93 ordspråk av James Joyce

James Joyce

James Joyce föddes den 2 februar 1882 och dog den 13 januar 1941 - irländsk författare.
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When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.

Our civilization, bequeathed to us by fierce adventurers, eaters of meat and hunters, is so full of hurry and combat, so busy about many things which perhaps are of no importance, that it cannot but see something feeble in a civilization which smiles as it refuses to make the battlefield the test of excellence.

The poor man starves while they are grassing their royal mountain stags or shooting peasants and partridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and power

You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.

I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown.

I shall write a book some day about the appropriateness of names. Geoffrey Chaucer has a ribald ring, as is proper and correct, and Alexander Pope was inevitably Alexander Pope. Colley Cibber was a silly little man without much elegance and Shelley was very Percy and very Bysshe.

Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascent to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable lonliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own.

Kjærlighet

Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible beacuse there must be sexual intercourse.

And his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes

Every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.

Sorg

Her companionship was like a warm soil about an exotic.

Kjærlighet

I belong to the faubourg Saint-Patrice called Ireland for short

The feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer

Ireland is the sow that eats her own farrow

By the age of 45, I knew I could no longer start a sentence with a mention of strudel. My fingers would want to do it but my mind just wouldn't react.

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