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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.

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
Kingdom
Kingdoms
Violence
Suffering
Heaven
Forget
Woman
Like
Suffers

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Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.
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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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So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined.
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Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.
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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.
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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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Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.
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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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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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Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
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Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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I want to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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