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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
Prosaist
Teacher
Writer
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
Supreme
Spring
Deep
Question
Art
Doe
Work
Life
More quotes by James Joyce
What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it only swallow it down.
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Every age must look for its sanction to its poetry and philosophy, for in these the human mind, as it looks backward or forward, attains to an eternal state.
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Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description
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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
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His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.
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Never let us do wrong, because our opponents did so. Let us, rather, by doing right, show them what they ought to have done, and establish a rule the dictates of reason and conscience, rather than of the angry passions.
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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
James Joyce
I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.
James Joyce
She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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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.
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Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.
James Joyce
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.
James Joyce
There's many a true word spoken in jest.
James Joyce
