We spend our life, it's ours, trying to bring together in the same instant a ray of sunshine and a free bench
The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
To restore silence is the role of objects.
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Nothing is funnier than unhappiness.