In a black box, glass-faced, placed in a room on the top floor of a Georgian house.
Little sign of the ulcer that killed him, or the stress of the years unpublished in exile,
Or the pain of the eye operations.
It’s not the original death mask – instead the product of revisions and iterations.
But it’s his parting glance to the world.
Smaller than his stature suggests, and gentler,
James Joyce sleeps in a quiet room, four storeys up, between Eccles Street and Nighttown.
Oddly, he looks at home.