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

I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.

The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM!

I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me? One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been lived among them but now they are becoming lothed to me. And I am lothing their little warm tricks. And lothing their mean cosy turns. And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all! And me letting on to meself always. And lilting on all the time.

The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.

Though people may read more into Ulysses than I ever intended, who is to say that they are wrong: do any of us know what we are creating?Which of us can control our scribblings? They are the script of one's personality like your voice or your walk

Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.