Dubliners

by James Joyce

“Ah, there’s no friends like the old friends,” she said, “when all is said and done, no friends that a body can trust.”

But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad.

There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin.

He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances.

His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory—if anyone remembered him.