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

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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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Let my country die for me.
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She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
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What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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Love loves to love love.
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Shut your eyes and see.
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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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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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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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Quotation marks quotato marks! Bah!
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When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flown at it to hold it back from flight.
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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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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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We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh
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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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