Quote

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.

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
Artist
Invisible
Art
Remains
Like
Behinds
Paring
Creation
Handiwork
Beyond
Refining
Behind
Fingernails
Existence
Refined
Within
Indifferent

More quotes by James Joyce

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He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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The artist... standing in the position of mediator between the world of his experience and the world of his dreams - 'a mediator, consequently gifted with twin faculties, a selective faculty and a reproductive faculty.' To equate these faculties was the secret of artistic success.
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It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.
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Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
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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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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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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
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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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And Jesus was a Jew too. Your god. He was a Jew like me. And so was his father.
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He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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Shut your eyes and see.
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She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
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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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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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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
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