[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.

Places remember events.

White wine is like electricity. Red wine looks and tastes like a liquified beefsteak.

Thought is the thought of thought.

She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for her for love was the master guide. Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.

Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.