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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.

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
Firsts
First
Must
Ireland
European
Europe
Become

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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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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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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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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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I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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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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All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.
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I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
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Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
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He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?
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Love me. Love my umbrella.
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Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?
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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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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.
James Joyce