Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
Till tree from tree, tree among trees tree over tree become stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever. O Loud, hear the wee beseech of thees of each of these thy unlitten ones!...
There's no friends like the old friends.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:— That is God.Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!— What? Mr Deasy asked.— A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. I will see if I can see. See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be,...
Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory.
Let us leave theories there and return to here's hear.
I've been working hard on [Ulysses] all day, said Joyce. Does that mean that you have written a great deal? I said. Two sentences, said Joyce.
I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers r...
Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
I wish some man or other would take me sometime when hes there and kiss me in his arms theres nothing like a kiss long and hot down to your soul almost paralyses you...I love flowers Id love to have t...
He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.
Gazelles are leaping, feeding on the mountains. Near are lakes. Round their shores file shadows black of cedargroves. Aroma rises, a strong hair growth of resin. It burns, the orient, a sky of sapphir...
Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!
What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.
Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond...