Quote

A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy.

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
Power
Pride
Soul
Knew
Take
Prayer
Hurl
Even
Literature
Withheld
Life
Though
Slept
Away
Awe
Night
Offering
Certain
Mercy

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I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.
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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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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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I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses
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Let my country die for me.
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Beauty, the splendour of truth, is a gracious presence when the imagination contemplates intensely the truth of its own being or the visible world, and the spirit which proceeds out of truth and beauty is the holy spirit of joy. These are realities and these alone give and sustain life.
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He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
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His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.
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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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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. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ----Introibo ad altare Dei.
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What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
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Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?
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Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
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I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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Redheaded women buck like goats.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
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