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History is that nightmare from which there is no awakening.

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
Awakening
Nightmare
History

More quotes by James Joyce

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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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Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
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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.
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She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
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In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.
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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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White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.
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Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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Let my country die for me.
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The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
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My intention was to write a chapter of the moral history of my country and I chose Dublin for the scene because that city seemed to me the centre of paralysis.
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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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Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.
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Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?
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I want to give a picture of Dublin so complete that if the city suddenly disappeared from the earth it could be reconstructed out of my book.
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He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.
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You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.
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The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
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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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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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