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Samuel Riba is about to turn 60. A successful publisher in Barcelona, he has published many of his generation's most important authors. But he is increasingly prone to attacks of anxiety - about the digital revolution and its threat to books and 'high culture', and about the fact that he has yet to discover in the younger generation a writer of 'genius'. One night he has a vivid dream that takes place in Dublin, a city he has never visited. In the dream a funeral is being held for the printing press, at the same time as a homage to James Joyce's Ulysses. At the graveside hovers a mysterious figure in a mackintosh. Who is this? James Joyce, his protégé Samuel Beckett, or the elusive great writer that Riba so longs to find? Gathering together a group of friends, Riba decides to travel to Dublin for Bloomsday to hold his very own funeral for the book. In the process of marking a death, he makes some illuminating discoveries about life.
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Need to re-visit when i have more time for self-absorbed musings of an old intellectual
Me sentí atrapada en la lectura,en el mal sentido . Solo quería terminarlo porque se había vuelto tedioso leerlo.