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Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.

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
Lost
Soul
Vitals
Raging
Boundless
Unto
Rage
Hell
Fire

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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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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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What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
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Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
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When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
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What did it avail to pray when he knew his soul lusted after its own destruction?
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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In the particular is contained the universal.
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Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
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[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
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I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.
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And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.
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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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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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