Quotes About Joyce

like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars.

Knock knock. War's where! Which war? The Twwinns. Knock knock. Woos without! Without what? An apple. Knock knock.

Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.

For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints.

Kyrie ! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the language of the mind.

Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, _oinopa ponton_, a winedark sea.

his monstrous dreams, peopled by ape-like creatures and by harlots with gleaming jewel eyes..

Dammad and Groany, into her limited (tuff, tuff, que tu es pitre!) lapse at the same slapse for towelling ends in their dolightful Sexsex home, (...)

Three quarks for Muster Mark! Sure he hasn't got much of a bark And sure any he has it's all beside the mark.

Upwap and dump em

And the time of dreaming dreams is over - as lover to lover, sweetheart, I come

In 'Open City,' there is a passage that any reader of Joyce will immediately recognise as a very close, formal analogue of one the stories in 'Dubliners.' That is because a novel is also a literary conversation.

Exile as a mode of genius no longer exists; in place of Joyce we have the fragments of work appearing in Index on Censorship.

I read a lot. I liked a tremendous number of poets and writers. The person whose work I liked the most was Joyce.

James Joyce buried himself in his great work. _Finnegan's Wake_ is his monument and his tombstone. A dead end.

Y mientras aguardaba al mounstro concluí que Suiza era el país perfecto para las pesadillas de Füssli y para la chispa incendiaria de Rousseau, para la sonrisa regicida de Voltaire, para los laberintos espaciales de Joyce y para los laberintos mentales de Borges; que en cada rincón de aquellas montañas parece posible la rosa que resurge de la ceniza en las manos de Paracelso.

I wanted to avoid all that literary stuff. I didn't want the self pity of 'The Portrait,' all the moaning and the whingeing. I'm not knocking Joyce: we all owe him a debt. He's the one who made so much possible.

If you need proof of how the oral relates to the written, consider that many great novelists, including Joyce and Hemingway, never submitted a piece of work without reading it aloud.

I felt Joyce was an influence on my fiction, but in a very general way, as a kind of inspiration and a model for the beauty of language.

Anyone would think we were some kind of free education service,' grumbled Joyce, having disposed of the child and returned to her central eyrie. 'That's just what we are,' said Helen. Joyce shot her a look in which surprise and indignation were nicely fused.

Helen, marvelling at Joyce's capacity for self-protection, often wondered at her choice of career. It had something to do with order, she decided; Joyce mistrusted books for their content, but liked the way they could be marshalled. The readers were simply an unlooked-for hazard.

Do you remember the Joyce Landorf series we saw at church last year?" Skye asked. Peggy nodded. "I guess this is what she meant by being stuck in a waiting room." "Yes, with both exits covered.

For me, writing is such an escape, and I felt very lucky to have this to run away to.