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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.

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
Cactus
Trample
Flowers
Embrace
Flower
People

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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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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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All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.
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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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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
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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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He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
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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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Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
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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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Love loves to love love.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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You cannot eat your cake and have it.
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