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.
Derek WalcottAbout author
- Author's profession: Playwright
- Nationality: trinidadian
- Born: January 23, 1930
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Jean-Claude’s face twisted. I couldn’t decide if he was trying not to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that way.
The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look a cat gives a small bird.
Her voice lifted at the end of each word, a...
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