James Joyce

A man's errors are his portals of discovery.

A man's errors are his portals of discovery.

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or
behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, read more

The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or
behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out
of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

Sometimes he caught himself listening to the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would read more

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.

Never let us do wrong, because our opponents did so. Let us, rather, by doing right, show them what they read more

Never let us do wrong, because our opponents did so. Let us, rather, by doing right, show them what they ought to have done, and establish a rule the dictates of reason and conscience, rather than of the angry passions.