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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.

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
Dublin
Written
Dies
Heart

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A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
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Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
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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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Life is the great teacher.
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In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.
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Redheaded women buck like goats.
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And Jesus was a Jew too. Your god. He was a Jew like me. And so was his father.
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I'll tickle his catastrophe.
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Love, yes. Word known to all men.
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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.
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When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the Agamemnon.
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A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
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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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No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
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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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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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