The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.
James JoyceTag: pick-up-line
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The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
James JoyceTag: irish sea ireland lyrical
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[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
James JoyceI think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
James JoyceWhile you have a thing it can be taken from you…..but when you give it, you have given it. no robber can take it from you. It is yours then forever when you have given it. It will be yours always. That is to give.
James JoyceA man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
James JoyceI fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
James JoyceGod made food; the devil the cooks.
James JoyceThe men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.
James JoyceA few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
James JoyceTag: alliteration
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