[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.

When she read just now to James, 'and there were numbers of soldiers with kettledrums and trumpets,' and his eyes darkened, she thought, why should they grow up, and lose all that?

Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.

There are no teachers, saints, prophets, good people, but the artists.

For it is a curious fact that though human beings have such imperfect means of communication, that they can only say 'good to eat' when they mean 'beautiful' and the other way about, they will yet endure ridicule and misunderstanding rather than keep any experience to themselves.

To communicate is our chief business; society and friendship our chief delights; and reading, not to acquire knowledge, not to earn a living, but to extend our intercourse beyond our own time and province.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.