"He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music."
Despite Joyce's apparent and almost divine literary powers, the novel's heavy-handedness rendered it flawed. The first half was a true, literary tour-de-force, while the second relied mostly on religious and/or confusing and rambling philosophical (and seemingly irrelevant, at times) musings, some of which resonated with me, though much did not; there was a patch o"
"“The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew"