always desert them. They have produced one skeleton--Parnell--never a man. ~ James Joyce,
631:I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real
adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad. ~ James Joyce,
632:Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatesoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer. ~ James Joyce,
633:Ulysses He ... saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid flatong flower. ~ James Joyce,
634:(...) Dammad and Groany, into her limited (tuff, tuff, que tu es pitre!) lapse at the same slapse for towelling ends in their dolightful Sexsex home, (...) ~ James Joyce,
635:In the wide land under a tender lucid evening sky, a cloud drifting westward amid a pale green sea of heaven, they stood together, children that had erred. ~ James Joyce,
636:--If that is rhythm, said Lynch, let me hear what you call beauty: and, please remember, though I did eat a cake of cowdung once, that I admire only beauty. ~ James Joyce,
637:In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation. ~ James Joyce,
638:Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. ~ James Joyce,
639:Every age must look for its sanction to its poetry and philosophy, for in these the human mind, as it looks backward or forward, attains to an eternal state. ~ James Joyce,
640:One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. ~ James Joyce,
641:Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. ~ James Joyce,
642:935--If that is rhythm, said Lynch, let me hear what you call beauty: and, please remember, though I did eat a cake of cowdung once, that I admire only beauty. ~ James Joyce,
643:however, he brought to mind instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly nipped in the bud of premature decay and nobody to blame but themselves. ~ James Joyce,
644:My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis. ~ James Joyce,
645:One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. ~ James Joyce,
646:- Then, said Cranly, you do not intend to become a protestant?

- I said that I had lost the faith, Stephen answered, but not that I had lost selfrespect ~ James Joyce,
647:Estaba destinado a aprender su propia sabiduría aparte de los otros o a aprender la sabiduría de los otros por sí mismo, errando entre las asechanzas del mundo. ~ James Joyce,
648:I admire him … idolatry: from Ben (‘Old Ben’) Jonson’s eulogy for Shakespeare printed in his Timber, or Discoveries (1640): ‘for I lov’d the man, and doe honour ~ James Joyce,
649:Going to a dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor roc's auk's egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of Darkinbad the Brightdayler. ~ James Joyce,
650:Never back a woman you defend, never get quit of a friend on whom you depend, never make face to a foe till he’s rife and never get stuck to another man’s pfife. ~ James Joyce,
651:When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
652:He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. ~ James Joyce,
653:I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play. ~ James Joyce,
654:I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence. You can see for yourself how many different ways they might be arranged. ~ James Joyce,
655:In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven! ~ James Joyce,
656:Words which he did not understand he said over and over to himself till he had learnt them by heart: and through them he had glimpses of the real world about them. ~ James Joyce,
657:A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore. ~ James Joyce,
658:Genius still means to me, in my Russian fastidiousness and pride of phrase, a unique dazzling gift. The gift of James Joyce, and not the talent of Henry James. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
659:His head was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of another. ~ James Joyce,
660:I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? ~ James Joyce,
661:I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? ~ James Joyce,
662:One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot. ~ James Joyce,
663:Theologians consider that it was the sin of pride, the sinful thought conceived in an instant: non serviam: I will not serve. That instant was his [Lucifer's] ruin. ~ James Joyce,
664:Ay say aye. I affirmly swear to it that it rooly and cooly boolyhooly was with my holyhagionous lips continuously poised upon the rubricated annuals of saint ulstar. ~ James Joyce,
665:He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. ~ James Joyce,
666:Stivenas staiga dūrė nykščiu į lango pusę tardamas:

-Štai Dievas.
-Ką? - paklausė misteris Dyzis.
-Šauksmas gatvėje, - gūžtelėjęs pečiais atsakė Stivenas. ~ James Joyce,
667:Then, in that case, all the rest, all that I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest before me now, in fact... O, give it up old chap! Sleep it off! ~ James Joyce,
668:There's the Belle for Sexaloitez! And Concepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari, vert the showers! And grant thaya grace! Aman. ~ James Joyce,
669:Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me. ~ James Joyce,
670:When all things repose, do you alone Awake to hear the sweet harps play To Love before him on his way, And the night wind answering in antiphon Till night is overgone? ~ James Joyce,
671:Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his look. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, read her very soul. ~ James Joyce,
672:And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him. ~ James Joyce,
673:He walked there, reading in the evening and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild. ~ James Joyce,
674:I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far. ~ James Joyce,
675:(Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, what curios of sings (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since We and Thou had it out already) its world? ~ James Joyce,
676:A learner rather"

Stephen's answer to Deasy who says "You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong." (Episode 2, line 403 in the Gabler edition) ~ James Joyce,
677:The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails ~ James Joyce,
678:And whowasit youwasit propped the pot in the yard and whatinthe nameofsen lukeareyou rubbinthe sideofthe flureofthe lobbywith Shite! will you have a plateful? Tak. ~ James Joyce,
679:Every morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to his outhouse but not before he had greased and brushed scrupulously his back hair and brushed and put on his tall hat. ~ James Joyce,
680:They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. ~ James Joyce,
681:And all their remains. And not all the king’s men nor his horses Will resurrect his corpus For there’s no true spell in Connacht or hell  (bis) That’s able to raise a Cain. ~ James Joyce,
682:His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,
683:His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,
684:The sad quiet grey-blue glow of the dying day came through the window and the open door, covering over and allaying quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen's heart. ~ James Joyce,
685:Amen.So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. ~ James Joyce,
686:Each imagining himself to be the first last and only alone, whereas he is neither first last nor last nor only not alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity. ~ James Joyce,
687:I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality. ~ James Joyce,
688:I fear more than that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration. ~ James Joyce,
689:The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. ~ James Joyce,
690:What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds. ~ James Joyce,
691:First you must take your degree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by little, you will see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life and in thinking. ~ James Joyce,
692:I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me. ~ James Joyce,
693:‎I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that is the only way of insuring one's immortality. ~ James Joyce,
694:Life seemed to him a gift; the statement ‘I am alive’ seemed to him to contain a satisfactory certainty and many other things, held up as indubitable, seemed to him uncertain. ~ James Joyce,
695:He felt above him the vast indifferent dome and the calm processes of the heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him, the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast. ~ James Joyce,
696:Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. ~ James Joyce,
697:He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary already. ~ James Joyce,
698:The end he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about to be opened to him. ~ James Joyce,
699:Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquillity sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms. ~ James Joyce,
700:No man, said the Nolan, can be a lover of the true or the good unless he abhors the multitude; and the artist, though he may employ the crowd, is very careful to isolate himself. ~ James Joyce,
701:If it's well written, even an obscene book cannot be immoral.

John McGahern, Galway, October 6th 2003. "Acclaimed as the most important Irish novellist since James Joyce. ~ John McGahern,
702:It is dangerous to abandon one's own country,
but it is more dangerous still to return to it, for then your fellow country-men, if they can, will drive a knife into your heart. ~ James Joyce,
703:It is their segnall for old Champelysied to seek the shades of his retirement and for young Chappielassies to tear a round and tease their partners lovesoftfun at Finnegan's Wake. ~ James Joyce,
704:James Joyce is right about history being a nightmare-- but it may be that nightmare from which no one can awaken. People are trapped in history and history in trapped in them. ~ James A Baldwin,
705:Love between man and woman is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse, and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. ~ James Joyce,
706:My love she's handsome,
My love she's bony:
She's like good whisky
When it is new;
But when 'tis old
And growing cold
It fades and dies like
The mountain dew. ~ James Joyce,
707:The tall form of the young professor of mental science discussing on the landing a case of conscience with his class like a giraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes ~ James Joyce,
708:Thought and plot are not so important as some would make them out to be. The object of any work of art is the transference of emotion; talent is the gift of conveying that emotion ~ James Joyce,
709:Where are you getting your material—Portnoy’s Complaint?” “What does an Irish lass named Monaghan know from Portnoy and afikomens? I imagine you reading James Joyce and drinking ~ Laura Lippman,
710:His brain was simmering and bubbling within the cracking tenement of the skull.Flames burst forth from his skull like a corolla,shrieking like voices: -Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! ~ James Joyce,
711:In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? ~ James Joyce,
712:Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy asked. — A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. ~ James Joyce,
713:Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. ~ James Joyce,
714:He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. ~ James Joyce,
715:Sua alma desmaiava lentamente, enquanto ele ouvia a neve cair suave através do universo, cair brandamente, como se lhes descesse a hora final, sobre todos os vivos e todos os mortos. ~ James Joyce,
716:He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:
--I am not thinking of the offence to my mother. ~ James Joyce,
717:Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo ~ James Joyce,
718:Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. ~ James Joyce,
719:Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves. ~ James Joyce,
720:For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal. ~ James Joyce,
721:You don't know yet what money is. Money is power, when you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? Put money in thy purse. ~ James Joyce,
722:Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you're going to be Mister Finnagain! Comeday morm and, O, you're vine! Sendday's eve and, ah you're vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you're going to be fined again! ~ James Joyce,
723:I seriously believe that you will retard the course of civilisation in Ireland by preventing the Irish people from having one good look at themselves in my nicely polished looking glass. ~ James Joyce,
724:It darkles, (tinct, tint) all this our funnaminal world. Yon marshpond by ruodmark verge is visited by the tide. Alvemmarea! We are circumveiloped by obscuritads. Man and belves frieren. ~ James Joyce,
725:With: Go Ferchios off to Allad out of this! An oldsteinsong. He threwed his fit up to his aers, rolled his poligone eyes, snivelled from his snose and blew the guff out of his hornypipe. ~ James Joyce,
726:he met the eyes of others with unanswering eyes, for he felt that the spirit of beauty had folded him round like a mantle and that in revery at least he had been acquainted with nobility. ~ James Joyce,
727:Mrkgnao! the cat cried.

They call them stupid. They understand what we say
better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Cruel. Her nature. ~ James Joyce,
728:She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. ~ James Joyce,
729:The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. ~ James Joyce,
730:When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
731:You could get a book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and ships. It made you feel so happy. ~ James Joyce,
732:I'm drawn to women who live in a world different from my own. I don't believe you have to marry someone from your own backyard. James Joyce married a woman who never read any of his books. ~ Matt Dillon,
733:A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. ~ James Joyce,
734:If anyone thinks that I amn't divine
He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine
But have to drink water and wish it were plain
That I make when the wine becomes water again. ~ James Joyce,
735:He kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each plump melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure prolonged provocative melonsmellonous osculation. ~ James Joyce,
736:Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to fall. ~ James Joyce,
737:Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghost-woman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. ~ James Joyce,
738:His blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness particularized by long association with cases in the police courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the waters of general philosophy. ~ James Joyce,
739:He is gone from mortal haunts: O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of the shaggy brow. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your whirlwind. ~ James Joyce,
740:I'm not one of those James Joyce intellectuals who can stand back and look at the whole edifice... It was a slow process for me to just crawl out of it, like a snake leaving his skin behind. ~ Frank McCourt,
741:O, undoubtedly yes, and very potable so, but one who deeper thinks will always bear in the baccbuccus of his mind that this downright there you are and there it is is only all in his eye. Why? ~ James Joyce,
742:I think being central to the culture is overrated. Who really gives a damn if something is popular? Jay-Z isn't actually any better than James Joyce even though more people understand him. ~ Matthew Specktor,
743:O mică trupă de țărani napolitani își repetau pașii de dans în capătul capelei, unii rotindu-și brațele deasupra capetelor, alții legănându-și coșurile cu violete de hârtie și făcând reverențe. ~ James Joyce,
744:Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
— That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
— What? Mr Deasy asked.
— A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. ~ James Joyce,
745:The pity is that the public will demand and find a moral in my book, or worse they may take it in some serious way, and on the honour of a gentleman, there is not one single serious word in it. ~ James Joyce,
746:If the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I suppose I could call myself a nationalist. As it is, I am content torecognize myself an exile: and, prophetically, a repudiated one. ~ James Joyce,
747:Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute.
Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick.
Thousands every hour. Too many in the world. ~ James Joyce,
748:But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his life. —I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself. ~ James Joyce,
749:Couldn't they invent something automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new invention? ~ James Joyce,
750:I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of the match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives ~ James Joyce,
751:The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. ~ James Joyce,
752:Madem ki bu dünyanın çocukları kendi kuşakları içinde ışığın çocuklarından daha akıllıdır. Öyleyse adaletsizliği ve tamahkarlığı dost edinin ki öldüğünüz zaman sizi ebedi mekanlarına kabul etsinler. ~ James Joyce,
753:There are dozens of young poets and fictioneers most of them a little insane in the tradition of James Joyce, who, however insane they may be, have refused to be genteel and traditional and dull. ~ Sinclair Lewis,
754:the transliterated name and address of the addresser of the 3 letters in reversed alphabetic boustrophedonic punctated quadrilinear cryptogram (vowels suppressed) N. IGS./WI. UU. OX/W. OKS. MH/Y. IM: ~ James Joyce,
755:An exquisite dulcet epithalame of most mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous flambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium of connubial communion. ~ James Joyce,
756:The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved-loved and possessed. Her lover's arms are round her: and she is silent. ~ James Joyce,
757:You bore me away, framed me in oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you kissed me in four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom and my shame. ~ James Joyce,
758:All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: “O love! O love!” many times. ~ James Joyce,
759:Well, Tommy, he said, I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that? ~ James Joyce,
760:The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire, or loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to go to something. The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts ~ James Joyce,
761:bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-nuk!

[A sound which represents the symbolic thunderclap associated with the fall of Adam and Eve.] ~ James Joyce,
762:Because the great thing about fairy tales and folk tales is that there is no authentic text. It's not like the text of Paradise Lost or James Joyce's Ulysses, and you have to adhere to that exact text. ~ Philip Pullman,
763:So beautiful of course compared with what a man looks like with his two bags full and his other thing hanging down out of him or sticking up at you like a hatrack no wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf ~ James Joyce,
764:The eyes, too, were reptilelike in glint and gaze. Yet at that instant, humbled and alert in their look, they were lit by one tiny human point, the window of a shriveled soul, poignant and selfembittered. ~ James Joyce,
765:To be presented, Babs for Bim bushi? Of courts and with enticers. Up, girls, and at him! Alone? Alone what? I mean, our strifestirrer, does she do fleurty winkies with herself. Pussy is never alone, (...) ~ James Joyce,
766:Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn. ~ James Joyce,
767:A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. ~ James Joyce,
768:efferfreshpainted livy, in beautific repose, upon the silence of the dead, from pharoph the nextfirst down to ramescheckles the last bust thing. The Vico road goes round and round to meet where terms begin. ~ James Joyce,
769:Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face. ~ James Joyce,
770:Nora Barnacle is not a very interesting person.” So said Richard Ellmann, author of the definitive James Joyce biography, to Brenda Maddox, author of the only Nora Barnacle biography, who quoted him to me. ~ Jessa Crispin,
771:Alone, what did Bloom feel?
The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn. ~ James Joyce,
772:By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him. ~ James Joyce,
773:I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play. ~ James Joyce,
774:[On working with James Joyce:] So, either you run your publishing business far away, where your writer can't get at it, or you publish right alongside of him - and have much more fun - and much more expense. ~ Sylvia Beach,
775:O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me what I badly wanted to put some heart up into me youve no chances at all inthis place like you used long ago I wish somebody would write me a loveletter. ~ James Joyce,
776:Gerty Mc Dowell'a kur yapıp kalbini kazanacak olan adamın tam bir erkek olması gerekiyordu. Ama bekliyordu, hâlâ birinin ona teklif etmesini bekliyordu, ayrıca bu yıl artık yıldı ve yakında bitecekti.
S.339 ~ James Joyce,
777:Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones. ~ James Joyce,
778:His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. ~ James Joyce,
779:Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence. ~ James Joyce,
780:It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. ~ James Joyce,
781:Kiekvienas gyvenimas - tai daugybė dienų, diena po dienos. Mes einame per pačius save, sutikdami plėšikus, vaiduoklius, milžinus, senius, jaunuolius, žmonas, našles, sielos brolius, kaskart sutikdami patys save. ~ James Joyce,
782:Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. ~ James Joyce,
783:Seus pecados pingavam de seus lábios, um a um, pingavam em gotas vergonhosas de sua alma supurando e gotejando como uma chaga, uma corrente sórdida de vício. Os últimos pecados gotejavam, indolentes, asquerosos. ~ James Joyce,
784:The hour when he too would take part in the life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret he began to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the nature of which he only dimly apprehended. ~ James Joyce,
785:Our flesh shrinks from what it dreads and responds to the stimulus of what it desires by a purely reflex action of the nervous system. Our eyelid closes before we are aware that the fly is about to enter our eye. ~ James Joyce,
786:He turned to appease the fierce longings of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and falsehood. ~ James Joyce,
787:It is like looking down from the clifs of Moher into the depths. Many go down into the depths and never come up. Only the trained diver can go down into those depths and explore them and come to the surface again. ~ James Joyce,
788:While you have a thing it can be taken from you…..but when you give it, you have given it. no robber can take it from you. It is yours then forever when you have given it. It will be yours always. That is to give. ~ James Joyce,
789:He remembered well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him…He remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium... ~ James Joyce,
790:—Is the brother with you, Malachi? —Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons. —Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her. —Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure. ~ James Joyce,
791:It is like looking down from the cliffs of Moher into the depths. Many go down into the depths and never come up. Only the trained diver can go down into those depths and explore them and come to the surface again. ~ James Joyce,
792:A vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the quays and on the river and on the lowering skies and yet he continued to wander up and down day after day as if he really sought someone that eluded him ~ James Joyce,
793:Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.... Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. ~ James Joyce,
794:Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor. ~ James Joyce,
795:Neden sürekli gülümsediğini ve dudaklarının neden o kadar tükürükle ıslanmış olduğunu merak ettim. Sonra onun felç olduğunu ve benim de onun günahını bağışlamak istermiş gibi hafifçe gülümsemekte olduğumu fark ettim. ~ James Joyce,
796:—Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself. I'm not. I'm a democrat and I'll work and act for social liberty and equality among all classes and sexes in the United States of the Europe of the future. ~ James Joyce,
797:Every word of it was for him. Against his sin, foul and secret, the whole wrath of God was aimed. The preacher's knife had probed deeply into his diseased conscience and he felt now that his soul was festering in sin. ~ James Joyce,
798:He went up to his room after dinner in order to be alone with his soul: and at every step his soul seemed to sigh: at every step his soul mounted with his feet, sighing in the ascent, through a region of viscid gloom. ~ James Joyce,
799:When the moon of mourning is set and gone.
Over Glinaduna.
Lonu nula.
Ourselves, oursouls alone.
At the site of salvocean.
And watch would the letter you’re wanting be coming may be.
And cast ashore. ~ James Joyce,
800:To be a shoefitter in Mansfield's was my love's young dream, the darling joys of sweet buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear satinlined, so incredibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. ~ James Joyce,
801:Never let us do wrong, because our opponents did so. Let us, rather, by doing right, show them what they ought to have done, and establish a rule the dictates of reason and conscience, rather than of the angry passions. ~ James Joyce,
802:She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. ~ James Joyce,
803:She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. ~ James Joyce,
804:Žmonės nežino, kokios pavojingos gali būti meilės dainos. Judėjimai, kurie pasaulyje sukelia revoliucijas, yra gimę iš sapnų ir vizijų valstiečio širdy, kalno šlaite. Jiems žemė - ne eksploatuojama dirva, o gyva motina. ~ James Joyce,
805:A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy. ~ James Joyce,
806:Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the protagonists as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and when the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had been withheld by one, was given by both. ~ James Joyce,
807:—You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. —There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said. ~ James Joyce,
808:A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy. ~ James Joyce,
809:I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. ~ James Joyce,
810:The music passed in an instant, as the first bars of sudden music always did, over the fantastic fabrics of his mind, dissolving them painlessly and noiselessly as a sudden wave dissolves the sandbuilt turrets of children. ~ James Joyce,
811:Elmacık kemikleri yüzüne sert bir ifade veriyordu ama koyu renk kaşlarının altından dünyaya bakarken başkalarından bir bağışlama bekleyip çoğu kez hayal kırıklığına uğramış bir insan izlenimi veren gözlerinde sertlik yoktu. ~ James Joyce,
812:She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free. ~ James Joyce,
813:Why was he kneeling there like a child saying his evening prayers? To be alone with his soul, to examine his conscience, to meet his sins face to face, to recall their times and manners and circumstances, to weep over them. ~ James Joyce,
814:He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. ~ James Joyce,
815:And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and wilful as a bird's heart? ~ James Joyce,
816:And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird’s life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and wilful as a bird’s heart? ~ James Joyce,
817:Stephen picks up on Armstrong's pier, and calls Kingstown pier "a disappointed bridge" (2.22). He's joking about the fact that Ireland wanted to be connected to continental Europe but ended up being extremely isolated. ~ James Joyce,
818:And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart? ~ James Joyce,
819:(...) The new nine muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty of Specch, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics and Astronomy for the People. ~ James Joyce,
820:With a squeak she flaps her bat shawl and runs. A burly rough pursues with booted strides. He stumbles on the steps, recovers, plunges into gloom. Weak squeaks of laughter are heard, weaker.) THE BAWD: (Her wolfeyes shining) ~ James Joyce,
821:Başarılarının soğuk çemberinin ortasında oturup ona parlak bir yaşam sağlayacak cesur bir talip bekledi. Ama tanıştığı erkekler sıradandılar ve onlara cesaret vermeyip romantik arzularını gizlice lokum yiyerek bastırmaya çalıştı. ~ James Joyce,
822:Ullahbluh! Sehyoh narar, pokehole sann! Manhead very dirty by am anoyato. Like old Dolldy Icon when he cooked up his iggs in bicon. He gatovit and me gotafit and Oalgoak’s Cheloven gut a fudden. Povar old pitschobed! Molodeztious ~ James Joyce,
823:When a demand for intelligent sympathy goes unanswered he is a
too stern disciplinarian who blames himself for having offered a
dullard an opportunity to participate in the warmer movement of a more
highly organised life. ~ James Joyce,
824:Therefore, everyman, look to that last end that is thy death and the dust that gripeth on every man that is born of woman for as he came naked forth from his mother's womb so naked shall he wend him at the last for to go as he came. ~ James Joyce,
825:Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. ~ James Joyce,
826:Wait till the honeying of the lune, love! Die eve, little eve, die! We see that wonder in your eye. We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset. ~ James Joyce,
827:Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now. ~ James Joyce,
828:Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. ~ James Joyce,
829:First, in the history of words there is much that indicates the history of men, and in comparing the speech of to-day with that ofyears ago, we have a useful illustration of the effect of external influences on the very words of a race. ~ James Joyce,
830:He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone. ~ James Joyce,
831:The artist who could disentangle the subtle soul of the image from its mesh of defining circumstances most exactly and 're-embody' it in artistic circumstances chosen as the most exact for it in its new office, he was the supreme artist. ~ James Joyce,
832:He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. ~ James Joyce,
833:In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl. ~ James Joyce,
834:silly women believe love is sighing I am dying still if he wrote it I suppose thered be some truth in it true or no it fills up your whole day and life always something to think about every moment and see it all around you like a new world ~ James Joyce,
835:They mouth love's language. Gnash
The thirteen teeth
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,
As sour as cat's breath,
Harsh of tongue. ~ James Joyce,
836:He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight. ~ James Joyce,
837:Tütüncüden dışarı fırlayıp adıyla sesleniyorum. Dönüyor ve benden dersler, saatler, dersler, saatler boyu dinlediği karmakarışık sözcükleri duymak için duruyor: solgun yanakları yalımlı bir opal ışığıyla yavaşça pembeleşiyor. Yo, yo, korkma! ~ James Joyce,
838:A duodene of bird notes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hand. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leave-taking, life's, love's morn. ~ James Joyce,
839:I should tell you that honestly, on my honour of a Nearwicked, I always think in a wordworth's of that primed favourite continental poet, Daunty, Gouty and Shopkeeper, A.G., whom the generality admoyers in this that is and that this is to come. ~ James Joyce,
840:Ah, furchte fruchte, timid Danaides! Ena milo melomon, frai is frau and swee is too, swee is two when swoo is free, ana mala woe is we! A pair of sycopanties with amygdaleine eyes, one old obster lumpky pumpkin and three meddlars on their slies. ~ James Joyce,
841:Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon the alter. I am the sacrificial butter. ~ James Joyce,
842:He was angry with himself for being young and the prey of restless foolish impulses, angry also with the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent nothing to the vision. ~ James Joyce,
843:I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too. ~ Stephen Dedalus (James Joyce,
844:The mystery of esthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the god of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. ~ James Joyce,
845:To pass the time, I made valiant strides in my effort to read Ulysses, but feared I was losing the war. A hundred pages in, I was getting the sneaking suspicion that James Joyce might have been an asshole, and by Nebraska I was in a foul mood. ~ B Justin Shier,
846:Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk ~ James Joyce,
847:So he had passed beyond the challenge of the sentries who had stood as guardians of his boyhood and had sought to keep him among them that he might be subject to them and serve their ends. Pride after satisfaction uplifted him like long slow waves. ~ James Joyce,
848:Life, he himself once said.. is a wake, livit or krikit, and on the bunk of our bread-winning lies the cropse of our seedfather, a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn. ~ James Joyce,
849:passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that, unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition. ~ James Joyce,
850:The important thing is not what we write but how we write, and in my opinion the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously ~ James Joyce,
851:And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history. ~ James Joyce,
852:A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart, and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of, or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory.. ~ James Joyce,
853:Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools. ~ James Joyce,
854:I'm not sure which I dislike more: 'Ulysses' or the James Joyce estate. Admittedly, a few people have got some pleasure from 'Ulysses', but against that, you have to weigh the millions of lives that have been ruined by the futile attempts to read it. ~ Kevin Myers,
855:a zis ca am niste idei bizare si c-am citit prea mult. inexact. am citit prea putin si am inteles si mai putin. apoi a spus c-am sa ma inapoiez la credinta pentru ca am un spirit nelinistit.(...) i-am spus asta si i-am cerut sase penny. mi-a dat trei. ~ James Joyce,
856:But though there were different names for God in all the different
languages in the world and God understood what all the people who
prayed said in their different languages still God remained always the
same God and God's real name was God. ~ James Joyce,
857:He heard the sob passing loudly down his father’s throat and opened his eyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight breaking suddenly on his sight turned the sky and clouds into a fantastic world of sombre masses with lakelike spaces of dark rosy light. ~ James Joyce,
858:I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too. ~ James Joyce,
859:Her hayat birçok günden oluşur, gün günü izler. Biz kendi hayatımızın içinden yürüyüp geçeriz, yolda karşımıza hırsızlar, hayaletler, devler, yaşlılar, gençler, zevceler, dullar, aşık biraderler çıkar. Ama illa ki kendimizle karşılaşırız her seferinde. ~ James Joyce,
860:If we could only live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. ~ James Joyce,
861:He heard the sob passing loudly down his father’s throat and opened his eyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight breaking suddenly on his sight turned the sky and clouds into a fantastic world of sombre masses with lakelike spaces of dark rosy light. His ~ James Joyce,
862:Jesus Christ, with His divine understanding of every understanding of our human nature, understood that not all men were called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, for the world. ~ James Joyce,
863:Time was to sin and to enjoy, time was to scoff at God and at the warnings of His holy church, time was to defy His majesty, to disobey His commands, to hoodwink one's fellow men, to commit sin after sin and to hide one's corruption from the sight of men. ~ James Joyce,
864:—Did you hear what I said? asked Stephen, bending towards her. I told you I had no money. I tell you again now.
—Well, sure, you will some day, sir, please God, the girl answered after an instant.
—Possibly, said Stephen, but I don’t think it likely. ~ James Joyce,
865:His cheekbones also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed. ~ James Joyce,
866:Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another s soul. ~ James Joyce,
867:It pained him that he did not know well what politics meant and that he did not know where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When would he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big voices and big boots and they studied trigonometry. ~ James Joyce,
868:The cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone. He was happy and free; but he would not be anyway proud with Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient: and he wished that he could do something kind for him to show him that he was not proud. ~ James Joyce,
869:He looked down the slope and, at the base, in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life’s feast. ~ James Joyce,
870:Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world. ~ James Joyce,
871:[Robinson Crusoe] is the true prototype of the British colonist. The whole Anglo-Saxon spirit is in Crusoe: the manly independence, the unconscious cruelty, the persistence, the slow yet efficient intelligence, the sexual apathy, the calculating taciturnity. ~ James Joyce,
872:Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world. ~ James Joyce,
873:Jay-Z isn't actually any better than James Joyce even though more people understand him. I'm more interested in what's meaningful within the lives of individuals. And fiction will always be central to the lives of certain people, which is all that matters. ~ Matthew Specktor,
874:Bazen de korkusunun nedenleriyle flört ederdi. En karanlık ve dar sokakları seçer ve cüretkarca yürürken adımlarının çevresindeki sessizlik onu rahatsız eder, çevresindeki karanlık siluetler onu rahatsız eder, alçak, kaçamak bir gülüş onu yaprak gibi titretirdi. ~ James Joyce,
875:And it was the din of all these hollow-sounding voices that made him halt irresolutely in the pursuit of phantoms. He gave them ear only for a time but he was happy only when he was far from them, beyond their call, alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades. ~ James Joyce,
876:You have fallen from a higher world, and you are filled with fierce indignation, when you find that life is cowardly and ignoble. While I…I have come up from a lower world and I am filled with astonishment when I find that people have any redeeming virtue at all. ~ James Joyce,
877:Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now. ~ James Joyce,
878:My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest, stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness—what old and hard-worked staleness, masquerading as the all-new! ~ D H Lawrence,
879:Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure. ~ James Joyce,
880:Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets, astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from land to land, among peoples, amid events. ~ James Joyce,
881:General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal language with universal brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free money, free rent, free sex and a free lay church in a free lay state. ~ James Joyce,
882:Sitting in the study hall he opened the lid of his desk and changed the number pasted up inside from seventy-seven to seventy-six. But the Christmas vacation was very far away: but one time it would come because the earth moved round always.

-Stephen Dedalus- ~ James Joyce,
883:When she had gone he said, laughing: —We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. Haines opened his newbought book. —I’m sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground. of all minds that have lost their balance. ~ James Joyce,
884:The spirit of quarrelsome comradeship which he had observed lately in his rival had not seduced Stephen from his habits of quiet obedience. He mistrusted the turbulence and doubted the sincerity of such comradeship which seemed to him a sorry anticipation of manhood. ~ James Joyce,
885:He waited for some moments, listening, before he too took up the air with them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary already of the way. ~ James Joyce,
886:He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard: and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling but not yet fallen, still unfallen but about to fall. ~ James Joyce,
887:The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare’s hoofs clattering along the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling behind him. ~ James Joyce,
888:To remember that and the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold and then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out: cold and hot. He felt cold and then a little hot: and he could see the names printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing. ~ James Joyce,
889:He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow : his navel, bud of flesh : and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. [84] ~ James Joyce,
890:... I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a crown.
- Give it a name, citizen, says Joe.
- Wine of the country, says he.
- What's yours? says Joe.
- Ditto MacAnaspey, says I.
- Three pints, Terry, says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says he. ~ James Joyce,
891:The philosophic mind inclines always to an elaborate life--the life of Goethe or of Leonardo da Vinci; but the life of the poet isintense--the life of Blake or of Dante--taking into its centre the life that surrounds it and flinging it abroad again amid planetary music. ~ James Joyce,
892:His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her grave-clothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable. ~ James Joyce,
893:The soul ... has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
894:He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed him. ~ James Joyce,
895:A Classical style... is the syllogism of art, the only legitimate process from one world to another. Classicism is not the manner of any fixed age or of any fixed country; it is a constant state of the artistic mind. It is a temper of security and satisfaction and patience. ~ James Joyce,
896:But we are living in a skeptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age; and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humor which belonged to an older day.. ~ James Joyce,
897:Dinle! O iç burkucu bungunluk çöktü. Dinle!-Aklın ya da gövdenin böylesine eylemlerine sağlıksız denebileceğine inanmıyorum.- Konuşuyor o. Soğuk yıldızların ötesinden gelen cılız bir ses. Sağduyunun sesi. Konuş bakalım! Aman,konuş yine,aydınlat beni!Bu sesi hiç duymamıştım. ~ James Joyce,
898:A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty: and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives. ~ James Joyce,
899:being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language ... than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? ~ James Joyce,
900:But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hyper-educated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day. ~ James Joyce,
901:Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ----Introibo ad altare Dei. ~ James Joyce,
902:Some people believe that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or on some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. ~ James Joyce,
903:There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. On! On! his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where? ~ James Joyce,
904:I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use---silence, exile and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
905:And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness. ~ James Joyce,
906:In the ignorance that implies the impression that knits knowledge that finds the nameform that whets the wits that convey contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that adheres to attachment that dogs death that bitches birth that entails the ensuance of existentiality. ~ James Joyce,
907:—A pleased bottom. The turnstile. Is that? . . . Blueribboned hat . . . Idly writing . . . What? Looked? . . . The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton, my jo, John. Why won't you wed a wife? ~ James Joyce,
908:I shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names. Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe. ~ James Joyce,
909:God! ... Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look. ~ James Joyce,
910:The artist... standing in the position of mediator between the world of his experience and the world of his dreams - 'a mediator, consequently gifted with twin faculties, a selective faculty and a reproductive faculty.' To equate these faculties was the secret of artistic success. ~ James Joyce,
911:Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. ~ James Joyce,
912:His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her
grave-clothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the
freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he
bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable,
imperishable. ~ James Joyce,
913:Don't you think there is a certain resemblance between the mystery of the Mass and what I am trying to do?...To give people some kind of intellectual pleasure or spiritual enjoyment by converting the bread of everyday life into something that has a permanent artistic life of its own. ~ James Joyce,
914:I was able to correct the first half of Ulysses for the third edition and to read the first two volumes recommendés by Mr Schiff of A la Recherche des Ombrelles Perdues par Plusieurs Jeunes Filles en Fleurs du Côté de chez Swann et Gomorrhée et Co. par Marcelle Proyce et James Joust. ~ James Joyce,
915:Answer: They war loving, they love laughing, they laugh weeping, they weep smelling, they smell smiling, they smile hating, they hate thinking, they think feeling, they feel tempting, they tempt daring, they dare waiting, they wait taking, they take thanking, they thank seeking, (...) ~ James Joyce,
916:The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high. —Mkgnao! —O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire. The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr. ~ James Joyce,
917:The cultural and political strands of change could not be separated, any more than during the turbulence of revolution and romanticism of 1790–1830. It has been noted that James Joyce, Tristan Tzara and Lenin were all resident-exiles in Zurich in 1916, waiting for their time to come. ~ Paul Johnson,
918:Each time I undertake to reread Virginia Woolf, I am somewhat baffled by the signature breathlessness and relentlessly "poetic" tone, the shimmering impressionism, so very different from the vivid, precise, magisterial (and often very funny) prose of her contemporary James Joyce. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,
919:Beauty, the splendour of truth, is a gracious presence when the imagination contemplates intensely the truth of its own being or the visible world, and the spirit which proceeds out of truth and beauty is the holy spirit of joy. These are realities and these alone give and sustain life. ~ James Joyce,
920:Her beliefs were not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen but, if she was put to it, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost. ~ James Joyce,
921:Most of my influences from outside the commerical strange fiction genre came in with university, discovering James Joyce and Wallace Stevens, Blake and Yeats, Pinter and Borges. And meanwhile within those genres I was discovering Gibson and Shepard, Jeter and Powers, Lovecraft and Peake. ~ Hal Duncan,
922:He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. ~ James Joyce,
923:He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense. ~ James Joyce,
924:Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. ~ James Joyce,
925:Kadın neden düşüncelerini yazıya dökmediğini sordu.
Adam neden diye sitem etti.Altmış saniye kesintisiz düşünmekten aciz laf ebeleriyle rekabet etmek için mi? Ahlaki değerlerini polise, sanatlarını simsarlara emanet etmiş kalın kafalı bir orta sınıfın eleştirilerine maruz kalmak için mi? ~ James Joyce,
926:Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm; and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them. ~ James Joyce,
927:I resent violence or intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due installments plans. It's a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak a different vernacular, so to speak. ~ James Joyce,
928:A lot of writers fall in love with their sentences or their construction of sentences, and sometimes that's great, but not everybody is Gabriel Garcia Marquez or James Joyce. A lot of people like to pretend that they are, and they wind up not giving people a good read or enlightening them. ~ James Patterson,
929:In one particular chapter in Ulysses, James Joyce imitates every major writing style that's been used by English and American writers over the last 700 years - starting with Beowulf and Chaucer and working his way up through the Renaissance, the Victorian era and on into the 20th century. ~ Frederick Lenz,
930:To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life. A wild angel appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on! ~ James Joyce,
931:Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. ~ James Joyce,
932:If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the hell of time of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a man, shipwrecked in storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre? ~ James Joyce,
933:You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. ~ James Joyce,
934:To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on! ~ James Joyce,
935:Ulysses is son to Laertes, but he is father to Telemachus, husband to Penelope, lover of Calypso, companion in arms of the Greek warriors around Troy, and King of Ithaca. He was subjected to many trials, but with wisdom and courage came through them all.... he is a complete man as well, a good man. ~ James Joyce,
936:Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. ~ James Joyce,
937:I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
938:Non servirò ciò in cui non credo più, si chiami questo la casa, la patria o la Chiesa: e tenterò di esprimere me stesso in un qualunque modo di vita o di arte quanto più potrò liberamente e integralmente, adoperando per difendermi le sole armi che mi concedo di usare: il silenzio, l'esilio e l'astuzia. ~ James Joyce,
939:What did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up like that to say goodnight and then his mother put her face down. That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces? ~ James Joyce,
940:He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! ~ James Joyce,
941:What did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up like that to say good night and then his mother put her face down. That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces? ~ James Joyce,
942:EPISODE 2   As we there are where are we are we there from tomtittot to teetootomtotalitarian. Tea tea too oo. With his broad and hairy face, to Ireland a disgrace. SIC. Whom will comes over. Who to caps ever. And howelse do we hook our hike to find that pint of porter place? Am shot, says the big-guard. ~ James Joyce,
943:Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? ~ James Joyce,
944:—Then, said Cranly, you do not intend to become a protestant?

—I said that I had lost the faith, Stephen answered, but not that I had lost self-respect. What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent? ~ James Joyce,
945:Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hail fellow well met the next moment. ~ James Joyce,
946:Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause. ~ James Joyce,
947:O the grey dull day! It seemed a limbo of painless patient consciousness through which souls of mathematicians might wander, projecting long slender fabrics from plane to plane of ever rarer and paler twilight, radiating swift eddies to the last verges of a universe ever vaster, farther and more impalpable. ~ James Joyce,
948:Here, and it goes on to appear now, she comes, a peacefugle, a parody's bird, a peri potmother, a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a flick flask fleckflinging its pixylighting pacts' huemeramybows, picking here, pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy. ~ James Joyce,
949:Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.
She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? ~ James Joyce,
950:So Bach, Beethoven, Duke Ellington, Thelonius Monk, these are all people who would sort of rearrange or take riffs from people. Same thing with rock, if you look at the Rolling Stones doing a cover of Otis Redding or you know if you look at literature James Joyce is pulling fragments of text from other people. ~ DJ Spooky,
951:When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the "Agamemnon." ~ James Joyce,
952:The whores would be just coming out of their houses making ready for the night, yawning lazily after their sleep and settling the hairpins in their clusters of hair. He would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a sudden call to his sinloving soul from their soft perfumed flesh. ~ James Joyce,
953:You suspect, Stephen retorted with a sort of a half laugh, that I may be important because I belong to the fauborgh Saint Patrice called Ireland for short.
—I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.
—But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me. ~ James Joyce,
954:He was alone,” as James Joyce wrote of Stephen Dedalus, his artist as a young man. “He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight. ~ Jon Krakauer,
955:Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence. ~ James Joyce,
956:You are in your puerity. You have not brought stinking members into the house of Amanti. Elleb Inam, Titep Notep, we name them to the Hall of Honour. Your head has been touched by the god Enel-Rah and your face has been brightened by the goddess Aruc-Ituc. Return, sainted youngling, and walk once more among us! ~ James Joyce,
957:Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe in enjoying life--and don't you think they're
right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great feeling for
the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man. ~ James Joyce,
958:He burned to appease the fierce longing of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and falsehood. Beside the savage desire within him to realise the enormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred. ~ James Joyce,
959:And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O!O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft! ~ James Joyce,
960:I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call
itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express
myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as
I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use--
silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
961:Mi hai fatto confessare le paure che sento. Ma ti dirò anche che cos'è che non mi fa paura. Non mi fa paura esser solo o venir sprezzato per un altro o lasciare tutto ciò che tocchi lasciare. E non mi fa paura commettere un errore, anche un grande errore, un errore che duri quanto la vita e magari tutta l'eternità. ~ James Joyce,
962:The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. Paintings of Moreau are paintings of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom; Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. ~ James Joyce,
963:Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. ~ James Joyce,
964:Could it be that he, Stephen Dedalus, had done those things? His conscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them, secretly, filthily, time after time, and, hardened in sinful impenitence, he had dared to wear the mask of holinesss before the tabernacle itself while his soul within was a living mass of corruption. ~ James Joyce,
965:THE HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray! (THEY CHEER)

BLOOM: (HOBBLEDEHOY, WARMGLOVED, MAMMAMUFFLERED, STARRED WITH SPENT SNOWBALLS, STRUGGLES TO RISE) Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark! Let's ring all the bells in Montague street. (HE CHEERS FEEBLY) Hurray for the High School!

THE ECHO: Fool! ~ James Joyce,
966:The sad quiet greyblue glow of the dying day came through the window and the open door, covering over and allaying quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen's heart. All that had been denied them had been freely given to him, the eldest: but the quiet glow of evening showed him in their faces no sign of rancour. ~ James Joyce,
967:and look at this ... sentenced to be nuzzled over a full trillion times for ever and a night till his noddle sink or swim by that ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia: all those red raddled obeli cayennepeppercast over the text, calling unnecessary attention to errors, omissions, repetitions and misalignments. ~ James Joyce,
968:Haines sat down to pour out the tea. —I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you? Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: —When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water. ~ James Joyce,
969:James Joyce, in his novel Finnegans Wake, in 1939, punned on the word “Hindoo” (as the British used to spell it), joking that it came from the names of two Irishmen, Hin-nessy and Doo-ley: “This is the hindoo Shimar Shin between the dooley boy and the hinnessy.”30 Even Joyce knew that the word was not native to India. ~ Wendy Doniger,
970:She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impressarios? ~ James Joyce,
971:We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to the successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time is money. Material domination. ~ James Joyce,
972:I am damnably sick of Italy, Italian and Italians, outrageously, illogically sick.... I hate to think that Italians ever did anything in the way of art.... What did they do but illustrate a page or so of the New Testament! They themselves think they have a monopoly in the line. I am dead tired of their bello and bellezza. ~ James Joyce,
973:One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live. ~ James Joyce,
974:The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving figures - on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. ~ James Joyce,
975:There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy. ~ James Joyce,
976:If Socrates leaves his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend.’ Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-law. But always meeting ourselves. ~ James Joyce,
977:Write about winter in the summer. Describe Norway as Ibsen did, from a desk in Italy; describe Dublin as James Joyce did, from a desk in Paris. Willa Cather wrote her prairie novels in New York City; Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn in Hartford, Connecticut. Recently, scholars learned that Walt Whitman rarely left his room. ~ Annie Dillard,
978:Beingless beings. Stop! Throb always without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd and butcher, were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around. ~ James Joyce,
979:His soul had loved to muse in secret on this desire. He had seen himself, a young and silent-mannered priest, entering a confessional swiftly, ascending the altarsteps, incensing, genuflecting, accomplishing the vague acts of the priesthood which pleased him by reason of their semblance of reality and of their distance from it. ~ James Joyce,
980:He would never swing the thurible before the tabernacle as priest. His destiny was to be elusive of social or religious orders. The wisdom of the priest's appeal did not touch him to the quick. He was destined to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the world. ~ James Joyce,
981:The soul is born, he sad vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
982:in 1963 because he liked the sound of the sentence “Three quarks for Muster Mark” in James Joyce's Finnegans Wake. As for “Muster Mark, ”three quarks are needed to form a proton or a neutron. The electric charges of quarks are fractional (+/-1/3 or +−2/3) because their sum must equal the charge of a proton (+1) or a neutron (0). ~ Matthieu Ricard,
983:The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
984:A ricefield near Vercelli under creamy summer haze. the wings of her drooping hat shadow her false smile. Shadows streak her falsely smiling face, smitten by the hot creamy light, grey wheyhued shadows under the jawbones, streaks of eggyolk yellow on the moistened brow, rancid yellow humour lurking within the softened pulp of the eyes. ~ James Joyce,
985:All those wretched quarrels, in his humble opinion, stirring up bad blood, from some bump of combativeness or gland of some kind, erroneously supposed to be about a punctilio of honour and a flag, were very largely a question of the money question which was at the back of everything greed and jealousy, people never knowing when to stop. ~ James Joyce,
986:He had sinned mortally not once but many times and he knew that, while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his punishment. His days and works and thoughts could make no atonement for him, the fountains of sanctifying grace having ceased to refresh his soul. ~ James Joyce,
987:He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her strange mood. ~ James Joyce,
988:He called me a jew, and in a heated fashion, offensively. So I, without deviating from plain facts in the least, told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too, and all his family, like me, though in reality I'm not. That was one for him. A soft answer turns away wrath. He hadn't a word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I not right? ~ James Joyce,
989:England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying. ~ James Joyce,
990:To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand—that is art. ~ James Joyce,
991:It’s something fails us. First we feel. Then we fall. And let her rain now if she likes. Gently or strongly as she likes. Anyway let her rain for my time is come. I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? ~ James Joyce,
992:Mother is packing my new secondhand clothes. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscious of my race. ~ James Joyce,
993:His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black stocking, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. ~ James Joyce,
994:—Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even one friend.

—I will take the risk, said Stephen.

—And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had. ~ James Joyce,
995:He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. ~ James Joyce,
996:-The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you
of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the
body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets
flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality,
language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. ~ James Joyce,
997:By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or memorable phrase of the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care (saving them for later use, that is), seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments. ~ James Joyce,
998:Natural parents should bear in mind that the more supplementaries their children find, at school or elsewhere, the better they will know that it takes all sorts to make a world. Also, that though there is always the risk of being corrupted by bad parents, the natural ones may be – probably ten per cent of them actually are – the worst of the lot. ~ James Joyce,
999:The equation on the page...began to spread out a widening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock's; and, when the eyes and stars of its indices had been eliminated, began slowly to fold itself together again. The indices appearing and disappearing were eyes opening and closing; the eyes opening and closing were stars being born and being quenched. ~ James Joyce,
1000:The esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. ~ James Joyce,
1001:Creación desde la nada. ¿Qué tiene en el bolso? Un engendro con el cordón umbilical arrastrando, amorrado en paño bermejo. El cordón de todos enlaza con el pasado, cable cabitrenzado de toda carne. Por eso los monjes místicos. ¿Querríais ser como dioses? Miraos vuestro omphalos. ¡Oiga! Aquí Kinch. Pón-game con Villaedén. Alef, alfa: cero, cero, uno. ~ James Joyce,
1002:...the modern mind...is interested above all in subtleties, equivocations and the subterranean complexities which dominate the average man and compose his life....modern literature is concerned with the twilight, the passive rather than the active mind...those undercurrents which flow beneath the apparently firm surface.

(Joyce to Arthur Power) ~ James Joyce,
1003:As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. ~ James Joyce,
1004:After all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of
things from the earth garlic of course it stinks after Italian
organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to
the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes
there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split
their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. ~ James Joyce,
1005:Saying that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic worth, is like saying that he had rheumatism or suffered from diabetes. Madness, in fact, is a medical term that can claim no more notice from the objective critic than he grants the charge of heresy raised by the theologian, or the charge of immorality raised by the police. ~ James Joyce,
1006:A world, a glimmer or a flower? Glimmering and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself, breaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other. ~ James Joyce,
1007:Jews are accused of ruining. Not a vestige of truth in it. (...) The priest spells poverty (...) It's in the dogma. Because if they didn't believe they'd go straight to heaven when they die they'd try to live better, at least so I think. (...) I want to see everyone, all creeds and classes having a comfortable tidysized income. I call that patriotism." (526) ~ James Joyce,
1008:She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That’s why she came with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of her when she comes up to my step: nobody is looking. I could hold her and kiss her.
But he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the deserted tram, he tore his ticket into shreds and stared gloomily at the corrugated footboard. ~ James Joyce,
1009:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use--silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1010:I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1011:His Eminence Michael cardinal Logue, archbishop of
Armagh, primate of all Ireland, His Grace, the most reverend Dr William
Alexander, archbishop of Armagh, primate of all Ireland, the chief
rabbi, the presbyterian moderator, the heads of the baptist, anabaptist,
methodist and Moravian chapels and the honorary secretary of the society
of friends. ~ James Joyce,
1012:She asked me why I never came, said she had heard all sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain time. Asked me, was I writing poems? About whom? I asked her. This confused her more and I felt sorry and mean. Turned off that valve at once and opened the spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus, invented and patented in all countries by Dante Alighieri... ~ James Joyce,
1013:Was it right to kiss his mother or wrong to kiss his mother? What did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up like that to say goodnight and then his mother put her face down. That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces? ~ James Joyce,
1014:Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair,
I hear you singing
A merry air.

My book was closed,
I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
On the floor.

I have left my book,
I have left my room,
For I heard you singing
Through the gloom.

Singing and singing
A merry air,
Lean out of the window,
Goldenhair. ~ James Joyce,
1015:Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. ~ James Joyce,
1016:Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality. It speaks of what seems fantastic and unreal to those who have lost the simple intuitions which are the test of reality; and, as it is often found at war with its age, so it makes no account of history, which is fabled by the daughters of memory. ~ James Joyce,
1017:Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. ~ James Joyce,
1018:The writers I care about most and never grow tired of are: Shakespeare, Swift, Fielding, Dickens, Charles Reade, Flaubert and, among modern writers, James Joyce, T. S. Eliot and D. H. Lawrence. But I believe the modern writer who has influenced me most is Somerset Maugham, whom I admire immensely for his power of telling a story straightforwardly and without frills. ~ George Orwell,
1019:He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter. ~ James Joyce,
1020:When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. ~ James Joyce,
1021:When the Irishman is found outside of Ireland in another environment, he very often becomes a respected man. The economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in his own country do not permit the development of individuality. No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove. ~ James Joyce,
1022:His prayer, addressed neither to God nor saint, began with a shiver, as the chilly morning breeze crept through the chink of the carriage door to his feet, and ended in a trail of foolish words which he made to fit the insistent rhythm of the train; and silently, at intervals of four seconds, the telegraph-poles held the galloping notes of the music between punctual bars. ~ James Joyce,
1023:Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks. They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will. ~ James Joyce,
1024:Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat, than the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also. ~ James Joyce,
1025:Do you know what a pearl is and what an opal is? My soul when you came sauntering to me first through those sweet summer evenings was beautiful but with the pale passionless beauty of a pearl. Your love has passed through me and now I feel my mind something like an opal, that is, full of strange uncertain hues and colours, of warm lights and quick shadows and of broken music. ~ James Joyce,
1026:Pe treptele îndepărtate ale altarului cel mare, gol precum trupul domnului, preoții zac prosternați în șoptită rugăciune(...) Ea stă în picioare lângă mine, palidă și rece, înveșmântată în umbrelele naosului negru ca păcatul, cu cotul fragil la brațul meu (...)Îi văd ochii întunecați și plini de suferință, frumoși ca ochii unei antilope. O, rană nemiloasă! Dumnezeu libidinos! ~ James Joyce,
1027:[…] en reuniones como ésta vienen a nuestra mente pensamientos tristes: el recuerdo del pasado, de la juventud, de los cambios, de rostros desaparecidos a los que echamos en falta esta noche. Nuestro viaje por la vida está jalonado de esos tristes recursos y, si tuviésemos que estar pensando en ellos todo momento, no encontraríamos el valor de acabar nuestra obra entre los vivos ~ James Joyce,
1028:It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God’s name just as his name was Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that was God’s name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. ~ James Joyce,
1029:He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. ~ James Joyce,
1030:What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools. ~ James Joyce,
1031:I came in at half past eleven. Since then I have been sitting in an easy chair like a fool. I could do nothing. I hear nothing but your voice. I am like a fool hearing you call me 'Dear.' I offended two men today by leaving them coolly. I wanted to hear your voice, not theirs. When I am with you I leave aside my contemptuous, suspicious nature. I wish I felt your head on my shoulder. ~ James Joyce,
1032:My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. ~ James Joyce,
1033:—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.
—O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.
—You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked . I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God.
—There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

21 ~ James Joyce,
1034:A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song : I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. her door was open : she wanted to hear my music. silent with aw and pity i went to her bedside. she was crying in her wretched bed for these words, Stephen : love's bitter mystery. ~ James Joyce,
1035:If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity. ~ James Joyce,
1036:All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters"


All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro. ~ James Joyce,
1037:Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill amid the tumult of suddenrisen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire. they streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed away above him till at last the air was clear and cold again. ~ James Joyce,
1038:Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. ~ James Joyce,
1039:The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flourfattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him. ~ James Joyce,
1040:And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is there all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup feelings.
Though not too much because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said. ~ James Joyce,
1041:Womb? Weary?
He rests. He has travelled.

With?
Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad the Phthailer. ~ James Joyce,
1042:Said religion was not a lying-in hospital. Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less. Then she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind. This means to leave church by back door of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance. Cannot repent. Told her so and asked for sixpence. Got threepence. ~ James Joyce,
1043:Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. ~ James Joyce,
1044:I see the regions of snow and ice, I see the sharp-eyed Samoiede and the Finn, I see the seal-seeker in his boat poising his lance, I see the Siberian on his slight-built sledge drawn by dogs, I see the porpoise-hunters, I see the whale-crews of the south Pacific and the north Atlantic, I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys of Switzerland - I mark the long winters and the isolation. ~ James Joyce,
1045:I've been working hard on [Ulysses] all day," said Joyce. Does that mean that you have written a great deal?" I said. Two sentences," said Joyce. I looked sideways but Joyce was not smiling. I thought of [French novelist Gustave] Flaubert. "You've been seeking the mot juste?" I said. No," said Joyce. "I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence. ~ James Joyce,
1046:To live with the work and the letters of James Joyce was an enormous privilege and a daunting education. Yes, I came to admire Joyce even more because he never ceased working, those words and the transubstantiation of words obsessed him. He was a broken man at the end of his life, unaware that Ulysses would be the number one book of the twentieth century and, for that matter, the twenty-first. ~ Edna O Brien,
1047:A man who swears
before the world to love a woman till death part him and her is sane
neither in the opinion of the philosopher who understands what
mutability is nor in the opinion of the man of the world who
understands that it is safer to be a witness than an actor in such
affairs. A man who swears to do something which it is not in his power
to do is not accounted a sane man. ~ James Joyce,
1048:The great fact emerges that after that historic date all holographs so far exhumed initialled by Haromphrey bear the sigla H.C.E. and while he was only and long and always good Dook Umphrey for the hungerlean splapeens of Lucalizod and Chimbers to his cronies it was equally certainly a pleasant turn of the populace which gave him as sense of those normative letters the nickname Here Comes Everybody ~ James Joyce,
1049:The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. ~ James Joyce,
1050:It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness. ~ James Joyce,
1051:It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness... ~ James Joyce,
1052:The dull light fell more faintly upon the page whereon another equation began to unfold itself slowly and to spread abroad its widening tail. It was his own soul going forth to experience, unfolding itself sin by sin, spreading abroad the balefire o fits burning stars and folding back upon itself, fading slowly, quenching its own lights and fires. they were quenched; and the cold darkness filled chaos. ~ James Joyce,
1053:In 1922 everything changed again. The Eskimo pie was invented; James Joyce's Ulysses was printed in Paris; snow fell on Mauna Loa, Hawaii; Babe Ruth signed a three-year contract with the New York Yankees; Eugene O'Neill was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Drama; Frederick Douglass's home was dedicated as a national shrine; former heavyweight champion of the world Jack Johnson invented the wrench... ~ Bernice L McFadden,
1054:Some years ago I wrote a book called The House on Eccles Street. To write this book I had to think my way into the existence of Marion Bloom...Marion Bloom was a figment of James Joyce's imagination. If I can think my way into the existence of a being who has never existed, then I can think my way into the existence of a bat or a chimpanzee or an oyster, any being with whom I share the substrate of life. ~ J M Coetzee,
1055:The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing. Desire urges us to posses, to go to something; loathing urges us to abandon, to go from something. These are kinetic emotions. The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion (I use the general term) is therefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing. ~ James Joyce,
1056:Visas miestas išmiršta, ir ištisas gimsta, irgi išmiršta: vieni ateina, kiti išeina. Namai, namų gretos, mylios šaligatvių, krūvos plytų, akmenys. Iš rankų į rankas. Vienas savininkas, kitas. Sakoma, namų šeimininkas niekad nemiršta. Kai vienam pranešama, kad laikas išvykti, jo vieton stoja kitas. Jie perka namus už auksą, ir visas auksas vis vien jų. Kažkur čia slypi apgaulė. <...> Visi yra niekas. ~ James Joyce,
1057:A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. —That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. —Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. ~ James Joyce,
1058:What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be-
hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes
were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of
vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the
flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and
clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light
unwound from whirring spools. ~ James Joyce,
1059:Till tree from tree, tree among trees tree over tree become stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever.
O Loud, hear the wee beseech of thees of each of these thy unlitten ones! Grant sleep in hour's time, O Loud!
That they take no chill. That they do ming no merder. That they shall not gomeet madhowiatrees.
Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughter low! ~ James Joyce,
1060:Who destroys books? Cities, churches, dictators and fanatics. Their fingers itch to build a pyre and strike the match. On 10 May 1933, students gathered in Berlin to dance around a bonfire of 25,000 volumes of ‘un-German’ books. They burned, amongst many others, Bertolt Brecht, Otto Dix, Heinrich Heine, Ernest Hemingway, James Joyce and H.G. Wells. They destroyed them because the contents were too dangerous. ~ Linda Grant,
1061:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of art as freely as I can, and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1062:It is seriously believed by some that the intention may have been geodetic, or, in the view of the cannier, domestic economical. But by writing thithaways end to end and turning, turning and end to end hithaways writing and with lines of litters slittering up and louds of latters slettering down, the old semetomyplace and jupetbackagain from tham Let Raise till Hum Lit. Sleep, where in the waste is the wisdom? ~ James Joyce,
1063:Mândrie, nădejde, dorință, ca niște ierburi strivite în inima lui, înălțau aburii unei tămâi înnebunitoare către ochii minții. Alerga la vale în iureșul aburilor de mândrie rănită, nădejde pierdută și dorință contrariată, fără de veste stârniți. Țâșneau înalțându-se în fumuri dense și înnebunitoare dinaintea ochilor săi chinuiți și se risipiră deasupră-i , până când, în sfârșit, aerul fu iarăși limpede și rece. ~ James Joyce,
1064:The mathematics clearly called for a set of underlying elementary objects-at that time we needed three types of them-elementary objects that could be combined three at a time in different ways to make all the heavy particles we knew. ... I needed a name for them and called them quarks, after the taunting cry of the gulls, "Three quarks for Muster mark," from Finnegan's Wake by the Irish writer James Joyce. ~ Murray Gell Mann,
1065:And in spite of everything, Ireland remains the brain of the Kingdom. The English, judiciously practical and ponderous, furnish the over-stuffed stomach of humanity with a perfect gadget--the water closet. The Irish, condemned to express themselves in a language not their own, have stamped on it the mark of their own genius and compete for glory with the civilized nations. This is then called English literature. ~ James Joyce,
1066:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1067:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1068:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use— silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1069:The causes of his embitterment were many, remote and near. He was angry with himself for being young and the prey of restless foolish impulses, angry also with the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent nothing to the vision. He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching himself from it and tasting its mortifying flavour in secret. ~ James Joyce,
1070:Branch is stuck all right. He has abandoned his life to understanding that moment in Dallas, the seven seconds that broke the back of the American century. [...] There is also the Warren Report, of course, with its twenty-six accompanying volumes of testimony and exhibits, its millions of words. Branch thinks this is the megaton novel James Joyce would have written if he'd moved to Iowa City and lived to be a hundred. ~ Don DeLillo,
1071:Auto rotation is practiced over and over when learning to fly helicopters. It is the prime life-saving maneuver, and it is an enormous amount of fun to do. To accomplish a perfect auto rotation, landing like a feather and right on the mark, is another pure joy of flying. So if you lose your only engine while flying, hope you are in a helicopter rather than an airplane. Your odds of a safe landing are infinitely greater. ~ James Joyce,
1072:His words were then these as followeth: Know all men, he said, time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions. What means this? Desire’s wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In woman’s womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation. Omnis cam ad te veniet ~ James Joyce,
1073:What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin line there all round everything.
[...]
It pained him that he did not know well what politics meant and that he did not know where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When would he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? ~ James Joyce,
1074:I've been working hard on [Ulysses] all day," said Joyce.

Does that mean that you have written a great deal?" I said.

Two sentences," said Joyce.

I looked sideways but Joyce was not smiling. I thought of [French novelist Gustave] Flaubert. "You've been seeking the mot juste?" I said.

No," said Joyce. "I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence. ~ James Joyce,
1075:Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must be. What are our ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that bloody bleating goat Temple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too. Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas. ~ James Joyce,
1076:The other book that I worry no one reads anymore is James Joyce's Ulysses. It's not easy, but every page is wonderful and repays the effort. I started reading it in high school, but I wasn't really able to grasp it. Then I read it in college. I once spent six weeks in a graduate seminar reading it. It takes that long. That's the problem. No one reads that way anymore. People may spend a week with a book, but not six. ~ Joyce Carol Oates,
1077:The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the Church had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all these intricate questions. ~ James Joyce,
1078:Stand forth, Nayman of Noland (for no longer will I follow you obliquelike through the inspired form of the third person singular and the moods and hesitensies of the deponent but address myself to you, with the empirative of my vendettative, provocative and out direct), stand forth, come boldly, jolly me, move me, zwilling though I am, to laughter in your true colours ere you be back for ever till I give you your talkingto! ~ James Joyce,
1079:He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone. ~ James Joyce,
1080:In this life our sorrows are either not very long or not very great because nature either overcomes them by habits or puts an end to them by sinking under their weight. But in hell the torments cannot be overcome by habit, for while they are of terrible intensity they are at the same time of continual variety, each pain, so to speak, taking fire from another and re-endowing that which has enkindled it with a still fiercer flame. ~ James Joyce,
1081:From the evil seed of lust all other deadly sins had sprung forth: pride in himself and contempt of others, covetousness in using money for the purchase of unlawful pleasures, envy of those whose vices he could not reach to and calumnious murmuring against the pious, gluttonous enjoyment of food, the dull glowering anger amid which he brooded upon his longing, the swamp of spiritual and bodily sloth in which his whole being had sunk. ~ James Joyce,
1082:He watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their darting quivering bodies passed: six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from the upper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round and round in straight and curving lines and ever flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air. ~ James Joyce,
1083:Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:

I HARDLY HEAR THE PURLIEU CRY
OR A TOMMY TALK AS I PASS ONE BY
BEFORE MY THOUGHTS BEGIN TO RUN
ON F. M'CURDY ATKINSON,
THE SAME THAT HAD THE WOODEN LEG
AND THAT FILIBUSTERING FILIBEG
THAT NEVER DARED TO SLAKE HIS DROUTH,
MAGEE THAT HAD THE CHINLESS MOUTH.
BEING AFRAID TO MARRY ON EARTH
THEY MASTURBATED FOR ALL THEY WERE WORTH.

Jest on. Know thyself. ~ James Joyce,
1084:Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use―silence, exile, and cunning. ~ James Joyce,
1085:It's impossible that James Joyce could have mentioned "talk-tapes" in his writing, Asher thought. Someday I'm going to get my article published; I'm going to prove that Finnegan's Wake is an information pool based on computer memory systems that didn't exist until a century after James Joyce's era; that Joyce was plugged into a cosmic consciousness from which he derived the inspiration for his entire corpus of work. I'll be famous forever. ~ Philip K Dick,
1086:They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment, he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. ~ James Joyce,
1087:Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hair growth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphire, cleft by the bronze flight of eagles. Under it lies the womancity, nude, white, still, cool, in luxury. A fountain murmurs among damask roses. Mammoth roses murmur of scarlet wine grapes. A wine of shame, lust, blood exudes, strangely murmuring. ~ James Joyce,
1088:I really love James Joyce, Dubliners and other work. And I was interested in the way the dash was used in English topography - in his work particularly - and I realized there was no compulsion to use those ugly dot-dot curlicues all over the place to designate dialogue. I began to look around, and found writers who could make transitions quite clear by the language itself. I'm a bit of a maverick now. I'm always trying to push the medium. ~ John Edgar Wideman,
1089:Neither he nor she had had any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She listened to all.

Sometimes in return for his theories, she gave out some fact of her own life. With almost maternal solicitude, she urged him to let his nature open to the full; she became his confessor. ~ James Joyce,
1090:APRIL 16. Away! Away!
The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone—come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth. ~ James Joyce,
1091:Después me preguntó si realmente había conocido a James Joyce. Marcelo me dijo que usted lo conoció a Joyce, me parece tan fantástico, me dijo Renzi. Lo conocí, le digo, en fin, lo vi un par de veces; era un tipo extremadamente miope, bastante hosco. Pésimo jugador de ajedrez. Él hubiera aceptado, supongo, su versión de que sólo existe la parodia (porque en realidad, y dicho entre paréntesis, ¿qué era él sino una parodia de Shakespeare?). ~ Ricardo Piglia,
1092:His thinking was a dusk of doubt and selfmistrust lit up at moments by the lightnings of intuition, but lightnings of so clear a splendour that in those moments the world perished about his feet as if it had been fireconsumed: and thereafter his tongue grew heavy and he met the eyes of others with unanswering eyes for he felt that the spirit of beauty had folded him round like a mantle and that in revery at leas he had been acquainted with nobility. ~ James Joyce,
1093:Like Richard Ellmann on James Joyce, Arnold Rampersad on Ralph Ellison is in a class of its own. His masterful and magisterial book is the most powerful and profound treatment of Ellison's undeniable artistic genius, deep personal flaws, and controversial political evolution. And he reveals an Ellison unbeknownst to all of us. From now on, all serious scholarship on Ellison must begin with Rampersad's instant and inimitable classic in literary biography. ~ Cornel West,
1094:God was God's name just as his name was Stephen. Dieu was the French for God and that was God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said Dieu then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But though there were different names for God in all the different languages in the world and God understood what all the people who prayed said in their different languages still God remained always the same God and God's real name was God. ~ James Joyce,
1095:Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on! ~ James Joyce,
1096:White roses and red roses: those were beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place and third place were beautiful colours too: pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could. ~ James Joyce,
1097:The romantic temper, so often and so grievously misinterpreted and not more by others than by its own, is an insecure, unsatisfied, and impatient temper which sees no fit abode here for its ideals and chooses therefore to behold them under insensible figures. As a result of this choice it comes to disregard certain limitations. Its figures are blown to wild adventures, lacking the gravity of solid bodies, and the mind that has conceived them ends by disowning them. ~ James Joyce,
1098:Devoțiunea îl părăsise. Ce preț mai avea rugăciunea, când el știa că sufletul îi tânjește după propria pierzanie? Un anumit orgoliu, un anumit respect temător îl împiedicau să-i închine lui Dumnezeu fie și o singură rugăciune de seară... Orgoliul lui întru păcat, temătoru-i respect, fără iubire, față de Dumnezeu îi spuneau că ofensa lui era prea jignitoare ca să poată fi răscumpărată în întregime sau în parte printr-un omagiu fals adus Atotvăzătorului si Atotputernicului. ~ James Joyce,
1099:Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. ~ James Joyce,
1100:Terence O'Ryan heard him and straightway brought him a crystal cup full of the foaming ebon ale which the noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine alevats, cunning as the sons of deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat. ~ James Joyce,
1101:Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body. He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower. ~ James Joyce,
1102:By his monstrous way of life, he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him. He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father's voice. He could scarcely recognize as his own thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself:
- I am Stephen Dedalus ~ James Joyce,
1103:When landing the J-3 Cub, the proper technique is for the tail wheel to touch the runway a millisecond before the main wheels touch. So before landing the pilot must raise the nose of the plane, which blocks his forward vision. He now must gauge his distance above the ground, and his location on the runway, by again using the side windows as he floats on down. After touching down he will again be blind to the front. After coming to a stop the back-and-forth taxiing begins again. ~ James Joyce,
1104:Overt intelligent performances are not clues to the workings of minds; they are those workings. Boswell described Johnson's mind when he described how he wrote, talked, ate, fidgeted and fumed. His description was, of course, incomplete, since there were notoriously some thoughts which Johnson kept carefully to himself and there must have been many dreams, daydreams and silent babblings which only Johnson could have recorded and only a James Joyce would wish him to have recorded. ~ Gilbert Ryle,
1105:Tenía la impresión de que le habían cazado. Le parecía ver a los amigos chismorreando y riéndose. Ella, por otra parte, era vulgar. A veces decía freído por frito, y si diría en lugar de si dijese. ¿Pero qué importaba la gramática si él la quería? Aún no sabía si debía quererla o despreciarla por lo que había hecho. Es verdad que también él había puesto su parte en la tortilla. Sin embargo el instinto le sugería quedarse libre, no casarse. Ya se sabe, en cuanto te casaste, acabaste ~ James Joyce,
1106:Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all
too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud
promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on
the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the
quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the
voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the
stormtossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea. ~ James Joyce,
1107:His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. Yet a voice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him would he take her gift to which he had only to stretch out his hand. ~ James Joyce,
1108:He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him. ~ James Joyce,
1109:I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. ~ James Joyce,
1110:His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or in revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. Yet a voice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him would he take her gift to which he had only to stretch out his hand. And ~ James Joyce,
1111:Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. ~ James Joyce,
1112:genç kızken ben de bir Dağ çiçeğiydim orada evet saçıma gülü Endülüslü kızların taktığı gibi takınca ya da kırmızı mı taksam evet ve nasıl öpmüştü beni Mağribi surunun altında ben de dedim ki bu da olur bir başkası daha iyi olacak değil ya sonra gözlerimle tekrar sormasını istedim evet sonra ister misin diye sordu evet ne olur evet de dağ çiçeğim dedi önce sarıldım ona evet ve onu kendime çektim göğüslerime dokunsun diye safi parfüm evet kalbi deliler gibi çarpıyordu evet dedim evet isterim Evet. ~ James Joyce,
1113:Many compositions cannot be comprehended without special training or many hours of repeated listening. Even highly educated consumers who enjoy modern art and read James Joyce often find Elliott Carter and Pierre Boulez to be puzzling or perhaps even painful to listen to. Composers of contemporary "classical" music have not made the headway that their peers in literature or painting have enjoyed. Contemporary music, depending on genre, is either the most or the least popular of the these three arts. ~ Tyler Cowen,
1114:... he ran across the road and began to walk at breakneck speed down the hill. He hardly knew where he was walking. Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill amid the tumult of sudden-risen vapours of wounded pride and fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed away above him till at last the air was clear and cold again. ~ James Joyce,
1115:A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day. ~ James Joyce,
1116:He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character, emotionalised his mental life. ~ James Joyce,
1117:With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour. ~ James Joyce,
1118:It grieved him plaguily, he said, to see the nuptial couch defrauded of its dearest pledges: and to reflect upon so many agreeable females with rich jointures, a prey for the vilest bonzes, who hide their flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial cloister or lose their womanly bloom in the embraces of some unaccountable muskin when they might multiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the inestimable jewel of their sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to caress, this, he assured them, made his heart weep. ~ James Joyce,
1119:You ask me why I don’t love you, but surely you must believe I am very fond of you and if to desire to possess a person wholly, to admire and honour that person deeply, and to seek to secure that person’s happiness in every way is to “love” then perhaps my affection for you is a kind of love. I will tell you this that your soul seems to me to be the most beautiful and simple soul in the world and it may be because I am so conscious of this when I look at you that my love or affection for you loses much of its violence. ~ James Joyce,
1120:Perhaps it was an old flame he was in mourning for from the days beyond recall. She thought she understood. She would try to understand him because men were so different. The old love was waiting, waiting with little white hands stretched out, with blue appealing eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free. ~ James Joyce,
1121:A good way to learn is to find a book that seems to be dealing with the problems that you're now dealing with. That will certainly give you some clues. in my own life I took my instruction from reading Thomas Mann and James Joyce, both of whom had applied basic mythological themes to the interpretation of the problems, questions, realizations, and concerns of young men growing up in the modern world. You can discover your own guiding-myth motifs through the works of a good novelist who himself understands these things. p177 ~ Joseph Campbell,
1122:olemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak. ~ James Joyce,
1123:I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been lived among them but now they are becoming lothed to me. And I am lothing their little warm tricks. And lothing their mean cosy turns. And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all! And me letting on to meself always. And lilting on all the time. ~ James Joyce,
1124:Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak. ~ James Joyce,
1125:But yet, continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer inflection, there are always in gatherings such as this sadder thoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path through life is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work among the living. We have all of us living duties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours ~ James Joyce,
1126:His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet nigh walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? ~ James Joyce,
1127:Numbers it is. All music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven. Do anything you like with figures juggling. Always find out this equal to that, symmetry under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my mourning. Callous: all for his own gut. Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the etherial. But suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on account of the sounds it is. ~ James Joyce,
1128:The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid, and lambent narrative, finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises itself, so to speak. The aesthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of aesthetic like that of material creation is accomplished. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails. ~ James Joyce,
1129:The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the storm-tossed heart of man, Mary, star of the sea. ~ James Joyce,
1130:Chapter 15 Bloom hallucinates that he is in court charged with sexual harassment:
THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: This plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still...He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable manner, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to give him a most vicious horsewhipping.
MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too.
MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Me too ~ James Joyce,
1131:lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. And what star is that, Poldy? says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. That one, is it? says Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. ~ James Joyce,
1132:(James Joyce, in conversation with Carl Jung:)"Literary artists know more about the human mind than you fellers have a hope in hell of knowing. Ha. My craft is ebbing. I am yung and easily freudened. One of these days I'll show the lot of you what the unconscious mind is really like. I don't need any of you. In a sense I am Freud."
Jung looked gloomily guilty at the name. "Yes?"
"What's Freud in English?"
"Joy."
"Joy and Joyce. There's little enough difference. Except that I add C and E for Creative Endeavour. I spit in all your eyes. ~ Anthony Burgess,
1133:Then Nuvoletta reflected for the last time in her little long life and she made up all her myriads of drifting minds in one. She cancelled all her engauzements. She climbed over the bannistars; she gave a childy cloudy cry: Nuee! Nuee! A lightdress fluttered. She was gone. And into the river that had been a stream . . . there fell a tear, a singult tear, the loveliest of all tears . . . for it was a leaptear. But the river tripped on her by and by, lapping as though her heart was brook: Why, why, why! Weh, O weh! I'se so silly to be flowing but I no canna stay! ~ James Joyce,
1134:Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's name just as his name was Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that was God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But, though there were different names for God in all the different languages in the world and God understood what all the people who prayed said in their different languages, still God remained always the same God and God's real name was God. ~ James Joyce,
1135:Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. ~ James Joyce,
1136:An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. ~ James Joyce,
1137:Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jelly-like mass of liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell. ~ James Joyce,
1138:A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair. James, what’s wrong?' the friend asked. 'Is it the work?' Joyce indicated assent without even raising his head to look at his friend. Of course it was the work; isn’t it always? How many words did you get today?' the friend pursued. Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled facedown on his desk): 'Seven.' Seven? But James… that’s good, at least for you.' Yes,' Joyce said, finally looking up. 'I suppose it is… but I don’t know what order they go in! ~ Stephen King,
1139:Todos los mares del mundo se echaron sobre su corazón. Él la arrastraba hacia dentro, la quería ahogar. Se aferró con la dos manos a la barandilla.
-¡Ven! ¡No! ¡No! ¡No! Era imposible. En un ataque de furor sus manos se agarrón a los barrotes. Desde el medio del mar llego un grito de angustia: -¡Eveline! ¡Evy! Corrió hasta más allá de la barrara llamándola para que le siguiera. Le gritaron que continuara, pero él seguía llamándola. Entonces ella le mostró el rostro
pálido, como el de un animal desvalido. Sus ojos no le dieron ninguna señal de amor o de adiós o de gratitud. ~ James Joyce,
1140:Ulysses [excerpt

Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy

...and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. ~ James Joyce,
1141:Fans of the Peanuts comic strip may also remember Snoopy beginning his novel again and again, always starting with the line 'It was a dark and stormy night' ... In fact, since 1982, San Jose State University has run a writing contest inspired by 'It was a dark and stormy night' ... Charles Dickens opens stave one of A Christmas Carol with 'Once upon a time' ... Similarly, James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man begins: 'Once upon a time' ... and Madeleine L'Engle begins A Wrinkle in Time with the very words 'It was a dark and stormy night.' (From Intro by Francine Prose) ~ Christopher R Beha,
1142:—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position? —c'est le pigeon, Joseph. Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend. —C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. —Il croit? —Mon pere, oui. ~ James Joyce,
1143:Away! Away! The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone. Come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth... Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race. ~ James Joyce,
1144:The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp. ... The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister. ~ James Joyce,
1145:Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO
DI COLOR CHE SANNO. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see. ~ James Joyce,
1146:The tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways, towards terror and towards pity, both of which are phases of it. You see I use the word ARREST. I mean that the tragic emotion is static. Or rather the dramatic emotion is. The feelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to go to something; loathing urges us to abandon, to go from something. The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion (I used the general term) is therefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing. ~ James Joyce,
1147:His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys, and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless…? ~ James Joyce,
1148:Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentlema. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschole with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs VErschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody. ~ James Joyce,
1149:When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: Elijah! Elijah! And he answered with a main cry: Abba! Adonai! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel. ~ James Joyce,
1150:But he could no longer disbelieve in the reality of love, since God Himself had loved his individual soul with divine love from all eternity. Gradually, as his soul was enriched with spiritual knowledge, he saw the whole world forming one vast symmetrical expression of God's power and love. Life became a divine gift for every moment and sensation of which, were it even the sight of a single leaf hanging on the twig of a tree, his soul should praise and thank the Giver. The world for all its solid substance and complexity no longer existed for his soul save as a theorem of divine power and love and universality. ~ James Joyce,
1151:two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon. ~ James Joyce,
1152:A friend came to visit James Joyce one day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of utter despair.

James, what’s wrong?' the friend asked. 'Is it the work?'

Joyce indicated assent without even raising his head to look at his friend. Of course it was the work; isn’t it always?

How many words did you get today?' the friend pursued.

Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled facedown on his desk): 'Seven.'

Seven? But James… that’s good, at least for you.'

Yes,' Joyce said, finally looking up. 'I suppose it is… but I don’t know what order they go in! ~ Stephen King,
1153:A few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the garish gas and the dim scenery, acting before the innumerable faces of the void. It surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals for a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own. It seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts. When the curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void filled with applause and, through a rift in a side scene, saw the simple body before which he had acted magically deformed, the void of faces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy groups. ~ James Joyce,
1154:Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling. ~ James Joyce,
1155:Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days. Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Are you not weary of ardent ways? Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell no more of enchanted days. Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn. Are you not weary of ardent ways? While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim. Tell no more of enchanted days. And still you hold our longing gaze With languorous look and lavish limb! Are you not weary of ardent ways? Tell no more of enchanted days. ~ James Joyce,
1156:Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling. ~ James Joyce,
1157:If you've ever read one of those articles that asks notable people to list their favorite books, you may have been impressed or daunted to see them pick Proust or Thomas Mann or James Joyce. You might even feel sheepish about the fact that you reread Pride and Prejudice or The Lord of the Rings, or The Catcher in the Rye or Gone With the Wind every couple of years with some much pleasure. Perhaps, like me, you're even a little suspicious of their claims, because we all know that the books we've loved best are seldom the ones we esteem the most highly - or the ones we'd most like other people to think we read over and over again. ~ Laura Miller,
1158:He read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry. Then he read the flyleaf from the bottom to the top till he came to his own name. That was he: and he read down the page again. What was after the universe?

Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?

It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything. It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's name just as his name was Stephen. ~ James Joyce,
1159:Most people think that it is more difficult to fly a helicopter than an airplane. This is a myth. The myth survives because when a student pilot takes his or her first lesson in a small, single engine airplane, at the end of the hour of instruction the student can imagine that some day, way—way off in the future maybe, but someday—he will learn to fly the aircraft all by himself. When student pilots have their first hour of instruction in a small, single engine helicopter, they know that if they live to be one hundred they will never learn to fly it. They also believe this after their second lesson and into the third. The problem is the hover. ~ James Joyce,
1160:His sensitive nature was still smarting under the lashes of an undivided and squalid way of life. His soul was still disquieted and cast down by the dull phenomenon of Dublin. He had emerged from a two years' spell of revery to find himself in the midst of a new scene, every event and figure of which affected him intimately, disheartened him or allured and, whether alluring or disheartening, filled him always with unrest and bitter thoughts. All the leisure which his school life left him was passed in the company of subversive writers whose jibes and violence of speech set up a ferment in his brain before they passed out of it into his crude writings. ~ James Joyce,
1161:hombres de piel dorada fijando precios en sus enjoyelados dedos. Cháchara de gansos. En bandada clamorosa, torpes, por el templo, sus cabezas confabuladas bajo desmaña-dos sombreros de copa. No de ellos: esas ropas, esa habla, esos gestos. Sus ojos absortos y lentos desmentí-an las palabras, los gestos apremiantes e inofensivos, pero sabían de los rencores que se amontonaban a su alrededor y sabían que su celo era inútil. Inútil su paciencia en acaparar y atesorar. El tiempo seguramente lo dispersaría todo. Riquezas acumuladas al lado del camino: saqueado y transferido. Sus ojos sabían de los años errantes y, pacientes, sabían la deshonra de su carne. ~ James Joyce,
1162:She raises her arms in an effort to hook at the nape of her neck a gown of black veiling. She cannot: no, she cannot. She moves backwards towards me mutely. I raise my arms to help her: her arms fall. I hold the websoft edges of her gown and drawing them out to hook them I see through the opening of the black veil her lithe body sheathed in an orange shift. It slips its ribbons of moorings at her shoulders and falls slowly: a lithe smooth naked body shimmering with silvery scales. It slips slowly over the slender buttocks of smooth polished silver and over their furrow, a tarnished silver shadow.... Fingers, cold and calm and moving.... A touch, a touch. ~ James Joyce,
1163:Towards dawn he awoke. O what sweet music! His soul was all dewy wet. Over his limbs in sleep pale cool waves of light had passed. He lay still, as if his soul lay amid cool waters, conscious of faint sweet music. His mind was waking slowly to a tremulous morning knowledge, a morning inspiration. A spirit filled him, pure as the purest water, sweet as dew, moving as music. But how faintly it was inbreathed, how passionlessly, as if the seraphim themselves were breathing upon him! His soul was waking slowly, fearing to awake wholly. It was that windless hour of dawn when madness wakes and strange plants open to the light and the moth flies forth silently. ~ James Joyce,
1164:The auteur theory suggests that, throughout an author's body of work one can find consistent themes -- and, studying a number of authors, you'll find this to be true. (Look no further than James Joyce in this respect, where he courts themes exploring the everyday heroism of the common man competing against the paralysis of the same.) In this way theme is sometimes an obsession, the author compelled to explore certain aspects and arguments without ever really meaning to -- theme then needn't be decided upon, nor must it be constrained to a single narrative. Theme is bigger, bolder, madder than all that. Sometimes theme is who we really are as writers. 14. ~ Chuck Wendig,
1165:God and religion before every thing!' Dante cried. 'God and religion before the world.'

Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash.

'Very well then,' he shouted hoarsely, 'if it comes to that, no God for Ireland!'

'John! John!' cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve.

Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb.

'No God for Ireland!' he cried, 'We have had too much God in Ireland. Away with God! ~ James Joyce,
1166:When we were a few minutes from the LZ, I turned around in my seat to look at the faces of the American soldiers about to go into battle. I did this as part of my plan, hatched months ago, to see the war up close from a helicopter. Although I guess I knew better, what I expected to see were grim, masculine faces with determined, steely eyes and firmly set jaws. The image of GI Joe. But that was not what I saw. I saw pimples and peach fuzz and eyes full of fear. Some of the soldiers were big guys and some were slight, but they all had one thing in common—they were young, really young. I’ll never forget that image. The typical American infantryman was a kid. ~ James Joyce,
1167:. . . for she was the only girl they loved, as she is the queenly pearl you prize, because of the way the night that first we met she is bound to be, methinks, and not in vain, the darling of my heart, sleeping in her april cot, within her singachamer, with her greengageflavoured candywhistle duetted to the crazyquilt, Isobel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood's eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitethorn, child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled, as fain would she anon, for soon again 'twill be, win me, woo me, wed me, ah weary me! ~ James Joyce,
1168:A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading tenuous skies above the waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying through the seadusk over the flowing waters.

A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft long vowels hurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing back and ever shaking the white bells of their waves in mute chime and mute peal and soft low swooning cry; and he felt that the augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds and in the pale space of sky above him had come forth from his heart like a bird from a turret quietly and swiftly. ~ James Joyce,
1169:He closed his eyes in the languor of sleep. His eyelids trembled as if they felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth and her watchers, trembled as if they felt the strange light of some new world. His soul was swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a flower? Glimmering and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself, breaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other. ~ James Joyce,
1170:As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my right breast is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be. ~ James Joyce,
1171:La emoción trágica, efectivamente, es una cara que mira en dos direcciones: hacia el terror y hacia la piedad, y ambos son fases de ella. Habrás visto que uso la palabra paraliza. Quiero decir que la emoción trágica es estática. O más bien que la emoción dramática lo es. Los sentimientos excitados por un arte impuro son cinéticos, deseo y repulsión. El deseo nos incita a la posesión, a movernos hacia algo; la repulsión nos incita al abandono, a apartarnos de algo. Las artes que sugieren estos sentimientos, pornográficas o didácticas, no son, por tanto, artes puras. La emoción estética es por consiguiente estática. El espíritu queda paralizado por encima de todo deseo, de toda repulsión. ~ James Joyce,
1172:He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how: but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment, he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. ~ James Joyce,
1173:You have asked me what I would do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning...You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too. ~ James Joyce,
1174:He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured.
He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. ~ James Joyce,
1175:The only mainstream American household I know well is the one I grew up in, and I can report that my father, who was not a reader, nevertheless had some acquaintance with James Baldwin and John Cheever, because Time magazine put them on its cover and Time, for my father, was the ultimate cultural authority. In the last decade, the magazine whose red border twice enclosed the face of James Joyce has devoted covers to Scott Turow and Stephen King. These are honorable writers; but no one doubts it was the size of their contracts that won them covers. The dollar is now the yardstick of cultural authority, and an organ like Time, which not long ago aspired to shape the national taste, now serves mainly to reflect it. ~ Jonathan Franzen,
1176:He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.   *** ~ James Joyce,
1177:Of course, Mr B. proceeded to stipulate, you must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong but room for improvement all round there certainly is though every country, they say, our own distressful included, has the government it deserves. But with a little goodwill all round. It’s all very fine to boast of mutual superiority but what about mutual equality. I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due instalments plan. It’s a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular, in the next house so to speak. ~ James Joyce,
1178:One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder ~ James Joyce,
1179:Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once... ~ James Joyce,
1180:The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? ~ James Joyce,
1181:Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the frame and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time and in the same connexion belong to and not belong to the same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understand the frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic apprehension. ~ James Joyce,
1182:It seemed to him that he heard notes of fitful music leaping upwards a tone and downwards a diminished fourth, upwards a tone and downwards a major third, like triplebranching flames leaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of a midnight wood. It was an elfin prelude, endless and formless; and, as it grew wilder and faster, the flames leaping out of time, he seemed to hear from under the boughs and grasses wild creatures racing, their feet pattering like rain upon the leaves. Their feet passed in pattering tumult over his mind, the feet of hare and rabbits, the feet of harts and hinds and antelopes, until he heard them no more and remembered only a proud cadence from Newman: Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneath the everlasting arms. ~ James Joyce,
1183:— I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The lefthand dead shot.
Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.
— Bottles out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.
He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely. Then he screwed his features up someway sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.
— Pom! he then shouted once.
The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation, there being still a further egg.
— Pom! he shouted twice.
Egg two evidently demolished, he nodded and winked... ~ James Joyce,
1184:A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face. ~ James Joyce,
1185:KATIE: Cuando alguien dice que es una larga historia quiere decir que es una historia corta y tonta de la que no tiene ganas de hablar o que le da demasiada vergüenza contar. ¿Por qué no hablas con él?
ROSIE: Porque ya no me importa lo que haga o lo que deje de hacer. Es muy libre de hacer lo que quiera con su vida y yo no tengo nada que ver. Además, no
quiere oír lo que tengo que decirle.
KATIE: Nuestro vecino Rupert dice: «Los errores son los portales del
descubrimiento».
ROSIE: Eso no lo dice Rupert. Lo dijo James Joyce.
KATIE: ¿James qué? ¿Le conozco?
ROSIE: Está muerto.
KATIE: Vaya, lo siento, ¿le conocías bien?
ROSIE: ¿Qué demonios os enseñan en el colegio?
KATIE: Ahora mismo educación sexual. Un aburrimiento mortal. ~ Cecelia Ahern,
1186:Come on, you winefizzling, ginsizzling, booseguzzling existences! Come on, you dog-gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed, hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflushers, false alarms and excess baggage! Come on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J. Christ Dowie, that's yanked to glory most half this planet from 'Frisco Beach to Vladivostok. The Deity ain't no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that he's on the square and a corking fine business proposition. He's the grandest thing yet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in king Jesus. You'll need to rise precious early, you sinner there, if you want to diddle the Almighty God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got a coughmixture with a punch in it for you, my friend, in his backpocket. Just you try it on. ~ James Joyce,
1187:Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies ? No touching that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are. Lots of them lying around here : lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps : damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus!* And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure. ~ James Joyce,
1188:They also bring to mind what sometimes seems to be a rapt predilection of small but influential cults of intellectuals or esthetes for what is generally regarded as perverse dispirited or distastefully unintelligible. The award of a Nobel Prize in literature to Andre Gide who in his work fervently and openly insists that pederasty is the superior and preferable way of life for adolescent boys furnishes a memorable example of such judgments. Renowned critics and some professors in our best universities reverently acclaim as the superlative expression of genius James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake a 628page collection of erudite gibberish indistinguishable to most people from the familiar word salad produced by hebephrenic patients on the back wards of any state hospital. ~ Hervey M Cleckley,
1189:So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All. But one clings still. I'll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning, ours. Yes. Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair! If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to washup. Yes, tid. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousendsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the—riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. ~ James Joyce,
1190:A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? ~ James Joyce,
1191:In speaking of the human brain as an electro-colloidal biocomputer, we all know where the hardware is: it is inside the human skull. The software, however, seems to be anywhere and everywhere. For instance, the software “in” my brain also exists outside my brain in such forms as, say, a book I read twenty years ago, which was an English translation of various signals transmitted by Plato 2400 years ago. Other parts of my software are made up of the software of Confucius, James Joyce, my second-grade teacher, the Three Stooges, Beethoven, my mother and father, Richard Nixon, my various dogs and cats, Dr. Carl Sagan, and anybody and (to some extent) any-thing that has ever impacted upon my brain. This may sound strange, but that’s the way software (or information) functions. ~ Robert Anton Wilson,
1192:The imagination is also sometimes commended for offering us in vicarious form experiences which we are unable to enjoy at first hand. If you can't afford an air ticket to Kuala Lumpur, you can always read Conrad and imagine yourself in South-East Asia. If you have been monotonously married for forty years, you can always lay furtive hands on a copy of James Joyce's letters. Literature on this view is a kind of supplement to our unavoidably impoverished lives - a sort of spiritual prosthesis which extends our capabilities beyond their normal restricted range. It is true that everyone's experience is bound to be limited, and that art can valuably augment it. But why the lives of so many people should be imaginatively impoverished is then a question that can be easily passed over. ~ Terry Eagleton,
1193:Entrañado en la oscuridad pecaminosa estuve yo también, concebido no engendrado. Por ellos, el hombre con mi voz y mis ojos y una mujer fantasmal de aliento a cenizas. Se ayuntaron y desjuntaron, cumplieron la voluntad del apareador. Desde antes de los tiempos Él me dispuso y ahora no puede disponer lo contrario ni nunca. Una lex eterna Le atenaza. ¿Es ésa pues la divina sustancia en la que el Padre y el Hijo son con-sustanciales? ¿Dónde está el pobre de Arrio para meterse dentro y ver qué pasa? Guerreando de por vida por la contransmagnificandjudeogolpancialidad. ¡Aciago heresiarca malogrado! En un excusado griego exhaló su último suspiro: euthanasia. Con mitra de abalorios y con báculo, instalado en su trono, viudo de una sede viuda, con omophonon envarado, con posaderas aglutinadas. ~ James Joyce,
1194:BOOKS BURNED ON THE PCT The Pacific Crest Trail, Volume 1: California, Jeffrey P. Schaffer,
Thomas Winnett, Ben Schifrin, and Ruby Jenkins. Fourth edition,
Wilderness Press, January 1989. Staying Found: The Complete Map and Compass Handbook, June Fleming. *The Dream of a Common Language, Adrienne Rich. As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner. **The Complete Stories, Flannery O’Connor. The Novel, James Michener. A Summer Bird-Cage, Margaret Drabble. Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov. Dubliners, James Joyce. Waiting for the Barbarians, J. M. Coetzee. The Pacific Crest Trail, Volume 2: Oregon and Washington, Jeffrey P. Schaffer and Andy Selters. Fifth edition, Wilderness Press, May 1992. The Best American Essays 1991, edited by Robert Atwan and
Joyce Carol Oates. The Ten Thousand Things, Maria Dermoût. ~ Cheryl Strayed,
1195:He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,
1196:Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped. ~ James Joyce,
1197:Her antiquity in preceding and surviving succeeding tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible. ~ James Joyce,
1198:There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful. ~ James Joyce,
1199:He was sitting in the midst of a children's party at Harold's Cross. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers, danced and romped noisily and, though he tried to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets.
But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a sothing air to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish agitation of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart. ~ James Joyce,
1200:Before World War II, when physics was primarily a European enterprise, physicists used the Greek language to name particles. Photon, electron, meson, baryon, lepton, and even hadron originated from the Greek. But later brash, irreverent, and sometimes silly Americans took over, and the names lightened up. Quark is a nonsense word from James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, but from that literary high point, things went downhill. The distinctions between the different quark types are referred to by the singularly inappropriate term flavor. We might have spoken of chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, pistachio, cherry, and mint chocolate chip quarks but we don’t. The six flavors of quarks are up, down, strange, charmed, bottom, and top. At one point, bottom and top were considered too risqué, so for a brief time they became truth and beauty. ~ Leonard Susskind,
1201:What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything. It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's name just as his name was Stephen. Dieu was the French for God and that was God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said Dieu then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But, though there were different names for God in all the different languages in the world and God understood what all the people who prayed said in their different languages, still God remained always the same God and God's real name was God. ~ James Joyce,
1202:No cabe duda de que el contraataque más exuberante lanzado por escritor alguno contra la reducción del lenguaje es el de James Joyce. Después de Shakespeare y de Burton, la literatura no había conocido semejante goloso de las palabras. Como si se hubiera dado cuenta de que la ciecnia había arrebatado al lenguaje muchas de sus antiguas posesiones, de sus colonias periféricas, Joyce quiso anexionarle una nuevo reino subterráneo. El Ulises pesca en su red luminosa la confusión viva de la vida inconsciente; Finnegan´s Wake destruye los bastiones del sueño, Joyce, como nadie había después de Milton, devuelve al oído inglés la vasta magnificiencia de su ancestro. Comanda grandes batallones de palabras, recluta nuevas palabras hace tiempo olvidadas u oxidadas, llama a filas otras palabras nuevas convocadas por las necesidades de la imaginación. ~ George Steiner,
1203:Dinspre teatrul ce-l avea acum în față venea înăbușit zgomotul publicului și câte o subită izbucnire metalică de-a fanfarei militare. Lumina iradia în sus prin acoperișul de sticlă, dând teatrului o înfățișare de arcă festivă, ancorată printre casele greoaie, priponită de țărm cu delicatele lanțuri ale lampioanelor. O ușă laterală a teatrului se deschise brusc și o suliță de lumină zbură pieziș peste peluze. O subită izbucnire de muzică țâșni din arcă, preludiul unui vals; și când ușa laterală se închise din nou, ascultătorul mai auzea ritmul stins al muzicii. ... Neliniștea îl părăsi, ieși din el ca o undă de sunet; purtată de valurile muzicii curgătoare, arca pornise în călătorie trăgându-și pe urmele ei lanțurile de lampioane. Dar un zgomot ca al unei artilerii de pitici îi curmă înaintarea. Erau aplauzele care salutau intrarea în scenă... ~ James Joyce,
1204:He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: —A day of dappled seaborne clouds. The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the grey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language many-coloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? ~ James Joyce,
1205:He burned to appease the fierce longings of his heart before which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and falsehood. Beside the savage desire within him to realize the enormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred. He bore cynically with the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted to defile with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes. By day and by night he moved among distorted images of the outer world. A figure that had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy. Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression. ~ James Joyce,
1206:Esama nuodėmių arba (vadinkime jas taip, kaip vadina pasaulis) blogų prisiminimų, kuriuos žmogus slepia tamsiausiose širdies kertėse, tačiau jie ten tarpsta ir laukia. Žmogus kentėdamas gali stengtis, kad prisiminimai apie juos išblėstų, nuduoti, kad to nėra, ir beveik įtikinti save, kad šito nebuvo arba bent jau - kad viskas buvo kitaip. Tačiau atsitiktinis žodis netikėtai vėl juos grąžins, ir rasis jie, kad stotų akistaton su juo - visokiausiomis aplinkybėmis, regėjime ar sapne, ar tuo metu, kai būgnelis ir arfa guodžia jo jausmus, arba šaltoje sidabrinėje vakaro ramybėje, ar šventėje vidurnaktį, kai jis jau bus paragavęs vyno. Ne tam, kad užgautų, tasai regėjimas apgaubs, tartum žmogų, į kurį nukreiptas šio įniršis, ne dėl keršto, kad išplėštų jį iš gyvenimo, ne, - tik, apsisiaustęs apgailėtinais praeities rūbais, nebylus, tolimas, priekaištingas. ~ James Joyce,
1207:It was strange too that he found an arid pleasure in following up to the end the rigid lines of the doctrines of the church and penetrating into obscure silences only to hear and feel the more deeply his own condemnation. The sentence of saint James which says that he who offends against one commandment becomes guilty of all, had seemed to him first a swollen phrase until he had begun to grope in the darkness of his own state. From the evil seed of lust all other deadly sins had sprung forth: pride in himself and contempt of others, covetousness In using money for the purchase of unlawful pleasures, envy of those whose vices he could not reach to and calumnious murmuring against the pious, gluttonous enjoyment of food, the dull glowering anger amid which he brooded upon his longing, the swamp of spiritual and bodily sloth in which his whole being had sunk. ~ James Joyce,
1208:Era estranho, outrossim, que ele sentisse um árido prazer em seguir até o fim as rígidas linhas da doutrina da Igreja e penetrasse em tétricos silêncios apenas para ouvir e sentir mais profundamente a sua própria condenação. A frase de São Tiago que diz que aquele peca contra um mandamento se torna culpado por todos pareceu-lhe, no começo, oca, até que começou a sondar a treva do seu próprio estado. Da má semente da ambição todos os outros pecados mortais tinham saldado: orgulho de si próprio e desprezo pelos outros; avareza em guardar dinheiro para a compra de prazeres ilícitos; inveja daqueles cujos vícios não podia atingir; caluniosas murmurações contra os piedosos; voracidade em sentir os alimentos, a estúpida raiva em que ardia e no meio da qual examinava o seu tédio; o pântano de indolência espiritual e corporal dentro do qual todo o seu ser estava atolado. ~ James Joyce,
1209:I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid- and I wish from my heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come- the tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us. ~ James Joyce,
1210:if my memory serves me right, here is my genealogical line: Boccaccio, Petronius, Rabelais, Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau, Maeterlinck, Romain Rolland, Plotinus, Heraclitus, Nietzsche, Dostoievsky (and other Russian writers of the Nineteenth Century), the ancient Greek dramatists, theElizabethan dramatists (excluding Shakespeare), Theodore Dreiser, Knut Hamsun, D. H. Lawrence, James Joyce, Thomas Mann, Elie Faure, Oswald Spengler, Marcel Proust, Van Gogh, the Dadaists and Surrealists, Balzac, Lewis Carroll, Nijinsky, Rimbaud, Blaise Cendrars, Jean Giono, Celine, everything I read on Zen Buddhism, everything I read about China, India, Tibet, Arabia, Africa, and of course the Bible, the men who wrote it and especially the men who made the King James version, for it was the language of the Bible rather than its “message” which I got first and which I will never shake off. ~ Henry Miller,
1211:The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment. ~ James Joyce,
1212:Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the master-stroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six. ~ James Joyce,
1213:There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind, for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: I am not long for this world and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. ~ James Joyce,
1214:A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. ~ James Joyce,
1215:What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman? Her antiquity in preceding and surviving successive tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellite dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising, and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inamrmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribih’ty of her isolated dominant implacable resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible. ~ James Joyce,
1216:He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: --a day of dappled seaborne clouds.
The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?
He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again. ~ James Joyce,
1217:What special affinities appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman?

Her antiquity in preceding and surviving successive tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising, and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant implacable resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible. ~ James Joyce,
1218:Mr. Blue's way of death was fitting. He had been utterly corrupted by America, and I find it proper that his carotid artery should have been severed by flak from a jumbo-sized can of mentholated shave cream. Like James Joyce, who tried to bend and subjugate the ironmongery of the cosmos with words (wasn't it The Word Joyce was after?), Mr. Blue tried to undo the empyrean mysteries with Seedy and his red carpet, with his elevated alligator shoes, with the ardent push-ups he seemed so sure would make him outlast time's ravages, with his touching search for some golden pussy that would yield to his lips the elixir of eternal life. And like Joyce's Leopold Bloom, like Quixote, Mr. Blue had become the perennial mock-epic hero of his country, the salesman, the boomer who believed that at the end of his American sojourn of demeaning doorbell-ringing, of faking and fawning, he would come to the Ultimate Sale, conquer, and soar. ~ Frederick Exley,
1219:Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it. ~ James Joyce,
1220:the most elementary material constituent, atoms consist of a nucleus, containing protons and neutrons, that is surrounded by a swarm of orbiting electrons. For a while many physicists thought that protons, neutrons, and electrons were the Greeks' "atoms." But in 1968 experimenters at the Stanford Linear Accelerator Center, making use of the increased capacity of technology to probe the microscopic depths of matter, found that protons and neutrons are not fundamental, either. Instead they showed that each consists of three smaller particles, called quarks—a whimsical name taken from a passage in James Joyce's Finnegans Wake by the theoretical physicist Murray Gell-Mann, who previously had surmised their existence. The experimenters confirmed that quarks themselves come in two varieties, which were named, a bit less creatively, up and down. A proton consists of two up-quarks and a down-quark; a neutron consists of two down-quarks and an up-quark. ~ Brian Greene,
1221:I too was very busy. Thinking. I had decided to write a novel. It would be a big book, Tolstoyan in scale, Joycean in its ambition, Shakespearean in its lyricism. Twenty years hence, the book would be the subject of graduate seminars and doctoral dissertations. The book would join the Canon of Literature. Students would speak reverentially of the text, my text, in hushed, wondrous tones. Magazine profiles would begin with The reclusive literary giant J. Maarten Troost . . . I had already decided to be enigmatic, a mystery. People would speak of Salinger, Pynchon, and Troost. I wondered if I could arrange my citizenship so that I would win both the Booker and the Pulitzer for the same book. To get in the right state of mind, I read big books—Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, Ulysses by James Joyce (okay, I skimmed parts of that one). I read King Lear. Inexplicably, Sylvia thought I was procrastinating. And ~ J Maarten Troost,
1222:I wish some man or other would take me sometime when hes there and kiss me in his arms theres nothing like a kiss long and hot down to your soul almost paralyses you...I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours...after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes...then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes. ~ James Joyce,
1223:Whereas Einstein was not the James Joyce of scientists and James Joyce was not the Einstein of novelists who no one could go beyond because beyond was a space where all is curved and comes around again to its beginning in a relative sort of way and after all isn't that what a river does always turning back upon itself like a serpent eating its tail which is life itself and everyone's life like a rushing stream down a mountain into the greatest river and the river always coming back to itself after it flows to the ocean and returns in clouds and rain and sunsets although today sunsets are dying the rivers dying and how much longer will the river be returning and returning as if a river really ever could come home again with its voyagers and that far wanderer James Joyce always leaning back to listen to old River Liffey telling him the great tale always whispering to him that wake of words for all of us to wail upon along a riverrun homing in the gloaming ~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti,
1224:Through this image he had a glimpse of a strange dark cavern of speculation but at once turned away from it, feeling that it was not yet the hour to enter it. But the nightshade of his friend's listlessness seemed to be diffusing in the air around him a tenuous and deadly exhalation and he found himself glancing from one casual word to another on his right or left in stolid wonder that they had been so silently emptied of instantaneous sense until every mean shop legend bound his mind like the words of a spell and his soul shrivelled up, sighing with age as he walked on in a lane among heaps of dead language. His own consciousness of language was ebbing from his brain and trickling into the very words themselves which set to band and disband themselves in wayward rhythms:
The ivy whines upon the wall
And whines and twines upon the wall
The ivy whines upon the wall
The yellow ivy on the wall
Ivy, ivy up the wall.
Did any one ever hear such drivel? ~ James Joyce,
1225:He had sinned mortally not once but many times and he knew that, while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his punishment. His days and works and thoughts could make no atonement for him, the fountains of sanctifying grace having ceased to refresh his soul. At most, by an alms given to a beggar whose blessing he fled from, he might hope wearily to win for himself some measure of actual grace. Devotion had gone by the board. What did it avail to pray when he knew that his soul lusted after its own destruction? A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy. His pride in his own sin, his loveless awe of God, told him that his offence was too grievous to be atoned for in whole or in part by a false homage to the All-seeing and All-knowing. ~ James Joyce,
1226:The radiance of which he speaks is the scholastic quidditas, the whatness of a thing. The supreme quality is felt by the artist when the esthetic image is first conceived in his imagination. The mind in that mysterious instant Shelley likened beautifully to a fading coal. The instant wherein that supreme quality of beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehended luminously by the mind which has been arrested by its wholeness and fascinated by its harmony is the luminous silent stasis of esthetic pleasure, a spiritual state very like to that cardiac condition which the Italian physiologist, Luigi Galvani, using a phrase almost as beautiful as Shelley’s, called the enchantment of the heart. ~ James Joyce,
1227:IRELAND
Spenserian Sonnet
abab, bcbc, cdcd, ee

What is it about the Kelly velvet hillsides and the hoary avocado sea,
The vertical cliffs where the Gulf Stream commences its southern bend,
Slashing like a sculptor gone mad or a rancorous God who’s angry,
Heaving galaxies of lichen shrouded stones for potato farmers to tend,
Where the Famine and the Troubles such haunting aspects lend,
Music and verse ring with such eloquence in their whimsical way,
Let all, who can hear, rejoice as singers’ intonations mend,
Gaelic souls from Sligo and Trinity Green to Cork and Dingle Bay,
Where fiddle, bodhran, tin whistle, and even God, indulge to play,
Ould sod to Beckett, Wilde and Yeats, Heaney and James Joyce,
In this verdant, welcoming land, ‘tis the poet who rules the day.
Where else can one hear a republic croon in so magnificent a voice?
Primal hearts of Celtic chieftains pulse, setting inspiration free,
In genial confines of chic caprice, we’re stirred by synchronicity. ~ David B Lentz,
1228:Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of companionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys, and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless...?

He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman cycles of activity chilled him, and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving. ~ James Joyce,
1229:He read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry. Then he read the flyleaf from the bottom to the top till he came to his own name. That was he: and he read down the page again. What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began? It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything. It was very big to think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God’s name just as his name was Stephen. Dieu was the French for God and that was God’s name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said Dieu then God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But, though there were different names for God in all the different languages in the world and God understood what all the people who prayed said in their different languages, still God remained always the same God and God’s real name was God. ~ James Joyce,
1230:- You as a good catholic, he observed, talking of body and soul, believe in the soul...Do you?
Thus cornered, Stephen had to make a superhuman effort of memory to try and concentrate and remember before he could say:
- They tell me on the best authority it is a simple substance and therefore incorruptible. It would be immortal, I understand, but for the possibility of its annihilation by its First Cause Who, from all I can hear, is quite capable of adding that to the number of His other practical jokes, corruptio per se and corruptio per accidens both being excluded by court etiquette.
Mr Bloom thoroughly acquiesced in the general gist of this...still he felt bound to enter a demurrer on the head of simple, promptly rejoining:
- Simple? I shouldn’t think that is the proper word...but it’s a horse of quite another color to say you believe in the existence of a supernatural God.
- Oh that, Stephen expostulated, has been proved conclusively by several of the best known passages in Holy Writ, apart from circumstantial evidence. ~ James Joyce,
1231:Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in per-son? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into
oure eryan! Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daugh-ters of. Whawk?
Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flitter-ing bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome?
What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffey-ing waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos won't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-
sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who wereShem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now!
Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night! ~ James Joyce,
1232:My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up under your clothes or do you squat down on the hole with your skirts up and your hand hard at work in through the slit of your drawers? Does it give you the horn now to shit? I wonder how you can do it. Do you come in the act of shitting or do you frig yourself off first and then shit? It must be a fearfully lecherous thing to see a girl with her clothes up frigging furiously at her cunt, to see her pretty white drawers pulled open behind and her bum sticking out and a fat brown thing stuck half-way out of her hole. You say you will shit your drawers, dear, and let me fuck you then. I would like to hear you shit them, dear, first and then fuck you. Some night when we are somewhere in the dark and talking dirty and you feel your shite ready to fall put your arms round my neck in shame and shit it down softly. The sound will madden me and when I pull up your dress. ~ James Joyce,
1233:Sniffer of carrion, premature gravedigger, seeker of the nest of evil in the bosom of a good word, you, who sleep at our vigil and fast for our feast, you with your dislocated reason, have cutely foretold, a jophet in your own absence, by blind poring upon your many scalds and burns and blisters, impetiginous sore and pustules, by the auspices of that raven cloud, your shade, and by the auguries of rooks in parlament, death with every disaster, the dynamatisation of colleagues, the reducing of records to ashes, the levelling of all customs by blazes, the return of a lot of sweetempered gunpowdered didst unto dudst but it never stphruck your mudhead's obtundity (O hell, here comes our funeral! O pest, I'll miss the post!) that the more carrots you chop, the more turnips you slit, the more murphies you peel, the more onions you cry over, the more bullbeef you butch, the more mutton you crackerhack, the more potherbs you pound, the fiercer the fire and the longer your spoon and the harder you gruel with more grease to your elbow the merrier fumes your new Irish stew. ~ James Joyce,
1234:The next day brought death and judgement, stirring his soul slowly from its listless despair. The faint glimmer of fear became a terror of spirit as the hoarse voice of the preacher blew death into his soul. He suffered its agony. He felt the death chill touch the extremities and creep onward towards the heart, the film of death veiling the eyes, the bright centres of the brain extinguished one by one like lamps, the last sweat oozing upon the skin, the powerlessness of the dying limbs, the speech thickening and wandering and failing, the heart throbbing faintly and more faintly, all but vanquished, the breath, the poor breath, the poor helpless human spirit, sobbing and sighing, gurgling and rattling in the throat. No help! No help! He — he himself — his body to which he had yielded was dying. Into the grave with it. Nail it down into a wooden box, the corpse. Carry it out of the house on the shoulders of hirelings. Thrust it out of men's sight into a long hole in the ground, into the grave, to rot, to feed the mass of its creeping worms and to be devoured by scuttling plump-bellied rats. ~ James Joyce,
1235:In 1963, when I assigned the name "quark" to the fundamental constituents of the nucleon, I had the sound first, without the spelling, which could have been "kwork." Then, in one of my occasional perusals of Finnegans Wake, by James Joyce, I came across the word "quark" in the phrase "Three quarks for Muster Mark." Since "quark" (meaning, for one thing, the cry of a gull) was clearly intended to rhyme with "Mark," as well as "bark" and other such words, I had to find an excuse to pronounce it as "kwork." But the book represents the dreams of a publican named Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker. Words in the text are typically drawn from several sources at once, like the "portmanteau words" in Through the Looking Glass. From time to time, phrases occur in the book that are partially determined by calls for drinks at the bar. I argued, therefore, that perhaps one of the multiple sources of the cry "Three quarks for Muster Mark" might be "Three quarts for Mister Mark," in which case the pronunciation "kwork" would not be totally unjustified. In any case, the number three fitted perfectly the way quarks occur in nature. ~ Murray Gell Mann,
1236:With what meditations did Bloom accompany his demonstration to his companion of various constellations?

Meditations of evolution increasingly vaster: of the moon invisible in incipient lunation, approaching perigee: of the infinite lattiginous scintillating uncondensed milky way, discernible by daylight by an observer placed at the lower end of a cylindrical vertical shaft 5000 ft deep sunk from the surface towards the centre of the earth: of Sirius (alpha in Canis Maior) 10 lightyears (57,000,000,000,000 miles) distant and in volume 900 times the dimension of our planet: of Arcturus: of the precession of equinoxes: of Orion with belt and sextuple sun theta and nebula in which 100 of our solar systems could be contained: of moribund and of nascent new stars such as Nova in 1901: of our system plunging towards the constellation of Hercules: of the parallax or parallactic drift of socalled fixed stars, in reality evermoving wanderers from immeasurably remote eons to infinitely remote futures in comparison with which the years, threescore and ten, of allotted human life formed a parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity. ~ James Joyce,
1237:What about this idea of good and evil in mythology, of life as a conflict between the forces of darkness and the forces of light? CAMPBELL: That is a Zoroastrian idea, which has come over into Judaism and Christianity. In other traditions, good and evil are relative to the position in which you are standing. What is good for one is evil for the other. And you play your part, not withdrawing from the world when you realize how horrible it is, but seeing that this horror is simply the foreground of a wonder: a mysterium tremendum et fascinans. “All life is sorrowful” is the first Buddhist saying, and so it is. It wouldn’t be life if there were not temporality involved, which is sorrow—loss, loss, loss. You’ve got to say yes to life and see it as magnificent this way; for this is surely the way God intended it. MOYERS: Do you really believe that? CAMPBELL: It is joyful just as it is. I don’t believe there was anybody who intended it, but this is the way it is. James Joyce has a memorable line: “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” And the way to awake from it is not to be afraid, and to recognize that all of this, as it is, is a ~ Joseph Campbell,
1238:He turned abruptly his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face.
--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you.
--Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you . . .
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
--But a lovely mummer, he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all.
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown grave-clothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. ~ James Joyce,
1239:Sonnet Suggested By Homer, Chaucer, Shakespeare,
Edgar Allan Poe, Paul Vakzy, James Joyce, Et Al.
Let me not, ever, to the marriage in Cana
Of Galilee admit the slightest sentiment
Of doubt about the astonishing and sustaining manna
Of chance and choice to throw a shadow's element
Of disbelief in truth -- Love is not love
Nor is the love of love its truth in consciousness
If it can be made hesitant by any crow or dove or
seeming angel or demon from above or from below
Or made more than it is knows itself to be by the authority
of any ministry of love.
O no -- it is the choice of chances and the chancing of
all choice -- the wine
which was the water may be sickening, unsatisfying or
sour
A new barbiturate drawn from the fattest flower
That prospers green on Lethe's shore. For every hour
Denies or once again affirms the vow and the ultimate
tower
Of aspiration which made Ulysses toil so far away from
home
And then, for years, strive against every wanton desire,
sea and fire, to return across the.
ever-threatening seas
A journey forever far beyond all the vivid eloquence
of every poet and all poetry.
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1240:It pained him that he did not know well what politics meant and that he did not know where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When would he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big voices and big boots and they studied trigonometry. That was very far away. First came the vacation and then the next term and then vacation again and then again another term and then again the vacation. It was like a train going in and out of tunnels and that was like the noise of the boys eating in the refectory when you opened and closed the flaps of the ears. Term, vacation; tunnel, out; noise, stop. How far away it was! It was better to go to bed to sleep. Only prayers in the chapel and then bed. He shivered and yawned. It would be lovely in bed after the sheets got a bit hot. First they were so cold to get into. He shivered to think how cold they were first. But then they got hot and then he could sleep. It was lovely to be tired. He yawned again. Night prayers and then bed: he shivered and wanted to yawn. It would be lovely in a few minutes. He felt a warm glow creeping up from the cold shivering sheets, warmer and warmer till he felt warm all over, ever so warm and yet he shivered a little and still wanted to yawn. ~ James Joyce,
1241:Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed. ~ James Joyce,
1242:Una mirada de reojo a mi sombrero de Hamlet. ¿Si me quedara súbitamente desnudo aquí mismo donde estoy sentado? No lo estoy. A través de las arenas de todo el mundo, seguida hacia el oeste por la espada llameante del sol, emigrando hacia tierras crepusculares. Ella marcha agobiada, schleppea, remolca, arrastra, trascina su carga. Una marea hacia el oeste, selenearrastrada, en su estela. Mareas, dentro de ella, miríadinsulada, sangre no mía, oinoma ponton, un mar vino oscuro. He aquí la criada de la luna. En sueños el signo líquido le dice su hora, le ordena abandonar el lecho. Leche nupcial natal mortal, cirioespectroiluminada. Omnis caro ad te veniet. Él viene, pálido vampiro, atravesando la tormenta con sus ojos, su velamen de murciélago navega ensangrentando el mar, boca al beso de su boca.

Vamos. Tomémoslo al vuelo, ¿quieres? Mis tabletas. Boca a su besar. No. Debe de haber dos. Pégalas bien. Boca al beso de su boca.

Sus labios dieron labios y boca a inmateriales besos de aire. Boca a su vientre. Antro, tumba donde todo entra. Del molde de su boca en su aliento fue exhalado sin palabras: ooeehah; estruendo de astros en catarata, igniciones esféricas bramando sevanvanvanvanvanvanvan. Papel. Los billetes de banco, malditos sean. ~ James Joyce,
1243:the first riddle of the universe: asking, when is a man not a man?: telling them take their time, yungfries, and wait till the tide stops (for from the first his day was a fortnight) and offering the prize of a bittersweet crab, a little present from the past, for their copper age was yet un-minted, to the winner. One said when the heavens are quakers, a second said when Bohemeand lips, a third said when he, no, when hold hard a jiffy, when he is a gnawstick and detarmined to, the next one said when the angel of death kicks the bucket of life, still another said when the wine's at witsends, and still another when lovely wooman stoops to conk him, one of the littliest said me, me, Sem, when pappa papared the harbour, one of the wittiest said, when he yeat ye abblokooken and he zmear he zelf zo zhooken, still one said when you are old I'm grey fall full wi sleep, and still another when wee deader walkner, and another when he is just only after having being semisized, another when yea, he hath no mananas, and one when dose pigs they begin now that they will flies up intil the looft. All were wrong, so Shem himself, the doctator, took the cake, the correct solution being — all give it up? — when he is a — yours till the rending of the rocks, — Sham. ~ James Joyce,
1244:The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante, Parnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his side-pockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by elastic bands. ~ James Joyce,
1245:From: A King Of Kings, A King Among The Kings
Come, let us rejoice in James Joyce, in the greatness of this poet,
king, and king of poets
For he is our poor dead king, he is the monarch and Caesar of English,
he is the veritable King of the King's English
The English of the life of the city,
and the English of music;
Let them rejoice because he rejoiced and was joyous;
For his joy was superior, it was supreme, for it was accomplished
After the suffering of much evil, the evil of the torment of pride,
By the overcoming of disgust and despair by means of the confrontation
them
By the enduring of nausea, the supporting of exile, the drawing from
the silence of exile, the pure arias of the
hidden music of all things, all beings.
For the joy of Joyce was earned by the sweat of the bow of his mind
by the tears of the agony of his heart;
hence it was gained, mastered, and conquered,
(hence it was not a gift and freely given,
a mercy often granted to masters,
as if they miraculous were natural -)
For he earned his joy and ours by the domination of evil by
confrontation and the exorcism of language
in all its powers of imitation and
imagination and radiance and delight....
of
~ Delmore Schwartz,
1246:Such moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up again. The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage. His blood was in revolt. He wandered up and down the dark slimy streets peering into the gloom of lanes and doorways, listening eagerly for any sound. He moaned to himself like some baffled prowling beast. He wanted to sin with another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and to exult with her in sin. He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself. Its murmur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being. His hands clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered the agony of its penetration. He stretched out his arms in the street to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and incited him: and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued from his lips. It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal. ~ James Joyce,
1247:Su sombra se acortaba sobre las rocas cuando se inclinaba, terminando. ¿Por qué no ilimitadamente hasta la estrella más lejana? Oscuramente están ellos ahí detrás de esta luz, oscuridad brillando en la claridad, delta de Casiopea, mundos. Mi se sienta allá, augur con una vara de fresno y sandalias prestadas, sentado de día al lado de un mar lívido, ignorado, marchando en la noche violeta bajo un reino de estrellas estrambóticas. Arrojo de mí esta sombra terminada, ineluctable forma de hombre, y la llamo de vuelta. Sin límites, ¿sería mía, forma de mi forma? ¿Quién me observa aquí? ¿Quién leerá nunca en parte alguna estas palabras que escribo? Signos sobre un campo blanco. En alguna parte con tu voz más aflautada El buen obispo de Cloyne sacó el velo del templo de su sombrero eclesiástico: velo del espacio con emblemas coloreados bosquejados sobre su campo. Agárrate bien. Coloreados sobre una llanura: sí, así es. La llanura veo, luego pienso distancia, cerca, lejos, llanura veo, el Este, atrás. ¡Ah!, veamos ahora. Cae hacia atrás de repente, helado de estereoscopio. El truco está en el click. Encontráis mis palabras oscuras. La oscuridad está en nuestras almas, ¿no es cierto? Más aflautado. Nuestra alma, heridoavergonzada por nuestros pecados, se aferra cada vez más a nosotros, una mujer aferrándose a su amante, lo más lo más. ~ James Joyce,
1248:Me
if you weren't you, who would you like to be?
Paul McCartney Gustav Mahler
Alfred Jarry John Coltrane
Charlie Mingus Claude Debussy
Wordsworth Monet Bach and Blake
Charlie Parker Pierre Bonnard
Leonardo Bessie Smith
Fidel Castro Jackson Pollock
Gaudi Milton Munch and Berg
Belà Bartók Henri Rousseau
Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns
Lukas Cranach Shostakovich
Kropotkin Ringo George and John
William Burroughs Francis Bacon
Dylan Thomas Luther King
H. P. Lovecraft T. S. Eliot
D. H. Lawrence Roland Kirk
Salvatore Giuliano
Andy Warhol Paul Uzanne
Kafka Camus Ensor Rothko
Jacques Prévert and Manfred Mann
Marx Dostoevsky
Bakunin Ray Bradbury
Miles Davis Trotsky
Stravinsky and Poe
Danilo Dolci Napoleon Solo
St John of the Cross and
The Marquis de Sade
Charles Rennie Mackintosh
Rimbaud Claes Oldenburg
Adrian Mitchell and Marcel Duchamp
24
James Joyce and Hemingway
Hitchcock and Bunuel
Donald McKinlay Thelonius Monk
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Matthias Grunewald
Philip Jones Grifths and Roger McGough
Guillaume Apollinaire
Cannonball Adderley
René Magritte
Hieronymus Bosch
Stéphane Mallarmé and Alfred de Vigny
Ernst Mayakovsky and Nicolas de Stael
Hindemith Mick Jagger Durer and Schwitters
Garcia Lorca
and
last of all
me.
~ Adrian Henri,
1249:Dear Mister Germ’s Choice,
in gutter dispear I am taking my pen toilet you know that, being Leyde up in bad with the prewailent distemper (I opened the window and in flew Enza), I have been reeding one half ter one other the numboars of “transition” in witch are printed the severeall instorments of your “Work in Progress”.

You must not stink I am attempting to ridicul (de sac!) you or to be smart, but I am so disturd by my inhumility to onthorstand most of the impslocations constrained in your work that (although I am by nominals dump and in fact I consider myself not brilliantly ejewcatered but still of above Averroëge men’s tality and having maid the most of the oporto unities I kismet) I am writing you, dear mysterre Shame’s Voice, to let you no how bed I feeloxerab out it all.

I am überzeugt that the labour involved in the compostition of your work must be almost supper humane and that so much travail from a man of your intellacked must ryeseult in somethink very signicophant. I would only like to know have I been so strichnine by my illnest white wresting under my warm Coverlyette that I am as they say in my neightive land “out of the mind gone out” and unable to combprehen that which is clear or is there really in your work some ass pecked which is Uncle Lear?

Please froggive my t’Emeritus and any inconvince that may have been caused by this litter.

Yours veri tass
Vladimir Dixon ~ James Joyce,
1250:Csodáltatok-e valaha üresfejű írót, aki mestere a nyelvnek? Nem.
A magatok nyertes irodalmi stílusa tehát kezdődjön a fejetekben levő érdekes ideákkal. Keressetek olyan tárgyat, ami közel áll a szívetekhez, és amiről azt érzitek, hogy a többiek szívéhez is közel kell állnia. Ez az őszinte érzés, ne pedig a nyelvi játszadozás legyen stílusotokban a leghatásosabb és legcsábítóbb elem.
Mellesleg nem biztatlak benneteket arra, hogy írjatok regényt – habár nem bánnám, ha írnátok, feltéve, hogy olyasmiről írtok, ami igazán közel áll a szívetekhez. Megteszi egy kérvény a polgármesterhez a házatok előtt tátongó gödör ügyében, vagy egy szerelmes levél a szomszéd kislányhoz.
De azért ne térjetek el a tárgytól.
Ami a nyelv használatát illeti: ne feledjétek, hogy nyelvünk két nagy mestere, William Shakespeare és James Joyce szinte gyermeteg mondatokat írtak, amikor tárgyuk a lehető legmélyebb volt. „Lenni vagy nem lenni?” – kérdi Shakespeare Hamletje. A leghosszabb szó ötbetűs. Joyce, legfickósabb hangulatában, olyan bonyolult és csillogó mondatot tudott összerakni, mint amilyen a Kleopátra nyaklánca, de legkedvesebb mondatom Eveline című elbeszélésében így szól: „Fáradt volt”. Az elbeszélésnek ezen a pontján semmi más szó nem lehetett volna szívettépőbb az olvasó szemében, mint ezek a szavak.
A nyelv egyszerűsége nem csak tisztességes, de talán egyenesen szent. A Biblia olyan mondattal kezdődik, ami jócskán belefér egy elevenebb tizennégy esztendősnek az íróképességébe: „Kezdetben teremtette Isten az eget és a földet. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,
1251:Her room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her legs apart in the copious easy-chair beside the bed. He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid her gown, noting the proud conscious movements of her perfumed head.

As he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over to him and embraced him gaily and gravely. Her round arms held him firmly to her and he, seeing her face lifted to him in serious calm and feeling the warm calm rise and fall of her breast, all but burst into hysterical weeping. Tears of joy and relief shone in his delighted eyes and his lips parted though they would not speak.

She passed her tinkling hand through his hair, calling him a little rascal.

—Give me a kiss, she said.

His lips would not bend to kiss her. He wanted to be held firmly in her arms, to be caressed slowly, slowly, slowly. In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself. But his lips would not bend to kiss her.

With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour. ~ James Joyce,
1252:Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once ...

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there? Seems not. ~ James Joyce,
1253:You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes.

--After all, Haines began ...

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not all unkind.

--After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your own master, it seems to me.

--I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an Italian.

--Italian? Haines said.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.

--And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.

--Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?

--The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

--I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame.

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells: ET UNAM SANCTAM CATHOLICAM ET APOSTOLICAM ECCLESIAM: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. ~ James Joyce,
1254:―When you kick out for yourself, Stephen―as I daresay you will one of these days―rememer, whatever you do, to mix with gentlemen. When I was a young fellow I tell you I enjoyed myself. I mixed with fine decent fellows. Everyone of us could lo something. One fellow had a good voice, another fellow was a good actor, another could sing a good comic song, another was a good oarsman or a good racket player, another could tell a good story and so on. We kept the ball rolling anyhow and enjoyed ourselves and saw a bit of life and we were none the worse of it either. But we were all gentlemen, Stephen―at least I hope we were―and bloody good honest Irishmen too. That's the kind of fellows I want you to associate with, fellows of the right kidney. I'm talking to you as a friend, Stephen. I don't believe a son should be afraid of his father. No, I treat you as your grandfather treated me when I was a young chap. We were more like brothers than father and son. I`ll never forget the first day he caught me smoking. I was standing at the end of the South Terrace one day with some maneens like myself and sure we thought we were grand fellows because we had pipes stuck in the corners of our mouths. Suddenly the governor passed. He didn't say a word, or stop even. But the next day, Sunday, we were out for a walk together and when we were coming home he took out his cigar case and said:―By the by, Simon, I didn't know you smoked, or something like that.―Of course I tried to carry it off as best I could.―If you want a good smoke, he said, try one of these cigars. An American captain made me a present of them last night in Queenstown. ~ James Joyce,
1255:Suffice it to say I was compelled to create this group in order to find everyone who is, let's say, borrowing liberally from my INESTIMABLE FOLIO OF CANONICAL MASTERPIECES (sorry, I just do that sometimes), and get you all together. It's the least I could do.

I mean, seriously. Those soliloquies in Moby-Dick? Sooo Hamlet and/or Othello, with maybe a little Shylock thrown in. Everyone from Pip in Great Expectations to freakin' Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre mentions my plays, sometimes completely mangling my words in nineteenth-century middle-American dialect for humorous effect (thank you, Sir Clemens). Many people (cough Virginia Woolf cough) just quote me over and over again without attribution. I hear James Joyce even devoted a chapter of his giant novel to something called the "Hamlet theory," though do you have some sort of newfangled English? It looks like gobbledygook to me. The only people who don't seek me out are like Chaucer and Dante and those ancient Greeks. For whatever reason.

And then there are the titles. The Sound and the Fury? Mine. Infinite Jest? Mine. Proust, Nabokov, Steinbeck, and Agatha Christie all have titles that are me-inspired. Brave New World? Not just the title, but half the plot has to do with my work. Even Edgar Allan Poe named a character after my Tempest's Prospero (though, not surprisingly, things didn't turn out well for him!). I'm like the star to every wandering bark, the arrow of every compass, the buzzard to every hawk and gillyflower ... oh, I don't even know what I'm talking about half the time. I just run with it, creating some of the SEMINAL TOURS DE FORCE OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. You're welcome. ~ Sarah Schmelling,
1256:INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE VISIBLE: AT LEAST THAT IF NO MORE, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.


Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.

Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?


Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare.

Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.

See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. ~ James Joyce,
1257:Nota de la autora ​La librería ficticia Le club de minuit que aparece en la novela, está inspirada en la mítica y mundialmente conocida Shakespeare & Company. La historia del que fue el refugio literario de Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald o James Joyce, se remonta al año 1919 en una localización distinta a la actual, la Rue de la Bûcherie, que se ha utilizado también en esta historia. Todo empezó cuando la librera y editora Sylvia Beach abrió la primera librería Shakespeare & Company en la Rue de l’Odéon y tuvo que cerrarla en 1941, en plena ocupación alemana en París, cuando un oficial nazi entró, intentando comprar una copia de Finnegans Wake, obra de ficción cómica de James Joyce. La librera se negó a vendérselo con la excusa de que era la única copia que tenía y que pertenecía a su colección personal. Dos semanas más tarde, el alemán regresó para anoticiarla de que todos sus bienes eran confiscados. Los libros desaparecieron de los estantes al cabo de unas horas. Años más tarde, en 1951, la librería reabrió con otro dueño, George Whitman, y Shakespeare & Company, tal y como la conocemos hoy en día en el 37 de la Rue de la Bûcherie, no solo es un emblema en la ciudad de París, sino también una atracción turística que ocupa seis pisos y tiene café propio. Nada que ver con la olvidada y ficticia Le club de minuit, cuyo interior también he inventado, ya que no tiene nada que ver con la librería real y actual que tuve la suerte de visitar hace unos años. ​Por otro lado, el George Whitman de Le club de minuit solo tiene en común con el auténtico George Whitman (Nueva Jersey, 1913 – París, 2011) su nombre, alguna frase y la palabra Tumbleweeds que me ha gustado añadir a esta intensa trama. Sylvia Beach en la primera librería Shakespeare & Company (1919-1941) George Whitman en su librería Shakespeare & Company ~ Lorena Franco,
1258:Nota de la autora ​La librería ficticia Le club de minuit que aparece en la novela, está inspirada en la mítica y mundialmente conocida Shakespeare & Company. La historia del que fue el refugio literario de Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald o James Joyce, se remonta al año 1919 en una localización distinta a la actual, la Rue de la Bûcherie, que se ha utilizado también en esta historia. Todo empezó cuando la librera y editora Sylvia Beach abrió la primera librería Shakespeare & Company en la Rue de l’Odéon y tuvo que cerrarla en 1941, en plena ocupación alemana en París, cuando un oficial nazi entró, intentando comprar una copia de Finnegans Wake, obra de ficción cómica de James Joyce. La librera se negó a vendérselo con la excusa de que era la única copia que tenía y que pertenecía a su colección personal. Dos semanas más tarde, el alemán regresó para anoticiarla de que todos sus bienes eran confiscados. Los libros desaparecieron de los estantes al cabo de unas horas. Años más tarde, en 1951, la librería reabrió con otro dueño, George Whitman, y Shakespeare & Company, tal y como la conocemos hoy en día en el 37 de la Rue de la Bûcherie, no solo es un emblema en la ciudad de París, sino también una atracción turística que ocupa seis pisos y tiene café propio. Nada que ver con la olvidada y ficticia Le club de minuit, cuyo interior también he inventado, ya que no tiene nada que ver con la librería real y actual que tuve la suerte de visitar hace unos años. ​Por otro lado, el George Whitman de Le club de minuit solo tiene en común con el auténtico George Whitman (Nueva Jersey, 1913 ��� París, 2011) su nombre, alguna frase y la palabra Tumbleweeds que me ha gustado añadir a esta intensa trama. Sylvia Beach en la primera librería Shakespeare & Company (1919-1941) George Whitman en su librería Shakespeare & Company ~ Lorena Franco,
1259:What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell forever? Forever! For all eternity! Not for a year or an age but forever. Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness, and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of air. And imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all. Yet at the end of that immense stretch time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been carried all away again grain by grain, and if it so rose and sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals – at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain not even one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time, the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would have scarcely begun. ~ James Joyce,
1260:Yet it is the Outsider’s belief that life aims at more life, at higher forms of life, something for which the Superman is an inexact poetic symbol (as Dante’s description of the beatific vision is expressed in terms of a poetic symbol); so that, in a sense, Urizen is the most important of the three functions. The fall was necessary, as Hesse realized. Urizen must go forward alone.
The other two must follow him. And as soon as Urizen has gone forward, the Fall has taken place. Evolution towards God is impossible without a Fall. And it is only by this recognition that the poet can ever come to ‘praise in spite of; for if evil is ultimately discord, unresolvable, then the idea of dennoch preisen is a self-contradiction. And yet it must be clearly recognized and underlined that this is not the Hegelian ‘God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world’. Even if the evil is necessary, it remains evil, discord, pain. It remains an Existential fact, not something that proves to be
something else when you hold it in the right light. It is as if there were two opposing armies:
the Hegelian view holds that peace can be secured by proving that there is really no ground for
opposition; in short, they are really friends. The Blakeian view says that the discord is necessary,
but it can never be resolved until one army has. completely exterminated the other. This is the
Existential view, first expressed by Soren Kierkegaard, the Outsider’s view and, incidentally,
the religious view. The whole difference between the Existentialist and the Hegelian viewpoint
is implicit in the comparison between the title of Hegel’s book, The Philosophy of History, and James Joyce’s phrase, ‘History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake’ Blake provided the Existentialist view with a symbolism and mythology. In Blake’s view, harmony is an ultimate aim, but not the primary aim, of life; the primary aim is to live more abundantly at any cost. Harmony can come later. ~ Colin Wilson,
1261:War and Peace has to be put in a group not with Madame Bovary, Vanity Fair, or The Mill on the Floss, but with the Iliad, in the sense that when the novel is finished nothing is finished—the stream of life flows on, and with the appearance of Prince Andrew’s son the novel ends on the beginning of a new life. All the time there are openings out of the story into the world beyond. This is a thing that had never been attempted by historical novelists before Tolstóy. As for the open form, it has often been attempted, but never so successfully. In a very different way the open form was achieved by James Joyce in Ulysses. As Tolstóy is compared with the Iliad and the Odyssey, so critics say that Joyce’s novel is of a mythological nature. John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga and Arnold Bennett’s The Old Wives’ Tale may also claim to belong to the category of “open” novels. No novel has received more enthusiastic praise both in Russia and England than War and Peace. John Galsworthy spoke of it as “the greatest novel ever written,” and those fine critics Percy Lubbock and E. M. Forster have been no less emphatic. In The Craft of Fiction Lubbock says that War and Peace is: “a picture of life that has never been surpassed for its grandeur and its beauty. . . . The business of the novelist is to create life, and here is life created indeed! In the whole of fiction no scene is so continually washed by the common air, free to us all, as the scene of Tolstóy, the supreme genius among novelists. “Pierre and Andrew and Natásha and the rest of them are the children of yesterday and today and tomorrow; there is nothing in any of them that is not of all time. To an English reader of today it is curious—and more, it is strangely moving—to note how faithfully the creations of Tolstóy, the nineteenth-century Russian, copy the young people of the twentieth century and of England: it is all one, life in Moscow then, life in London now, provided only that it is young enough.” E. M. Forster in Aspects of the Novel says: “No English novelist is as great ~ Leo Tolstoy,
1262:Earlier, if someone had suggested that I had been cruelly treated as a child, I would have roundly denied the “insinuation.” But today I know quite definitely that in my childhood I was exposed to mental cruelty for many years. My dreams, my painting, and not least the messages of my own body have told me this, but as an adult I refused to accept the fact for a long time. Like many other people I thought: “Me? I was never beaten. The few slaps I got were nothing special. And my mother took so much trouble with me.” (In my book the reader will find similar statements by others.) We must not forget that the consequences of early, invisible injuries are so severe precisely because they derive from the trivialization of childhood suffering and the denial of its importance. Adults can easily imagine that they would be horrified and humiliated if they were suddenly attacked by a raging giant many times bigger than themselves. Yet we assume that small children will not react in the same way, although we have all kinds of evidence to indicate how sensitively and competently children respond to their environment (cf. Martin Dornes: Der kompetente Sääugling; Jesper Juul: Your Competent Child). Parents believe that slaps and spanking do not hurt. Such treatment is designed to impress certain values on their children. And the children end up believing that themselves. Some even learn to laugh the whole thing off and to deride the pain they felt at the humiliations inflicted on them. As adults they adhere to this derision and are proud of their own cynicism, sometimes even making literature out of it, as in the case of James Joyce, Frank McCourt, and many others. If they are assailed by symptoms like anxiety and depression, the unavoidable results of the repression of their genuine feelings, then they will easily find doctors who can give them medication that will help, for a while at least. In this way they can maintain their self-irony, that tried-and-trusted remedy against the feelings asserting themselves from the past. And in so doing they comply with the demands of a society that attaches supreme importance to considerate treatment for parents. ~ Alice Miller,
1263:My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, fucking in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every fuck I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.

You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore’s glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover’s fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling’s cunt. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.

Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier. ~ James Joyce,
1264:Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is the eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? And remember, it is an eternity of pain. Even though the pain of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet they would become infinite, as they are destined to last for ever. But while they are everlasting they are at the some times, as you know, intolerably intense, unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an insect for all eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all eternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplies as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many million upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been all carried away, and i f the bird came again and carried it all away again grain by grain, and if it sop rose and sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain not one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun. ~ James Joyce,
1265:A Letter To My Aunt
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry
To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.
First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).
Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A dirty novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.
Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
17
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?
A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.
Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
~ Dylan Thomas,
1266:(a) A writer always wears glasses and never combs his hair. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He spends most of his life in bars, arguing with other dishevelled, bespectacled writers. He says very ‘deep’ things. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published.
(b) A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation; convinced, as he is, that he has been born into an age of mediocrity, he believes that being understood would mean losing his chance of ever being considered a genius. A writer revises and rewrites each sentence many times. The vocabulary of the average man is made up of 3,000 words; a real writer never uses any of these, because there are another 189,000 in the dictionary, and he is not the average man.
(c) Only other writers can understand what a writer is trying to say. Even so, he secretly hates all other writers, because they are always jockeying for the same vacancies left by the history of literature over the centuries. And so the writer and his peers compete for the prize of ‘most complicated book’: the one who wins will be the one who has succeeded in being the most difficult to read.
(d) A writer understands about things with alarming names, like semiotics, epistemology, neoconcretism. When he wants to shock someone, he says things like: ‘Einstein is a fool’, or ‘Tolstoy was the clown of the bourgeoisie.’ Everyone is scandalized, but they nevertheless go and tell other people that the theory of relativity is bunk, and that Tolstoy was a defender of the Russian aristocracy.
(e) When trying to seduce a woman, a writer says: ‘I’m a writer’, and scribbles a poem on a napkin. It always works.
(f) Given his vast culture, a writer can always get work as a literary critic. In that role, he can show his generosity by writing about his friends’ books. Half of any such reviews are made up of quotations from foreign authors and the other half of analyses of sentences, always using expressions such as ‘the epistemological cut’, or ‘an integrated bi-dimensional vision of life’. Anyone reading the review will say: ‘What a cultivated person’, but he won’t buy the book because he’ll be afraid he might not know how to continue reading when the epistemological cut appears.
(g) When invited to say what he is reading at the moment, a writer always mentions a book no one has ever heard of.
(h) There is only one book that arouses the unanimous admiration of the writer and his peers: Ulysses by James Joyce. No writer will ever speak ill of this book, but when someone asks him what it’s about, he can’t quite explain, making one doubt that he has actually read it. ~ Paulo Coelho,
1267:What is the age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the chameleon to change her hue at every new approach, to be gay with the merry and mournful with the downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood. No longer is Leopold, as he sits there, ruminating, chewing the cud of reminiscence, that staid agent of publicity and holder of a modest substance in the funds. He is young Leopold, as in a retrospective arrangement, a mirror within a mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself. That young figure of then is seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from the old house in Clambrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel on him bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's thought. Or it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first hard hat (ah, that was a day!), already on the road, a fullfledged traveller for the family firm, equipped with an orderbook, a scented handkerchief (not for show only), his case of bright trinketware (alas, a thing now of the past!), and a quiverful of compliant smiles for this or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her fingertips or for a budding virgin shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell me!) his studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile but more than these, the dark eyes and oleaginous address brought home at duskfall many a commission to the head of the firm seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in the paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may be sure, is aheating), reading through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe of a month before. But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes, shrivels, to a tiny speck within the mist. Now he is himself paternal and these about him might be his sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his own child. He thinks of a drizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the bonded stores there, the first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours and mine and of all for a bare shilling and her luckpenny), together they hear the heavy tread of the watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never forget the name, ever remember the night, first night, the bridenight. They are entwined in nethermost darkness, the willer and the willed, and in an instant (fiat!) light shall flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay, fair reader. In a breath 'twas done but - hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl flees away through the murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night. She dare not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold! Name and memory solace thee not. That youthful illusion of thy strength was taken from thee and in vain. No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none to be for Leopold, what Leopold was for Rudolph. ~ James Joyce,
1268:ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near
lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are
flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life
and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I
saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get
round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he
asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the
sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey
and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the
sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they
called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with
the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish
girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in
the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who
else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all
clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep
and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and
the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of
years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like
kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with
the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her
lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the
castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman
going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and
the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and
the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets
and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the
jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was
a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the
Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me
under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then
I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I
yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes
and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and
his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. ~ James Joyce,
1269:What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire?

Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator's projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon. ~ James Joyce,
1270:You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes. ~ Rosemarie Urquico,
1271:Manage Your Team’s Collective Time Time management is a group endeavor. The payoff goes far beyond morale and retention. ILLUSTRATION: JAMES JOYCE by Leslie Perlow | 1461 words Most professionals approach time management the wrong way. People who fall behind at work are seen to be personally failing—just as people who give up on diet or exercise plans are seen to be lacking self-control or discipline. In response, countless time management experts focus on individual habits, much as self-help coaches do. They offer advice about such things as keeping better to-do lists, not checking e-mail incessantly, and not procrastinating. Of course, we could all do a better job managing our time. But in the modern workplace, with its emphasis on connectivity and collaboration, the real problem is not how individuals manage their own time. It’s how we manage our collective time—how we work together to get the job done. Here is where the true opportunity for productivity gains lies. Nearly a decade ago I began working with a team at the Boston Consulting Group to implement what may sound like a modest innovation: persuading each member to designate and spend one weeknight out of the office and completely unplugged from work. The intervention was aimed at improving quality of life in an industry that’s notorious for long hours and a 24/7 culture. The early returns were positive; the initiative was expanded to four teams of consultants, and then to 10. The results, which I described in a 2009 HBR article, “Making Time Off Predictable—and Required,” and in a 2012 book, Sleeping with Your Smartphone , were profound. Consultants on teams with mandatory time off had higher job satisfaction and a better work/life balance, and they felt they were learning more on the job. It’s no surprise, then, that BCG has continued to expand the program: As of this spring, it has been implemented on thousands of teams in 77 offices in 40 countries. During the five years since I first reported on this work, I have introduced similar time-based interventions at a range of companies—and I have come to appreciate the true power of those interventions. They put the ownership of how a team works into the hands of team members, who are empowered and incentivized to optimize their collective time. As a result, teams collaborate better. They streamline their work. They meet deadlines. They are more productive and efficient. Teams that set a goal of structured time off—and, crucially, meet regularly to discuss how they’ll work together to ensure that every member takes it—have more open dialogue, engage in more experimentation and innovation, and ultimately function better. CREATING “ENHANCED PRODUCTIVITY” DAYS One of the insights driving this work is the realization that many teams stick to tried-and-true processes that, although familiar, are often inefficient. Even companies that create innovative products rarely innovate when it comes to process. This realization came to the fore when I studied three teams of software engineers working for the same company in different cultural contexts. The teams had the same assignments and produced the same amount of work, but they used very different methods. One, in Shenzen, had a hub-and-spokes org chart—a project manager maintained control and assigned the work. Another, in Bangalore, was self-managed and specialized, and it assigned work according to technical expertise. The third, in Budapest, had the strongest sense of being a team; its members were the most versatile and interchangeable. Although, as noted, the end products were the same, the teams’ varying approaches yielded different results. For example, the hub-and-spokes team worked fewer hours than the others, while the most versatile team had much greater flexibility and control over its schedule. The teams were completely unaware that their counterparts elsewhere in the world were managing their work differently. My research provide ~ Anonymous,

IN CHAPTERS [4/4]



   4 Psychology
   2 Mythology
   1 Occultism


   2 Joseph Campbell


   2 The Hero with a Thousand Faces


1.00 - PREFACE - DESCENSUS AD INFERNOS, #Maps of Meaning, #Jordan Peterson, #Psychology
  insane, and something strange and frightening was happening in my head. James Joyce said, History is a
  nightmare from which I am trying to awake.6 For me, history literally was a nightmare. I wanted above all

2.01 - The Road of Trials, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
  Or, as James Joyce has phrased it: "equals of opposites, evolved by a onesame power of nature or of spirit, as the sole condition and means of its
  himundher manifestation and polarised for reunion by the symphysis of their

2.05 - Apotheosis, #The Hero with a Thousand Faces, #Joseph Campbell, #Mythology
  Compare James Joyce: "in the economy of heaven . . . there are no more
  marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself"

4.04 - THE REGENERATION OF THE KING, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology
  [454] Here the apotheosis of the Queen is described in a way that instantly reminds us of its prototype, the coronation of the Virgin Mary. The picture is complicated by the images of the Piet on the one hand and the mother, giving the child her breast, on the other. As is normally the case only in dreams, several images of the Mother of God have contaminated one another, as have also the allegories of Christ as child and lion, the latter representing the body of the Crucified with the blood flowing from his side. As in dreams, the symbolism with its grotesque condensations and overlappings of contradictory contents shows no regard for our aesthetic and religious feelings; it is as though trinkets made of different metals were being melted in a crucible and their contours flowed into one another. The images have lost their pristine force, their clarity and meaning. In dreams it often happensto our horror that our most cherished convictions and values are subjected to just this iconoclastic mutilation. It also happens in the psychoses, when the patients sometimes come out with the most appalling blasphemies and hideous distortions of religious ideas. We find the same thing in belles lettres I need only mention Joyces Ulysses, a book which E. R. Curtius has not unjustly described as a work of Antichrist.256 But such products spring more from the spirit of the age than from the perverse inventive gifts of the author. In our time we must expect prophets like James Joyce. A similar spirit prevailed at the time of the Renaissance, one of its most striking manifestations being the Hexastichon of Sebastian Brant.257 The illustrations in this little book are freakish beyond belief. The main figure in each is an evangelical symbol, for instance the eagle of St. John, and round it and on it are allegories and emblems of the principal events, miracles, parables, etc., in the gospel in question. These creations may be compared with the fantasies of George Ripley, for neither author had any inkling of the dubious nature of what he was doing. Yet in spite of their dreamlike quality these products seem to have been constructed with deliberate intent. Brant even numbered the main components of his pictures according to the chapters of the Gospel, and again in Ripleys paraphrase of the sacred legend each item can easily be enucleated from its context. Brant thought of his pictures as mnemotechnical exercises that would help the reader to recall the contents of the gospels, whereas in fact their diabolical freakishness stamps itself on the mind far more than the recollection, say, that John 2 coincides with the marriage at Cana. The image of the Virgin with the wounded lion in her lap has the same kind of unholy fascination, precisely because it deviates so strangely from the official image to which we are accustomed.
  [455] I have compared the tendency to fantastic distortion to a melting down of images, but this gives the impression that it is an essentially destructive process. In reality and this is especially so in alchemyit is a process of assimilation between revealed truth and knowledge of nature. I will not attempt to investigate what the unconscious motives were that animated Sebastian Brant, and I need say nothing more about James Joyce here, as I have discussed this question in my essay Ulysses: A Monologue. These melting processes all express a relativization of the dominants of consciousness prevailing in a given age. For those who identify with the dominants or are absolutely dependent on them the melting process appears as a hostile, destructive attack which should be resisted with all ones powers. Others, for whom the dominants no longer mean what they purport to be, see the melting as a longed-for regeneration and enrichment of a system of ideas that has lost its vitality and freshness and is already obsolete. The melting process is therefore either something very bad or something highly desirable, according to the standpoint of the observer.258
  [456] In the latter category we must distinguish two kinds of alchemists: those who believed that the revealed truth represented by the Church could derive nothing but gain if it were combined with a knowledge of the God in nature; and those for whom the projection of the Christian mystery of faith into the physical world invested nature with a mystical significance, whose mysterious light outshone the splendid incomprehensibilities of Church ceremonial. The first group hoped for a rebirth of dogma, the second for a new incarnation of it and its transformation into a natural revelation.

WORDNET



--- Overview of noun james_joyce

The noun james joyce has 1 sense (no senses from tagged texts)
                
1. Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce ::: (influential Irish writer noted for his many innovations (such as stream of consciousness writing) (1882-1941))


--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun james_joyce

1 sense of james joyce                        

Sense 1
Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
   INSTANCE OF=> writer, author
     => communicator
       => person, individual, someone, somebody, mortal, soul
         => organism, being
           => living thing, animate thing
             => whole, unit
               => object, physical object
                 => physical entity
                   => entity
         => causal agent, cause, causal agency
           => physical entity
             => entity


--- Hyponyms of noun james_joyce
                                    


--- Synonyms/Hypernyms (Ordered by Estimated Frequency) of noun james_joyce

1 sense of james joyce                        

Sense 1
Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
   INSTANCE OF=> writer, author




--- Coordinate Terms (sisters) of noun james_joyce

1 sense of james joyce                        

Sense 1
Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
  -> writer, author
   => abstractor, abstracter
   => alliterator
   => authoress
   => biographer
   => coauthor, joint author
   => commentator, reviewer
   => compiler
   => contributor
   => cyberpunk
   => drafter
   => dramatist, playwright
   => essayist, litterateur
   => folk writer
   => framer
   => gagman, gagster, gagwriter
   => ghostwriter, ghost
   => Gothic romancer
   => hack, hack writer, literary hack
   => journalist
   => librettist
   => lyricist, lyrist
   => novelist
   => pamphleteer
   => paragrapher
   => poet
   => polemicist, polemist, polemic
   => rhymer, rhymester, versifier, poetizer, poetiser
   => scenarist
   => scriptwriter
   => space writer
   => speechwriter
   => tragedian
   => wordmonger
   => word-painter
   => wordsmith
   HAS INSTANCE=> Aiken, Conrad Aiken, Conrad Potter Aiken
   HAS INSTANCE=> Alger, Horatio Alger
   HAS INSTANCE=> Algren, Nelson Algren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Andersen, Hans Christian Andersen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Anderson, Sherwood Anderson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Aragon, Louis Aragon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Asch, Sholem Asch, Shalom Asch, Sholom Asch
   HAS INSTANCE=> Asimov, Isaac Asimov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Auchincloss, Louis Auchincloss, Louis Stanton Auchincloss
   HAS INSTANCE=> Austen, Jane Austen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baldwin, James Baldwin, James Arthur Baldwin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baraka, Imamu Amiri Baraka, LeRoi Jones
   HAS INSTANCE=> Barth, John Barth, John Simmons Barth
   HAS INSTANCE=> Barthelme, Donald Barthelme
   HAS INSTANCE=> Baum, Frank Baum, Lyman Frank Brown
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beauvoir, Simone de Beauvoir
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beckett, Samuel Beckett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Beerbohm, Max Beerbohm, Sir Henry Maxmilian Beerbohm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Belloc, Hilaire Belloc, Joseph Hilaire Peter Belloc
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bellow, Saul Bellow, Solomon Bellow
   HAS INSTANCE=> Benchley, Robert Benchley, Robert Charles Benchley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Benet, William Rose Benet
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bierce, Ambrose Bierce, Ambrose Gwinett Bierce
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boell, Heinrich Boell, Heinrich Theodor Boell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bontemps, Arna Wendell Bontemps
   HAS INSTANCE=> Borges, Jorge Borges, Jorge Luis Borges
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boswell, James Boswell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Boyle, Kay Boyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bradbury, Ray Bradbury, Ray Douglas Bradbury
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Charlotte Bronte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Emily Bronte, Emily Jane Bronte, Currer Bell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bronte, Anne Bronte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Browne, Charles Farrar Browne, Artemus Ward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Buck, Pearl Buck, Pearl Sydenstricker Buck
   HAS INSTANCE=> Bunyan, John Bunyan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burgess, Anthony Burgess
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burnett, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burroughs, Edgar Rice Burroughs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Burroughs, William Burroughs, William S. Burroughs, William Seward Burroughs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Butler, Samuel Butler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cabell, James Branch Cabell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Caldwell, Erskine Caldwell, Erskine Preston Caldwell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Calvino, Italo Calvino
   HAS INSTANCE=> Camus, Albert Camus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Canetti, Elias Canetti
   HAS INSTANCE=> Capek, Karel Capek
   HAS INSTANCE=> Carroll, Lewis Carroll, Dodgson, Reverend Dodgson, Charles Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cather, Willa Cather, Willa Sibert Cather
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cervantes, Miguel de Cervantes, Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chandler, Raymond Chandler, Raymond Thornton Chandler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chateaubriand, Francois Rene Chateaubriand, Vicomte de Chateaubriand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cheever, John Cheever
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chesterton, G. K. Chesterton, Gilbert Keith Chesterton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Chopin, Kate Chopin, Kate O'Flaherty Chopin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Christie, Agatha Christie, Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie
   HAS INSTANCE=> Churchill, Winston Churchill, Winston S. Churchill, Sir Winston Leonard Spenser Churchill
   HAS INSTANCE=> Clemens, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Mark Twain
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cocteau, Jean Cocteau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Colette, Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette, Sidonie-Gabrielle Claudine Colette
   HAS INSTANCE=> Collins, Wilkie Collins, William Wilkie Collins
   HAS INSTANCE=> Conan Doyle, A. Conan Doyle, Arthur Conan Doyle, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Conrad, Joseph Conrad, Teodor Josef Konrad Korzeniowski
   HAS INSTANCE=> Cooper, James Fenimore Cooper
   HAS INSTANCE=> Crane, Stephen Crane
   HAS INSTANCE=> cummings, e. e. cummings, Edward Estlin Cummings
   HAS INSTANCE=> Day, Clarence Day, Clarence Shepard Day Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Defoe, Daniel Defoe
   HAS INSTANCE=> De Quincey, Thomas De Quincey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dickens, Charles Dickens, Charles John Huffam Dickens
   HAS INSTANCE=> Didion, Joan Didion
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dinesen, Isak Dinesen, Blixen, Karen Blixen, Baroness Karen Blixen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Doctorow, E. L. Doctorow, Edgard Lawrence Doctorow
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dos Passos, John Dos Passos, John Roderigo Dos Passos
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dostoyevsky, Dostoevski, Dostoevsky, Feodor Dostoyevsky, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Feodor Dostoevski, Fyodor Dostoevski, Feodor Dostoevsky, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevski, Feodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky, Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dreiser, Theodore Dreiser, Theodore Herman Albert Dreiser
   HAS INSTANCE=> Dumas, Alexandre Dumas
   HAS INSTANCE=> du Maurier, George du Maurier, George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier
   HAS INSTANCE=> du Maurier, Daphne du Maurier, Dame Daphne du Maurier
   HAS INSTANCE=> Durrell, Lawrence Durrell, Lawrence George Durrell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ehrenberg, Ilya Ehrenberg, Ilya Grigorievich Ehrenberg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Eliot, George Eliot, Mary Ann Evans
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ellison, Ralph Ellison, Ralph Waldo Ellison
   HAS INSTANCE=> Emerson, Ralph Waldo Emerson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Farrell, James Thomas Farrell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ferber, Edna Ferber
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fielding, Henry Fielding
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald
   HAS INSTANCE=> Flaubert, Gustave Flaubert
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fleming, Ian Fleming, Ian Lancaster Fleming
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ford, Ford Madox Ford, Ford Hermann Hueffer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Forester, C. S. Forester, Cecil Scott Forester
   HAS INSTANCE=> France, Anatole France, Jacques Anatole Francois Thibault
   HAS INSTANCE=> Franklin, Benjamin Franklin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Fuentes, Carlos Fuentes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gaboriau, Emile Gaboriau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Galsworthy, John Galsworthy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gardner, Erle Stanley Gardner
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gaskell, Elizabeth Gaskell, Elizabeth Cleghorn Stevenson Gaskell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Geisel, Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr. Seuss
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gibran, Kahlil Gibran
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gide, Andre Gide, Andre Paul Guillaume Gide
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gjellerup, Karl Gjellerup
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gogol, Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol
   HAS INSTANCE=> Golding, William Golding, Sir William Gerald Golding
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goldsmith, Oliver Goldsmith
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gombrowicz, Witold Gombrowicz
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goncourt, Edmond de Goncourt, Edmond Louis Antoine Huot de Goncourt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Goncourt, Jules de Goncourt, Jules Alfred Huot de Goncourt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gordimer, Nadine Gordimer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Gorky, Maksim Gorky, Gorki, Maxim Gorki, Aleksey Maksimovich Peshkov, Aleksey Maximovich Peshkov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grahame, Kenneth Grahame
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grass, Gunter Grass, Gunter Wilhelm Grass
   HAS INSTANCE=> Graves, Robert Graves, Robert Ranke Graves
   HAS INSTANCE=> Greene, Graham Greene, Henry Graham Greene
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grey, Zane Grey
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grimm, Jakob Grimm, Jakob Ludwig Karl Grimm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Grimm, Wilhelm Grimm, Wilhelm Karl Grimm
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haggard, Rider Haggard, Sir Henry Rider Haggard
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haldane, Elizabeth Haldane, Elizabeth Sanderson Haldane
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hale, Edward Everett Hale
   HAS INSTANCE=> Haley, Alex Haley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hall, Radclyffe Hall, Marguerite Radclyffe Hall
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hammett, Dashiell Hammett, Samuel Dashiell Hammett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hamsun, Knut Hamsun, Knut Pedersen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hardy, Thomas Hardy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harris, Frank Harris, James Thomas Harris
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harris, Joel Harris, Joel Chandler Harris
   HAS INSTANCE=> Harte, Bret Harte
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hasek, Jaroslav Hasek
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hawthorne, Nathaniel Hawthorne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hecht, Ben Hecht
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heinlein, Robert A. Heinlein, Robert Anson Heinlein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heller, Joseph Heller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hesse, Hermann Hesse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heyse, Paul Heyse, Paul Johann Ludwig von Heyse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Heyward, DuBois Heyward, Edwin DuBois Hayward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Higginson, Thomas Higginson, Thomas Wentworth Storrow Higginson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hoffmann, E. T. A. Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Wilhelm Hoffmann
   HAS INSTANCE=> Holmes, Oliver Wendell Holmes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Howells, William Dean Howells
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hoyle, Edmond Hoyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hubbard, L. Ron Hubbard
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hughes, Langston Hughes, James Langston Hughes
   HAS INSTANCE=> Hunt, Leigh Hunt, James Henry Leigh Hunt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Huxley, Aldous Huxley, Aldous Leonard Huxley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Irving, John Irving
   HAS INSTANCE=> Irving, Washington Irving
   HAS INSTANCE=> Isherwood, Christopher Isherwood, Christopher William Bradshaw Isherwood
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jackson, Helen Hunt Jackson, Helen Maria Fiske Hunt Jackson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jacobs, Jane Jacobs
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jacobs, W. W. Jacobs, William Wymark Jacobs
   HAS INSTANCE=> James, Henry James
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jensen, Johannes Vilhelm Jensen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Johnson, Samuel Johnson, Dr. Johnson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Jong, Erica Jong
   HAS INSTANCE=> Joyce, James Joyce, James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kafka, Franz Kafka
   HAS INSTANCE=> Keller, Helen Keller, Helen Adams Keller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Kerouac, Jack Kerouac, Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Koestler, Arthur Koestler
   HAS INSTANCE=> La Fontaine, Jean de La Fontaine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Lardner, Ring Lardner, Ringgold Wilmer Lardner
   HAS INSTANCE=> La Rochefoucauld, Francois de La Rochefoucauld
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   HAS INSTANCE=> le Carre, John le Carre, David John Moore Cornwell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Leonard, Elmore Leonard, Elmore John Leonard, Dutch Leonard
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Lewis, Sinclair Lewis, Harry Sinclair Lewis
   HAS INSTANCE=> London, Jack London, John Griffith Chaney
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Malory, Thomas Malory, Sir Thomas Malory
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Marquand, John Marquand, John Philip Marquand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Marsh, Ngaio Marsh
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mason, A. E. W. Mason, Alfred Edward Woodley Mason
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maugham, Somerset Maugham, W. Somerset Maugham, William Somerset Maugham
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maupassant, Guy de Maupassant, Henri Rene Albert Guy de Maupassant
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mauriac, Francois Mauriac, Francois Charles Mauriac
   HAS INSTANCE=> Maurois, Andre Maurois, Emile Herzog
   HAS INSTANCE=> McCarthy, Mary McCarthy, Mary Therese McCarthy
   HAS INSTANCE=> McCullers, Carson McCullers, Carson Smith McCullers
   HAS INSTANCE=> McLuhan, Marshall McLuhan, Herbert Marshall McLuhan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Melville, Herman Melville
   HAS INSTANCE=> Merton, Thomas Merton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Michener, James Michener, James Albert Michener
   HAS INSTANCE=> Miller, Henry Miller, Henry Valentine Miller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Milne, A. A. Milne, Alan Alexander Milne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitchell, Margaret Mitchell, Margaret Munnerlyn Mitchell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitford, Nancy Mitford, Nancy Freeman Mitford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Mitford, Jessica Mitford, Jessica Lucy Mitford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Montaigne, Michel Montaigne, Michel Eyquem Montaigne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Montgomery, L. M. Montgomery, Lucy Maud Montgomery
   HAS INSTANCE=> More, Thomas More, Sir Thomas More
   HAS INSTANCE=> Morrison, Toni Morrison, Chloe Anthony Wofford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Munro, H. H. Munro, Hector Hugh Munro, Saki
   HAS INSTANCE=> Murdoch, Iris Murdoch, Dame Jean Iris Murdoch
   HAS INSTANCE=> Musset, Alfred de Musset, Louis Charles Alfred de Musset
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nabokov, Vladimir Nabokov, Vladimir vladimirovich Nabokov
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nash, Ogden Nash
   HAS INSTANCE=> Nicolson, Harold Nicolson, Sir Harold George Nicolson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Norris, Frank Norris, Benjamin Franklin Norris Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Oates, Joyce Carol Oates
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Brien, Edna O'Brien
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Connor, Flannery O'Connor, Mary Flannery O'Connor
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Flaherty, Liam O'Flaherty
   HAS INSTANCE=> O'Hara, John Henry O'Hara
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ondaatje, Michael Ondaatje, Philip Michael Ondaatje
   HAS INSTANCE=> Orczy, Baroness Emmusca Orczy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Orwell, George Orwell, Eric Blair, Eric Arthur Blair
   HAS INSTANCE=> Page, Thomas Nelson Page
   HAS INSTANCE=> Parker, Dorothy Parker, Dorothy Rothschild Parker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pasternak, Boris Pasternak, Boris Leonidovich Pasternak
   HAS INSTANCE=> Paton, Alan Paton, Alan Stewart Paton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Percy, Walker Percy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Petronius, Gaius Petronius, Petronius Arbiter
   HAS INSTANCE=> Plath, Sylvia Plath
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pliny, Pliny the Elder, Gaius Plinius Secundus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pliny, Pliny the Younger, Gaius Plinius Caecilius Secundus
   HAS INSTANCE=> Poe, Edgar Allan Poe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Porter, William Sydney Porter, O. Henry
   HAS INSTANCE=> Porter, Katherine Anne Porter
   HAS INSTANCE=> Post, Emily Post, Emily Price Post
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pound, Ezra Pound, Ezra Loomis Pound
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, John Cowper Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, Theodore Francis Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Powys, Llewelyn Powys
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pyle, Howard Pyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Pynchon, Thomas Pynchon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rand, Ayn Rand
   HAS INSTANCE=> Richler, Mordecai Richler
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roberts, Kenneth Roberts
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roosevelt, Eleanor Roosevelt, Anna Eleanor Roosevelt
   HAS INSTANCE=> Roth, Philip Roth, Philip Milton Roth
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rousseau, Jean-Jacques Rousseau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Runyon, Damon Runyon, Alfred Damon Runyon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Rushdie, Salman Rushdie, Ahmed Salman Rushdie
   HAS INSTANCE=> Russell, George William Russell, A.E.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sade, de Sade, Comte Donatien Alphonse Francois de Sade, Marquis de Sade
   HAS INSTANCE=> Salinger, J. D. Salinger, Jerome David Salinger
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sand, George Sand, Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin, Baroness Dudevant
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sandburg, Carl Sandburg
   HAS INSTANCE=> Saroyan, William Saroyan
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sayers, Dorothy Sayers, Dorothy L. Sayers, Dorothy Leigh Sayers
   HAS INSTANCE=> Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller
   HAS INSTANCE=> Scott, Walter Scott, Sir Walter Scott
   HAS INSTANCE=> Service, Robert William Service
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shaw, G. B. Shaw, George Bernard Shaw
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shelley, Mary Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Mary Godwin Wollstonecraft Shelley
   HAS INSTANCE=> Shute, Nevil Shute, Nevil Shute Norway
   HAS INSTANCE=> Simenon, Georges Simenon, Georges Joseph Christian Simenon
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sinclair, Upton Sinclair, Upton Beall Sinclair
   HAS INSTANCE=> Singer, Isaac Bashevis Singer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Smollett, Tobias Smollett, Tobias George Smollett
   HAS INSTANCE=> Snow, C. P. Snow, Charles Percy Snow, Baron Snow of Leicester
   HAS INSTANCE=> Solzhenitsyn, Alexander Isayevich Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sontag, Susan Sontag
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spark, Muriel Spark, Dame Muriel Spark, Muriel Sarah Spark
   HAS INSTANCE=> Spillane, Mickey Spillane, Frank Morrison Spillane
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stael, Madame de Stael, Baronne Anne Louise Germaine Necker de Steal-Holstein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Steele, Sir Richrd Steele
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stein, Gertrude Stein
   HAS INSTANCE=> Steinbeck, John Steinbeck, John Ernst Steinbeck
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stendhal, Marie Henri Beyle
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stephen, Sir Leslie Stephen
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sterne, Laurence Sterne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stevenson, Robert Louis Stevenson, Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stockton, Frank Stockton, Francis Richard Stockton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stoker, Bram Stoker, Abraham Stoker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Harriet Elizabeth Beecher Stowe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Styron, William Styron
   HAS INSTANCE=> Sue, Eugene Sue
   HAS INSTANCE=> Symonds, John Addington Symonds
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, Sir Rabindranath Tagore
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tarbell, Ida Tarbell, Ida M. Tarbell, Ida Minerva Tarbell
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thackeray, William Makepeace Thackeray
   HAS INSTANCE=> Thoreau, Henry David Thoreau
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tocqueville, Alexis de Tocqueville, Alexis Charles Henri Maurice de Tocqueville
   HAS INSTANCE=> Toklas, Alice B. Toklas
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tolkien, J.R.R. Tolkien, John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
   HAS INSTANCE=> Tolstoy, Leo Tolstoy, Count Lev Nikolayevitch Tolstoy
   HAS INSTANCE=> Trollope, Anthony Trollope
   HAS INSTANCE=> Turgenev, Ivan Turgenev, Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
   HAS INSTANCE=> Undset, Sigrid Undset
   HAS INSTANCE=> Untermeyer, Louis Untermeyer
   HAS INSTANCE=> Updike, John Updike, John Hoyer Updike
   HAS INSTANCE=> Van Doren, Carl Van Doren, Carl Clinton Van Doren
   HAS INSTANCE=> Vargas Llosa, Mario Vargas Llosa, Jorge Mario Pedro Vargas Llosa
   HAS INSTANCE=> Verne, Jules Verne
   HAS INSTANCE=> Vidal, Gore Vidal, Eugene Luther Vidal
   HAS INSTANCE=> Voltaire, Arouet, Francois-Marie Arouet
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Wain, John Wain, John Barrington Wain
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walker, Alice Walker, Alice Malsenior Walker
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wallace, Edgar Wallace, Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walpole, Horace Walpole, Horatio Walpole, Fourth Earl of Orford
   HAS INSTANCE=> Walton, Izaak Walton
   HAS INSTANCE=> Ward, Mrs. Humphrey Ward, Mary Augusta Arnold Ward
   HAS INSTANCE=> Warren, Robert Penn Warren
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   HAS INSTANCE=> Wells, H. G. Wells, Herbert George Wells
   HAS INSTANCE=> Welty, Eudora Welty
   HAS INSTANCE=> Werfel, Franz Werfel
   HAS INSTANCE=> West, Rebecca West, Dame Rebecca West, Cicily Isabel Fairfield
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wharton, Edith Wharton, Edith Newbold Jones Wharton
   HAS INSTANCE=> White, E. B. White, Elwyn Brooks White
   HAS INSTANCE=> White, Patrick White, Patrick Victor Martindale White
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wiesel, Elie Wiesel, Eliezer Wiesel
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilde, Oscar Wilde, Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilder, Thornton Wilder, Thornton Niven Wilder
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilson, Sir Angus Wilson, Angus Frank Johnstone Wilson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wilson, Harriet Wilson
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wister, Owen Wister
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wodehouse, P. G. Wodehouse, Pelham Grenville Wodehouse
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe, Thomas Clayton Wolfe
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wolfe, Tom Wolfe, Thomas Wolfe, Thomas Kennerly Wolfe Jr.
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wollstonecraft, Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wood, Mrs. Henry Wood, Ellen Price Wood
   HAS INSTANCE=> Woolf, Virginia Woolf, Adeline Virginia Stephen Woolf
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wouk, Herman Wouk
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wright, Richard Wright
   HAS INSTANCE=> Wright, Willard Huntington Wright, S. S. Van Dine
   HAS INSTANCE=> Zangwill, Israel Zangwill
   HAS INSTANCE=> Zweig, Stefan Zweig




--- Grep of noun james_joyce
james joyce



IN WEBGEN [10000/57]

Wikipedia - Devourer (Dungeons > Dragons)
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14739423-devourer
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22071502-devourer-of-souls
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25399690-the-devourers
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27245999.The_Devourers
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27245999-the-devourers
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29722652-devourer-of-souls
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35521618-devourer
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Fanfic/DevourerOfWorlds
https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/WebVideo/AldriversDevourerOfCos
The Silver Surfer (1998 - 1999) - The story of Norrin Radd, a simple citizen of the alien planet Zenn-La, who sacrifices his own independent life (and his love Shala Bal), to save his world from the Devourer of Worlds, Galactus. In return, Norrin Radd agrees to become Galactus' herald, seeking out worlds for Galactus to consume and...
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_1:_The_Huntress
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_2:_The_Elemental_Orbs
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_3:_The_War_for_the_Creation_Orb
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_4:_The_Network
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_5:_DragonClaw_Island
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_6:_Alignment
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/AdventureQuest_Storyline/The_Devourer_Saga,_Part_7:_Sacrifice
https://adventurequest.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_Saga
https://aliens.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_(Star_Wars)
https://allods.fandom.com/wiki/Savage_Astral_Devourer
https://aoc.fandom.com/wiki/Soul_Devourer
https://aoc.fandom.com/wiki/The_Devourer
https://calamitymod.fandom.com/wiki/Sentinels_of_the_Devourer
https://calamitymod.fandom.com/wiki/The_Devourer_of_Gods
https://castleage.fandom.com/wiki/Vorak,_Devourer_of_Skies
https://diablo.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_Egg
https://diablo.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_Young
https://dnd4.fandom.com/wiki/Blood_Devourer_Shifting
https://dnd4.fandom.com/wiki/Energy_devourer
https://dreamfiction.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer's_Blood
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer
https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Feral_Devourer
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Den_of_the_Devourer
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/House_of_Falling_Stars:_Gnawing_Devourers
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/Path_of_the_Past_-_Den_of_the_Devourer
https://eq2.fandom.com/wiki/The_Devourer
https://ffxiclopedia.fandom.com/wiki/Atma_of_the_Deep_Devourer
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Adera_(intellect_devourer)
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer
https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Intellect_devourer
https://idle-wizard.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer
https://marvel.fandom.com/wiki/Hunger_(Devourer_of_Realities)_(Multiverse)
https://ninjago.fandom.com/wiki/Day_of_the_Great_Devourer
https://ninjago.fandom.com/wiki/Day_of_the_Great_Devourer/Transcript
https://ninjago.fandom.com/wiki/Great_Devourer
https://ninjago.fandom.com/wiki/The_Rise_of_the_Great_Devourer
https://ninjago.fandom.com/wiki/The_Rise_of_the_Great_Devourer/Transcript
https://non-aliencreatures.fandom.com/wiki/Winged_Devourer
https://shakugan.fandom.com/wiki/City_Devourer
https://starcraft.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_(StarCraft)
https://whitewolf.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Devourer_of_Souls
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Mutanus_the_Devourer
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Teremus_the_Devourer
https://wowwiki-archive.fandom.com/wiki/Wretched_Devourer
The Devourers



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