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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
Blast
Rose
Wind
Becomes
Upon
Desire
Time
Blasts

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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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O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?
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For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.
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People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.
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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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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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Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined.
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Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
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We are all born in the same way but we all die in different ways.
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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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Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk
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They lived and laughed and loved and left.
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You cannot eat your cake and have it.
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What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?
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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. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: ----Introibo ad altare Dei.
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His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
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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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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.
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No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
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