Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother’s love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must be. What are our ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that bloody bleating goat Temple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too. Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts.
Melancholy was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple joy.
Stephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with tangled twine-coloured hair.
I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.
Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?
He waited for some moments, listening, before he too took up the air with them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life’s journey they seemed weary already of the way.
He had to undress and then kneel and say his own prayers before the gas was lowered so that he might not go to hell when he died.
The world is before you.
Pincushions. I’m a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window curtains.
A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her.
To say that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic merit, is no better than to say he is rheumatic or diabetic.
There is an art in lighting a fire. We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts. This is one of the useful arts.
It made me sad to see your eyes. I cannot say why.
Make me feel good in the moontime.
O Jamesy let me up out of this pooh.
The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn’t lilt here.
The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare’s hoofs clattering along the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling behind him.
He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder.
There’s the Belle for Sexaloitez! And Concepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Godavari, vert the showers! And grant thaya grace! Aman.