Quotes from James Joyce

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.

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.

Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him.

Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions.

What is better than to sit at the end of the day and drink wine with friends, or substitutes for friends?

like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars.

Does nobody understand?

And whowasit youwasit propped the pot in the yard and whatinthe nameofsen lukeareyou rubbinthe sideofthe flureofthe lobbywith Shite! will you have a plateful? Tak.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

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

Thought and plot are not so important as some would make them out to be. The object of any work of art is the transference of emotion; talent is the gift of conveying that emotion

Quotations every day of the year.

Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic.

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 said it was sweeter and thicker than cows then he wanted to milk me into the tea...

The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language.

We who live under heaven, we of the clovery kindgom, we middlesins people have often watched the sky overreaching the land.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less.

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.

Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

Wonderlawn's lost us for ever. Alis, alas, she broke the glass! Liddell lokker through the leafery, ours is mistery of pain.

Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

Each imagining himself to be the first last and only alone, whereas he is neither first last nor last nor only not alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.