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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.

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
Fair
Save
Tree
Future
Men
Ireland
Hills
Trees
Fairs

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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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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
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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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When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
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Every age must look for its sanction to its poetry and philosophy, for in these the human mind, as it looks backward or forward, attains to an eternal state.
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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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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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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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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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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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To discover the mode of life or of art whereby my spirit could express itself in unfettered freedom.
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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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He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.
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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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The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
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Thought is the thought of thought.
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Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
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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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[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
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His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.
James Joyce