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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
Understand
Doe
Dying
Nobody
Understanding

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And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
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My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
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I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
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Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.
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Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatesoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
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One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.
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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
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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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Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?
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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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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.
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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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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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