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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.

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
Rose
Wind
Becomes
Upon
Desire
Time
Blasts
Blast

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I could call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.
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When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.
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Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.
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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.
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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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A nation is the same people living in the same place.
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The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.
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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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And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
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When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.
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White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
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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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What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it only swallow it down.
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Tenors get women by the score.
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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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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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Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
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For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.
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