Medieval English Literature Home University of Modern Knowledge #43

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Contents

  1. Annette (katyee8) - Forest Hills, NY ( books)
  2. Commentary for Riddle 43
  3. Quizzes and Trivia
  4. Kyk-over-Al

We have welcomed worldwide members from over countries; we are a large international group which spans the globe. Land of the Morning Calm - the Two Koreas - sign up here - https: Around the World in 80 Books — members — last activity 3 hours, 14 min ago Reading takes you places. Where in the world will your next book take you? If you love world literature, translated works, travel writing, or explorin Reading takes you places.

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People Annette is Following. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account. Want to Read saving… Error rating book. Delusional fantasy satirizing the rivalry of biologists in the discovery of new species. The Island of Dr. The Wheels of Chance: This story of the misadventures of a draper's assistant on a bicycling holiday is the first of the five comedies of lower middle-class life: Cf 13, 22, 32, The Argonauts of the Air.

The Story of the Late Mr. A schoolboy dreading examinations is by a mysterious stranger given an apple said to be from the Tree of Knowledge, but loses it before he can nerve himself up to trying it out. SF in a delusional-fantasy frame. When soul and body separate at the moment of death, the soul, being immaterial and hence unaffected by either inertia or external force, remains fixed in space while body, earth, and solar system speed away.

Pollock and the Porroh Man. Mundane melodrama involving the wonders of technology. A mixture of mundane comedy and delusional fantasy resulting from the eating of a mushroom. In the Modern Vein: An Unsympathetic Love Story. A Slip Under the Microscope. Mundane comedy of student life at the Normal School of Science; cf A Collection of Material, Mainly Autobiographical, ap. Among those not in A6 are the two of most direct SF interest: The War of the Worlds.

Martians invade England with a technological superiority as overwhelming and a ruthlessness as complete as that with which Europeans have invaded Africa and Australasia. Remains the standard of comparison for all stories on the world-catastrophe theme. When the Sleeper Wakes. A2 text of ; p. The revolt of the proletariat in the megalopolis of a future extrapolated on the basis of Marxist theory and the assumption of continued technological advance under laissez-faire government; thus a laissez-faire utopia in that it realizes the dreams Free Enterprise, but also a laissez-faire dystopia in that the effects are shown to be disastrous for the human spirit.

A page epitome of the colliding-worlds theme. A Story of the Stone Age. The invention of the axe, the taming of the horse, etc. A Story of the Days to Come. Pastoral dream and megalopolitan reality in the laissez-faire dystopia of ; cf For the film, see The ambitions of youth abandoned under the pressures of sexuality for the comforts of marriage. This second of the five comic novels see 6 was Wells's first serious attempt at realistic fiction and his bid for reputation as a serious novelist.

Although it failed in its immediate purpose, its depiction of student life at the Normal School of Science and its portrait of Chaffery the Medium have since made it one of his most popular novels. The First Men in the Moon, Regarded by Wells as the best of his scientific romances and by many readers as the unrivaled masterpiece of the cosmic voyage.

In this book, which was more responsible than any other for the development of futurology, Wells turned from the Marxist thinking of 11 to the development of his own vision of the future. The old social classes will dissolve into a new mixture of four main elements: In the earlier years of the century there will be not one but many moralities, not one but many reading publics, etc. The growing unity of the world will result in the spread of those languages that offer the largest bodies of imaginative and scientific literature, and also in the aggregation of smaller states into larger ones; by the end of the century the world will probably be dominated by three great powers: The Discovery of the Future: A Discourse Delivered to the Royal Institution.

The classic statement of the difference between the kind of mind that looks to the past and the kind that looks to the future.

Annette (katyee8) - Forest Hills, NY ( books)

A Tissue of Moonshine. A5 p , Fantasy. The Method of 3 and 8 with the subject matter of 13, except that here the youthful ambitions include an advantageous marriage already arranged and are abandoned for the "better dreams" advocated by the mermaid heroine. Mankind in the Making. A4 74p; selections as indicated below. Concerned with education, health care, and social legislation as means of making ordinary people Efficients rather than unemployables and thus of saving them from the Abyss of This first of the Wellsian manifestos see 59, 69, 75 calls upon the reader to dedicate himself to "the service of the future of the race.

The Problem of the Birth Supply. Argues against positive eugenics and ridicules the fear of the rapid multiplication of the unfit. Political and Social Influences. A4 first half only, as "The Case for Republicanism". The first of Wells's many attacks on the English monarchy and aristocracy. On the publishing and distributing of books. This argument that the administrative areas planned by the Fabians are far too small for the demands of the modern world is mentioned frequently by Wells in his later work. The building of the first aeroplane. Magic is in the eye of the beholder. A classic story of the conflict between the child's vision and the adult's mundaneness.

The Valley of Spiders. Biological SF within a parable of the ruler and the ruled. The Truth About Pyecraft. An epitome of one side of the theme most pervasive in Wells's mundane fiction: Skelmersdale declines the invitation of the fairy queen and then regrets having done so for the rest of his life in this dreary world. Cf 17 and Jimmy Goggles the God. The effect of the wonders of technology on the superstitious natives. A drug that accelerates human reactions a thousandfold. A Dream of Armageddon. On a number of occasions in his later writings, Wells uses the expressions "Food of the Gods" and "Sea Lady" for opposing forces in the human heart; for one example, see A9 p; including the Appendix, "Scepticism of the Instrument," which is of some importance in the history of semantics.

The world as it might have been in if history had been somewhat different, as shown by a parallel world out beyond Sirius; that is, a world more technologically advanced than Edwardian England only in the ways and to the degrees that would have been possible through the wider application of techniques already available. The Story of a Simple Soul. With this story of a draper's assistant who inherits a fortune, Wells achieved the success that had eluded him with Henceforth for many readers he was to be the supreme interpreter of the life of the lower middle class-the "new Dickens.

In the Days of the Comet. The first half of this book presents a considerably darker picture of lower-class life than that presented in 22 or any of the other early comedies. There seems to be no term in current usage, though eucatastrophe might serve, for a nonmillenial world-shaking natural event of beneficial effect, the theme not being common in literature. So far as I know, the only story comparable to 23 in this respect is Poul Anderson's Brain Wave The Future in America: A Search After Realities. An examination of various aspects of American life in an effort to determine whether the United States is on the way to become the kind of Great State that Wells envisions in such works as 15, 21, 27, Socialism and the Family.

A pamphlet on matters covered more fully but less radically in This Misery of Boots. A frequently reprinted essay in which shoddy footware is made to stand for all the inefficiencies of the capitalist system. New Worlds for Old. An exposition of "modern Socialism," directed primarily at the middle classes, and said to have been the most widely influential socialist propaganda of its day. Includes the matter of two pamphlets: Will Socialism Destroy the Home?

Notable for its blending of the science fiction of great events with the comedy of lower middle-class life. After a series of misadventures, Mr. Smallways finds himself on the flagship of the German Aerial Navy and thus with a grandstand seat for the beginning of the war that destroys civilization.

Unlike 39 and 84 in that the destruction of civilization has no utopian aftermath. First and Last Things: A Confession of Faith and a Rule of Life. An introduction to philosophy. Begins with an exposition of the "neo-nominalism" which Wells began to develop as early as in "The Rediscovery of the Unique" Fortnightly Review. Of the sections omitted in A11, the first seven deal with the possibility of organized brotherhoods along the lines of the Samurai 21 , and the last three with an attitude toward war rendered difficult to defend if not untenable by Widely regarded as Wells's masterpiece, this is the autobiography of a scientist involved in the rise and fall of a financial empire that originates in the success of the eponymous patent medicine.

In its concluding chapters, with the world collapsing around the protagonists, it becomes somewhat farcical and science-fictional in the search for an SF metal and the use of an SF aircraft. As has been noted by several critics, this book does for turn-of-the century England, especially with respect to advertising, corporate finance, and class relationships, what 11 attempted to do for the future. The most cogent account of the relationship between the two books is given by Wells in a preface that appears in the Collins edition of The Sleeper Awakes.

A Modern Love Story. The first of Wells's novels to deal primarily with the upper classes, and the first to include extensive discussions of morality and politics, this story of a young woman from a respectable home who defies her parents, first in going to London to study biology and live on her own, then in demonstrating with the suffragettes and going to jail for the cause, and finally in setting up housekeeping with the man she loves even though he already has a wife, scandalized a vocal segment of the older generation and became an international success among young people.

The History of Mr. A return to the comedy of lower middle-class life, this book had a success comparable to that of 22 and continues to be one of Wells's most popular books. The autobiography of a politician who chooses, at the height of his career, to abandon politics for an illicit love cf For the scandal that arose from the similarity of two of the characters to Sidney and Beatrice Webb, and from the similarity of the crucial love affair to an affair of Wells' own, see Lovat Dickson, H. His Turbulent Life and Times. Together with 13, 17, 62, they thus represent Wellsian variations on the ancient theme of love and honor.

With marginal drawings by J. An introduction to the art. The second of the prig novels see With an Appendix on Kriegspiel. Ellis indicates that a considerable literature has grown up in this field, all deriving from this book. If so, it has in its field the same kind of importance that 15, 56, and 80 have in theirs. The most romantic of the Prig novels see 33 --and the book in which the phrase "open conspiracy" first appears see An Englishman Looks at the World: Being a series of Unrestrained Remarks on Contemporary Matters.

A9, 18, 20, 27 p. A20, Of the channel crossing that demonstrated the practicability of heavier-than-air flight; of Wells's own venture three years later; and of the inevitable effect of the abolition of distance on commerce, politics, and social life. Argues against imperial tariffs, imperial military establishments, etc. Argues that modern conditions demand, not mere tinkering with wages and hours, which seems to be the sole concern of the labor unions, but fundamental changes in the social structure.

The Common Sense of Warfare.


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Argues against conscription, for education. The major statement of Wells's literary theory. The Philosopher's Public Library. A description of what a public library should and very economically could be. About Chesterton and Belloc. On the most persistent of his friendly enemies, who fought at his side against the capitalist order, but parted from him in advocating distributism rather than socialism and who are the objects of friendly comment or gentle satire in many of his books not always gentle in the case of Belloc; see especially About Sir Thomas More.

Originally the introduction to an edition of Utopia published in , the year 21 appeared. Suggests that it might be more economical to rebuild London on a new site. This So-Called Science of Sociology. Against Comte, Spencer; for Plato and the utopian approach. The Schoolmaster and the Empire. Against regarding Polonius as the ideal schoolmaster. The Endowment of Motherhood.

Commentary for Riddle 43

The most convenient statement of an idea also treated in 21, 27, For medicine as a "sanely organized public machine. An Age of Specialization? Argues that this is instead an age of the decline of specialization. The Disease of Parliaments. Eh-eh, whenever Bana see herself in that position, riding the big German-made motor cycle on the road, he does want to leave he wife and come bachelor, but he wife is a fire-pot. The - 58 - Fiction KYK 43 woman mouth hot like pepper, people does say. And this Bana too frighten she mouth. Bana praying for that day to reach!

Is Bana technique to impress them boys knowing they can't read so catholic. And what about Sripal and Jackson? Them boys was damn impress, me telling you. But Sugrim is a hard nut to crack. Sugrim does always tell people he ain't want no blasted Communist take over the country. Take over he religion. He is he own big man. And the moment you eye-pass Sugrim, call he a bare-face U. And is over a year now Bana and Stinkman get Sugrim in they mind like a weight on they shoulder. They claim Sugrim betraying the people. Indeed Sugrim could pull away votes from the P.

Sugrim tongue sweet likesugar, Bana thinking. Is likewhen Solo tackling Susan. Them words could cut thru rockstone. Them boys say Solo far better than Romeo, them big words breezing through he mouth like water through koker. Is the same with this Sugrim. And seeing he does sell cow-milk and chicken he get the advantage to sweet-talk people who going to he place. Is different form what Abdul Hamid been tell them.

He would never fool them. Still Sugrim words does get them people pondering. And Bana and Stinkman deeply aware of Sugrim growing influence among the people. Fiction KYK 43 Sugrim tongue get honey, they say. Bana and Stinkman never tell Hamid about Sugrim. But by hooks or crooks they have to shut this Sugrim mouth once and for all, seeing is three weeks before the election, and the Party cannot afford to lose a single vote in the area.

So while this Bana winding-up the meeting, Stinkman, a broad-built young man in his early twenties, unemployed so far, done envision clear as daylight how Sugrim going to bawl for murder tomorrow night. And Sugrim wife and high-faluting daughter going to run out the house too. Sugrim daughter, Sandra, who believe all them young boys in the area is not-a-rass, not-working millionaire nuh!

Quizzes and Trivia

Then he see one particular, joking incident in his mind Was a Sunday around ten in the dark night. The area already dead in sleeping, heavy clouds up in the sky. Stinkman, Kaatool, and Cock-eye, done anchor by the trench- dam, close to Tamkeen house. This time small rockstone done lodge in they pocket. Kaatool fine and thin- bone, you know, but he beady-eye always sparkle with mischief. And talk about food!

Them boys say Kaatool belly na get bottom. He should drink castor oil. So it make little difference whether this Kaatool could read or write but the office job in he way. Just let the Party win the election. Now Stinkman, Kaatool, and Cock-eye fortify they position on the dark trench-dam, aiming at Tamkeen house, eyes turning cat-like. This time Tamkeen house real quiet inside and dark. Tamkeen Fiction KYK 43 is a fencesitter. Everybody know he is like goatshit. This Tamkeen does rear cow and sell cowdung years now. He wife does sell provision in the market. Tamkeen damn independent, people say.

Tamkeen never show his face at any political meeting held in the area. He keeping altogether by himself, but punctually at six sharp every evening he attending Masjid. In the eyes of Bana and Stinkman, Tamkeen is damn bloody selfish. He is a downgrade capitalist. Is during when Bana, Stinkman and Kaatool does move house- to-house soliciting contribution, one dollar, two dollar, for the group. Is on bright Sundays while juke-box blaring in the area, and drunk men bussing- up bottle in the streets, calling each other, "yuh damn crab-dog Quick time Bana would tell them people that so and so is P.

Material Information

Any dark night you house-top could be stoned, or you fowl missing in you fowlpen, or you daughter name come a whore in people mouth. Never pay to make bad with he and Stinkman," people does talk, fright showing in they eye, lips twitching. But this Tamkeen daringly different. He telling you plain and straight in you face that he ain't get time for no kiss-me-ass Party.

They all hungry fo power Is like Tamkeen reducing them to mere dust, they say. Make itworsewhen Tamkeen say: Think politics is tiefing you fowl? Make pass at you daughter? Now himself, Kaatool, and Cock-eye is about to teach Tamkeen this lesson. So Stinkman squat on the trench-dam, rockstone in he right hand, grinding he teeth. Kaatool and Cock-eye in action now. Is like two more bullet explode, shaking up the whole street like hurricane passing through.

This time Tamkeen wife bawling for murder, murder: Meantime Tamkeen done rush out the house with a paling stave in he hand, cursing "damn mumma so and so! Me Tamkeen going to smash they balls. They playing man, nuh? Me know is who. Them chaps take the third street, running, and head for the big dam, laughing he he he as if is a big joke. Bana would pelt down a laugh.

Think we is cockroach P. Don't tell me you hungry so fast man," Stinkman say. Then he sit-down on a wooden stand by the street-head, night still dark and silent. Only dogs barking and donkey braying. And if you hear themcurse! Eh-eh,yougoing to believe Tamkeen born with themwordsinhemouth,or he don't scrub he tongue with blacksage,somepeoplewould say. Is daddy, and mumma and pickneeallrollinonc Like people throwaway God behind they back. He didn't see them chaps with he own two eye, and no eye-witness was present, he argue.

But he plan to extract murderous revenge sometime in the future. Give cow long rope! Them piss-in- tail crabdog bound to fall in me hand some day, Tamkeen tell herself. Think God blind like goat. And is then me going to trap them like bird. Mash them ass good and - Fiction KYK 43 proper. May Allah forgive me Bana shake he head, killing himself with laugh, belly rolling like barrel.

Just let me get this Organizing job. Is war to play. And Stinkman all-set to deal with Sugrim well and proper. A thorn in the flesh, this Sugrim. Is true thing, he could pull away votes. Can't happen, Stinkman say one rainy night. And the Party people might blame himself and Bana, and all too bad, he office job in jeopardy. Each vote count comrade The Thursday night was dark and heavy. Is only crickets and beetles humming gr gr gr in people front yards and backyards, among flowers and trees. By now, some dogs done curl-up under bottom-houses, snarling when-ever a donkey walk the streets, shaking off mosquito and fly off he skin.

Almost everybody in bed now, some cluster-up, some snoring like when you blowing whistle. Stinkman and Kaatool squat in the fine street, close-by to Sugrim wooden fence, eye straight in Sugrim house. This time mosquito and ants want kill them with bite, and they dare not slap the mosquito and ants, else Sugrim could wake-up, and the whole mission would absolutely flop.

So Stinkman and Kaatool enduring all the sting, crouching like soldiers in ambush, scratching they skin with vengeance as if cow-itch fall on it. Meanwhile, two good-size redbrick clasp in they palm, fingers already baiting it so as to get a perfect aim. But first thing, Stinkman survey the street first like a perfect thief, eyes sharp in all darkness. Stinkman and Kaatool redbrick rebound on Sugrim rooftop one after the other.

It sound like thunder, rattling the whole zinc. Sugrim wife and children want get crazy. This time the place so bloody dark you couldn't even see a horse self in the street don't matter how you strain you eye. Now, Katool raise hcself and aim, then he swing he right hand forcefully for the kill, cursing Sugrim damn stinking in he mind. He couldn't able move. He feel he body like timber "Yes Kaatool! Is you and the police going to talk," Sugrim say, shouting for the neighbours: Ahyuh see down right advantage?

Kaatool shake he body as if he come out from a trance. Then is speed to kill with he and Stinkman thru the side street, blowing as if they running race. By the time Sugrim rush out he yard and flash the torchlight Clicks thru the street, Stinkman and Kaatool vanish as if they turn spirit.

He don't touch a fly self This is kiss-me-ass advantage. Politics turning people like devil. They don't have respect anymore They suspect is Stinkman and Kaatool do the job but they dare not call name. Stinkman and Kaatool could easily victimise them, too. Politics killing you self respect, they seem to say, so confused. Was about ten o' clock and the weather was warm and cozy, the streets busy like hell. Ajcepload of helmeted policemen with gun strap to they waist, already roaming the area, eye sharp like hawk, looking for Stinkman and Kaatool.

Sugrim sit-down in the jeep, eye red like fire- ass, hurt showing in he face. They like take advantage nuh! This time, them policemen was gruff, grunting like pig. And soon as they spot a youth walking in the street, they nab at him quicktime, acting like big bullies, demanding forthwith to know the whereabouts of this Stinkman and Kaatool. If them policemen only spot you is trouble in store for you. They would believe all to God you area Communist. Quicklime they slapping - 64 - Fiction KYK 43 you blai blai, and shout: And if you hear they mouth. Them woman teeth grinding gruu gruu like brick rubbing on rockstone.

It could chase lion, some people been say. This time Bana and Cock-eye done vanish out the district. If they get caught, they know damn well them policemen going to smash they ass. He damn well know he get sumptuous flesh to take-in police baton blap blap blap So after Bana and Cock-eye envision the whole police brutality, they mind flash straight at they own balls.

A man without he manhood is no man at all. Them is marked P. Is they the one who leading the people in the communist way, them policemen does say whenever they hear reports about political wrangling in the area. Then at a sudden, the crowd attempt a rush at the jeep in sheer haste. The driver panic and draw brakes, and as the crowd attempt to jump-in the jeep, Sugrim fart seeing he body split in two half, trembling. Them policemen had to bodyguard Sugrim all the way home, eyes set in murderous intention. This time the sergeant fury unleash.

He hungry to clap eye on Bana, Stinkman, Kaatool, and Cock-eye. They only talking with you top-top but they get dagger in they mind for you. Not like long time," Sugrim say. And from the day after, people in the area start spitting hackuu as if cold settle in they throat soon as they walk- past in front Sugrim house.

Meanwhile Sugrim and he family shame to show out they face in the street. But look me dilemma now God, Sugrim say later in the night. Like me tie meselfwith me own rope This timejeepload of policemen driving thru the area, street by street, eye sharp like razor. They could sense trouble in the air, gnashing they teeth. If they only spot Bana, Stinkman, and Cock-eye, god be with them chaps behind. Is brutal kick-up and blows on they fat ass. During the day they hibernating, surfacing only in the nights just like escaped prisoner, smashing Sugrim and Tamkeen with they mouth. We going smash them like mosquito.

There was no Bana and company to guide them people. Policemen still on the lookout for them, you know. As regards to Sugrim them people say he and he wife eating-up they self in the house, direly afraid to show-out they face on Voting Day. This time, Tamkeen ain't care one ass who voting or not. He in he house, still mad at Stinkman and Kaatool.

Party win dis election tink Sugrim and Tamkeen could live in peace? But they always say, never count the chicken before it hatch, and is the self-same thing happen. Bana and Stinkman want drop dead. Kaatool and Cock-eye hope fall down like big-big drop rainfall in trench. They get pissing drunk with bush rum, cussing, "Fraud fraud. England make we a jackass. In vengeance they turn at Sugrim and Tamkeen, grinding the teeth.

Bana tell the people Sugrim blight the Party. Now them driver and overseer might eye- pass me. Politics is a mess-up game. Me going to blight them back. Percy had always known that this passage through the cave was in part about proving himself, discovering whether he had the faith to stand on his own two feet, faith to endure in the shadow of death. He had seen visions in the light thrown by his helmet lamp in the cave.

What was inside him? Could he find illumination there? There was only one way to find out. He turned off his helmet light and fumbled on the ridge, through the layering darkness, his hands his only guides.

Kyk-over-Al

True death, he thought, must be like this: Save for the bumpy touch of the dark earth under his feet and the icywall-faces under his hands, he would have had the living experience of death. But the stillness here, the compulsion to listen and see inside, was beautiful, and he felt welling up inside him, an intensified compassion for the Amerindian and the slave, a compassion which the darkness forced him to see, to hold and be held by, an inescapable self, true as sunlight, pure as cave springs.

It was as if he was moulting a restrictive skin, shedding scales from his eyes. Now hewasseeing more clearly in this pitch dark than ever before in his entire life, as if he was growing new antennae of sensitivity, new antennae of freedom. He suddenly doubled over, retching, gouts of vomit rushing from his mouth. He didn't feel nauseous, so why this vomiting? The retching wasn't even painful. His body had become some curious duct releasing the waste his soul's island had accumulated ever since its independence from Great Britain in the sixties when the dead hand of neo-colonialism had moved swiftly throughout the region burying the hopeful spirit of self-determina- tion under a dunghill of enormous greed poxed with arrogance and pride.

His sacrificial body contained all the fat black-bellied heads of corpora- tions, political animals, newspaper publishers, lawyers, all scrambling for a piece of the earth to plant a flag in the name of the king of the I. The I was lord and master. All leading to one end: The fluids washed over the ridge and he heard leaves and bark flutter away into the highest holes of the cave, shame and guilt dripping from their wings.

His light still turned off, hewalked away from the ridge. He knew where he was. He gauged the clogged distance and then - 67 - Fiction KYK 43 proceeded with his arms outstretched. They eventually reached a wall. Beyond this would be the dream. He clambered up the twelve-foot face relying only on touch, the curve of the rock the cleft of the rock the ruk and the tuk and the pour of the rock the lure of the rock and the voice of the stone calling him, clapping his ankle bones. He entered into the dark of the dream and heard again its stream laughter. The black was not black.

He had been here on the inward journey, so he could see the glitter of stalactite and stalagmite, the cascading hairs of each waterfall, the petroglyphic crystal wonder, the towering rock silos, the scintillating conical formations. Black had to do with the color of one's skin, perhaps, but not with ignorance, not unenlightenment. Outside, where he lived, was sheeted with every light and echo of light, but it was out there that he had been most blind. His new antennae sensed the pure element he was in and his hands coiled outward to scoop up the water of darkness and splash it all over his invisible body.

He felt like crying and laughing, all at once. The tiger of darkness had attacked him, tearing away every last residue of pride, bringing him finally to his knees so that he could receive the total quality and dimension of blackness, blackness which was brighter than any sun or moon. He felt for the low passage and bored through it and out into the five- foot deep amniotic pool. Then he climbed up the six- foot dip of stone and slid down the eight-foot drop into cool water, waist-high at first. Then the bottom seemed to be swiped away. No bottom any more. He swam back onto the rocks.

He pulled himself out the water, hands searching for clues. This face of stone was the same one he clutched when he came half- drowning out of the deep waters. He knew for sure where he was and now he knew what the difference was. It was in the water level. That was why there was a large air-space in the roof of the passage.

The water would now be about sixty- eight feet deep. He wouldn't have to dive through this time. He was spent and very hungry. Yet, through his weary consciousness, he could hear the leavening drum taps of freedom, and sensing the nearness of the end of his beginning, he wasn't at all surprised to find Materia swimming there. Where are you now? Right here beside you. IWhat are you doing? Whatever happened to us? He couldn't escape her. He had inhabited and had been inhabited by her stream laughter.

She was an essential thread in the cave's mystery, a part of all the illuminating blackness seeping into him. She was inside him and therefore knew his actions before he acted, heard his utterance before he spoke. The cave knew its geography centuries before he had laid feet - Fiction KYK 43 KYK 43 here and, in what wisdom, obtained her true cunning and triumph. How could he have been so dumb to think that she would not have known about his little secret with Bassie? He had thought of no one but himself in his quest for power and control.

He had allowed Materia to be completely herself, it was true. Yet, even this "gift", he now became aware, was a web meant to endear himself to her even more firmly, nothing more than another selfish act designed to bring him pleasure. When equal submission existed in relationships, dichotomies vanished and people just were. It was a simple as that. He thought of how he had submitted to Cane Arrow and to the cave and, as he swam through the deep waters as the water of darkness continued seeping into him he saw her on the day before she had left for her father's.

He had been sorry to see her go. Glad to see her go. His exclusive mania would throw ugly stains on her garments. It was pointless to think that she could soften stone. She had fled with coalescing looks of love, fear, worry, dread. He had felt a twinge of sorrow for her as he sat in the house in stony silence. Her rhythm had been established in rigid sequence ever since they had got married.

She revolved around her work and social life. It was a steady unchanging rhythm of which she savored every living second. It would have been hard on any woman to have her river of certainties clogged by the bleakest decision a husband could ever make, and the mutation that had befallen him, in which nothing outward had changed on him yet he was completely different, had forced her to flee.

Each desperate stroke he now made was to free both of them from guilt. And the leaves and bark of that guilt clapped their wings inside the passage, and the guilt fell on him and then dripped off him. Time, the healer, stream softly until I end my journey; drip gently until I sing again; flow slowly and lead us to the rock, lead us to the rock that is higher than us.

He knew he was nearing the end of the passage now for he could actually see the water haloed with a brownish light. Heclapped-clapped his way out on to the rocks and into the heart of a sun. Someone was inside the sun, eating it with dark barks of hands. That shouldn't be too much of a task, except that I didn't actually write that talk, I worked rather loosely from a few notes made to help me remember things in the right order!

And then, when I got to the guts of the piece, I played recordings of various poets reading their own work, interspersed with a few illuminating comments like, this is a super poem, just to maintain the illusion that I'd earned my fee The talk was called Voiceprints: Caribbean Poetry Now, a cunning conflation of the titles of two of the anthologies of Caribbean poetry that I've edited in the last decade or so and was intended to share my own sense of good fortune at discovering the riches of Caribbean poetry in English.

But in order to explain that sense of good fortune I had somehow to give the poems to the audience who, I guessed, wouldn't have read or, importantly, heard much Caribbean poetry. So I gave out probably illegal photocopies of poems and made a probably illegal tape of the various poets reading those poems, cut together from assorted public and private recordings. This mini- anthology offered as good a way in to Caribbean poetry and the discussion of the issues that are raised by thinkingabout both what the poems say and how they sayit as well as how we read them as I could construct.

For the record, and for those who weren't there, to whom, I suppose, this piece is directed the poems on the handout that we set out to look at, listen to, contextualise and discuss were as follows; the sources of the poems and recordings are given,with a reference to an accessible anthology if possible.

The anthologies' details are provided at the end of the list. Recording from her cassette Yes M'Dear Is- land. Recording from British Council Literature Re- cordings: An Interview with Edward Kamau Brathwaite.

Grace Nichols, Sugar Cane, from i is a long memoried woman. Jane King, Fellow Traveller, in Confluence: Lucian Poets, The Source, Castries. Black Book Fair Caribbean Poetry Now, ed. Longman Hinterland, ed. Markham, Bloodaxe West Indian Poetry, ed. The Penguin Book of Caribbean Poetry eds. I got into Caribbean poetry as a consequence of finding myself, more- or less by chance, a teacher in a secondary school in Jamaica, back in the early 70s.

I knew absolutely nothing about West Indian literature, and finding these new writers Walcott, Brathwaite, Louise Bennett Not that it was so easy to get hold of Caribbean poetry then, especially in a rural market-town on the north coast of the island. The public library was stocked with sun-foxed, brittle-leaved slim volumes by Dylan Thomas and T. Eliot, hardly read, but no anthologies of Caribbean poetry. To be fair to them there were hardly any at that time that they could have stocked. The school library, such as it was the World Bank built all these concrete shells of schools but put nothing inside them - did provide a way in though; John Figueroa's Caribbean Voices, a selection from poems and poets represented in the long running BBC literature programme and Anne Walmsley's anthology The Sun's Eye, which included fascinating auto biographical notes provided by the au- thorsAI vividly remember reading Walcott for the first time, and thinking that he, at least -on the evidence of his poem lamentingA City's Death by Fire had read his Dylan Thomas.

The next step, and a piece of cultural arrogance I'm rather appalled by now, was to write to as many of these poets as I could discover addresses for announcing that I intended to start up a little Caribbean magazine and begging contributions in the form of new writing and subscriptions.

The magazine, NOW, was a scruffy sub Second Aeon production-duplicated through the night in the back room of the local betting shop, trimmed on the school metalwork guillotine, and distributed more or less at random. NOWwas taken vastly more seriously than it deserved; positively reviewed in the national papers and on radio, partly financed, though they didn't know it, by Harvard University, who were persuaded to take out a 'lifetime' subscription, even though I knew the magazine could hardly survive more than half dozen issues.

And the magazine allowed me an Articles KYK 43 entree to their world, it was intoxicating. Teaching English in the secondary school, though, I hardly came across West Indies poetry, certainly not at exam level, and this gap between the study of serious literature ie, the English canon and the literature of the life people the school kids were living was what prompted me to try and make an anthology that would serve both as an upper- school text in the Caribbean and spread the word, share the good fortune that I'd had in finding that new poetry with potential readers in the UK.

But it was ten years between my leaving Jamaica and the appearance of Caribbean Poetry Now. The reasons for the delay are too complicated to go into here but the key to the book's appearance, finally, was the establishment of the Carib- bean Examinations Council to gradually replace the British GCE boards and their tropical papers. At the same time there was a growing interest in the UK in Caribbean culture, partly generated by the success of figures like Walcott and Brathwaite but more to do with reggae and Rastafarian style.

In the meanwhile I'd been getting myself "Doctored" and so become aca- demically respectable enough to be trusted to edit such a book. The would be fellow-poet rather than the authoritative editor. But such special pleadingdoesn't allow me to duck the critical, cultural and theoretical issues which hedge the production of anthologies like Caribbean Poetry Now and, later, Voiceprint and the collection of stories Caribbean New Wave, and, presently, The Ileinemann Book of Caribbean Poetry.

A lot of these issues are familiar in the context of debates about Anglo-Welsh literature, beginning of course with language. And howdoes that need for linguistic balance square with the need to represent a fari range of voices in terms of gender, race, nationality, generation, religion, political views? Do we misrepresent Louise Bennett either by calling her a poet or by consigning her work to some special oral category? Should we have a poem by each of them at the expense of three more poems by Derek Walcott, unquestionably one of the great poets of our time but whose language, ideas of form and craft, cultural references, and associa- tions with a nation of high culture will perhaps exclude or alienate the readers we are trying reach?

And alongside those problematic are ques- tions of cultural traditions, culturaldirections, attitudes to history, issues of self definition and national allegiance, etc, etc. And the anthologist's power, really, is the power to exclude. But maybe that's worse. In fact the only published concern over the implications of the racial identity of the anthologists of Caribbean literature that I've seen has been in a thoughtful essay on canon formation by another white, British anthologiser, Ann Walmsley.

But still it would make more sense for these anthologies to be made by West Indians rather than a Brown of the wrong colour. Perhaps, too, there is an element of race in it most of the publishers in the multi-nationals are white middle class British people, who are, maybe, at ease dealing with someone like me in ways they perhaps can't with real West Indians in Britain who might do the editorial jobs I've done although I'm sure they wouldn't recognize that as a reason for the decisions they make.

And I'm, obviously, not innocent in such transac- - tions. And the Publishing Houses themselves represent the other pres- sures that bear on the anthologist, for no matter how enlightened individ- ual publishers might be, the over-riding motive for book production as far as the companies are concerned is profit. It's certainly not a simple process of just picking a bunch of one's favourite poems. That said though, most of the poems I've listed above as a route into West Indian poetrywould be in my personalideal anthology of poems from anywhere.

To be here is an honour: Indeed, I would find the task of proposing the toast to his immortal memory almost too daunting were I not conscious that we are as one in this act of collective homage. And we ourselves are but the present expression of an absent throng across the world united in appreciation of the genius of Shakespeare. The Ambassadors and High Commissioners among us represent their countries; but all who have come from overseas as well as Britain, dignitaries, scholars and enthusiasts alike, are representative of the many thousands of visitors of all nationalities drawn here by his magic every year.

And these proceedings are in keeping with Shakespeare's own society, which was one of much ceremony as well as simplicity. It was already a very international society. I doubt if he would have found anythingsurprising in a citizen of Guyana speaking in his honour. After all, Guiana was part of his world picture, and England its or so at least, Shakespeare's contemporary, Chapman, claimed: True, my being an honorary Warwickshire man, as Chancellor of its University, might have given him pause. But then, even Shakespeare could not have foreseen the extent to which he has made us all, wherever we come from, belong to his world.

Nor is this ex post facto rhetoric. In distant Guiana, Shakespeare was very much part of my own upbringing introduced to us, for our then Junior and Senior Cambridge and London Higher School Certificates by teachers who declaimed him with Caribbean eloquence as part of an oral tradition. I was hooked; and in my turn was responsible for one of the first joint productions between the leading boys' and girls' secondary schools in my country for all I know, the first in the South American continent of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

I confess, unlikely though it may look, that there stands before you a Demetrius a Demetrius pursued, incredibly, by a love-besotted Helena, through a wood near Athens modelled no doubt on a wood near Stratford - a long way from the savannahs, cane fields and rain forests of Guyana. When I came later to London as a student, a pilgrimage to the real landscape of Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon was obligatory and to the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre. This is not a unique odyssey.