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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

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
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Teacher
Writer
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
World
Unsure
Motherhood
Mom
Whatever
Family
Mother
Dunghill
Else
Stinking
Love
Mothering

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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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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?
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I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? MTo seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
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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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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.
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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.
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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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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.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
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