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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
Feels
Long
Reads
Pages
Strange
Gone

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When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the Agamemnon.
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Tenors get women by the score.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
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He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.
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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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Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk
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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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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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Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
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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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It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.
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And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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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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