James Joyce
James Joyce
James Augustine Aloysius Joycewas an Irish novelist and poet. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde, and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the twentieth century...
NationalityIrish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth2 February 1882
CityRathgar, Ireland
CountryIreland
love mines my-own
What's yours is mine and what's mine is my own.
food heart fowl
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
fall ifs
Fall if you will, but rise you must.
book life-is-too-short life-is
Life is too short to read a bad book.
eye heart tears
My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.
perfect water humanity
And in spite of everything, Ireland remains the brain of the Kingdom. The English, judiciously practical and ponderous, furnish the over-stuffed stomach of humanity with a perfect gadget--the water closet. The Irish, condemned to express themselves in a language not their own, have stamped on it the mark of their own genius and compete for glory with the civilized nations. This is then called English literature.
brain odor speech
Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
cheesy gone milk
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
thinking fart picks
I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
brother men wife
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.
writing tables rooms
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
reading writing reason-why
Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.
writing fantastic artifice
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.
art invisible creation
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.