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Love me. Love my umbrella.

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
Umbrella
Love

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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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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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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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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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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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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, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.
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Let my country die for me.
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This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another s soul.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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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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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
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Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
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