Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is the eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? And remember, it is an eternity of pain. Even though the pain of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet they would become infinite, as they are destined to last for ever. But while they are everlasting they are at the some times, as you know, intolerably intense, unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an insect for all eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be, then, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all eternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness; and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplies as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many million upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been all carried away, and i f the bird came again and carried it all away again grain by grain, and if it sop rose and sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably vast mountain not one single instant of eternity could be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period, after that eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain reel dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun.
James JoycePity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause.
James Joyceكنت ستصنع العجب العجاب ، هيه ؟ مبشر لأوربا على غرار كولومبانوس المتحمس فياكر و سكوتوس كل على كرياس في الأعالي دلقا من كوزيهما ، يضحكان بلاتينيه صاخبة : Eugel Eugel ، خيرا عملت ! خيرا ما فعلت ! تتظاهر بالحديث بلكنة انجليزية مكسرة و أنت تجر شنطك ، شيال بثلاثة بنسات على طول رصيف نيوهافين الموحل . Comment ? . جلبت معك أسلايا نفسية : Le turtu ، و خمسة أعداد ممزقة من Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge و برقية فرنسية زرقاء ، غرائب للفرجة .
- الوالدة تحتضر إحضر والدك
تعتقد العمة أنك قتلت أمك . لهذا لا تريدني أن .
في صحة عمة ماليجـــان
فهي تحرص على النظام
و تعـرف قيمة الاحــــــترام
فـي عـائــلة هانـيجــــــان
Tags: islam-yusuf
- أردت فقط أن اقول لك هذا : إن أيرلنده ، كما يقولون ، لها الشرف أن تكون البلد الوحيد الذي لم يضطهد اليهود ، ألا تعرف ذلك ، كلا ، و هل تدري لماذا ؟ لأنها لم تسمح لهم بدخولهاأبدا ، قال مستر ديزي بافتخار
James JoyceOld father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
James JoyceAPRIL 16. Away! Away!
The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone—come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth.
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
James JoyceTags: art creation artist question beautiful object
His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon upon a younger earth.
James JoyceLove between man and woman is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse, and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
James JoyceA way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
James JoyceTags: finnegans-wake
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