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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
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James Joyce
Age: 58 †
Born: 1882
Born: February 2
Died: 1941
Died: January 13
Author
Father
Journalist
Literary Critic
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Poet
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Teacher
Writer
James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
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Upon
Adoration
Words
Wire
Speak
Spokes
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Body
Confused
Wires
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Fingers
Harp
Would
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Harps
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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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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
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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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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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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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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
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A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy.
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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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People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
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No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
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Life is the great teacher.
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Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.
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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
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Deal with him, Hemingway!
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