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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.

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
Whereby
Mode
Discover
Express
Freedom
Spirit
Art
Life
Unfettered

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A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it only swallow it down.
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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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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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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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Every age must look for its sanction to its poetry and philosophy, for in these the human mind, as it looks backward or forward, attains to an eternal state.
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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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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.
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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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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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Thought is the thought of thought.
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One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.
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Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatesoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
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