“In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.”

“We were always loyal to lost causes...Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the imagination. ~ Professor MacHugh”

“His eyes were dimmed with tears, and, looking humbly up to heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.”

“Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.”

“Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind.”

“I'll tickle his catastrophe.”

“I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short time of space.”

“It was cold autumn weather, but in spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse; every bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow.”

“Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?”

“[A writer is] a priest of eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.”

“When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.”

“The intellectual imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM!”

“[...] a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.”

“Interpretations of interpretations interpreted.”

“I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Can’t bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you?”

“Lord, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low.”

“For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul, or hers.”

“I am other I now.”

“Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.”

“You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of free thought.”

“You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think?”

“No one would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.”

“The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the sound is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived.”

“A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.”