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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

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
Table
Tables
Quiet
Room
Rooms
Writing
Ink
Time
Inclination
Pens

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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.
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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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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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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.
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When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.
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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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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
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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.
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Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
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Absence, the highest form of presence.
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The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.
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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.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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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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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!
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I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
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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.
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