By Susan Ring, Sterling Professor of the Humanities Harold Bloom
The poetry of Derek Walcott is expounded to standout from different modern American works as a result of its daring eloquence. this article presents literary feedback from probably the most revered specialists on his poetry. tested works contain "The Theatre of Our Lives." This identify, Derek Walcott, a part of Chelsea residence Publishers’ glossy serious perspectives sequence, examines the most important works of Derek Walcott via full-length serious essays by means of specialist literary critics. additionally, this name includes a brief biography on Derek Walcott, a chronology of the author’s existence, and an introductory essay written via Harold Bloom, Sterling Professor of the arts, Yale college.
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Extra resources for Derek Walcott (Bloom's Modern Critical Views)
Walcott is neither a traditionalist nor a modernist. None of the available –isms and the subsequent –ists will do for him. He belongs to no “school”: there are not so many of them in the Caribbean, save those of ﬁsh. One would feel tempted to call him a metaphysical realist, but then realism is metaphysical by deﬁnition, as well as the other way around. Besides, that would smack of prose. He can be naturalistic, expressionistic, surrealistic, imagistic, hermetic, confessional—you name it. He simply has absorbed, the way whales do plankton or a paintbrush the palette, all the stylistic idioms the North could offer; now he is on his own, and in a big way.
No rhyme is worth destroying the illusion of plausible voice. This sort of uncertainty in diction is disconcerting in Walcott, since he has many virtues: he is always thinking, he does not write sterile exercises in verse, he is working out a genuine spiritual history from his ﬁrst volume to his current one, he keeps enlarging his range of style and the reaches of his subject. And when he errs, he often errs in a humanly admirable direction, the direction of literal truth. The trouble is, literal truth is often the enemy of poetic truth.
The absence of response has done in many a poet, and in so many ways, the net result of which is that infamous equilibrium—or tautology—between cause and effect: silence. What prevents Walcott from striking a more than appropriate, in his case, tragic pose is not his ambition but his humility, which binds him and these “leaves” into one tight book: “... yet who am I ... under the heels of the thousand / racing towards the exclamation of their single name, / Sauteurs! ” Walcott is neither a traditionalist nor a modernist.