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Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

-James Joyce

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Love Me. Love My

James Joyce

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Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

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

Every Jackass Going The Roads Thinks He Has Ideas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

O, Dread And Dire Word. Eternity! What Mind Of Man Can Understand It?

Oh Ireland My First And Only Love Where Christ And Caesar Are Hand In Glove!

My Heart Is Quite Calm Now. I Will Go Back.

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.

Like The Tender Fires Of Stars Moments Of Their Life Together, That No One Knew Of Or Would Ever Know Of, Broke Upon And Illuminated His Memory.

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.

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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

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

[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 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.

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 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.

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.

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

The Movements Which Work Revolutions In The World Are Born Out Of The Dreams And Visions In A Peasant's Heart On The Hillside.

But My Body Was Like A Harp And Her Words And Gestures Were Like Fingers Running Upon The Wires.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

Pity Is The Feeling Which Arrests The Mind In The Presence Of Whatesoever Is Grave And Constant In Human Sufferings And Unites It With The Human Sufferer.

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.

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.

I'll Tickle His Catastrophe.

Christopher Columbus, As Everyone Knows, Is Honored By Posterity Because He Was The Last To Discover America.

There's No Police Like Holmes.

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.

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

Thought Is The Thought Of Thought.

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

Always See A Fellows Weak Point In His Wife.

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

The Intellectual Imagination! With Me All Or Not At All. Non Serviam!

Mistakes Are The Portals Of Discovery.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

Every Bond Is A Bond To Sorrow.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.

Children Must Be Educated By Love, Not Punishment.

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.

Quotation Marks Quotato Marks! Bah!

Quotation Marks

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

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.

Have Read Little And Understood Less.

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

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.

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

All Fiction Is Autobiographical Fantasy.

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.

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!

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

Her Lips Touched His Brain As They Touched His Lips, As Though They Were A Vehicle Of Some Vague Speech And Between Them He Felt An Unknown And Timid Preasure, Darker Than The Swoon Of Sin, Softer Than Sound Or Odor.

To Live, To Err, To Fall, To Triumph, To Recreate Life Out Of Life.

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

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.

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!

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

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.

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

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

Ireland Is The Old Sow That Eats Her Farrow.

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

The Only Decent People I Ever Saw At The Racecourse Were Horses.

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

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

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

Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

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

Love Loves To Love Love.

Good Puzzle Would Be Cross Dublin Without Passing A Pub.

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

You Get A Decent Do At The Brazen Head

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

Sentimentality Is Unearned Emotion.

Drugs Age You After Mental Excitement. Lethargy Then. Why? Reaction. A Lifetime In A Night. Gradually Changes Your Character.

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

The Studious Silence Of The Library ... Thought Is The Thought Of Thought. Tranquil Brightness.

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.

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

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

As You Are Now So Once Were We.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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."

I Am Proud To Be An Emotionalist.

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

God Made Food; The Devil The Cooks.

I Think I Would Know Nora's Fart Anywhere. I Think I Could Pick Hers Out In A Roomful Of Farting Women.

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.

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.

History Is That Nightmare From Which There Is No Awakening.

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

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

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

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

(...) 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? 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.

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

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

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.

There Is Only One Thing That Makes Any One Athlete Better Than Another, His Heart. We All Put Our Underwear On Feet First, So We Are All Human.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

I Came In At Half Past Eleven. Since Then I Have Been Sitting In An Easy Chair Like A Fool. I Could Do Nothing. I Hear Nothing But Your Voice. I Am Like A Fool Hearing You Call Me 'dear.' I Offended Two Men Today By Leaving Them Coolly. I Wanted To Hear Your Voice, Not Theirs. When I Am With You I Leave Aside My Contemptuous, Suspicious Nature. I Wish I Felt Your Head On My Shoulder.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Time's Ruins Build Eternity's Mansions.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of Discovery.

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.

What Incensed Him The Most Was The Blatant Jokes Of The Ones That Passed It All Off As A Jest, Pretending To Understand Everything And In Reality Not Knowing Their Own Minds.

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

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.

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

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

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

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

You Can Still Die When The Sun Is Shining.

O Cold ! O Shivery ! It Was Your Ambrosial Beauty. Forget, Forgive. Kismet. Let Me Off This Once.

The Incompatibility Of Aquacity With The Erratic Originality Of Genius.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

We Are Bound Together By The Sympathy Of Our Antipathies.

The Voices Blend And Fuse In Clouded Silence: Silence That Is Infinite Of Space: And Swiftly, Silently The Sound Is Wafted Over Regions Of Cycles Of Cycles Of Generations That Have Lived.

What Kind Of Liberation Would That Be To Forsake An Absurdity Which Is Logical And Coherent And To Embrace One Which Is Illogical And Incoherent?

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

[a Writer Is] A Priest Of Eternal Imagination, Transmuting The Daily Bread Of Experience Into The Radiant Body Of Everliving Life.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

Does Nobody Understand?

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.

In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

Interpretations Of Interpretations Interpreted.

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

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.

When The Short Days Of Winter Came, Dusk Fell Before We Had Well Eaten Our Dinners. When We Met In The Street The Houses Had Grown Sombre. The Space Of Sky Above Us Was The Colour Of Ever-changing Violet And Towards It The Lamps Of The Street Lifted Their Feeble Lanterns. The Cold Air Stung Us And We Played Till Our Bodies Glowed. Our Shouts Echoed In The Silent Street.

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.

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.

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.

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