Quotes from James Joyce

She does not answer. In the silence the rain is heard falling.]

Our end is the acquisition of knowledge.

O tribes! O gentes!)

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. He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his father's voice. He could scarcely recognize as his own thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself: - I am Stephen Dedalus

Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there—and also women. At least, they looked like women.

Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences.

If we could only live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

Be on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the higher self.

EPISODE 2   As we there are where are we are we there from tomtittot to teetootomtotalitarian. Tea tea too oo. With his broad and hairy face, to Ireland a disgrace. SIC. Whom will comes over. Who to caps ever. And howelse do we hook our hike to find that pint of porter place? Am shot, says the big-guard.

Hump for humbleness, dump for dirts.

I believe you're a good fellow but you have yet to learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of the human individual.

A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

It would have diverted if ever seen the shuddersome spectacle of this semidemented zany amid the inspissated grime of his glaucous den making believe to read his usylessly unreadable Blue Book of Eccles, édition de ténèbres, (even yet sighs the Most Different, Dr. Poindejenk, authorised bowdler and censor

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly throughout the universe and faintly falling, like the decent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done.

The sad quiet greyblue glow of the dying day came through the window and the open door, covering over and allaying quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen's heart. All that had been denied them had been freely given to him, the eldest: but the quiet glow of evening showed him in their faces no sign of rancour.

The ambition which he felt astir in at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet.

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.

In what state of rest or motion? At rest relatively to themselves and to each other. In motion being each and both carried westward, forward and rereward respectively, by the proper perpetual motion of the earth through everchanging tracks of neverchanging space.

Llegan, las olas. Los hipocampos crestiblancos, tascando, embridados en fúlgidos céfiros, los corceles de Mananaan.

As true as I'm drinking this porter if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface you that dying was living.

A pleased bottom. The turnstile. Is that? . . . Blueribboned hat . . . Idly writing . . . What? Looked? . . . The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling: John Eglinton, my jo, John. Why won't you wed a wife?

What did it avail to pray when he knew that his soul lusted after its own destruction?

the foreign warmth of the skin