Women are all the bloody sameyou can't love for five minutes without wanting it abolished in brats and house bloody wifery.

I have nothing but wastes and wilds of self-translation before me for many miserable months to come.

It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.

I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.

I lay down across her with my face in her breasts and my hand on her. We lay there without moving. But under us all moved, and moved us, gently, up and down, and from side to side.