The object of the artist is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question. James Joyce More Quotes by James Joyce More Quotes From James Joyce Masturbation! The amazing availability of it! James Joyce masturbation availability drinking The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works. James Joyce demand reading should When a man is born...there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets. James Joyce language trying men O cold ! O shivery ! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget, forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once. James Joyce climbing cold forgiving Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past. James Joyce plunge mindfulness past Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on! James Joyce angel eye fall But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. James Joyce wire running beautiful Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn. James Joyce zero space dawn 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... 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. James Joyce moon race reality Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. James Joyce father Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. James Joyce mothers-day family mom Ulysses is son to Laertes, but he is father to Telemachus, husband to Penelope, lover of Calypso, companion in arms of the Greek warriors around Troy, and King of Ithaca. He was subjected to many trials, but with wisdom and courage came through them all.... he is a complete man as well, a good man. James Joyce husband kings father The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. James Joyce voice space silence Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. James Joyce stars secret memories My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire. James Joyce quagmire stones mind Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and a bottle. James Joyce men-and-women bottles men He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy. James Joyce staring mirrors eye By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or memorable phrase of the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care (saving them for later use, that is), seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments. James Joyce spiritual memorable men Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned. James Joyce tyrants dark heart Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work. James Joyce maleficent names night
