The Human Eyelid Is Not Teartight (happily

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

Light Black. From Pole To Pole.

That Penny Farthing Hell You Call Your Mind

James Joyce: His Writing Is Not About Something. It Is The Thing Itself.

The Tears Of The World Are A Constant Quantity. For Each One Who Begins To Weep, Somewhere Else Another Stops. The Same Is True Of The Laugh.