No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ!
No roses without thorns.
In paradisum. Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he has to say something.
It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born. Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods.
These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here.
Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say.
Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Raleigh brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will, understanding, all. That is to say, he brought the poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public.
Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork.
May Allah, the Excellent One, your soul this night ever tremendously conserve.
He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.
He vows her to be his own honeylamb, swears they will be papa pals, by Sam, and share good times way down west in a guaranteed happy lovenest when May moon she shines and they twit twinkle all night combing the comet’s tail up right and shooting popguns at the stars.
Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.
It is quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet’s grandson is Shakespeare’s grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own father.
What imperfections in a perfect day did Bloom, walking, silently, successively, enumerate?
The Irish, being underdogs, necessarily knew more than their rulers. Theirs was the perennial problem of quickwitted subjects under the governance of dull-witted administrators.
Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.
The post-modern novel is now conceding, if not its absurdity, then its limited durability.
Necessity is that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise.
There’s no-one as blind as the fellow that won’t see, if you know what that means.
It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.