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The classics can console. But not enough.

Derek Walcott

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Derek Walcott
Age: 87 †
Born: 1930
Born: January 23
Died: 2017
Died: March 17
Author
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Derek Alton Walcott
Sir Derek Alton Walcott
Classics
Console
Enough

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You can't write drunk.
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I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
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A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
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The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
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The poem is itself a mirror.
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When poems are no good they don't make any sense.
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The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
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The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
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We read, we travel, we become.
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There's always more to see.
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Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
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For every poet it is always morning in the world history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
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The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
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We look and see what we see in a mirror, and we believe it. That's important, the question of belief. The question is: Should we believe what we see in a mirror?
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What are men? Children who doubt.
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The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.
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The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.
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In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.
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The thing that is believed is a reality.
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The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.
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