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Does nobody understand?

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
Doe
Dying
Nobody
Understanding
Understand

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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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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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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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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
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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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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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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.
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All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.
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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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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.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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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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If the Irish programme did not insist on the Irish language I suppose I could call myself a nationalist. As it is, I am content torecognize myself an exile: and, prophetically, a repudiated one.
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