There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.

Love, yes. Word known to all men.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.

Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

Saying that a great genius is mad, while at the same time recognizing his artistic worth, is like saying that he had rheumatism or suffered from diabetes. Madness, in fact, is a medical term that can claim no more notice from the objective critic than he grants the charge of heresy raised by the theologian, or the charge of immorality raised by the police.