Many years ago, when I was 16 and away at school, one of my English teachers asked me to come and babysit for his children. It was about 9 o'clock as I was wandering around his bookshelves, when I came across a title that intrigued me -- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man -- I took the book down, and opened it, and my life was changed, utterly, completely, forever. I can remember the chair, the room, and that I broke into tears at the same moment as the terrible fight broke out over the death of Parnell, and on and on. I devoured that book, Dubliners, and all the rest I could handle, and years later I went to Dublin and walked the whole city, and the Bay, annotating my copy of Ulysses, and later, spent much time in university libraries tracking the vagaries of Finnegans Wake, and struggling -- as I still do -- to come to terms with his genius. Today is Bloomsday, June 16th -- commemoration day for all good Joyceans -- and a brief toast to James Joyce, who long ago changed my life.