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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.

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
Red
Wine
Taste
White
Looks
Like
Tastes
Electricity

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Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
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Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies.
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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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People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
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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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A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy.
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His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
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[Robinson Crusoe] is the true prototype of the British colonist. The whole Anglo-Saxon spirit is in Crusoe: the manly independence, the unconscious cruelty, the persistence, the slow yet efficient intelligence, the sexual apathy, the calculating taciturnity.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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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.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
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and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
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In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!
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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
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I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.
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I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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