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A Classical Style... Is The Syllogism Of Art, The Only Legitimate Process From One World To Another. Classicism Is Not The Manner Of Any Fixed Age Or Of Any Fixed Country; It Is A Constant State Of The Artistic Mind. It Is A Temper Of Security And Satisfaction And Patience.

-James Joyce

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A Classical Style... Is

James Joyce

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A Classical Style... Is The Syllogism Of Art, The Only Legitimate Process From One World To Another. Classicism Is Not The Manner Of Any Fixed Age Or Of Any Fixed Country; It Is A Constant State Of The Artistic Mind. It Is A Temper Of Security And Satisfaction And Patience.

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Ulysses He ... Saw The Dark Tangled Curls Of His Bush Floating, Floating Hair Of The Stream Around The Limp Father Of Thousands, A Languid Flatong Flower.

As I Am. As I Am. All Or Not At All.

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.

What's Yours Is Mine And What's Mine Is My Own.

I Have The Words Already. What I Am Seeking Is The Perfect Order Of Words In The Sentence. You Can See For Yourself How Many Different Ways They Might Be Arranged.

The Heaventree Of Stars Hung With Humid Nightblue Fruit.

Hell Is The Centre Of Evils And, As You Know, Things Are More Intense At Their Centres Than At Their Remotest Points.

What Did That Mean, To Kiss? You Put Your Face Up Like That To Say Goodnight And Then His Mother Put Her Face Down. That Was To Kiss. His Mother Put Her Lips On His Cheek; Her Lips Were Soft And They Wetted His Cheek; And They Made A Tiny Little Noise: Kiss. Why Did People Do That With Their Two Faces?

Her Name Sprang To My Lips At Moments In Strange Prayers And Praises Which I Myself Did Not Understand. My Eyes Were Often Full Of Tears (i Could Not Tell Why) And At Times A Flood From My Heart Seemed To Pour Itself Out Into My Bosom. I Thought Little Of The Future. 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.

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.

A Woman Loses A Charm With Every Pin She Takes Out.

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

Read Your Own Obituary Notice; They Say You Live Longer. Gives You Second Wind. New Lease Of Life.

I Shall Write A Book Some Day About The Appropriateness Of Names. Geoffrey Chaucer Has A Ribald Ring, As Is Proper And Correct, And Alexander Pope Was Inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber Was A Silly Little Man Without Much Elegance And Shelley Was Very Percy And Very Bysshe.

White Pudding And Eggs And Sausages And Cups Of Tea! How Simple And Beautiful Was Life After All!

The Pleasures Of Love Lasts But A Fleeting But The Pledges Of Life Outlusts A Lieftime.

And Yet Her Name Was Like A Summons To All My Foolish Blood.

Her Image Had Passed Into His Soul For Ever And No Word Had Broken The Holy Silence Of His Ecstasy. Her Eyes Had Called Him And His Soul Had Leaped At The Call. To Live, To Err, To Fall, To Triumph, To Recreate Life Out Of Life! A Wild Angel Had Appeared To Him, The Angel Of Mortal Youth And Beauty, An Envoy From The Fair Courts Of Life, To Throw Open Before Him In An Instant Of Ecstasy The Gates Of All The Ways Of Error And Glory. On And On And On And On!

I Have Left My Book, I Have Left My Room, For I Heard You Singing Through The Gloom.

If He Had Smiled Why Would He Have Smiled? To Reflect That Each One Who Enters Imagines Himself To Be The First To Enter Whereas He Is Always The Last Term Of A Preceding Series Even If The First Term Of A Succeeding One, Each Imagining Himself To Be First, Last, Only And Alone Whereas He Is Neither First Nor Last Nor Only Nor Alone In A Series Originating In And Repeated To Infinity.

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?

What Did It Avail To Pray When He Knew His Soul Lusted After Its Own Destruction?

We Are Bound Together By The Sympathy Of Our Antipathies.

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.

Every Life Is In Many Days, Day After Day. We Walk Through Ourselves, Meeting Robbers, Ghosts, Giants, Old Men, Young Men, Wives, Widows, Brothers-in-love. But Always Meeting Ourselves.

Very Gratefully, With Grateful Appreciation, With Sincere Appreciative Gratitude, In Appreciatively Grateful Sincerity Of Regret, He Declined.

Sentimentality Is Unearned Emotion.

You Forget That The Kingdom Of Heaven Suffers Violence: And The Kingdom Of Heaven Is Like A Woman.

Life Is Too Short To Read A Bad Book.

Life Is Too Short

A Dim Antagonism Gathered Force Within Him And Darkened His Mind As A Cloud Against Her Disloyalty: And When It Passed, Cloudlike, Leaving His Mind Serene And Dutiful Towards Her Again, He Was Made Aware Dimly And Without Regret Of A First Noiseless Sundering Of Their Lives.

Does Nobody Understand?

He Wanted To Cry Quietly But Not For Himself: For The Words, So Beautiful And Sad, Like Music.

By His Monstrous Way Of Life He Seemed To Have Put Himself Beyond The Limits Of Reality. Nothing Moved Him Or Spoke To Him From The Real World Unless He Heard It In An Echo Of The Infuriated Cries Within Him.

Your Battles Inspired Me - Not The Obvious Material Battles But Those That Were Fought And Won Behind Your Forehead.

Fall If You Will, But Rise You Must.

In This Life Our Sorrows Are Either Not Very Long Or Not Very Great Because Nature Either Overcomes Them By Habits Or Puts An End To Them By Sinking Under Their Weight. But In Hell The Torments Cannot Be Overcome By Habit, For While They Are Of Terrible Intensity They Are At The Same Time Of Continual Variety, Each Pain, So To Speak, Taking Fire From Another And Re-endowing That Which Has Enkindled It With A Still Fiercer Flame.

It Is As Painful Perhaps To Be Awakened From A Vision As To Be Born.

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.

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.

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

O Thanks Be To The Great God I Got Somebody To Give Me What I Badly Wanted To Put Some Heart Up Into Me Youve No Chances At All Inthis Place Like You Used Long Ago I Wish Somebody Would Write Me A Loveletter.

What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good Idea The Latin. Stupifies Them First. Hospice For The Dying. They Don't Seem To Chew It; Only Swallow It Down.

The Light Music Of Whiskey Falling Into Glasses Made An Agreeable Interlude.

Each Lost Soul Will Be A Hell Unto Itself, The Boundless Fire Raging In Its Very Vitals.

While You Have A Thing It Can Be Taken From You…..but When You Give It, You Have Given It. No Robber Can Take It From You. It Is Yours Then Forever When You Have Given It. It Will Be Yours Always. That Is To Give.

Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

Hold To The Now, The Here, Through Which All Future Plunges To The Past.

I Hear The Ruin Of All Space, Shattered Glass And Toppled Masonry, And Time One Livid Final Flame.

Old Father, Old Artificer, Stand Me Now And Ever In Good Stead.

Mistakes Are The Portals Of Discovery.

Every Night As I Gazed Up At The Window I Said Softly To Myself The Word Paralysis. It Had Always Sounded Strangely In My Ears, Like The Word Gnomon In The Euclid And The Word Simony In The Catechism. But Now It Sounded To Me Like The Name Of Some Maleficent And Sinful Being. It Filled Me With Fear, And Yet I Longed To Be Nearer To It And To Look Upon Its Deadly Work.

You Get A Decent Do At The Brazen Head

Time's Ruins Build Eternity's Mansions.

A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of Discovery.

One Great Part Of Every Human Existence Is Passed In A State Which Cannot Be Rendered Sensible By The Use Of Wideawake Language, Cutanddry Grammar And Goahead Plot.

Better Pass Boldly Into That Other World, In The Full Glory Of Some Passion, Than Fade And Wither Dismally With Age.

I Confess That I Do Not See What Good It Does To Fulminate Against The English Tyranny While The Roman Tyranny Occupies The Palace Of The Soul.

When One Reads These Strange Pages Of One Long Gone One Feels That One Is At One With One Who Once.

There Is An Atmosphere Of Spiritual Effort Here. No Other City Is Quite Like It. I Wake Early, Often At 5 O'clock, And Start Writing At Once.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality. It Speaks Of What Seems Fantastic And Unreal To Those Who Have Lost The Simple Intuitions Which Are The Test Of Reality; And, As It Is Often Found At War With Its Age, So It Makes No Account Of History, Which Is Fabled By The Daughters Of Memory.

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

I Will Tell You What I Will Do And What I Will Not Do. I Will Not Serve That In Which I No Longer Believe, Whether It Calls Itself My Home, My Fatherland, Or My Church: And I Will Try To Express Myself In Some Mode Of Life Or Art As Freely As I Can And As Wholly As I Can, Using For My Defense The Only Arms I Allow Myself To Use -- Silence, Exile, And Cunning.

Death, A Cause Of Terror To The Sinner, Is A Blessed Moment For Him Who Has Walked In The Right Path.

History, Stephen Said, Is A Nightmare From Which I Am Trying To Awake.

I Desire To Press In My Arms The Loveliness Which Has Not Yet Come Into The World.

(...) The New Nine Muses, Commerce, Operatic Music, Amor, Publicity, Manufacture, Liberty Of Specch, Plural Voting, Gastronomy, Private Hygiene, Seaside Concert Entertainments, Painless Obstetrics And Astronomy For The People.

What's In A Name? That Is What We Ask Ourselves In Childhood When We Write The Name That We Are Told Is Ours.

Alone, What Did Bloom Feel? The Cold Of Interstellar Space, Thousands Of Degrees Below Freezing Point Or The Absolute Zero Of Fahrenheit, Centigrade Or Réaumur: The Incipient Intimations Of Proximate Dawn.

Let My Country Die For Me.

The Mocker Is Never Taken Seriously When He Is Most Serious.

Satan, Really, Is The Romantic Youth Of Jesus Re-appearing For A Moment.

People Trample Over Flowers, Yet Only To Embrace A Cactus.

I Should Tell You That Honestly, On My Honour Of A Nearwicked, I Always Think In A Wordworth's Of That Primed Favourite Continental Poet, Daunty, Gouty And Shopkeeper, A.g., Whom The Generality Admoyers In This That Is And That This Is To Come.

The Sacred Pint Alone Can Unbind The Tongue.

Life Is The Great Teacher.

Every Jackass Going The Roads Thinks He Has Ideas.

It Was Cold Autumn Weather, But In Spite Of The Cold They Wandered Up And Down The Roads Of The Park For Nearly Three Hours. They Agreed To Break Off Their Intercourse; Every Bond, He Said, Is A Bond To Sorrow.

Love, Yes. Word Known To All Men.

I Wanted Real Adventures To Happen To Myself. But Real Adventures, I Reflected, Do Not Happen To People Who Remain At Home: They Must Be Sought Abroad.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

Quotation Marks Quotato Marks! Bah!

Quotation Marks

If The Irish Programme Did Not Insist On The Irish Language I Suppose I Could Call Myself A Nationalist. As It Is, I Am Content Torecognize Myself An Exile: And, Prophetically, A Repudiated One.

Desire's Wind Blasts The Thorntree But After It Becomes From A Bramblebush To Be A Rose Upon The Rood Of Time.

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.

Welcome, O Life! I Go To Encounter For The Millionth Time The Reality Of Experience And To Forge In The Smithy Of My Soul The Uncreated Conscience Of My Race.

We Are An Unfortunate Priest-ridden Race And Always Were And Always Will Be Tell The End Of The Chapter.... A Priest-ridden Godforsaken Race.

Away! Away! The Spell Of Arms And Voices: The White Arms Of Roads, Their Promise Of Close Embraces And The Black Arms Of Tall Ships That Stand Against The Moon, Their Tale Of Distant Nations. They Are Held Out To Say: We Are Alone. Come. And The Voices Say With Them: We Are Your Kinsmen. And The Air Is Thick With Their Company As They Call To Me, Their Kinsman, Making Ready To Go, Shaking The Wings Of Their Exultant And Terrible Youth... Welcome, O Life! I Go To Encounter For The Millionth Time The Reality Of Experience And To Forge In The Smithy Of My Soul The Uncreated Conscience Of My Race.

Winds Of May, That Dance On The Sea, Dancing A Ring-around In Glee From Furrow To Furrow, While Overhead The Foam Flies Up To Be Garlanded, In Silvery Arches Spanning The Air, Saw You My True Love Anywhere? Welladay! Welladay! For The Winds Of May! Love Is Unhappy When Love Is Away!

Wipe Your Glosses With What You Know.

Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

I Don't Want To Die. Damn Death. Long Live Life.

Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen.

Thought Is The Thought Of Thought.

I Am Damnably Sick Of Italy, Italian And Italians, Outrageously, Illogically Sick.... I Hate To Think That Italians Ever Did Anything In The Way Of Art.... What Did They Do But Illustrate A Page Or So Of The New Testament! They Themselves Think They Have A Monopoly In The Line. I Am Dead Tired Of Their Bello And Bellezza.

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

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.

If It Is Thus, I Ask Emphatically Whence Comes This Thusness.

Imagine Some Foul And Putrid Corpse That Has Lain Rotting And Decomposing In The Grave, A Jelly-like Mass Of Liquid Corruption. Imagine Such A Corpse A Prey To Flames, Devoured By The Fire Of Burning Brimstone And Giving Off Dense Choking Fumes Of Nauseous Loathsome Decomposition. And Then Imagine This Sickening Stench, Multiplied A Millionfold And A Millionfold Again From The Millions Upon Millions Of Fetid Carcasses Massed Together In The Reeking Darkness, A Huge And Rotting Human Fungus. Imagine All This, And You Will Have Some Idea Of The Horror Of The Stench Of Hell.

Secrets, Silent, Stony Sit In The Dark Palaces Of Both Our Hearts: Secrets Weary Of Their Tyranny: Tyrants Willing To Be Dethroned.

The Romantic Temper, So Often And So Grievously Misinterpreted And Not More By Others Than By Its Own, Is An Insecure, Unsatisfied, And Impatient Temper Which Sees No Fit Abode Here For Its Ideals And Chooses Therefore To Behold Them Under Insensible Figures. As A Result Of This Choice It Comes To Disregard Certain Limitations. Its Figures Are Blown To Wild Adventures, Lacking The Gravity Of Solid Bodies, And The Mind That Has Conceived Them Ends By Disowning Them.

I'd Love To Have The Whole Place Swimming In Roses

Theologians Consider That It Was The Sin Of Pride, The Sinful Thought Conceived In An Instant: Non Serviam: I Will Not Serve. That Instant Was His [lucifer's] Ruin.

Men Are Governed By Lines Of Intellect - Women: By Curves Of Emotion.

He Lived At A Little Distance From His Body, Regarding His Own Acts With Doubtful Side-glances. He Had An Odd Autobiographical Habit Which Led Him To Compose In His Mind From Time To Time A Short Sentence About Himself Containing A Subject In The Third Person And A Verb In The Past Tense.

Terence O'ryan Heard Him And Straightway Brought Him A Crystal Cup Full Of The Foaming Ebon Ale Which The Noble Twin Brothers Bungiveagh And Bungardilaun Brew Ever In Their Divine Alevats, Cunning As The Sons Of Deathless Leda. For They Garner The Succulent Berries Of The Hop And Mass And Sift And Bruise And Brew Them And They Mix Therewith Sour Juices And Bring The Must To The Sacred Fire And Cease Not Night Or Day From Their Toil, Those Cunning Brothers, Lords Of The Vat.

There Is Not Past, No Future; Everything Flows In An Eternal Present.

I Could Call My Wandering Thoughts Together. I Had Hardly Any Patience With The Serious Work Of Life Which, Now That It Stood Between Me And My Desire, Seemed To Me Child's Play, Ugly Monotonous Child's Play.

For The Years, He Felt, Had Not Quenched His Soul, Or Hers.

Places Remember Events.

But We Are Living In A Sceptical And, If I May Use The Phrase, A Thought-tormented Age: And Sometimes I Fear That This New Generation, Educated Or Hyper-educated As It Is, Will Lack Those Qualities Of Humanity, Of Hospitality, Of Kindly Humour Which Belonged To An Older Day.

The Men That Is Now Is Only All Palaver And What They Can Get Out Of You.

I Fear Those Big Words, Stephen Said, Which Make Us So Unhappy.

Time Is, Time Was, But Time Shall Be No More.

Beware The Horns Of A Bull, The Heels Of The Horse, And The Smile Of An Englishman.

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.

A Wild Angel Had Appeared To Him, The Angel Of Mortal Youth And Beauty, An Envoy From The Fair Courts Of Life, To Throw Open Before Him In An Instant Of Ecstasy The Gates Of All The Ways Of Error And Glory.

An Improper Art Aims At Exciting In The Way Of Comedy The Feeling Of Desire But The Feeling Which Is Proper To Comic Art Is The Feeling Of Joy.

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.

His Eyes Were Dimmed With Tears And, Looking Humbly Up To Heaven, He Wept For The Innocence He Had Lost.

Do You Know What A Pearl Is And What An Opal Is? My Soul When You Came Sauntering To Me First Through Those Sweet Summer Evenings Was Beautiful But With The Pale Passionless Beauty Of A Pearl. Your Love Has Passed Through Me And Now I Feel My Mind Something Like An Opal, That Is, Full Of Strange Uncertain Hues And Colours, Of Warm Lights And Quick Shadows And Of Broken Music.

If Ireland Is To Become A New Ireland She Must First Become European.

A Certain Pride, A Certain Awe, Withheld Him From Offering To God Even One Prayer At Night, Though He Knew It Was In God's Power To Take Away His Life While He Slept And Hurl His Soul Hellward Ere He Could Beg For Mercy.

There's No Police Like Holmes.

I Was Happier Then. Or Was That I? Or Am I Now I? Can't Bring Back Time. Like Holding Water In Your Hand. Would You Go Back To Then? Just Beginning Then. Would You?

Our Souls, Shame-wounded By Our Sins, Cling To Us Yet More, A Woman To Her Lover Clinging, The More The More.

The Apprehensive Faculty Must Be Scrutinised In Action.

British Beatitudes! ... Beer, Beef, Business, Bibles, Bulldogs, Battleships, Buggery And Bishops.

I Am, A Stride At A Time. A Very Short Space Of Time Through Very Short Time Of Space.

The End He Had Been Born To Serve Yet Did Not See Had Led Him To Escape By An Unseen Path And Now It Beckoned To Him Once More And A New Adventure Was About To Be Opened To Him.

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.

The Philosophic Mind Inclines Always To An Elaborate Life--the Life Of Goethe Or Of Leonardo Da Vinci; But The Life Of The Poet Isintense--the Life Of Blake Or Of Dante--taking Into Its Centre The Life That Surrounds It And Flinging It Abroad Again Amid Planetary Music.

To Discover The Mode Of Life Or Of Art Whereby My Spirit Could Express Itself In Unfettered Freedom.

Never Let Us Do Wrong, Because Our Opponents Did So. Let Us, Rather, By Doing Right, Show Them What They Ought To Have Done, And Establish A Rule The Dictates Of Reason And Conscience, Rather Than Of The Angry Passions.

Nations Have Their Ego, Just Like Individuals.

Ulysses Is Son To Laertes, But He Is Father To Telemachus, Husband To Penelope, Lover Of Calypso, Companion In Arms Of The Greek Warriors Around Troy, And King Of Ithaca. He Was Subjected To Many Trials, But With Wisdom And Courage Came Through Them All.... He Is A Complete Man As Well, A Good Man.

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing Sad Songs About The End Of Love; Lay Aside Sadness And Sing How Love That Passes Is Enough. Sing About The Long Deep Sleep Of Lovers That Are Dead, And How In The Grave All Love Shall Sleep: Love Is Aweary Now.

They Lived And Laughed And Loved And Left.

Positive Thinking

Lily, The Caretaker's Daughter, Was Literally Run Off Her Feet. Hardly Had She Brought One Gentleman Into The Little Pantry Behind The Office On The Ground Floor And Helped Him Off With His Overcoat, Than The Wheezy Hall-door Bell Clanged Again And She Had To Scamper Along The Bare Hallway To Let In Another Guest. It Was Well For Her She Had Not To Attend To The Ladies Also.

The State Is Concentric, But The Individual Is Eccentric.

Think You're Escaping And Run Into Yourself. Longest Way Round Is The Shortest Way Home.

Frequent And Violent Temptations Were A Proof That The Citadel Of The Soul Had Not Fallen And That The Devil Raged To Make It Fall.

What Is Better Than To Sit At The End Of The Day And Drink Wine With Friends, Or Substitutes For Friends?

The End Of The Day

There Is No Heresy Or No Philosophy Which Is So Abhorrent To The Church As A Human Being.

The Artist Who Could Disentangle The Subtle Soul Of The Image From Its Mesh Of Defining Circumstances Most Exactly And 're-embody' It In Artistic Circumstances Chosen As The Most Exact For It In Its New Office, He Was The Supreme Artist.

And In Spite Of Everything, Ireland Remains The Brain Of The Kingdom. The English, Judiciously Practical And Ponderous, Furnish The Over-stuffed Stomach Of Humanity With A Perfect Gadget--the Water Closet. The Irish, Condemned To Express Themselves In A Language Not Their Own, Have Stamped On It The Mark Of Their Own Genius And Compete For Glory With The Civilized Nations. This Is Then Called English Literature.

Evening Had Fallen. A Rim Of The Young Moon Cleft The Pale Waste Of Sky Line, The Rim Of A Silver Hoop Embedded In Grey Sand: And The Tide Was Flowing In Fast To The Land With A Low Whisper Of Her Waves, Islanding A Few Last Figures In Distant Pools.

So You Need Hardly Spell Me How Every Word Will Be Bound Over To Carry Three Score And Ten Toptypsical Readings Throughout The Book Of Doublends Jined.

Phall If You But Will, Rise You Must: And None So Soon Either Shall The Pharce For The Nunce Come To A Setdown Secular Phoenish.

One Of The Things I Could Never Get Accustomed To In My Youth Was The Difference I Found Between Life And Literature.

And Then I Asked Him With My Eyes To Ask Again Yes And Then He Asked Me Would I Yes And His Heart Was Going Like Mad And Yes I Said Yes I Will Yes.

And If He Had Judged Her Harshly? If Her Life Were A Simple Rosary Of Hours, Her Life Simple And Strange As A Bird's Life, Gay In The Morning, Restless All Day, Tired At Sundown? Her Heart Simple And Willful As A Bird's Heart?

The Mouth Can Be Better Engaged Than With A Cylinder Of Rank Weed.

Ineluctable Modality Of The Visible; At Least That If No More, Thought Through My Eyes. Signatures Of All Things I Am Here To Read.

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

This Race And This Country And This Life Produced Me, He Said. I Shall Express Myself As I Am.

I've Been Working Hard On [ulysses] All Day," Said Joyce. Does That Mean That You Have Written A Great Deal?" I Said. Two Sentences," Said Joyce. I Looked Sideways But Joyce Was Not Smiling. I Thought Of [french Novelist Gustave] Flaubert. "you've Been Seeking The Mot Juste?" I Said. No," Said Joyce. "i Have The Words Already. What I Am Seeking Is The Perfect Order Of Words In The Sentence.

As You Are Now So Once Were We.

Every Physical Quality Admired By Men In Women Is In Direct Connection With The Manifold Functions Of Women For The Propagation Of The Species.

He Asked Himself What Is A Woman Standing On The Stairs In The Shadow, Listening To Distant Music, A Symbol Of. If He Were A Painter He Would Paint Her In That Attitude. Her Blue Felt Hat Would Show Off The Bronze Of Her Hair Against The Darkness And The Dark Panels Of Her Skirt Would Show Off The Light Ones. Distant Music He Would Call The Picture If He Were A Painter.

No One Would Think He'd Make Such A Beautiful Corpse.

Too Excited To Be Genuinely Happy

Why Is It That Words Like These Seem Dull And Cold? Is It Because There Is No Word Tender Enough To Be Your Name?

You Can Still Die When The Sun Is Shining.

No One Who Has Any Self-respect Stays In Ireland, But Flees Afar As Though From A Country That Has Undergone The Visitation Of An Angered Jove.

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.

When The Irishman Is Found Outside Of Ireland In Another Environment, He Very Often Becomes A Respected Man. The Economic And Intellectual Conditions That Prevail In His Own Country Do Not Permit The Development Of Individuality. No One Who Has Any Self-respect Stays In Ireland, But Flees Afar As Though From A Country That Has Undergone The Visitation Of An Angered Jove.

Then Nuvoletta Reflected For The Last Time In Her Little Long Life And She Made Up All Her Myriads Of Drifting Minds In One. She Cancelled All Her Engauzements. She Climbed Over The Bannistars; She Gave A Childy Cloudy Cry: Nuee! Nuee! A Lightdress Fluttered. She Was Gone. And Into The River That Had Been A Stream . . . There Fell A Tear, A Singult Tear, The Loveliest Of All Tears . . . For It Was A Leaptear. But The River Tripped On Her By And By, Lapping As Though Her Heart Was Brook: Why, Why, Why! Weh, O Weh! I'se So Silly To Be Flowing But I No Canna Stay!

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.

Though Their Life Was Modest, They Believed In Eating Well.

He Drew Forth A Phrase From His Treasure And Spoke It Softly To Himself: A Day Of Dappled Seaborne Clouds.

First, In The History Of Words There Is Much That Indicates The History Of Men, And In Comparing The Speech Of To-day With That Ofyears Ago, We Have A Useful Illustration Of The Effect Of External Influences On The Very Words Of A Race.

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.

A Corpse Is Meat Gone Bad. Well And What's Cheese? Corpse Of Milk.

He Thought That He Was Sick In His Heart If You Could Be Sick In That Place.

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."

The Important Thing Is Not What We Write But How We Write, And In My Opinion The Modern Writer Must Be An Adventurer Above All, Willing To Take Every Risk, And Be Prepared To Founder In His Effort If Need Be. In Other Words We Must Write Dangerously

The Object Of The Artist Is The Creation Of The Beautiful. What The Beautiful Is Is Another Question.

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.

When A Man Is Born...there Are Nets Flung At It To Hold It Back From Flight. You Talk To Me Of Nationality, Language, Religion. I Shall Try To Fly By Those Nets.

A Classical Style... Is The Syllogism Of Art, The Only Legitimate Process From One World To Another. Classicism Is Not The Manner Of Any Fixed Age Or Of Any Fixed Country; It Is A Constant State Of The Artistic Mind. It Is A Temper Of Security And Satisfaction And Patience.

...rapid Motion Through Space Elates One.

Human Society Is The Embodiment Of Changeless Laws Which The Whimsicalities And Circumstances Of Men And Women Involve And Overwrap. The Realm Of Literature Is The Realm Of These Accidental Manners And Humours--a Spacious Realm; And The True Literary Artist Concerns Himself Mainly With Them.

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

Can't Bring Back Time. Like Holding Water In Your Hand.

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

He Could Not Feel Her Near Him In The Darkness Nor Hear Her Voice Touch His Ear. He Waited For Some Minutes Listening. He Could Hear Nothing: The Night Was Perfectly Silent. He Listened Again: Perfectly Silent. He Felt That He Was Alone.

Always See A Fellows Weak Point In His Wife.

Sometimes He Caught Himself Listening To The Sound Of His Own Voice. He Thought That In Her Eyes He Would Ascent To An Angelical Stature; And, As He Attached The Fervent Nature Of His Companion More And More Closely To Him, He Heard The Strange Impersonal Voice Which He Recognised As His Own, Insisting On The Soul's Incurable Lonliness. We Cannot Give Ourselves, It Said: We Are Our Own.

You Behold In Me, Stephen Said With Grim Displeasure, A Horrible Example Of Free Thought.

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.

Writing In English Is The Most Ingenious Torture Ever Devised For Sins Committed In Previous Lives. The English Reading Public Explains The Reason Why.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

The Artist... Standing In The Position Of Mediator Between The World Of His Experience And The World Of His Dreams - 'a Mediator, Consequently Gifted With Twin Faculties, A Selective Faculty And A Reproductive Faculty.' To Equate These Faculties Was The Secret Of Artistic Success.

(...) You Cruel Creature, Little Mite Of A Thing With A Heart The Size Of A Fullstop.

I Done Me Best When I Was Let. Thinking Always If I Go All Goes. A Hundred Cares, A Tithe Of Troubles And Is There One Who Understands Me? One In A Thousand Of Years Of The Nights? All Me Life I Have Been Lived Among Them But Now They Are Becoming Lothed To Me. And I Am Lothing Their Little Warm Tricks. And Lothing Their Mean Cosy Turns. And All The Greedy Gushes Out Through Their Small Souls. And All The Lazy Leaks Down Over Their Brash Bodies. How Small It's All! And Me Letting On To Meself Always. And Lilting On All The Time.

[...] A Darkness Shining In Brightness Which Brightness Could Not Comprehend.

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

All Things Are Inconstant Except The Faith In The Soul, Which Changes All Things And Fills Their Inconstancy With Light.

When The Soul Of A Man Is Born In This Country There Are Nets Flown At It To Hold It Back From Flight.

We Are All Born In The Same Way But We All Die In Different Ways.

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