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Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
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
Going
Every
Thinking
Jackass
Jackasses
Roads
Thinks
Ideas
More quotes by James Joyce
It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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Redheaded women buck like goats.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
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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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Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
James Joyce
What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
James Joyce
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ----Introibo ad altare Dei.
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Let my country die for me.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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And Jesus was a Jew too. Your god. He was a Jew like me. And so was his father.
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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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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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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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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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When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.
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The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
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?
James Joyce
