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.
If you don't know where you are currently standing, you're dead.
I cannot explain my plays. Each must find out for himself what is meant
We could have saved sixpence. We could have saved fivepence. But at what cost?
James Joyce: His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself.
Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.