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Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatesoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.

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
Humans
Graves
Mind
Pity
Presence
Arrests
Constant
Sufferer
Feeling
Sufferers
Suffering
Unites
Feelings
Sufferings
Human
Grave

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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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[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
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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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Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are... Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead.
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The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
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Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined.
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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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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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Sentimentality is unearned emotion.
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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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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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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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I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
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Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
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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 tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.
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One of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.
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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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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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