James Joyce Quotations

Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.

It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

Signatures of all things I am here to read.

My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial

What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.

Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?

Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.

His heart danced upon her movement like a cork upon a tide.

What was after the universe? Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?