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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.

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
Flows
Flow
Eternal
Present
Future
Past
Everything

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I am proud to be an emotionalist.
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I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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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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Love me. Love my umbrella.
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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
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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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Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
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The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
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No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
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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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A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty: and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.
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When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
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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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The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.
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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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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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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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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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But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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