SOURCE: Walcott, Derek, and Rebekah Presson. “The Man Who Keeps the English Language Alive: An Interview with Derek Walcott.” New Letters 59, no. 1 (1992): 8-15.

[The following interview focuses on Walcott's epic poem, Omeros.]

[Presson]: The last time we talked you made much of what Omeros is not, and so what would you say it is?

[Walcott]: It's long. I don't know. In the reviews that have been coming out, they've been using the word “epic” a lot. I just reread it again, and I suppose in terms of the scale of it—as an undertaking—it's large and does cover a lot of geographic elements, historical ground. I think that's the word. I think the reason why I hesitate about calling it that is I think any work in which the narrator is almost central is not really an epic. It's not like a heroic epic. I guess that's what I think of it, that since I am in the book, I certainly don't see myself as a hero of an epic, when an epic generally has a hero of action and decision and destiny.

The hero, I guess, is the whole village.

There are different characters in the book who have elements of the heroic in them. I think even a character like the retired English sergeant major is a heroic figure, even if he's slightly ridiculous.

Is that because he's at least making an effort to record what's happening?

Well, no. He was in the war; he was in World War II. World War II was probably the last war that had a sort of moral reason, in a way. He served and retired and was wounded and has a memory of a wound. So in action he was heroic, not more than anyone else, but certainly in terms of the fact that he served in a war. The endeavors of Achille, the day-to-day fisherman, are heroic. I don't put myself in that company, that's all.

So the story in Omeros starts out with a picture of this village and of these fishermen and their canoe that they fish from, which has the name “In God We Troust”—sort of a variation on trust.

There's an actual canoe like that that I saw spelled like that—t-r-o-u-s-t—and I thought, this is very touching, because the ordinary thing, “In God We Trust,” you would have just passed by, but the error was interesting; I mean the spelling was interesting and personal, and perhaps more devout than the regular spelling.

Your poem Omeros follows the form of an epic in some ways. It's written in hexameter, but it seems to me that you pull out your other writing tricks, too. There's actual dialogue, as in a play, and needless to say, you are a prolific playwright, and you vary the passages between lyric passages and dialogue passages and action passages. Is this a pull-out-the-stops kind of thing?

No. I didn't know what I was going to encounter as the poem proceeded. I was aware in the beginning that there would be voices; I didn't know about the dramatic encounters that would happen. But also, I had been working on film scripts as well, and I think that there's an element of a scenario of a film script in there, certainly in terms of the width of the thing and the possibility of a cinematic version of some aspects of it. In a large poem, though, the writing is like a novel, and as in a novel, everything is in there—geographic description, the weather, the characters, and the action, and so on. So, what was exhilirating was to widen yourself to such an extent that you could just bring in everything that you wanted to do.

It is interesting that you'd been working on a film script, because another cinematic aspect is that you cut quickly between times and places. Achille is in his journey to Africa and suddenly you cut to Helen, or cut back to St. Lucia, or cut to a different time.

That kind of editing keeps the story going, because about four or five of them going at the same time help the propulsion of the narrative, as you edit and jump and cut back to another and continuous story. It's the same technique as film, right?

Some of your plays have a fairly large cast, but it seems like there are a lot of balls in the air here, a lot of people to keep track of. How much of a challenge was that?

I don't think there are that many. There are certainly the principle characters, and their lives, and so on. Sometimes I wish I'd gone into the lives of one or two of them a little more deeply, but then the narrative goes on, and it pulls people along with it. But each domestic situation has its own drama, as in life, so that Achille and Helen and Hector is one kind of play or drama or story, and then Major Plunkett and his wife is another story, and Philoctete with his wound, and so on. So it was exciting to live one life one day, and go to another life another day, and connect them. But I didn't have a plot design as such, saying, today I'll do this; tomorrow I'll do that. Whatever seemed to be needed, I would do. Then, when it needed to be arranged in a kind of a sequence that would build the momentum, I sometimes drafted the chapters in a line and then needed spaces to connect. It would make a mural, in a sense.

Do you feel like you were writing a novel?

Not a novel, but I have felt for a long time that poetry has surrendered too much of what it used to do. The novel used to be an epic poem, and it's sort of withering and withdrawing into small, personal, diaristic considerations that a lot of lyric poetry has. Everybody has an ego, and nobody's ego is interesting, none. Art is interesting, but not the person who makes it, really.

What is your obsession as a writer? Are you primarily concerned with giving a clear and accurate picture of life in the Caribbean?

That's certainly what I had in mind. It is a votive act. I feel grateful for the kind of life that's down there. It's simple. The rhythm of life there, the beauty and simplicity of the people. All of it sounds patronizing and sort of wrong, but those values are there. Certainly the values are there in the beauty of the islands.

And I suppose what all this leads to is the middle passage of the book in which Achille has a sunstroke and takes an imaginary, spiritual journey to the Africa of his preslavery ancestors.

In this section, Achille the fisherman, for a moment that contains all of history, staggers and has a sunstroke. Within that moment he goes back to Africa, and time is concentrated in that. I mean, it's longer than just a second; it does go beyond that. When he gets on this imaginary journey, which is led by a sea swift up the river, from across the ocean, he sees someone whom he recognizes as his father, because the man walks like him, looks like him; and he stops and searches in the face of the man for the features of his father and it is his father, from generations back.

The segment in which the protagonist, Achille, meets up with his preslavery ancestor is the pivotal scene in Achille's growth as a character. Could you talk about what it means to Achille to question finally what his name means, and who he is?

I think the condition of colonialism, or of any first migration of people who were given another language, means the erosion of identity and the desperation to preserve their identity, which can sometimes be punished or banned. But even deeper than that, in adjusting names, somebody from Europe comes over here and changes his name. Something goes into that, in the process of adapting to the name that you've been given, because as an immigrant it's better to call yourself Smith than some unpronouncable, apparently Czechoslovak name, or something. What happens in the process of that naming? If someone is called Achille, what is he? You have to go through a whole process of becoming a name that you have been given. It's the process and technique of removing identity and altering identity so you can rule or can dominate. There must be a moment in a woman's life when she changes her name, like in marriage—if women are supposed to change their names—when that person becomes Mrs. X. Yet, who is Mrs. X?

I'm talking about Achille himself, his personal decision. His decision is that he is Achille the fisherman from St. Lucia, he is not an African, because he's not happy in Africa.

Who's happy going back to that scene? That's not his home. That's another point in the book. You talk to a third-generation American, and you say, Why aren't you Russian; why aren't you Japanese; why aren't you Czech? And the person says, well, I'm American. The whole idea of America, and the whole idea of everything on this side of the world, barring the Native American Indian, is imported; we're all imported, black, Spanish. When one says one is American, that's the experience of being American—that transference of whatever color, or name, or place. The difficult part is the realization that one is part of the whole idea of colonization. Because the easiest thing to do about colonialism is to refer to history in terms of guilt or punishment or revenge, or whatever. Whereas the rare thing is the resolution of being where one is and doing something positive about that reality. And this would be true of the Caribbean, where all the races of the world are central, are collected, like in Trinidad, for instance. Syrian, Indian, Chinese—they're all there. Of course, it's wonderful to keep the heritage and even the distinction of identities in terms of culture, but when it's ultimately said, that is the composite nature of Trinidad. It has all these various things. That is what it means to be Trinidadian. If I lived in Trinidad thoroughly, I would have to understand Chinese culture; I would have to understand Indian culture, African culture, Middle-eastern culture, as well, because those realities are there.

You anticipated my question. I was going to ask you what all this means to Derek Walcott, because you don't fit in one world. Achille has a niche in the world, but you fit in many worlds.

Not really, I don't think.

You're a professor at Boston University.

All the time I'm teaching I want to be on the beach swimming. That's what I want to do. But, I know what you mean; one can adapt to situations, and you can have a function. My ideal is not simply to be on the beach swimming. I would really prefer to be working and writing and painting in the Caribbean; so I know exactly where I want to be.