I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppled masonry, and time one livid final flame.

The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.

Wipe your glasses with what you know.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Love, yes. Word known to all men.