In this story, a lover of James Joyces' Ulysses says:
"'...such language, such beauty. And out of it a world richer and realer than anything here. Can you believe I feel more alive in that book than in this place?'"
"...Dublin, home town, heart town. She had never been there, except in her mind..."
"'In my heart I feel a Dublin girl, and it's 1904, and I'm breathing the smells of Grafton Street and Tyrone Street and Killiney Strand, and taking a stout in Larry O'Rourke's pub. It's all so real...'"
We live in worlds that writers make real. Joyce made Dublin real to Milly because it was real to him. Poul Anderson made other worlds real to us because he imagines them. I have marched through Zorkagrad with Flandry and Kossara surrounded by zmayi.
