Remembering a legend and his artistic ensemble, in this month of mourning for Derek Walcott - a much-loved Nobel laureate of our times! (23 January 1930 – 17 March 2017).
In this candid interview with Edward, Derek Walcott deliberates on a host of issues close to his heart - on the English language, on being a Caribbean writer, on V. S. Naipaul, on the importance of the figure of Robinson Crusoe to him, on Heaney, on his guru Robert Lowell, his style of writing, and lots more...
Reproducing below, a wonderfully taken interview - i would personally rate it the best Derek has given - where he opens his mind and heart to everything about Derek - the artist!
INTERVIEWER: What would you say about the epiphanic
experience described in Another Life,
which seems to have confirmed your destiny as a poet and sealed a bond to your
native island?
WALCOTT
There are some things people avoid saying in interviews
because they sound pompous or sentimental or too mystical. I have never
separated the writing of poetry from prayer. I have grown up believing it is a
vocation, a religious vocation. What I described in Another Life—about being on the hill and feeling the sort of
dissolution that happened—is a frequent experience in a younger writer.
I felt this sweetness of melancholy, of a sense of mortality, or rather of immortality, a sense of gratitude both for what you feel is a gift and for the beauty of the earth, the beauty of life around us. When that’s forceful in a young writer, it can make you cry. It’s just clear tears; it’s not grimacing or being contorted, it’s just a flow that happens. The body feels it is melting into what it has seen. This continues in the poet. It may be repressed in some way, but I think we continue in all our lives to have that sense of melting, of the “I” not being important. That is the ecstasy. It doesn’t happen as much when you get older.
There’s that wonderful passage in Traherne where he talks about seeing the children as moving jewels until they learn the dirty devices of the world. It’s not that mystic. Ultimately, it’s what Yeats says: “Such a sweetness flows into the breast that we laugh at everything and everything we look upon is blessed.” That’s always there. It’s a benediction, a transference. It’s gratitude, really. The more of that a poet keeps, the more genuine his nature. I’ve always felt that sense of gratitude. I’ve never felt equal to it in terms of my writing, but I’ve never felt that I was ever less than that. And so in that particular passage in Another Life I was recording a particular moment.
I felt this sweetness of melancholy, of a sense of mortality, or rather of immortality, a sense of gratitude both for what you feel is a gift and for the beauty of the earth, the beauty of life around us. When that’s forceful in a young writer, it can make you cry. It’s just clear tears; it’s not grimacing or being contorted, it’s just a flow that happens. The body feels it is melting into what it has seen. This continues in the poet. It may be repressed in some way, but I think we continue in all our lives to have that sense of melting, of the “I” not being important. That is the ecstasy. It doesn’t happen as much when you get older.
There’s that wonderful passage in Traherne where he talks about seeing the children as moving jewels until they learn the dirty devices of the world. It’s not that mystic. Ultimately, it’s what Yeats says: “Such a sweetness flows into the breast that we laugh at everything and everything we look upon is blessed.” That’s always there. It’s a benediction, a transference. It’s gratitude, really. The more of that a poet keeps, the more genuine his nature. I’ve always felt that sense of gratitude. I’ve never felt equal to it in terms of my writing, but I’ve never felt that I was ever less than that. And so in that particular passage in Another Life I was recording a particular moment.
INTERVIEWER: How
do you write? In regard to your equation of poetry and prayer, is the writing
ritualized in any way?
WALCOTT
I don’t know how
many writers are willing to confess to their private preparatory rituals before they get
down to putting something on paper. But I imagine that all artists and all
writers in that moment before they begin their working day or working night
have that area between beginning and preparation, and however brief it is,
there is something about it votive and humble and in a sense ritualistic.
Individual writers have different postures, different stances, even different physical attitudes as they stand or sit over their blank paper, and in a sense, without doing it, they are crossing themselves; I mean, it’s like the habit of Catholics going into water: you cross yourself before you go in. Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic. I haven’t noticed what my own devices are. But I do know that if one thinks a poem is coming on—in spite of the noise of the typewriter, or the traffic outside the window, or whatever—you do make a retreat, a withdrawal into some kind of silence that cuts out everything around you.
What you’re taking on is really not a renewal of your identity but actually a renewal of your anonymity, so that what’s in front of you becomes more important than what you are. Equally—and it may be a little pretentious-sounding to say it—sometimes if I feel that I have done good work I do pray, I do say thanks. It isn’t often, of course. I don’t do it every day. I’m not a monk, but if something does happen I say thanks because I feel that it is really a piece of luck, a kind of fleeting grace that has happened to one. Between the beginning and the ending and the actual composition that goes on, there is a kind of trance that you hope to enter where every aspect of your intellect is functioning simultaneously for the progress of the composition. But there is no way you can induce that trance.
Individual writers have different postures, different stances, even different physical attitudes as they stand or sit over their blank paper, and in a sense, without doing it, they are crossing themselves; I mean, it’s like the habit of Catholics going into water: you cross yourself before you go in. Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic. I haven’t noticed what my own devices are. But I do know that if one thinks a poem is coming on—in spite of the noise of the typewriter, or the traffic outside the window, or whatever—you do make a retreat, a withdrawal into some kind of silence that cuts out everything around you.
What you’re taking on is really not a renewal of your identity but actually a renewal of your anonymity, so that what’s in front of you becomes more important than what you are. Equally—and it may be a little pretentious-sounding to say it—sometimes if I feel that I have done good work I do pray, I do say thanks. It isn’t often, of course. I don’t do it every day. I’m not a monk, but if something does happen I say thanks because I feel that it is really a piece of luck, a kind of fleeting grace that has happened to one. Between the beginning and the ending and the actual composition that goes on, there is a kind of trance that you hope to enter where every aspect of your intellect is functioning simultaneously for the progress of the composition. But there is no way you can induce that trance.
Lately, I find
myself getting up earlier,
which may be a sign of late middle age. It worries me a bit. I guess this is
part of the ritual: I go and make a cup of coffee, put on the kettle, and have
a cigarette. By now I’m not too sure if out of habit I’m getting up for the
coffee rather than to write. I may be getting up that early to smoke, not
really to write.
INTERVIEWER: What
time is this?
WALCOTT
It can vary. Sometimes it’s as early as half-past
three, which is, you know, not too nice. The average time would be about five.
It depends on how well I’m sleeping. But that hour, that whole time of day, is
wonderful in the Caribbean. I love the cool darkness and the joy and splendor
of the sunrise coming up. I guess I would say, especially in the location of
where I am, the early dark and the sunrise, and being up with the coffee and
with whatever you’re working on, is a very ritualistic thing. I’d even go
further and say it’s a religious thing. It has its instruments and its
surroundings. And you can feel your own spirit waking.
INTERVIEWER: Another
Life suggests that eventually you gave up painting as a vocation and
decided to concentrate on poetry. Recently, though, you seem to be at work on
your watercolors again. What happened?
WALCOTT
What I tried to say in Another Life is that the act of painting is not an intellectual act
dictated by reason. It is an act that is swept very physically by the sensuality
of the brushstroke. I’ve always felt that some kind of intellect, some kind of
preordering, some kind of criticism of the thing before it is done, has always
interfered with my ability to do a painting. I am in fairly continual practice.
I think I’m getting adept at watercolor. I’m less mucky. I think I could do a
reasonable oil painting. I could probably, if I really set out, be a fairly
good painter. I can approach the sensuality. I know how it feels, but for me
there is just no completion. I’m content to be a moderately good watercolorist.
But I’m not content to be a moderately good poet. That’s a very different
thing.
INTERVIEWER: Am
I correct that you published your first poem, “The Voice of St. Lucia,” at
the precocious age of fourteen? I’ve read that the poem stirred up a
considerable local controversy.
WALCOTT
I wrote a poem talking about learning about God through
nature and not through the church. The poem was Miltonic and posed nature as a
way to learn. I sent it to the local papers and it was printed. Of course, to
see your work in print for any younger writer is a great kick. And then the
paper printed a letter in which a priest replied (in verse!) stating that what
I was saying was blasphemous and that the proper place to find God was in church.
For a young boy to get that sort of response from a mature older man, a priest
who was an Englishman, and to be accused of blasphemy was a shock. What was a
more chastising thing was that the response was in verse. The point of course
was to show me that he was also capable of writing verse. He did his in
couplets and mine was in blank verse. I would imagine if I looked at both now
that mine was better.
INTERVIEWER: Most American and English readers think of
In a Green Night as your first book.
Before you published abroad, however, you had already printed three booklets at
your own expense in the West Indies. How did you come to publish the first one,
25 Poems?
WALCOTT
I used to write every day in an exercise book, and when
I first wrote I wrote with great originality. I just wrote as hard and as well
as I felt. I remember the great elation and release I felt, a sort of hooking
on to a thing, when I read Auden, Eliot, and everyone. One day I would write
like Spender, another day I would write like Dylan Thomas. When I felt I had
enough poems that I liked, I wanted to see them in print. We had no publishing
house in St. Lucia or in the Caribbean. There was a Faber collection of books
that had come out with poets like Eliot and Auden, and I liked the typeface and
how the books looked. I thought, I want to have a book like that. So I selected
a collection of twenty-five of them and thought, Well, these will look good
because they’ll look like they came from abroad; they’ll look like a published
book. I went to my mother and said, “I’d like to publish a book of poems, and I
think it’s going to cost me two hundred dollars.” She was just a seamstress and
a schoolteacher, and I remember her being very upset because she wanted to do
it. Somehow she got it—a lot of money for a woman to have found on her salary.
She gave it to me, and I sent off to Trinidad and had the book printed. When
the books came back I would sell them to friends. I made the money back. In
terms of seeing a book in print, the only way I could have done it was to
publish it myself.
INTERVIEWER: How
does your sense of discovery of new subject matter integrate with the
formal elements in your work?
WALCOTT
One of the things
that people have to look at in West Indian literature is this: that what we were deprived
of was also our privilege. There was a great joy in making a world that so far,
up to then, had been undefined. And yet the imagination wants its limits and
delights in its limits. It finds its freedom in the definition of those limits.
In a sense, you want to give more symmetry to lives that have been undefined.
My generation of West Indian writers has felt such a powerful elation at having
the privilege of writing about places and people for the first time and,
simultaneously, having behind them the tradition of knowing how well it can be
done—by a Defoe, a Dickens, a Richardson. Our world made us yearn for
structure, as opposed to wishing to break away from it, because there was no
burden, no excess of literature in our heads. It was all new.
INTERVIEWER: Well,
then how do you see yourself in terms of the great tradition of poetry in the English language?
WALCOTT
I don’t. I am
primarily, absolutely a Caribbean writer. The English language is nobody’s special property. It
is the property of the imagination; it is the property of the language itself.
I have never felt inhibited in trying to write as well as the greatest English
poets. Now that has led to a lot of provincial criticism—the Caribbean critic
may say, You are trying to be English, and the English critic may say, Welcome
to the club. These are two provincial statements at either end of the spectrum.
It’s not a matter of trying to be English. I am obviously a Caribbean poet. I
yearn for the company of better Caribbean poets, quite frankly. I feel a little
lonely. I don’t see what I thought might have happened—a stronger energy, a
stronger discipline, and a stronger drive in Caribbean poetry. That may be
because the Caribbean is more musical: every culture has its particular
emphasis and obviously the Caribbean’s poetry, talent, and genius is in its
music. But then again the modern Caribbean is a very young thing. I consider
myself at the beginning, rather than at the end, of a tradition.
INTERVIEWER: Would
you say that your relationship to English poetry has changed over the
years? As your work has progressed you seem to have increasingly affiliated
yourself with a line of New World poets from Whitman through St. John Perse to
Aimé Césaire and Pablo Neruda.
WALCOTT
Carlos Fuentes talked in a Paris Review interview about
the essential Central American experience, which includes the whole basin of
the Caribbean—that it is already a place of tremendous fertility. The whole New
World experience here is shared by Márquez as it is by Borges, as it is still
by American writers. In fact, too many American poets don’t take on the scale
of America. Not because we should write epics but because it seems to be our
place to try to understand. In places that are yet undefined the energy comes
with the knowledge that this has not yet been described, this has not yet been
painted. This means that I’m standing here like a pioneer. I’m the first person
to look at this mountain and try to write about it. I’m the first person to see
this lagoon, this piece of land. Here I am with this enormous privilege of just
being someone who can take up a brush. My generation of West Indian writers,
following after C. L. R. James, all felt the thrill of the absolute sense of
discovery. That energy is concomitant with being where we are; it’s part of the
whole idea of America. And by America, I mean from Alaska right down to
Curaçao.
INTERVIEWER: How
do you respond to V. S. Naipaul’s repeated assertion—borrowed from
Trollope—that “nothing was created in the British West Indies”?
WALCOTT
Perhaps it should
read that “Nothing was created by the British in the West Indies.” Maybe that’s the answer. The
departure of the British required and still requires a great deal of endeavor,
of repairing the psychological damage done by their laziness and by their
indifference. The desolation of poverty that exists in the Caribbean can be
very depressing. The only way that one can look at it and draw anything of
value from it is to have a fantastic depth of strength and belief, not in the
past but in the immediate future. And I think that whenever I come back here,
however desolate and however despairing I see the conditions around me to be, I
know that I have to draw on terrible reserves of conviction. To abandon that
conviction is to betray your origins; it’s to feel superior to your family, to
your past. And I’m not capable of that.
INTERVIEWER: Why
is the figure of Robinson Crusoe so important to you?
WALCOTT
There was a time,
both in terms of my own life
and in terms of the society, when I had an image of the West Indian artist as
someone who was in a shipwrecked position. He was someone who would have to
build (again) from the concept of being wrecked on these islands. I wrote a
poem called “The Castaway.” I told my wife I was going to stay by myself for a
weekend somewhere down in Trinidad. My wife agreed. I stayed in a beach house
by myself and I wrote the poem there. I’m not saying that’s the origin of my
Crusoe idea. But it’s possible. The beaches around here are generally very
empty—just you, the sea, and the vegetation around you, and you’re very much by
yourself. The poems I have written around the Crusoe theme vary. One of the
more positive aspects of the Crusoe idea is that in a sense every race that has
come to the Caribbean has been brought here under situations of servitude or
rejection, and that is the metaphor of the shipwreck, I think. Then you look
around you and you have to make your own tools. Whether that tool is a pen or a
hammer, you are building in a situation that’s Adamic; you are rebuilding not
only from necessity but also with some idea that you will be here for a long
time and with a sense of proprietorship as well. Very broadly that is what has
interested me in it. There are other ironies, like the position of Friday as
the one who is being civilized. Actually, the reverse happens. People who come
out to the Caribbean from the cities and the continents go through a process of
being recultured. What they encounter here, if they surrender to their seeing,
has a lot to teach them, first of all the proven adaptability of races living
next to each other, particularly in places like Trinidad and Jamaica. And then
also in the erasure of the idea of history. To me there are always images of
erasure in the Caribbean—in the surf that continually wipes the sand clean, in
the fact that those huge clouds change so quickly. There is a continual sense
of motion in the Caribbean—caused by the sea and the feeling that one is almost
traveling through water and not stationary. The size of time is larger—a very
different thing in the islands than in the cities. We don’t live so much by the
clock. If you have to be in a place where you create your own time, what you
learn, I think, is a patience, a tolerance, how to make an artisan of yourself
rather than being an artist.
INTERVIEWER: What
constitutes an artistic generation in the Caribbean?
WALCOTT
An artistic
generation in this part of the world is about five years. Five years of endurance. After
that, I think people give up. I see five years of humanity and boredom and
futility. I keep looking at younger writers, and I begin to see the same kind
of despair forming and the same wish to say the hell with it, I’m getting out
of here. There’s also a problem with government support. We have come to a kind
of mechanistic thinking that says, a government concerns itself with housing,
food, and whatever. There will always be priorities in terms of sewage and electricity.
If only a government could form the idea that any sensible human being wants
not only to have running water, but a book in hand and a picture on the wall.
That is the kind of government I had envisaged in the Caribbean when I was
eighteen or nineteen. At fifty-five, I have only seen an increase in venality,
an increase in selfishness, and worse than that, a shallow kind of service paid
to the arts. I’m very bitter about the philistinism of the Caribbean. It is
tough to see a people who have only one strength and that is their culture.
Trinidad is perhaps the most concentrated example of a culture that has
produced so many thousands and thousands of artisans at Carnival. Now Carnival
is supported by the government, but that’s a seasonal kind of thinking. I’m
talking about something more endemic, more rooted, more organic to the idea of
the Caribbean. Because we have been colonies, we have inherited everything, and
the very thing we used to think was imperial has been repeated by our own
stubbornness, stupidity, and blindness.
INTERVIEWER: Your prologue to Dream on Monkey Mountain also blasts the crass, state-sponsored
commercialization of folk culture. One of your subjects in both poetry and
essays has been how negatively tourism has affected the West Indies. Would you
discuss that?
WALCOTT
Once I saw
tourism as a terrible danger to a culture. Now I don’t, maybe because I come down here so often
that perhaps literally I’m a tourist myself coming from America. But a culture
is only in danger if it allows itself to be. Everybody has a right to come down
in the winter and enjoy the sun. Nobody has a right to abuse anybody, and so I
don’t think that if I’m an American anybody should tell me, Please don’t come
here because this beach is ours, or whatever. During the period I’m talking
about, certainly, servility was a part of the whole deal—the waiters had to
smile, and we had to do this and so forth. In tourism, it was just an extension
really of master/servant. I don’t think it’s so anymore. Here we have a generation
that has strengthened itself beyond that. As a matter of fact, it can go beyond
a balance and there’s sullenness and a hostility toward people who are your
guests. It can swing too far as well. But again, it’s not enough to put on
steel bands and to have people in the hotels entertaining and maybe to have a
little show somewhere to keep them what they think is light-minded and happy
and indifferent and so on. If that’s the opinion that the government or culture
has of itself, then it deserves to be insulted. But if it were doing something
more rooted in terms of the arts, in terms of its writers, its painters, and
its performers, and if there were more pride in that and not the kind of thing
you see of guys walking around town totally bored and hoping that something can
happen . . . I’m not one to say that you can’t do things for yourself because
certainly having spent all my life in the Caribbean theater and certainly
seventeen very exacting years in the workshop, I do say, yes—get up and do it
yourself and stop depending on the government. But there is a point where you
have to turn to the state and say, Look man, this is ridiculous. I pay my
taxes. I’m a citizen. I don’t have a museum. I don’t have a good library. I
don’t have a place where I can perform. I don’t have a place where I can dance.
That’s criminal. It’s a carryover of the same thing I said about the West
Indies being seized and atrophied by a petty-bourgeois mentality from the
metropolis that has been adopted by the Creole idea of life, which is simply to
have a damn good time and that’s it, basically. I mean that’s the worst aspect
of West Indian life: Have a good time, period.
INTERVIEWER:
What do you have
against folklorists and anthropologists? Some people think of them as an intellectually
respectable lot.
WALCOTT
I don’t trust
them. They either embarrass or elevate too much. They can do a good service if they
are reticent and keep out of the way. But when they begin to tell people who
they are and what they are, they are terrifying. I’ve gone to seminars in which
people in the audience who are the people the folklorists are talking about,
are totally baffled by their theories.
INTERVIEWER: One of your most well-known early poems, “A Far Cry from Africa,” ends with the
question, “How can I turn from Africa and live?” However, by 1970 you could
write that “the African revival is escape to another dignity,” and that “once
we have lost our wish to be white, we develop a longing to become black, and
those two may be different, but are still careers.” You also assert that the
claim to be African is not an inheritance but a bequest, “a bill for the
condition of our arrival as slaves.” These are controversial statements. What
is your current sense of the West Indian writer’s relationship to Africa?
WALCOTT
There is a duty
in every son to become his own man. The son severs himself from the father. The Caribbean
very often refuses to cut that umbilical cord to confront its own stature. So a
lot of people exploit an idea of Africa out of both the wrong kind of pride and
the wrong kind of heroic idealism. At great cost and a lot of criticism, what I
used to try to point out was that there is a great danger in historical
sentimentality. We are most prone to this because of suffering, of slavery.
There’s a sense of skipping the part about slavery, and going straight back to
a kind of Eden-like grandeur, hunting lions, that sort of thing. Whereas what
I’m saying is to take in the fact of slavery, if you’re capable of it, without
bitterness, because bitterness is going to lead to the fatality of thinking in
terms of revenge. A lot of the apathy in the Caribbean is based on this
historical sullenness. It is based on the feeling of “Look what you did to me.”
Well, “Look what you did to me,” is juvenile, right? And also, “Look what I’m
going to do to you,” is wrong. Think about illegitimacy in the Caribbean! Few
people can claim to find their ancestry in the linear way. The whole situation
in the Caribbean is an illegitimate situation. If we admit that from the
beginning that there is no shame in that historical bastardy, then we can be
men. But if we continue to sulk and say, Look at what the slave-owner did, and
so forth, we will never mature. While we sit moping or writing morose poems and
novels that glorify a nonexistent past, then time passes us by. We continue in
one mood, which is in too much of Caribbean writing: that sort of chafing and
rubbing of an old sore. It is not because one wishes to forget; on the
contrary, you accept it as much as anybody accepts a wound as being a part of his
body. But this doesn’t mean that you nurse it all your life.
INTERVIEWER: What
are your feelings about Boston, which you have called the “city of my exile”?
WALCOTT
I’ve always told myself that I’ve got to stop using the
word exile. Real exile means a complete loss of the home. Joseph Brodsky is an
exile; I’m not really an exile. I have access to my home. Given enough stress
and longing I can always get enough money to get back home and refresh myself
with the sea, the sky, whatever. I was very hostile about Boston in the
beginning, perhaps because I love New York. In jokes, I’ve always said that
Boston should be the capital of Canada. But it’s a city that grows on you
gradually. And where I live is very comfortable. It’s close to the university.
I work well there, and I very much enjoy teaching. I don’t think of myself as
having two homes; I have one home, but two places.
INTERVIEWER: Robert
Lowell had a powerful influence on you. I’m thinking of your memorial poem
“RTSL” as well as the poem in Midsummer where you assert that “Cal’s bulk
haunts my classes.” Would you discuss your relationship to Lowell?
WALCOTT
Lowell and
Elizabeth Hardwick were on a tour going to Brazil and they stopped off in Trinidad. I
remember meeting them at Queen’s Park Hotel and being so flustered that I
called Elizabeth Hardwick, Edna St. Vincent Millay. She said, “I’m not that old
yet.” I was just flabbergasted. And then we became very friendly. My wife
Margaret and I took them up to the beach. Their daughter, Harriet, was there. I
remember being up at this beach house with Lowell. His daughter and his wife, I
think, must have gone to bed. We had gas lanterns. Imitations had just come out
and I remember that he showed me his imitations of Hugo and Rilke and asked me
what I thought about them. I asked him if two of the stanzas were from Rilke,
and he said, “No, these are mine.” It was a very flattering and warm feeling to
have this fine man with this great reputation really asking me what I thought.
He did that with a lot of people, very honestly, humbly, and directly. I
cherish that memory a lot. When we went back to New York, Cal and Lizzie had a
big party for us with a lot of people there, and we became very close. Cal was
a big man in bulk but an extremely gentle, poignant person, and very funny. I
don’t think any of the biographies have caught the sort of gentle, amused,
benign beauty of him when he was calm. He kept a picture of Peter, my son, and
Harriet for a long time in his wallet, and he’d take it out and show it to me.
He was sweetly impulsive. Once I went to visit him and he said, “Let’s call up
Allen Ginsberg and ask him to come over.” That’s so cherishable that it’s a
very hard thing for me to think of him as not being around. In a way, I can’t
separate my affection for Lowell from his influence on me. I think of his
character and gentleness, the immediacy that was part of knowing him. I loved
his openness to receive influences. He was not a poet who said, I’m an American
poet, I’m going to be peculiar, and I’m going to have my own voice which is
going to be different from anybody’s voice. He was a poet who said, I’m going
to take in everything. He had a kind of multifaceted imagination; he was not
embarrassed to admit that he was influenced even in his middle age by William
Carlos Williams, or by François Villon, or by Boris Pasternak, all at the same
time. That was wonderful.
INTERVIEWER: What
about specific poetic influence?
WALCOTT
One of the things
he said to me was, “You must put more of yourself in your poems.” Also he suggested that I drop the
capital letters at the top of the line, use the lowercase. I did it and felt
very refreshed; it made me relax. It was a simple suggestion, but it’s one of
those things that a great poet can tell you that can be phenomenal—a little
opening. The influence of Lowell on everyone, I think, is in his brutal
honesty, his trying to get into the poetry a fictional power that wasn’t there
before, as if your life was a section of a novel—not because you are the hero,
but because some of the things that were not in poems, some of the very
ordinary banal details, can be illumined. Lowell emphasized the banality. In a
sense to keep the banality banal and still make it poetic is a great
achievement. I think that’s one of the greatest things that he did in terms of
his directness, his confrontation of ordinariness.
INTERVIEWER: Would
you tell the story of your first poetry reading in the States? It must have
been rewarding to hear Lowell’s extravagant introduction.
WALCOTT
Well, I didn’t
know what he said because I was in back of the curtain, I think it was at the Guggenheim.
I was staying at the Chelsea Hotel, and that day I felt I needed a haircut, so,
foolishly, I went around the corner and sat down. The barber took the electric
razor and gave me one of the wildest haircuts I think I’ve ever had. It
infuriated me, but you can’t put your hair back on. I even thought of wearing a
hat. But I went on anyway; my head looked like hell. I had gotten some distance
into the reading—I was reading “A Far Cry from Africa”—when suddenly there was
the sound of applause from the auditorium. Now I had never heard applause at a
poetry reading before. I don’t think I’d ever given a formal poetry reading,
and I thought for some reason that the applause was saying it was time to stop,
that they thought it was over. So I walked off the stage. I felt in a state of
shock. I actually walked off feeling the clapping was their way of saying,
Well, thank you, it’s been nice. Someone in charge asked me to go back and
finish the reading, but I said no. I must have sounded extremely arrogant, but
I felt that if I went back out there it would have been conceited. I went back
to Trinidad. Since I hadn’t heard Lowell’s introduction, I asked someone for it
at the Federal Building, which had archives of radio tapes from the Voice of
America. I said I would like to hear the Lowell tape, and the guy said, “I
think we erased that.” It was only years later that I really heard what Cal
said, and it was very flattering.
INTERVIEWER: How
did you become friends with Joseph Brodsky?
WALCOTT
Well, ironically
enough, I met Brodsky at Lowell’s funeral. Roger Straus, Susan Sontag, and I went up to Boston
for the funeral. We waited somewhere for Joseph, probably at the airport, but
for some reason he was delayed. At the service I was in this pew when a man sat
down next to me. I didn’t know him. When I stood up as the service was being
said, I looked at him and I thought, if this man is not going to cry then I’m
not going to cry, either. I kept stealing glances at him to see if anything was
happening, but he was very stern looking. That helped me to contain my own
tears. Of course it was Brodsky. Later, we met. We went to Elizabeth Bishop’s
house, and I got to know him a little better. The affection that developed
after that was very quick and, I think, permanent—to be specific about it is
hard. I admire Joseph for his industry, his valor, and his intelligence. He’s a
terrific example of someone who is a complete poet, who doesn’t treat poetry as
anything else but a very hard job that he does as well as he can. Lowell worked
very hard too, but you feel in Joseph that that is all he lives for. In a sense
that’s all any of us lives for or can hope to live for. Joseph’s industry is an
example that I cherish a great deal.
INTERVIEWER: When
did you first become friends with Seamus Heaney?
WALCOTT
There was a
review by A. Alvarez of Seamus’s book, a very upsetting review—to put it mildly—in which he was
describing Heaney as a sort of blue-eyed boy. English literature always has a
sort of blue-eyed boy. I got very angry over the review and sent Seamus a note
via my editor with a little obscenity in it. Just for some encouragement.
Later, in New York we had a drink at someone’s house. From then on, the
friendship has developed. I see him a lot when he is in Boston at Harvard. I
just feel very lucky to have friends like Joseph and Seamus. The three of us
are outside of the American experience. Seamus is Irish, Joseph is Russian, I’m
West Indian. We don’t get embroiled in the controversies about who’s a soft
poet, who’s a hard poet, who’s a free-verse poet, who’s not a poet, and all of
that. It’s good to be on the rim of that quarreling. We’re on the perimeter of
the American literary scene. We can float out here happily not really committed
to any kind of particular school or body of enthusiasm or criticism.
INTERVIEWER
Over the years
your style seems
to have gotten increasingly plainer and more direct, less gnarled, more casual,
somehow both quieter and fiercer at the same time. Is that an accurate
assessment of the poetic style of your middle age? I can’t imagine a book like
Midsummer from the young Derek Walcott.
These are just
excerpts from a long interview that Derek gave to Edward Hirsch.
Kudos to Edward
Hirsch for having done a brilliant one at that! For more on the interview, you
may want to check it out at the Paris Review HERE.
Images of Derek Walcott, courtesy -
nobelprize.org
repeatingislands.org
caribbean-beat.com
vol1brooklyn.com
bu.edu
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