And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird’s life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird’s heart? ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young… Continue reading James Joyce
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 pleasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor. — James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics,… Continue reading James Joyce
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 pleasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor. — James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Penguin Classics,… Continue reading James Joyce
It’s something fails us. First we feel. Then we fall. And let her rain now if she likes. Gently or strongly as she likes. Anyway let her rain for my time is come. I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles… Continue reading James Joyce
Her soul! Her name! Her eyes! They seem to me like strange beautiful blue wild-flowers growing in some tangled, rain-drenched hedge. And I have felt her soul tremble beside mine, and have spoken her name softly to the night, and have wept to see the beauty of the world passing like a dream behind her… Continue reading James Joyce
First we feel. Then we fall. — James Joyce, Finnegans Wake.( Faber and Faber November 4, 2002) Originally published May 4th 1939.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always… Continue reading James Joyce
Goodbye, my darling whom I am trying to degrade and deprave. How on God’s earth can you possibly love a thing like me? — James Joyce, from a letter to Nora Barnacle, https://adoxoblog.wordpress.com/. “Fμckbird and Jim: James Joyce’s letters to Nora Barnacle.” February 25, 2011.
Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die. — James Joyce, Ulysses. (Sylvia Beach 2 February 1922)
He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful sideglances. — James Joyce, from, “A Painful Case,” Dubliners. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
The Vale of Soul-Making 