The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.
James JoyceRead
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.
Interpretation
A mother's love is a constant and dependable force in an unpredictable world.
In this quote, James Joyce expresses the unwavering and unconditional nature of a mother's love amidst the chaos and uncertainties of life. He contrasts the reliability of a mother's affection with the difficulties and unpleasant realities of the world, emphasizing that this love remains a potent source of comfort and support.
In practice
During a Mother's Day speech, one could say, 'Whatever else is unsure in this world, a mother's love is not.'
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.
Love begins by taking care of the closest ones - the ones at home.
He had no plans, no definite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms.
Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives.
This is how moths speak to each other. They tell their love across the fields by scent. There is no mouth, the wrong words are impossible, either a mate is there or he is not, and if so the pair will find each other in the dark.
Ceaseless as the interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears flow.
Time is how you spend your love.
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