People trample over flowers, yet only to embrace a cactus.— James Joyce
The most strong James Joyce quotes that are proven to give you inner joy
Shut your eyes and see.
Mistakes are the portals of discovery.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
Mistakes are the portals of discovery.
Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.
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.
Her lips touched his brain as they touched his lips, as though they were a vehicle of some vague speech and between them he felt an unknown and timid preasure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odor.
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.
A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
They lived and laughed and loved and left.
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.
A Classical style... is the syllogism of art, the only legitimate process from one world to another. Classicism is not the manner of any fixed age or of any fixed country; it is a constant state of the artistic mind. It is a temper of security and satisfaction and patience.
Love me. Love my umbrella.
You made me confess the fears that I have.
But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.
No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
Love loves to love love.
But we are living in a sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated or hyper-educated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day.
You can still die when the sun is shining.
A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and willful as a bird's heart?
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
[Robinson Crusoe] is the true prototype of the British colonist.
The whole Anglo-Saxon spirit is in Crusoe: the manly independence, the unconscious cruelty, the persistence, the slow yet efficient intelligence, the sexual apathy, the calculating taciturnity.
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.
Civilization may be said indeed to be the creation of its outlaws.
The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.
To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.
It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.
An Irishman needs three things : silence, cunnning, and exile.
A man's errors are his portals of discovery.
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide.
He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
I am proud to be an emotionalist.
White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups of tea! How simple and beautiful was life after all!
Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.
There's no friends like the old friends.
Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.
Winds of May, that dance on the sea, Dancing a ring-around in glee From furrow to furrow, while overhead The foam flies up to be garlanded, In silvery arches spanning the air, Saw you my true love anywhere? Welladay! Welladay! For the winds of May! Love is unhappy when love is away!
Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in the vulgarity of speech or of gesture or memorable phrase of the mind itself. He believed it was for the man of letters to record these epiphanies with extreme care (saving them for later use, that is), seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments.
Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
Some people believe that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or on some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.
Masturbation! The amazing availability of it!
I shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names.
Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe.
And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.
The pleasures of love lasts but a fleeting but the pledges of life outlusts a lieftime.