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In Ireland, the light is secretive. Textured, uncertain, and cool, it falls short of corners, conspiring with shadows to fill every room and alley with an air of foreboding. Compound that baleful light with fog and a near-constant drizzle, and youβve the perfect recipe for staying indoors, layering up, brooding into your cups before a fire and producing some of the worldβs finest literature. James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, W. B. Yeats, and even C. S. Lewis, born in Belfast, are but a few of Irelandβs sons. In Faery, the qualities of light,
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