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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
Strange
Gone
Feels
Long
Reads
Pages

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An improper art aims at exciting in the way of comedy the feeling of desire but the feeling which is proper to comic art is the feeling of joy.
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Absence, the highest form of presence.
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Does nobody understand?
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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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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
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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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This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
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Tenors get women by the score.
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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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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
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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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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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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 studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.
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You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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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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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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