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

Don't look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.

It's a rare thing not to have been bonny-- once.

All I know is what the words know, and dead things, and that makes a handsome little sum, with a beginning and a middle and an end, as in the well-built phrase and the long sonata of the dead.

What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!

The Tuesday scowls, the Wednesday growls, the Thursday curses, the Friday howls, the Saturday snores, the Sunday yawns, the Monday morns, the Monday morns. The whacks, the moans, the cracks, the groans, the welts, the squeaks, the belts, the shrieks, the pricks, the prayers, the kicks, the tears, the skelps, and the yelps.

There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.