Damn you, Walcott! Damn you! And the pirogue that you sailed in on!
I don’t know why I do this to myself. Where is that damn dictionary?
“Arma virumque cano…” What the hell can that mean? How would one find out? Why should I care?
In moments of self-seeking, of trying to find myself, I lose myself in Derek Walcott, the recipient of the 1992 Nobel Prize for Literature.
I make the mistake of starting to…
