It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come,… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
Then Nuvoletta reflected for the last time in her little long life and she made up all her myriads of drifting minds… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
The personality of the artist, at first a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid, and lambent narrative,… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. — James Joyce Copy Share Image
By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. — James Joyce Copy Share Image
Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
Shaw's works make me admire the magnificent tolerance and broadmindedness of the english. — James Joyce Copy Share Image
“Do you know what Ireland is?' asked Stephen with cold violence. 'Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.” — James Joyce Copy Share Image
The studious silence of the library ... Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. — James Joyce Copy Share Image
“two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed older… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame. — James Joyce Copy Share Image
In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not… — James Joyce Copy Share Image
