James Joyce

Dubliners

    Melonhaedhas quoted2 months ago
    house, thinly peopled and si­lent, gave dis­tress­ing proph­ecy of fail­ure.
    Svetlana Videnovhas quoted3 months ago
    No one would think he’d make such a beau­ti­ful corpse.”
    Svetlana Videnovhas quoted3 months ago
    He had a beau­ti­ful death,
    Ljubicahas quoted4 months ago
    He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my heart I had always despised him a little
    Ljubicahas quoted4 months ago
    There was nothing he liked, he said, so much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating something which he had learned by heart or that,
    Ljubicahas quoted4 months ago
    sed these sentiments which bored us a little we kept silent.
    Ljubicahas quoted4 months ago
    He said that the happiest time of one’s life was undoubtedly one’s schoolboy days and that he would give anything to be young again.
    Ljubicahas quoted4 months ago
    But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.
    b5825192143has quoted5 months ago
    A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the win­dow. It had be­gun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, sil­ver and dark, fall­ing ob­liquely against the lamp­light. The time had come for him to set out on his jour­ney west­ward. Yes, the news­pa­pers were right: snow was gen­eral all over Ire­land. It was fall­ing on every part of the dark cent­ral plain, on the tree­less hills, fall­ing softly upon the Bog of Al­len and, farther west­ward, softly fall­ing into the dark mutin­ous Shan­non waves. It was fall­ing, too, upon every part of the lonely church­yard on the hill where Mi­chael Furey lay bur­ied. It lay thickly drif­ted on the crooked crosses and head­stones, on the spears of the little gate, on the bar­ren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow fall­ing faintly through the uni­verse and faintly fall­ing, like the des­cent of their last end, upon all the liv­ing and the dead
    b5825192143has quoted5 months ago
    Per­haps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A pet­ti­coat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood up­right, its limp up­per fallen down: the fel­low of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emo­tions of an hour be­fore. From what had it pro­ceeded? From his aunt’s sup­per, from his own fool­ish speech, from the wine and dan­cing, the mer­ry­mak­ing when say­ing good­night in the hall, the pleas­ure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Pat­rick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that hag­gard look upon her face for a mo­ment when she was singing “Ar­rayed for the Bridal.” Soon, per­haps, he would be sit­ting in that same draw­ing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sit­ting be­side him, cry­ing and blow­ing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might con­sole her, and would find only lame and use­less ones. Yes, yes: that would hap­pen very soon.
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