How we cite our quotes: (Chapter.Section.Page)
Quote #1
Although smoke forgets the earth from which it ascends,/and nettles guard the holes where the laurels were killed,/an iguana hears the axes, clouding each lens/over its lost name, when the hunched island was called /"Iounalao," "Where the iguana is found" (I.i.4)
Look out for the iguana/lizard, who makes several appearances throughout the poem and stands for the original inhabitants of the island. The re-naming of the island and the Homeric comparisons are Eurocentric, but its true name reminds the characters of its unique and original identity.
Quote #2
These were their pillars that fell, leaving a blue space/for a single God where the old gods stood before./The first god was a gommier. (I.i.5)
This "slaughter of the trees" gives Walcott a way to introduce the lost identity of the island and its people. The felling of the trees is symbolic for the loss of an indigenous culture that existed before colonialism changed the island forever. There's also the sense here that the old religions cultivated respect for the environment while monotheism represents the exploitation of natural resources.
Quote #3
The loose logs swirled/in surf, face down, like warriors from a battle/lost somewhere on the other shore of the world./They were dragged to a place under the manchineels/to lie there face upward, the sun moving over their brows/with the stare of myrmidons hauled up by the heels/high up from the tide-mark where the pale crab burrows. (II.i.10)
Walcott's use of epic style and a mythic past turn the humdrum task of cutting trees into a higher, more noble act. There's a sense that the "slaughter of trees," though necessary for the fishermen, is apocalyptic in some way.
Quote #4
We helped ourselves/to these green islands like olives from a saucer,/munched on the pith, then spat their sucked stones on a plate,/like a melon's black seeds. (V.i.25)
Major Plunkett is caught between two realities: a colonial past and his current ex-pat existence on the island. He feels resentment because he's associated with the Brits, who exploited his adopted home for all it was worth—but at the same time, Plunkett also feels shame over being lumped into the same category as the colonialists
Quote #5
[…] the island was once/named Helen; its Homeric association/rose like smoke from a siege; the Battle of the Saints/was launched with that sound from what was the "Gibraltar of the Caribbean," after thirteen treaties/while she changed prayers often as knees at an altar,/till between French and British her final peace/was signed at Versailles. (V.iii.31)
St. Lucia's complex past encourages associations with Homer's war culture. The fight over Greek Helen's body—like the fight over the island—is about more than beauty and possession. It's about power and national pride.
Quote #6
"This island of St. Lucia […] let me tell you is heading for unqualified/disaster […] I am not/joking. Every vote is your ticket, your free ride on the Titanic: a cruise back to slavery/in liners like hotels you cannot sit inside/except as waiters, maids […] Like that man hopping there, St. Lucia look healthy/with bananas and tourists, but her soul crying" (XX.ii.107)
Statics hits the nail on the head, though he has no success in capturing the vote. His view of the political process is very dim, taken together with his observations on society in St. Lucia. Participation in economic and political progress seems all sewn up by the corporations who commandeer the island's resources and keep local workers in poverty.
Quote #7
[…] the village did not seem to care/that it was dying in its change, the way it whored/away a simple life that would soon disappear/while its children writhed on the sidewalks to the sounds/ of the DJ's fresh-water-Yankee-cool-Creole. (XXI.i.111)
Achille is not overjoyed about the advent of Western-style nightlife, hotels, and casinos. Walcott will later question his resistance to such "progress," though: Does he yearn for traditional life because poverty is more picturesque and serves his art better? Or is it really about what's best for the local population? What do you think?
Quote #8
Bright Helen/was like a meteor too, and her falling arc/crossed over the village, over some moonlit lane with it's black breadfruit leaves (XXI.i.112)
Achille believes that the changes coming to the island spell doom for a more traditional way of life, especially for the younger generation. In this instance, Helen is the island, the other woman in his life, and he sees with sadness that she has entered a beautiful disintegration, just like the meteors in the night sky before him.
Quote #9
This was his garden. God bless the speed of the swift,/God bless the wet head of the mate sparkling with foam,/and his heart trembled with enormous tenderness/for the purple-blue water and the wilting shore/tight and thin as a fishline, and the hill's blue smoke,/his muscles bulging like porpoises from each oar (XXIV.i.126)
Achille's deep connection to the sea allows him to value and love the island for its natural and ancient beauty. This also makes it difficult for him to find a place for himself on an island that is rapidly being consumed by construction and corporate homogenization.
Quote #10
[…] and the fishermen had such adept thumbs, such grace/these people had, but what they envied most in them/was the calypso part, the Caribbean lilt/still in the shells of their ears, like the surf's rhythm,/until too much happiness was shadowed with guilt/like any Eden, and they sighed at the sign:/HEWANNORRA (Iounalao), the gold sea/flat as a credit-card, extending its line/to a beach that now looked just like everywhere else,/Greece or Hawaii. (XXXV.ii.229)
There's a constant struggle between the inherent worth of the people of St. Lucia and what is valued by the outside world—particularly tourists and corporations. It's the classic environmental dilemma: paving paradise to put up a cookie-cutter resort, so that wealthy patrons can avoid experiencing the real life of exotic locations.
Quote #11
[…] I was seeing the light of St. Lucia at last through her own eyes,/her blindness, her inward vision as revealing/as his, because a closing darkness brightens love,/and I felt every wound pass. (LVI.ii.282)
The narrator finally gets the gift of true vision as he leaves the shore with Omeros/Seven Seas to visit the Underworld. His love of the land allows him to see "her" for what she is—to see it with his inner eyes, which are focused by his connection to the place. His love for St. Lucia is heightened by his impending loss of it (remember that he's making a death-journey, even though he returns).
Quote #12
Her mountains tinkle with springs/among moss-bearded forests, and the screeching of birds/stitches its tapestry. The white egret makes rings/stalking its pools. African fishermen make boards/from trees as tall as their gods with their echoing/axes, and a volcano, stinking with sulphur,/has made it a healing place. (LVII.i.286-87)
The narrator speaks in praise of his island at the encouragement of Omeros, as they travel by sea to the afterlife. Although he feels surging love for his land, the narrator feels inadequate to speak of its beauty until prodded by the blind singer. Note that all points of admiration here are for the island's natural beauty and traditional ways.