Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

Light black. From pole to pole.

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

The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.

Nothing is funnier than unhappiness, I grant you that. Yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world.

But he had hardly felt the absurdity of those things, on the one hand, and the necessity of those others, on the other, (for it is rare that the feeling of absurdity is not followed by the feeling of necessity), when he felt the absurdity of those things of which he had just felt the necessity (for it is rare that the feeling of necessity is not followed by the feeling of absurdity.)