Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: — That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy asked. — A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

Life is too short to read a bad book.

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

I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.