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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.

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
Reads
Pages
Strange
Gone
Feels
Long

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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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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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Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
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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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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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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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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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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 was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
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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
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She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
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I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
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Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence.
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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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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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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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