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Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.
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
Violent
Raged
Devil
Citadel
Fall
Citadels
Soul
Temptations
Make
Frequent
Temptation
Fallen
Proof
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Human society is the embodiment of changeless laws which the whimsicalities and circumstances of men and women involve and overwrap. The realm of literature is the realm of these accidental manners and humours--a spacious realm and the true literary artist concerns himself mainly with them.
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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.
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His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.
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I shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names. Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe.
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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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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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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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He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life
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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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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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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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One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I shall express myself as I am.
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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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I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace averyburies and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear.
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Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman.
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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