About a dozen of us, mostly Irish, mostly cold, stood on the wet and windswept main square of the western Hungarian city of Szombathely on a Monday in early May.
Members of a James Joyce reading group from Glasthule in south Dublin, we had travelled three hours from Budapest to see a sculpted bronze likeness of our hero. And there he was, thick specs, cane, boater hat and all, embedded in the wall of a...
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