After the writers’ workshop this evening I told my tale about Joyce’s Martello tower and about bumping into Seamus Heaney. Fellow scribe Cleve Moffet bested me with the following tale. As a twenty-something young American he went to Perugia to study Italian. His draft papers caught up with him and he had to go to an American military station at Trieste for processing. After the tests and the questioning (he was a conscientious objector), he found himself at a loose end in the city. So he looked up the name ‘Joyce’ in the local telephone directory, and there was the name, Stanislaus Joyce, James Joyce’s brother. With nothing better to do he went off to the address and rang the doorbell and Stanislaus opened the door. He did not say anything memorable, but his work as his brother’s keeper and guardian of the Joycean flame was by then well done and he would die a few years later, having published several works that documented the earlier years of his brother’s life. Of James’s time in Trieste,, Stanislaus wrote; “It seems to me little short of a miracle that anyone should have striven to cultivate poetry or cared to get in touch with the current of European thought while living in a household such as ours, typical as it was of the squalor of a drunken generation. Some inner purpose transfigured him.”