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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?

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
Hills
Atheism
Gets
Walks
Goes
Drivel
Water
Hill
Comes
Grave
World
Graves

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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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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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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.
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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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And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.
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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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They lived and laughed and loved and left.
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Absence, the highest form of presence.
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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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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 shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names. Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe.
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There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
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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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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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You cannot eat your cake and have it.
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Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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