James Joyce Quotes
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How soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,Ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
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Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
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Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
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Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
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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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The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit. (683)
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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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Vast wings above the lambent waters broodOf sullen day.
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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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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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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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Seraphim,The lost hosts awaken
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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.
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
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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.
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But all they are all there scraping along to sneeze out a likelihood that will solve and salve life's robulous rebus (12.32-33)
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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
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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?
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He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.
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I fear those big words which make us so unhappy.
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When I hear 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 Tristram Shandy, not to mention the Agamemnon.
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But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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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.