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.

I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.

Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.

Does nobody understand?

Ineluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read.

I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

When I heard the word ''stream'' uttered with such a revolting primness, what I think of is urine and not the contemporary novel. And besides, it isn't new, it is far from the dernier cri. Shakespeare used it continually, much too much in my opinion, and there's Tristam Shandy, not to mention the "Agamemnon."