[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.

Every bond is a bond to sorrow.

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

I'd love to have the whole place swimming in roses

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. Paintings of Moreau are paintings of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom; Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.