Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in per-son? Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed intooure eryan! Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daugh-ters of. Whawk? Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flitter-ing bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffey-ing waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos won't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night! . James Joyce
I told you. You don't love someone because of their looks or their clothes or their car. You love them because they sing a song only your heart can understand.
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L.j. Smith
Now, Max, I think we both know your parents aren't missionaries." I opened my eyes wide. "No? Well, for God's sake, don't tell them. They'd be crushed. Thinking they're doing the Lord's work and all.
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James Patterson
Are we biology or God or something higher? I know my heart beats and I listen to it. The beat is biology, but what is the song?
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James Frey
He's the meanest one. We call him.. Byrd the Turd
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Marthe Jocelyn
Rina’s always claimed that I expect too little from life, ” Standard said.“ Then at least you’ll never be disappointed.
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James Sallis
More Quotes By James Joyce
His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.
You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not...
And yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
Why is it that words like these seem dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?
Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.
