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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.

-James Joyce

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Her Name Sprang To

James Joyce

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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.

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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.

He Found In The World Without As Actual What Was In His World Within As Possible.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

I Think A Child Should Be Allowed To Take His Father's Or Mother's Name At Will On Coming Of Age. Paternity Is A Legal Fiction.

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

Bury The Dead. Say Robinson Crusoe Was True To Life. Well Then Friday Buried Him. Every Friday Buries A Thursday If You Come To Look At It.

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.

You Made Me Confess The Fears That I Have. But I Will Tell You Also What I Do Not Fear. I Do Not Fear To Be Alone Or To Be Spurned For Another Or To Leave Whatever I Have To Leave. And I Am Not Afraid To Make A Mistake, Even A Great Mistake, A Lifelong Mistake And Perhaps As Long As Eternity Too.

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

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.

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.

It Seems To Me You Do Not Care What Banality A Man Expresses So Long As He Expresses It In Irish.

Jesus Was A Bachelor And Never Lived With A Woman. Surely Living With A Woman Is One Of The Most Difficult Things A Man Has To Do, And He Never Did It.

My Words In Her Mind: Cold Polished Stones Sinking Through A Quagmire.

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

Stately, Plump Buck Mulligan Came From The Stairhead, Bearing A Bowl Of Lather On Which A Mirror And A Razor Lay Crossed.

Moments Of Their Secret Life Together Burst Like Stars Upon His Memory.

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

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?

I Care Not If I Live But A Day And A Night, So Long As My Deeds Live After Me.

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

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.

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.

Life Is The Great Teacher.

Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen.

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

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.

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

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

Every Age Must Look For Its Sanction To Its Poetry And Philosophy, For In These The Human Mind, As It Looks Backward Or Forward, Attains To An Eternal State.

Shakespeare Is The Happy Hunting Ground Of All Minds That Have Lost Their Balance.

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.

Your Mind Will Give Back To You Exactly What You Put Into It.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I Am A Worker, A Tombstone Mason, Anxious To Pleace Averyburies And Jully Glad When Christmas Comes His Once Ayear.

...rapid Motion Through Space Elates One.

As You Are Now So Once Were We.

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.

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

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

The Sacred Pint Alone Can Unbind The Tongue.

The Supreme Question About A Work Of Art Is Out Of How Deep A Life Does It Spring.

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?

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Absence, The Highest Form Of Presence.

Quotation Marks Quotato Marks! Bah!

Quotation Marks

A Man Of Genius Makes No Mistakes; His Errors Are Volitional And Are The Portals Of Discovery.

Signatures Of All Things I Am Here To Read.

Through My Eyes

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!

Beauty, The Splendour Of Truth, Is A Gracious Presence When The Imagination Contemplates Intensely The Truth Of Its Own Being Or The Visible World, And The Spirit Which Proceeds Out Of Truth And Beauty Is The Holy Spirit Of Joy. These Are Realities And These Alone Give And Sustain Life.

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

Ireland Is The Old Sow That Eats Her Farrow.

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.

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

I Am Not Likely To Die Of Bashfulness But Neither Am I Prepared To Be Crucified To Attest The Perfection Of My Art. I Dislike To Hear Of Any Stray Heroics On The Prowl For Me.

The State Is Concentric, But The Individual Is Eccentric.

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

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

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.

Some People Believe That We Go On Living In Another Body After Death, That We Lived Before. They Call It Reincarnation. That We All Lived Before On The Earth Thousands Of Years Ago Or On Some Other Planet. They Say We Have Forgotten It. Some Say They Remember Their Past Lives.

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

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.

Our Civilization, Bequeathed To Us By Fierce Adventurers, Eaters Of Meat And Hunters, Is So Full Of Hurry And Combat, So Busy About Many Things Which Perhaps Are Of No Importance, That It Cannot But See Something Feeble In A Civilization Which Smiles As It Refuses To Make The Battlefield The Test Of Excellence.

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.

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

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

(...) 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.

When I Makes Tea I Makes Tea, As Old Mother Grogan Said. And When I Makes Water I Makes Water.

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.

Nations Have Their Ego, Just Like Individuals.

There Was No Doubt About It: If You Wanted To Succeed You Had To Go Away. You Could Do Nothing In Dublin.

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

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

Life Is Too Short To Read A Bad Book.

Life Is Too Short

An Irishman Needs Three Things : Silence, Cunnning, And Exile.

The Sea, The Snotgreen Sea, The Scrotumtightening Sea.

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.

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.

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

What Birds Were They? (...) He Listened To The Cries: Like The Squeak Of Mice Be- Hind The Wainscot : A Shrill Twofold Note. But The Notes Were Long And Shrill And Whirring, Unlike The Cry Of Vermin, Falling A Third Or A Fourth And Trilled As The Flying Beaks Clove The Air. Their Cry Was Shrill And Clear And Fine And Falling Like Threads Of Silken Light Unwound From Whirring Spools.

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

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

God Made Food; The Devil The Cooks.

Gazing Up Into The Darkness I Saw Myself As A Creature Driven And Derided By Vanity; And My Eyes Burned With Anguish And Anger.

Masturbation! The Amazing Availability Of It!

You Ask Me Why I Don’t Love You, But Surely You Must Believe I Am Very Fond Of You And If To Desire To Possess A Person Wholly, To Admire And Honour That Person Deeply, And To Seek To Secure That Person’s Happiness In Every Way Is To “love” Then Perhaps My Affection For You Is A Kind Of Love. I Will Tell You This That Your Soul Seems To Me To Be The Most Beautiful And Simple Soul In The World And It May Be Because I Am So Conscious Of This When I Look At You That My Love Or Affection For You Loses Much Of Its Violence.

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

Once Upon A Time

The Demand That I Make Of My Reader Is That He Should Devote His Whole Life To Reading My Works.

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.

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.

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

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

When I Die Dublin Will Be Written On My Heart.

I've Put In So Many Enigmas And Puzzles That It Will Keep The Professors Busy For Centuries Arguing Over What I Meant, And That's The Only Way Of Insuring One's Immortality.

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.

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.

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.

My Mouth Is Full Of Decayed Teeth And My Soul Of Decayed Ambitions.

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

I Am Quite Content To Go Down To Posterity As A Scissors And Paste Man For That Seems To Me A Harsh But Not Unjust Description

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

He Was Unheeded, Happy, And Near To The Wild Heart Of Life

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

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.

Shut Your Eyes And See.

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.

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.

Shaw's Works Make Me Admire The Magnificent Tolerance And Broadmindedness Of The English.

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

Saying That A Great Genius Is Mad, While At The Same Time Recognizing His Artistic Worth, Is Like Saying That He Had Rheumatism Or Suffered From Diabetes. Madness, In Fact, Is A Medical Term That Can Claim No More Notice From The Objective Critic Than He Grants The Charge Of Heresy Raised By The Theologian, Or The Charge Of Immorality Raised By The Police.

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.

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

Let Us Leave Theories There And Return To Here's Hear.

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.

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

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

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 Am Proud To Be An Emotionalist.

His Heart Danced Upon Her Movement Like A Cork Upon A Tide.

Interpretations Of Interpretations Interpreted.

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.

Michael Robartes Remembers Forgotten Beauty And, When His Arms Wrap Her Round, He Presses In His Arms The Loveliness Which Has Long Faded From The World. Not This. Not At All. I Desire To Press In My Arms The Loveliness Which Has Not Yet Come Into The World.

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

A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of Discovery.

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?

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

Thanks Be To God We Lived So Long And Did So Much Good.

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.

If There Is Any Difficulty In What I Write, It Is Because Of The Material I Use. The Thought Is Always Simple.

Fall If You Will, But Rise You Must.

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

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.

Thought Is The Thought Of Thought.

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.

In The Name Of Annah The Allmaziful, The Everliving, The Bringer Of Plurabilities, Haloed Be Her Eve, Her Singtime Sung, Her Rill Be Run, Unhemmed As It Is Uneven!

Love Loves To Love Love.

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

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.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

Ireland Sober Is Ireland Stiff.

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 Swift December Dusk Had Come Tumbling Clownishly After Its Dull Day And, As He Stared Through The Dull Square Of The Window Of The Schoolroom, He Felt His Belly Crave For Its Food. He Hoped There Would Be Stew For Dinner, Turnips And Carrots And Bruised Potatoes And Fat Mutton Pieces To Be Ladled Out In Thick Peppered Flourfattened Sauce. Stuff It Into You, His Belly Counselled Him.

People Could Put Up With Being Bitten By A Wolf But What Properly Riled Them Was A Bite From A Sheep.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Mr Leopold Bloom Ate With Relish The Inner Organs Of Beasts And Fowls. He Liked Thick Giblet Soup, Nutty Gizzards, A Stuffed Roast Heart, Liverslices Fried With Crustcrumbs, Fried Hencods' Roes. Most Of All He Liked Grilled Mutton Kidneys Which Gave To His Palate A Fine Tang Of Faintly Scented Urine.

The Apprehensive Faculty Must Be Scrutinised In Action.

I See The Regions Of Snow And Ice, I See The Sharp-eyed Samoiede And The Finn, I See The Seal-seeker In His Boat Poising His Lance, I See The Siberian On His Slight-built Sledge Drawn By Dogs, I See The Porpoise-hunters, I See The Whale-crews Of The South Pacific And The North Atlantic, I See The Cliffs, Glaciers, Torrents, Valleys Of Switzerland - I Mark The Long Winters And The Isolation.

What Was After The Universe? Nothing. But Was There Anything Round The Universe To Show Where It Stopped Before The Nothing Place Began?

Time's Ruins Build Eternity's Mansions.

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

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

[robinson Crusoe] Is The True Prototype Of The British Colonist. The Whole Anglo-saxon Spirit Is In Crusoe: The Manly Independence, The Unconscious Cruelty, The Persistence, The Slow Yet Efficient Intelligence, The Sexual Apathy, The Calculating Taciturnity.

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.

Heart Of My Heart, Were It More, More Would Be Laid At Your Feet.

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.

We Were Always Loyal To Lost Causes...success For Us Is The Death Of The Intellect And Of The Imagination. ~ Professor Machugh

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.

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.

Love (understood As The Desire Of Good For Another) Is In Fact So Unnatural A Phenomenon That It Can Scarcely Repeat Itself The Soul Being Unable To Become Virgin Again And Not Having Energy Enough To Cast Itself Out Again Into The Ocean Of Another S Soul.

Good Puzzle Would Be Cross Dublin Without Passing A Pub.

To Learn One Must Be Humble. But Life Is The Great Teacher.

A Nation Is The Same People Living In The Same Place.

Any Object, Intensely Regarded, May Be A Gate Of Access To The Incorruptible Eons Of The Gods.

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.

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?

I Am Tomorrow, Or Some Future Day, What I Establish Today. I Am Today What I Established Yesterday Or Some Previous Day.

They Lived And Laughed And Loved And Left.

Positive Thinking

Save The Trees Of Ireland For The Future Men Of Ireland On The Fair Hills Of Eire, O.

Sentimentality Is Unearned Emotion.

It Is A Symbol Of Irish Art. The Cracked Looking-glass Of A Servant.

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.

Let My Country Die For Me.

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.

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

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

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

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

Have Read Little And Understood Less.

Every Bond Is A Bond To Sorrow.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

Mistakes Are The Portals Of Discovery.

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Joseph Barber Lightfoot

Alphonse De Lamartine

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