Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.
James JoyceSecrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.
James JoyceWhat did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up like that to say goodnight and then his mother put her face down. That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces?
James Joyce