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

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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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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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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
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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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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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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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If the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I suppose I could call myself a nationalist. As it is, I am content torecognize myself an exile: and, prophetically, a repudiated one.
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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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We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.
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Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.
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A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
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She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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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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Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
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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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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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Thought is the thought of thought.
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