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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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
Distance
Lived
Short
Body
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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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Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
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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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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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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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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
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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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...rapid motion through space elates one.
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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
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His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
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My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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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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There's no police like Holmes.
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