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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
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
Many
Blush
Obscurity
Sweetness
Unseen
Gray
Flower
Full
Born
Elegy
More quotes by James Joyce
Redheaded women buck like goats.
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O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me what I badly wanted to put some heart up into me youve no chances at all inthis place like you used long ago I wish somebody would write me a loveletter.
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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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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.
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Love loves to love love.
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Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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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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Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.
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I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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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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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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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
James Joyce
and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
James Joyce