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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!

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
Cups
Simple
White
Beautiful
Sausages
Life
Pudding
Sausage
Tea
Eggs

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Quotation marks quotato marks! Bah!
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Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy asked. — A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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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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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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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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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
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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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Life is the great teacher.
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An improper art aims at exciting in the way of comedy the feeling of desire but the feeling which is proper to comic art is the feeling of joy.
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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?
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Too excited to be genuinely happy
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I am quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste man for that seems to me a harsh but not unjust description
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Redheaded women buck like goats.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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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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Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk
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A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
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