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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo

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
Baby
Coming
Boys
Upon
Littles
Named
Little
Mets
Good
Road
Time
Along

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Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
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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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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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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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Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.
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As you are now so once were we.
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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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Quotation marks quotato marks! Bah!
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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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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.
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[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
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A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
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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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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined.
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Deal with him, Hemingway!
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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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