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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
James Joyce
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James Joyce
Age: 58 †
Born: 1882
Born: February 2
Died: 1941
Died: January 13
Author
Father
Journalist
Literary Critic
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James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
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You cannot eat your cake and have it.
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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
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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.
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Let my country die for me.
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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.
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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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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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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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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.
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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.
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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
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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.
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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.
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