O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me what I badly wanted to put some heart up into me you’ve no chances at all in this place like you used long ago I wish somebody would write me a love letter.
What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.
Love, yes. Word known to all men.
Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself the soul being unable to become virgin again and not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another s soul.
They lived and laughed and loved and left.
I’ve been working hard on [Ulysses] all day,” said Joyce. Does that mean that you have written a great deal?” I said. Two sentences,” said Joyce. I looked sideways but Joyce was not smiling. I thought of [French novelist Gustave] Flaubert. “You’ve been seeking the mot just?” I said. No,” said Joyce. “I have the words already. What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentence.
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crust crumbs, fried hen cods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
When the Irishman is found outside of Ireland in another environment, he very often becomes a respected man. The economic and intellectual conditions that prevail in his own country do not permit the development of individuality. No one who has any self-respect stays in Ireland, but flees afar as though from a country that has undergone the visitation of an angered Jove.
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.
Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.
Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.
The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
The important thing is not what we write but how we write, and in my opinion the modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously
For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.
I shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names. Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.
I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.
Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.