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Redheaded women buck like goats.

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
Women
Like
Redheaded
Buck
Goats
Bucks

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In the particular is contained the universal.
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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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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
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Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
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The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action.
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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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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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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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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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Thought is the thought of thought.
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What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?
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His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
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When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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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.
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Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatesoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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