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- LITERATURE, Page 65Bard of the Island Life
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- Derek Walcott's Nobel Prize rewards a career spent bringing
- new subjects and cadences to the English tongue
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- By PAUL GRAY
-
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- In handing out Nobel Prizes in Literature, the Swedish
- Academy is sometimes accused of political correctness, of paying
- undue attention to geopolitical and ethnic considerations. So
- in one respect, last week's award to poet Derek Walcott was
- unsurprising. Of mixed ancestry (African, Dutch, English),
- Walcott was born 62 years ago on the tiny Windward Island of St.
- Lucia in what was then the British West Indies. A native
- Caribbean writer had never before won a Nobel Prize.
-
- But nobody suggested after the announcement was made that
- Walcott had won the laurel, worth $1.2 million, on charity. He
- has long been regarded as one of the finest living poets in
- English, an accolade made even more impressive by the struggles
- Walcott underwent to earn it.
-
- Both of his parents were schoolteachers, although his
- father died when Walcott was only one, and the house in St.
- Lucia that he, his twin brother and older sister grew up in was
- filled with books. But the allure of the English language, and
- of the English poetry recited aloud in his classrooms, came
- tempered with a sense of exclusion from white British culture,
- the resentment felt by a subject of an alien, occupying power.
- In one of his early poems, he pondered his faraway African
- heritage and asked,
-
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- Where shall I turn, divided to the vein?
-
- I who have cursed
-
- The drunken officer of British rule, how choose
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- Between this Africa and the English tongue I love?
-
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- The tension between these divided loyalties animates
- nearly all of Walcott's poetry. Rather than seeing his position
- as impossible -- a poet on the margins of two mutually
- exclusive cultures -- Walcott adopted this dilemma as one of his
- principal subjects. In this respect, much of his work is
- self-conscious; the point of contact between language and
- experience is, of necessity, the presiding poet, and the more
- difficult this contact is, the more visible the poet's struggle
- becomes.
-
- But Walcott never whines or indulges in unseemly
- confessions; he is, in fact, inordinately harsh with himself.
- Sometimes he claims his material is beyond or beneath the power
- of his art. In Gros-Ilet, he describes a small, desolate island
- village and concludes, "This is not the grape-purple Aegean. /
- There is no wine here, no cheese, the almonds are green, / the
- sea grapes bitter, the language is that of slaves." At other
- times, he is worried that his devotion to the English language
- has severed him from the people of his childhood. The Light of
- the World portrays the visiting poet on a bus filled with
- village inhabitants:
-
-
- And I had abandoned them, I knew that there
-
- sitting in the transport, in the sea-quiet dusk,
-
- with men hunched in canoes, and the orange lights
-
- from the Vigie headland, black boats on the water;
-
- I, who could never solidify my shadow
-
- to be one of their shadows, had left them their earth,
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- their white rum quarrels, and their coal bags,
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- their hatred of corporals, of all authority.
-
-
- Such moments revivify nostalgia in the original, classical
- Greek sense: nostos (return) plus algos (pain). For years
- Walcott has divided his calendar equally between Boston, where
- he teaches literature and creative writing at Boston University,
- and a residence in Trinidad, a base for his frequent travels
- elsewhere in the Caribbean. This regular shuttling between two
- worlds has kept his poetry balanced between heartless skill and
- artless passion. The speakers of Walcott's poems are half
- strangers wherever they find themselves, not because they want
- to be but because they have no choice. In The Lighthouse, an
- island vendor approaches the poet and smiles: "Fifty? Then/ you
- love home harder than youth!"
-
- This is a specific statement about a concrete emotion --
- Walcott rarely generalizes or resorts to abstractions -- and yet
- it echoes well beyond its given point of utterance. At their
- most intense, Walcott's 10 volumes of poetry convey all the
- strangeness and exotica of island life -- of poor, forgotten
- people surrounded by water on a margin of the earth -- and make
- the whole spectacle as familiar as the view across the street.
-
- It is misguided to praise poets for their subjects. Many
- of them, like Walcott, had little choice in the matter. What
- poets do with their inheritances means everything. And Walcott's
- language has evolved from his early, rather stilted imitations
- of English poets into an instrument of marvelous flexibility:
- capable of grand, sweeping imagery but also of harsh
- interruptions and interjections, slang, pidgin and Creole patois
- and subtle Caribbean syncopations. The combined effect is a
- verbal radiance, of scenes illuminated by "a moon so bright /
- you can read palms by it."
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