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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
Thinks
Ideas
Going
Every
Thinking
Jackass
Jackasses
Roads
More quotes by James Joyce
White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
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Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy asked. — A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
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Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.
James Joyce
I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? MTo seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
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There's no police like Holmes.
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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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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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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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She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk
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The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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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!
James Joyce
