Visual surprise is natural in the Caribbean; it comes with the landscape, and faced with its beauty, the sigh of History dissolves.

I know when dark-haired evening put on her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh, that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting. Is like telling mourners round the graveside about resurrection, they want the dead back.

We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.

I read; I travel; I become

Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.

I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?