Ulysses Quotes - Page 2 | Just Great DataBase

I resent violence or intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due installments plans. It's a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak a different vernacular, so to speak.

Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his look. His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through, read her very soul.

Alone, what did Bloom feel?The cold of interstellar space, thousands of degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or Réaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn.

History ... is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake.

What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupifies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down.

And when all was said and done the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.

Oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.

If anyone thinks that I amn't divineHe'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wineBut have to drink water and wish it were plainThat I make when the wine becomes water again.

Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she?

Quotations every day of the year.

What dreams would he have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way?

Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions.

With will will we withstand, withsay.

Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

Coffined thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks. They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.

The mouth can be better engaged than with a cylinder of rank weed.

Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own.

The leaning of sophists toward the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant quantity. The highroads are dreary but they lead to the town.

Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires.

The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living mother.

Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.

And then a rocket sprang and bang shot blind and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O! and everyone cried O!O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars falling with golden, O so lively! O so soft, sweet, soft!

Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free.

Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick. Thousands every hour. Too many in the world.

They listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine.

And yet and yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is there all the time. Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears, she could have a good cry and relieve her pentup feelings. Though not too much because she knew how to cry nicely before the mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said.

It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained...

Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity.

What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of Milly, somnambulist, make to Stephen, noctambulist?

Each imagining himself to be the first last and only alone, whereas he is neither first last nor last nor only not alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.

You suspect, Stephen retorted with a sort of a half laugh, that I may be important because I belong to the fauborgh Saint Patrice called Ireland for short.—I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.—But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me.

I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse.

An exquisite dulcet epithalame of most mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous flambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium of connubial communion.

Lips kissed, kissing kissed.

Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.

Why was he doubly irritated?Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded himself twice not to forget.

He laughed to free his mind from his minds bondage.

...like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars.

And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness.

What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete.

I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter.

Yet too much happy bores. He stretched more, more. Are you not happy in your? Twang. It snapped.

He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder.

Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is after all.