So entire and unquestionable was this sense of the divine meaning in all nature granted to his soul that he could scarcely understand why it was in any way necessary that he should continue to live. Yet that was part of the divine purpose and he dared not question its use, he above all others who had sinned so deeply and so foully against the divine purpose.

— James Joyce

James Joyce Quotes

Coal’s short but we’ve plenty of bog in the yard. And barley’s up again, begrained to it. The lads is attending school nessans regular, sir, spelling beesknees with hathatansy and turning out tables by mudapplication.

— James Joyce

And he has pipettishly bespilled himself from his foundingpen as illspent from inkinghorn.

— James Joyce

What went forth to the ends of the world to traverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow’s noise in the street. Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. Ecco !

— James Joyce

With the tabarine tamtammers of the whirligigmagees.

— James Joyce

I never could read His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.

— James Joyce

It’s our warm spirits, boys, he’s spooring.

— James Joyce

I’ll trip your traps!

— James Joyce

Did or didn’t we, sharestutterers?

— James Joyce

It’s allavalonche that blows nopussy food.

— James Joyce

Your heart is in the system of the Shewolf and your crested head is in the tropic of Copricapron. Your feet are in the cloister of Virgo. Your olala is in the region of sahuls.

— James Joyce

Yet this war has meed peace? In voina viritas. Ab chaos lex, neat wehr? – O bella! O pia! O pura! Amem. Handwalled amokst us. Thanksbeer to Balbus!

— James Joyce

The prankquean was to hold her dummyship and the jimminies was to keep the peacewave and van Hoother was to git the wind up. Thus the hearsomeness of the burger felicitates the whole of the polis.

— James Joyce

He added in a preacher’s tone: – For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

— James Joyce

We are praying now for the repose of his soul. Hoping you’re well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory.

— James Joyce

The night was cold and gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.

— James Joyce

Then the twelve brothers, Jacob’s sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher and then the angel of death kills the butcher and kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everyone else. That’s what life is after all.

— James Joyce

God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

— James Joyce

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person a hunchback clever if he says something that we might say. Of course the other senses are more.

— James Joyce

Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. Then supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato’s world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.

— James Joyce

Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering.

— James Joyce
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