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Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.

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
Came
Bearing
Mulligan
Bucks
Mulligans
Bowl
Plump
Bowls
Stately
Ireland
Razor
Mirror
Buck
Lays
Razors
Mirrors
Crossed

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His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
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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.
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By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or memorable phrase of the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care (saving them for later use, that is), seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments.
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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
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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.
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Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.
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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.
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He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.
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Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.
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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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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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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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Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Love loves to love love.
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The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action.
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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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