I feel my brains, like a pear, to see if it's ripe; it will be exquisite by September.

For if it is rash to walk into a lion's den unarmed, rash to navigate the Atlantic in a rowing boat, rash to stand on one foot on top of St. Paul's, it is still more rash to go home alone with a poet.

. . . these errand-boys and furtive and fugitive girls who, ignoring their doom, look in at shop windows? But I am aware of our ephemeral passage.

Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.

On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.

I have lost friends, some by death...others by sheer inability to cross the street.

[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.