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James Joyce quotes - page 8
End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take.
James Joyce
But there was no harshness in the eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances.
James Joyce
Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves.
James Joyce
Me. And me now.
James Joyce
This triviality made him think of collecting many such moments together in a book of epiphanies. By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself.
James Joyce
He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.
James Joyce
First we feel. Then we fall.
James Joyce
I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.
James Joyce
The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
James Joyce
I am proud to be an emotionalist.
James Joyce
I think of you so often you have no idea.
James Joyce
Be just before you are generous.
James Joyce
I am other I now.
James Joyce
Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?
James Joyce
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
James Joyce
Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind.
James Joyce
In one letter that he had written to her then he had said: Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
James Joyce
More mud, more crocodiles.
James Joyce
The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
James Joyce
Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.
James Joyce
The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts.
James Joyce
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
James Joyce
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