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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
Obscurity
Sweetness
Unseen
Gray
Flower
Full
Born
Elegy
Many
Blush

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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
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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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Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman.
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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.
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Love loves to love love.
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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?
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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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Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? MTo seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
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The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
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