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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.
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
Ruins
Landscape
Forts
Apart
Landscapes
History
Rises
Estates
Sigh
Abandoned
Sugar
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The classics can console. But not enough.
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The thing that is believed is a reality.
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When poems are no good they don't make any sense.
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How can I turn from Africa and live?
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When you get a class reciting some great poems, it'll tear your heart out.
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Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
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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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I read I travel I become
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The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.
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The poem is itself a mirror.
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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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The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.
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Good science and good art are always about a condition of awe. I don't think there is any other function for the poet or the scientist in the human tribe but the astonishment of the soul.
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Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.
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A culture, we all know, is made by its cities.
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What are men? Children who doubt.
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In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.
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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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We read, we travel, we become.
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She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
Derek Walcott
