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I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.

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
Stride
Short
Space
Time

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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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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 Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
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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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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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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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Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.
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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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I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses
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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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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much good.
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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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My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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