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We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh

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
Intellect
Imagination
Causes
Success
Lost
Death
Professor
Always
Professors
Loyal

More quotes by James Joyce

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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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I want to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.
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He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
James Joyce
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Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
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Love loves to love love.
James Joyce
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Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
James Joyce
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And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.
James Joyce
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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 supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
James Joyce
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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
James Joyce
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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
James Joyce
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Life is the great teacher.
James Joyce
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His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.
James Joyce
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
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O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once.
James Joyce