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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.

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
Difference
Differences
Literature
Found
Things
Never
Life
Accustomed
Youth

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In the particular is contained the universal.
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I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
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Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.
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and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
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British Beatitudes! ... Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs, battleships, buggery and bishops.
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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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The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.
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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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His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
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Nations have their ego, just like individuals.
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By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or memorable phrase of the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care (saving them for later use, that is), seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments.
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I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house? MTo seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.
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Tenors get women by the score.
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O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once.
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Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
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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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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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Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.
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