All Fiction Is Autobiographical Fantasy.

Stephen Jerked His Thumb Towards The Window, Saying: — That Is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! — What? Mr Deasy Asked. — A Shout In The Street, Stephen Answered, Shrugging His Shoulders.

Hold To The Now, The Here, Through Which All Future Plunges To The Past.

You Get A Decent Do At The Brazen Head

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.

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.