James Joyce Quotes
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(Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, what curios of signs (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since We and Thou had it out already) its world? It is the same told of all. Many. Miscegenations on miscegenations. Tieckle.
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When I die Dublin will be written in my heart.
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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit. (683)
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Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
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How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
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A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
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Seraphim,The lost hosts awaken
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Boor, bond of thy herd,Tonight stretch full by the fire!
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In the name of the former and of the latter and of their holocaust. Allmen. (419.9-10)
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.
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Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.
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Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
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All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light, but though I seem to be driven out of my country as a misbeliever I have found no man yet with a faith like mine.
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Can you nei do her, numb? asks Dolph, suspecting the answer know. Oikkont, ken you, ninny? asks Kev, expecting the answer guess. (286.25-27)
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I fear those big words which make us so unhappy.
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Vast wings above the lambent waters broodOf sullen day.
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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.
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Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
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My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?
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Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
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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.