James Joyce

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

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

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or
behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, read more

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.

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

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

Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would read more

Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.

The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.

The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.