Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
To say that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic merit, is no better than to say he is rheumatic or diabetic.
Be just before you are generous.
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
My sweet naughty girl I got your hot letter tonight and have been trying to picture you frigging your cunt in the closet. How do you do it? Do you stand against the wall with your hand tickling up und...
Jesus was a bachelor and never lived with a woman. Surely living with a woman is one of the most difficult things a man has to do, and he never did it.
The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.
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...
The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being fucked arseways. Yes, now I...
I smiled at him. America, I said quietly, just like that. What is it? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact.
Her room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her legs apart in the copious easy-chair beside the bed. He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid he...
There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.