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All human history moves towards one great goal

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
Goal
Moving
History
Human
Humans
Great
Soccer
Moves
Towards

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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
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It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
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Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.
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[Robinson Crusoe] is the true prototype of the British colonist. The whole Anglo-Saxon spirit is in Crusoe: the manly independence, the unconscious cruelty, the persistence, the slow yet efficient intelligence, the sexual apathy, the calculating taciturnity.
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Does nobody understand?
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Let my country die for me.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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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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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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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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There's no police like Holmes.
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Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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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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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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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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Love loves to love love.
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They lived and laughed and loved and left.
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