She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to policemen and its fine arts to impressarios?
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk.
And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long and did so little harm.
We are foolish, comic, motionless, corrupted, yet we are worthy of sympathy too.
Hushkah, a horn! Gadolmagtog! God es El?
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her.
Her beliefs were not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen but, if she was put to it, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.
With thee it was not as with many that will and would and wait and never do.
More mud, more crocodiles.
Ho, you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence.
A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman’s mouth? The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating. – That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. – Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that.
England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation’s decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation’s vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.
Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh?
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains.
YesIsaidyesyesyesyesyes... YesIsaidyes! andagainyesyesyes – Molly Bloom.
He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains.
Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.
Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely he mutely craved to adore.
The hour when he too would take part in the life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret he began to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the nature of which he only dimly apprehended.
Ineluctable modality of the visible...