James Joyce

The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.

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.

If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.

Gentle lady, do not sing Sad songs about the end of love; Lay aside sadness and sing How love that passes is enough. Sing about the long deep sleep Of lovers that are dead, and how In the grave all love shall sleep: Love is aweary now.

I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.

The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside.

She respected her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure and fixed: and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male.

He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music.

White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!

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 to sorrow.

The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness.

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.

Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.

Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk

For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.

Absence, the highest form of presence.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.

My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.

I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence. You can see for yourself how many different ways they might be arranged.

My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions.