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And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.
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
Fellows
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Couldn
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Wholesale
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Done
Fellow
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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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History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
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I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? MTo seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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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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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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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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Deal with him, Hemingway!
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Thought is the thought of thought.
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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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Wipe your glosses with what you know.
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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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O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me what I badly wanted to put some heart up into me youve no chances at all inthis place like you used long ago I wish somebody would write me a loveletter.
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Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
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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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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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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.
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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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