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Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.

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
Long
Good
Thanks
Lived
Much

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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
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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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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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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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Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
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A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
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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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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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Deal with him, Hemingway!
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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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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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In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!
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Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
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I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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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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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
James Joyce
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The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
James Joyce