Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.
Watt's concern, deep as it appeared, was not after all what the figure was, in reality, but with what the figure appeared to be, in reality.
Where am I, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.
Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.
Be again, be again. (Pause.) All that old misery. (Pause.) Once wasn't enough for you.
You cried for night - it falls. Now cry in darkness.
Sloth is all passions the most powerful.
Was I asleep? Had I slept?
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
The search for the means to put an end to things, an end to speech, is what enables the discourse to continue.
My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
What is more true than anything else? To swim is true and to sink is true. One cannot speak any more of being, one must speak onlyof the mess.
Dublin university contains the cream of Ireland: Rich and thick.
Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
They never lynch children, babies, no matter what they do they are whitewashed in advance.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?
I always thought old age would be a writer’s best chance. Whenever I read the late work of Goethe or W. B. Yeats I had the impertinence to identify with it. Now, my memory’s gone, all the old fluency’s disappeared. I don’t write a single sentence without saying to myself, ‘It’s a lie!’ So I know I was right. It’s the best chance I’ve ever had.
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