Life is the great teacher.
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.
Let my country die for me.
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.
Love loves to love love.
A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
Mistakes are the portals of discovery.
All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.
By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself.
Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts secrets weary of their tyranny, tyrants willing to be dethroned.
What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.
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.
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
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.
Every life is 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.
But all they are all there scraping along to sneeze out a likelihood that will solve and salve life's robulous rebus.
Hell is the centre of evils and, as you know, things are more intense at their centres than at their remotest points.
Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time.
Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.
The artist, like the God of creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
What dreams would he have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way?
Never back a woman you defend, never get quit of a friend on whom you depend, never make face to a foe till he's rife and never get stuck to another man's pfife.
Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character.
Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.
I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquillity sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.
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.
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.
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?
Don't you think there is a certain resemblance between the mystery of the Mass and what I am trying to do?...To give people some kind of intellectual pleasure or spiritual enjoyment by converting the bread of everyday life into something that has a permanent artistic life of its own.
Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet!
But Noodynaady's actual ingrate tootle is of come into the garner mauve and thy nice are stores of morning and buy me a bunch of iodines.
Bite my laughters, drink my tears. Pore into me, volumes, spell me stark and spill me swooning, I just don't care what my thwarters think.
To remember that and the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold and then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out: cold and hot. He felt cold and then a little hot: and he could see the names printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.
Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has walked in the right path.
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.
People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
Life, he himself once said.. is a wake, livit or krikit, and on the bunk of our bread-winning lies the cropse of our seedfather, a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn.
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.
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.
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.
Gerty Mc Dowell'a kur yapıp kalbini kazanacak olan adamın tam bir erkek olması gerekiyordu. Ama bekliyordu, h l birinin ona teklif etmesini bekliyordu, ayrıca bu yıl artık yıldı ve yakında bitecekti.
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.
Oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.
Very gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude, in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined.
To say that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic merit, is no better than to say he is rheumatic or diabetic.
Quotes by James Joyce are featured in:
Short Love Quotes