The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.
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.
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.
Visual surprise is natural in the Caribbean; it comes with the landscape, and faced with its beauty, the sigh of History dissolves.
Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.