Quote

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.

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
Dead
Pumps
Blood
Resurrection
Else
Thousands
Heart
Damn
Thing
Atheism
Rusty
Every
Broken
Pumping
Life
Gets
Gallons
Fine
Pump

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A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
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The apprehensive faculty must be scrutinised in action.
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Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
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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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In the particular is contained the universal.
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I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.
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Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
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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 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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Let my country die for me.
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If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.
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To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.
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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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Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses
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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.
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Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy asked. — A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
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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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She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.
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