Quote

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?

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
Soul
Sin
Cling
Beyond
Lover
Hell
Sins
Ineluctable
Hand
Bringing
Modality
Eyes
Gentle
Trusts
Eye
Souls
Veil
Woman
Lovers
Clinging
Hands
Blue
Veils

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Jesus was a bachelor and never lived with a woman. Surely living with a woman is one of the most difficult things a man has to do, and he never did it.
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...rapid motion through space elates one.
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In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!
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When I die Dublin will be written on my heart.
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You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.
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The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue.
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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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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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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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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.
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There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
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There's many a true word spoken in jest.
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And the first till last alshemist wrote over every square inch of the only foolscap available, his own body, till by its corrosive sublimation one continuous present tense integument slowly unfolded all marryvoising moodmoulded cyclewheeling history.
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There is not past, no future everything flows in an eternal present.
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He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.
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Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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