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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.
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
Centre
Join
Yearns
Memory
Severed
Memories
Bamboo
Remember
Limb
Body
Thighs
Like
Remembering
Limbs
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The classics can console. But not enough.
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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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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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You can't write drunk.
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When poems are no good they don't make any sense.
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What are men? Children who doubt.
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To change your language you must change your life.
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Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.
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There's always more to see.
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The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
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The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
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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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The mirror is believed the way a poem is believed. It's believed because it's there.
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We read, we travel, we become.
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I read I travel I become
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Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
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The poem is itself a mirror.
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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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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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She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
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