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There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.

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
Dublin
Succeed
Doubt
Away
Wanted
Nothing

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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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And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
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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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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.
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No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
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What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?
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Shut your eyes and see.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?
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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
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He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
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Love me. Love my umbrella.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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