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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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James Joyce
Age: 58 †
Born: 1882
Born: February 2
Died: 1941
Died: January 13
Author
Father
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
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Writer
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
Work
Life
Supreme
Spring
Deep
Question
Art
Doe
More quotes by James Joyce
I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?
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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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Jesus was a bachelor and never lived with a woman. Surely living with a woman is one of the most difficult things a man has to do, and he never did it.
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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
James Joyce
People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
James Joyce
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
James Joyce
Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
James Joyce
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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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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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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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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Life is the great teacher.
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And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.
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He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
James Joyce
And Jesus was a Jew too. Your god. He was a Jew like me. And so was his father.
James Joyce
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
James Joyce
Let my country die for me.
James Joyce
