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In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.
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
Woman
Womb
Away
Passes
Spirit
Makers
Made
Flesh
Pass
Becomes
Shall
Word
Maker
More quotes by James Joyce
Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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There's many a true word spoken in jest.
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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 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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His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
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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!
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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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Life is the great teacher.
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As you are now so once were we.
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and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
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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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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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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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The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
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