In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!
James JoyceHe could not feel her near him in the darkness nor hear her voice touch his ear. He waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he was alone.
James JoyceOne of the things I could never get accustomed to in my youth was the difference I found between life and literature.
James JoyceWhy is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
James JoyceIneluctable modality of the visible; at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read.
James JoyceWhat birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.
James Joyce