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Under Cover Of Her Silence He Pressed Her Arm Closely To His Side; And, As They Stood At The Hotel Door, He Felt That They Had Escaped From Their Lives And Duties, Escaped From Home And Friends And Run Away Together With Wild And Radiant Hearts To A New Adventure.

-James Joyce

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Under Cover Of Her

James Joyce

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Under Cover Of Her Silence He Pressed Her Arm Closely To His Side; And, As They Stood At The Hotel Door, He Felt That They Had Escaped From Their Lives And Duties, Escaped From Home And Friends And Run Away Together With Wild And Radiant Hearts To A New Adventure.

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

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.

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

Thought Is The Thought Of Thought.

Children Must Be Educated By Love, Not Punishment.

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 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.

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

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.

Interpretations Of Interpretations Interpreted.

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

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 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.

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

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 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.

Let My Country Die For Me.

[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.

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

It Soared, A Bird, It Held Its Flight, A Swift Pure Cry, Soar Silver Orb It Leaped Serene, Speeding, Sustained, To Come, Don't Spin It Out Too Long Long Breath He Breath Long Life, Soaring High, High Resplendent, Aflame, Crowned, High In The Effulgence Symbolistic, High, Of The Ethereal Bosom, High, Of The High Vast Irradiation Everywhere All Soaring All Around About The All, The Endlessnessnessness.

You Cannot Eat Your Cake And Have It.

Have Your Cake And Eat It Too

There's No Friends Like The Old Friends.

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

You Can Still Die When The Sun Is Shining.

Under Cover Of Her Silence He Pressed Her Arm Closely To His Side; And, As They Stood At The Hotel Door, He Felt That They Had Escaped From Their Lives And Duties, Escaped From Home And Friends And Run Away Together With Wild And Radiant Hearts To A New Adventure.

Too Excited To Be Genuinely Happy

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.

You Get A Decent Do At The Brazen Head

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

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.

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?

Mr. Duffy Lived A Short Distance From His Body.

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

Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen.

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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?

Every Jackass Going The Roads Thinks He Has Ideas.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

Always See A Fellows Weak Point In His Wife.

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'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.

Masturbation! The Amazing Availability Of It!

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

...rapid Motion Through Space Elates One.

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

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

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

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

There's Many A True Word Spoken In Jest.

The Incompatibility Of Aquacity With The Erratic Originality Of Genius.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Sentimentality Is Unearned Emotion.

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 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.

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

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.

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

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

Does Nobody Understand?

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

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.

Nations Have Their Ego, Just Like Individuals.

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.

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

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.

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.

Wipe Your Glosses With What You Know.

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.

(...) 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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

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.

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

All Human History Moves Towards One Great Goal

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

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 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?

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

The Supreme Question About A Work Of Art Is Out Of How Deep A Life Does It Spring. Paintings Of Moreau Are Paintings Of Ideas. The Deepest Poetry Of Shelley, The Words Of Hamlet Bring Our Mind Into Contact With The Eternal Wisdom; Plato's World Of Ideas. All The Rest Is The Speculation Of Schoolboys For Schoolboys.

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

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.

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

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.

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?

There's No Police Like Holmes.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Tenors Get Women By The Score.

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

Absence, The Highest Form Of Presence.

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!

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

Love, Yes. Word Known To All Men.

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

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.

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

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

In The Particular Is Contained The Universal.

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

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

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

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.

Signatures Of All Things I Am Here To Read.

Through My Eyes

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.

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.

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.

Good Puzzle Would Be Cross Dublin Without Passing A Pub.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

When I Die Dublin Will Be Written On My Heart.

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

She Respected Her Husband In The Same Way As She Respected The General Post Office, As Something Large, Secure And Fixed: And Though She Knew The Small Number Of His Talents She Appreciated His Abstract Value As A Male.

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

I Am Proud To Be An Emotionalist.

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.

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.

God Made Food; The Devil The Cooks.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Redheaded Women Buck Like Goats.

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

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.

Mistakes Are The Portals Of Discovery.

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

Ask No Questions And You'll Hear No Lies.

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.

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.

Quotation Marks Quotato Marks! Bah!

Quotation Marks

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Civilization May Be Said Indeed To Be The Creation Of Its Outlaws.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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