His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her grave-clothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.
They listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine.
I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
Shut your eyes and see.
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
You can still die when the sun is shining.
Absence, the highest form of presence.
Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.
Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
Your battles inspired me – not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.
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.
The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.
All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light...
Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
Civilization may be said indeed to be the creation of its outlaws.
Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not.
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.
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.
Your mind will give back to you exactly what you put into it.