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

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The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
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Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.
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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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For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.
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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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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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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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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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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
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Winds of May, that dance on the sea, Dancing a ring-around in glee From furrow to furrow, while overhead The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air, Saw you my true love anywhere? Welladay! Welladay! For the winds of May! Love is unhappy when love is away!
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They lived and laughed and loved and left.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.
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He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.
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Never let us do wrong, because our opponents did so. Let us, rather, by doing right, show them what they ought to have done, and establish a rule the dictates of reason and conscience, rather than of the angry passions.
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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