“My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial.”

Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves.

The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude.

Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

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

In the particular is contained the universal.

We are bound together by the sympathy of our antipathies.

A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

I care not if I live but a day and a night, so long as my deeds live after me.

Places remember events.

One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.

I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.

All things are inconstant except the faith in the soul, which changes all things and fills their inconstancy with light.

Sentimentality is unearned emotion.

Mistakes are the portals of discovery.