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James Joyce

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast… Continue reading James Joyce

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British Culture · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Short Stories · Short Story · Stream of Consciousness

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, Dubliners: The Dead. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)

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British Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Short Stories · Short Story · Stream of Consciousness

James Joyce

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. ― James Joyce, Dubliners: Eveline. (Grant Richards… Continue reading James Joyce

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British Literature · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Novel · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Stream of Consciousness

James Joyce

Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M.B. loves a fair genteman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alive, the elephant. Old Mr. Verschoyle with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs.… Continue reading James Joyce

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British Literature · Classic · Excerpt · Fiction · Irish Culture · Irish Literature · Modernism · Novel · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Stream of Consciousness

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 pressure, 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

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