Quotes About Interpretation

Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.

A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.

I think he died for me, she answered.

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.

Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.

Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook, what curios of sings (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since We and Thou had it out already) its world?

O, undoubtedly yes, and very potable so, but one who deeper thinks will always bear in the baccbuccus of his mind that this downright there you are and there it is is only all in his eye. Why?

Pantolon için, elden düÅŸme deÄŸil)... götten düÅŸme denmesi laz?m.

Unsheathe your dagger definitions.

He read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry.

Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?

The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

Havvah-ban-Annah

When she had gone he said, laughing: —We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet. Haines opened his newbought book. —I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground. of all minds that have lost their balance.

Well, you know or don't you kennet or haven't I told you every telling has a taling and that's the he and the she of it.

and, as a matter of fict, by my halfwife, (...)

He addle liddle phifie Annie ugged the little craythur.

and even I, looking at the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily dosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes.

Saas and taas and specis bizaas.

We are right, he said, and the others are wrong. To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand- that is art.

C ést le pigeon, Joseph.

With: Go Ferchios off to Allad out of this! An oldsteinsong. He threwed his fit up to his aers, rolled his poligone eyes, snivelled from his snose and blew the guff out of his hornypipe.

postmodernism asserts the liberating insignificance of art