Quote

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.

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
Seem
Hospice
Idea
Corpus
Seems
Chew
Body
Corpse
Ideas
Swallow
Firsts
Corpses
First
Latin
Good
Dying

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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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And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.
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[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
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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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One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.
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Love me. Love my umbrella.
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A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of sky line, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.
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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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O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once.
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Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.
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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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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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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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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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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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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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All human history moves towards one great goal
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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