James Joyce Quotes

Irish novelist and poet (1882–1941)

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James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short-story writer and poet.

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Birth Name: James Augustine Aloysius Joyce

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Art is the human disposition of sensible or intelligible matter for an esthetic end.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.

Reproduction is the beginning of death.

Me. And me now.

What was after the universe?

Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it stopped before the nothing place began?

One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with Mrs. Sinico, read: 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.

Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave

Your lean jaws grin with. Lash
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.

The sly reeds whisper to the night
A name — her name —

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.

The Gracehoper was always jigging ajog, hoppy on akkant of his joyicity.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

I am other I now.