A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
Ainsi dans l'avenir frère du passé, peut-être me verrai-je tel que je suis actuellement.
All moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday till the fear of the Law.
Amour, amour, amour, pourquoi m'avez-vous laissé seul?
And they beheld Him, even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of forty-five degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green Street like a shot off a shovel.
Aucun homme ne saurait être épris du vrai et du bien sans abhorrer la multitude, et l'artiste, quoiqu'il puisse faire usage de la foule, veille soigneusement à s'en isoler.
Bienvenue, ô vie! Je pars, pour la millionième fois, chercher la réalité de l'expérience et façonner dans la forge de mon âme la conscience incréée de ma race.
But it's no use, says he.Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that that is really life.
By an epiphany he meant a sudden spiritual manifestation, whether in vulgarity of speech or of gesture or in a memorable phase of the mind itself. He believed that it was for the man of letters to recover these epiphanies with extreme care, seeing that they themselves are the most delicate and evanescent of moments.
Ce qui importe par-dessus tout dans une œuvre d'art, c'est la profondeur vitale de laquelle elle a pu jaillir.
Come forth, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job.
Dans le sein virginal de l'imagination, le verbe s'était fait chair.
Ès ventre la femme le verbe s'est fait chair, mais en l'esprit du créateur toute chair qui passe devient le mot qui oncques ne passera.
Ève n'avait pas de nombril. Contemple. Ventre sans tache, gros de toutes les grossesses.
God is a shout in the street.
Gott ist ein Schrei auf der Straße.
Greater love than this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his wife for his friend. Go thou and do likewise. Thus, or words to that effect, saith Zarathustra, sometime regius professor of French letters to the university of Oxtail.
He . . . saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.
He kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
He was outcast from life's feast.
His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
How small it's all.
I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile, and cunning.
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