About James Joyce: James Augustine Aloysius Joyce was an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century.
Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.
One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well.
and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.
He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ag...
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Never back a woman you defend, never get quit of a friend on whom you depend, never make face to a foe till he’s rife and never get stuck to another man’s pfife.
He is cured by faith who is sick of fate.
For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints.
And you’ll miss me more as the narrowing weeks wing by. Someday duly, oneday truly, twosday newly, till whensday.
Here, and it goes on to appear now, she comes, a peacefugle, a parody's bird, a peri potmother, a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a flick flask fleckflinging its pixylighting pacts' huemeramy...
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.
Three quarks for Muster Mark!
Sleep, where in the waste is the wisdom?
Here's lumbos. Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on, O sleepy! So be yet!
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize.
It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.
