There is James Joyce, the lionised author; there is young Jim Joyce, full of confidence and with nothing to justify it and no good reason to believe he ever will; and there is Stephen Dedalus, the fictional altar of his ego.
A Galway man, with Norman and Spanish blood, coursing and cursing through his veins, he could cant and gammer with horse traders
‘Murder wasn’t enough. These guardians of one version of independence would ration even human sympathy.’
None of my three sons are here to share it