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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.
James Joyce
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James Joyce
Age: 58 †
Born: 1882
Born: February 2
Died: 1941
Died: January 13
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Literary Critic
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James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
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More quotes by James Joyce
A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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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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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
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Life is the great teacher.
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Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
James Joyce
It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.
James Joyce
He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?
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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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But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty: and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.
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Thought is the thought of thought.
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Winds of May, that dance on the sea, Dancing a ring-around in glee From furrow to furrow, while overhead The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air, Saw you my true love anywhere? Welladay! Welladay! For the winds of May! Love is unhappy when love is away!
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
James Joyce
Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
James Joyce
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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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
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Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
James Joyce