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.

All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.

There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.

The only decent people I ever saw at the racecourse were horses.

Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.

Shut your eyes and see.

Signatures of all things I am here to read.