James Joyce

I fear those big words which make us so unhappy.

I fear those big words which make us so unhappy.

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.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

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.