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The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

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
Studious
Tranquil
Brightness
Library
Silence
Thought

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Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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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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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
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Let my country die for me.
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This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
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The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
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...rapid motion through space elates one.
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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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Fall if you will, but rise you must.
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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the Agamemnon.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.
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A woman loses a charm with every pin she takes out.
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