The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.
James JoyceRead
No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.
Interpretation
This quote reflects on the unexpected beauty found in death and the human condition.
James Joyce's quote suggests that there is an irony in how people perceive beauty and identity, particularly in life and death. The statement implies that one's value or aesthetic may not be recognized until after their life has ended, leading to deeper reflections on mortality, legacy, and the complexity of human existence.
In practice
During a memorial service, to reflect on how people often appreciate the deceased's beauty and spirit more after they have passed.
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.
So I should be aware of the dangers of self-consciousness, but at the same time, Iβll be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. The core is the core is the core. There is always the core, that canβt be articulated. Only caricatured.
You're only infallible about your own nervous system. You know what's going on in your own nervous system, whatever realities you're creating out of the infinite flux of being. You don't know anything about anybody else's reality unless they tell you about it. You gotta listen very sympathetically in order to understand them. So it's a limited infallibility.
Loyalty is the holiest good in the human heart.
We are buried beneath the weight of information, which is being confused with knowledge; quantity is being confused with abundance and wealth with happiness. We are monkeys with money and guns.
All the papers that matter live off their advertisements, and the advertisers exercise an indirect censorship over news.
Read no history: nothing but biography, for that is life without theory.
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