C.F. Joyce Quotes
The folly of war is that it can have no natural end except in the extinction an entire people.
He was ugly, himself. Weird-ugly. But ugliness in a man doesn't matter, much. Ugliness in a woman is her life.
The danger of motherhood. you relive your early self, through the eyes of your mother.
Wherever it is you make your home, there is always this other place, this other person, calling to you. Come to me. Come back.
The innocence of such children doesn't answer our deepest questions about this vale of tears to which we are condemned, but it helps to dispel them. That is the secret to family life.
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.
We are stimulated to emotional response, not by works that confirm our sense of the world, but by works that challenge it.
This was before voice mail, recorded phone messages you can't escape. Life was easier then. You just didn't pick up the phone.
Truths are the last thing you learn about your family. By the time you learn, you're no longer their child.
I became intent on saving him through showing him that he was loved.
Critics sometimes appear to be addressing themselves to works other than those I remember writing.
...People would make the decisions they wished to make and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.
I'm sure all that you've heard is just the usual gossip, invented to injure feelings rather than illuminate truth.
When my brother called to inform me, on the morning of May 22, 2003, that our mother Caroline Oates had died suddenly of a stroke, it was a shock from which, in a way, I have yet to recover.
Obviously the imagination is fueled by emotions beyond the control of the conscious mind.
If critics of 'readable fiction' want literature to change the ways people dream, they need first to come down from the mountain and speak to the people.
I'd defend the right for any novelist to experiment with form or language, but if people don't take to it, don't react by making out that they are thick.
There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.
When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once.
Read your own obituary notice; they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.
Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has walked in the right path.
I confess that I do not see what good it does to fulminate against the English tyranny while the Roman tyranny occupies the palace of the soul.
The end he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about to be opened to him.
He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.
I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when it is insulted and spit on.
Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eons of the gods.
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.
