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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?

-James Joyce

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What Did That Mean,

James Joyce

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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?

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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.

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Wipe Your Glosses With What You Know.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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You Cannot Eat Your Cake And Have It.

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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.

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

That Ideal Reader Suffering From An Ideal Insomnia.

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.

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.

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.

Shut Your Eyes And See.

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.

Deal With Him, Hemingway!

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

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.

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

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.

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

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Anthony Burgess

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