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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.

-James Joyce

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Poetry, Even When Apparently

James Joyce

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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.

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The Sacred Pint Alone Can Unbind The Tongue.

Signatures Of All Things I Am Here To Read.

Through My Eyes

(...) 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.

I Am Proud To Be An Emotionalist.

Wipe Your Glasses With What You Know.

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

In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

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

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

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

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?

Time's Ruins Build Eternity's Mansions.

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

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

Let My Country Die For Me.

Every Bond Is A Bond To Sorrow.

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.

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

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

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

Quotation Marks Quotato Marks! Bah!

Quotation Marks

Fall If You Will, But Rise You Must.

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

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

The State Is Concentric, But The Individual Is Eccentric.

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

Love Me. Love My Umbrella.

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.

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

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?

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

You Get A Decent Do At The Brazen Head

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

All Human History Moves Towards One Great Goal

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

The Sea, The Snotgreen Sea, The Scrotumtightening Sea.

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.

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.

Have Read Little And Understood Less.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

[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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

The Apprehensive Faculty Must Be Scrutinised In Action.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Man And Woman, Love, What Is It? A Cork And A Bottle.

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

Too Excited To Be Genuinely Happy

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.

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.

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

A Man's Errors Are His Portals Of Discovery.

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

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.

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'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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

Whatever Else Is Unsure In This Stinking Dunghill Of A World A Mother's Love Is Not.

Love Loves To Love Love.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

God Made Food; The Devil The Cooks.

Mr. Duffy Lived A Short Distance From His Body.

We Are Bound Together By The Sympathy Of Our Antipathies.

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

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!

The Irish Are People Who Will Never Have Leaders, For At The Great Moment They Always Desert Them. They Have Produced One Skeleton--parnell--never A Man.

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

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

And Jesus Was A Jew Too. Your God. He Was A Jew Like Me. And So Was His Father.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

There's Many A True Word Spoken In Jest.

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

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.

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.

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

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

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.

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?

Life Is The Great Teacher.

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.

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

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

Sentimentality Is Unearned Emotion.

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.

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

You Can Still Die When The Sun Is Shining.

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 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.

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!

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 Heaventree Of Stars Hung With Humid Nightblue Fruit.

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

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.

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

Ireland Sober Is Ireland Stiff.

...rapid Motion Through Space Elates One.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Places Remember Events.

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!

They Lived And Laughed And Loved And Left.

Positive Thinking

There's No Police Like Holmes.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

I Will Not Say Nothing. I Will Defend My Church And My Religion When It Is Insulted And Spit On.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

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.

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

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.

As You Are Now So Once Were We.

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.

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.

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

Love, Yes. Word Known To All Men.

Absence, The Highest Form Of Presence.

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

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

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

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

Does Nobody Understand?

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

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

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

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.

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

Nations Have Their Ego, Just Like Individuals.

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Harvey S. Firestone

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