Nothing Was Made In Trinidad.

It Was A Good Place For Getting Lost In, A City No One Ever Knew, A City Explored From The Neutral Heart Outward, Until After Many Years, It Defined Itself Into A Jumble Of Clearings Separated By Stretches Of The Unknown, Through Which The Narrowest Of Paths Had Been Cut.

I Grew Up In A Small Place And Left It When I Was Quite Young And Entered The Bigger World.

If A Writer Doesn't Generate Hostility, He Is Dead.

You Can't Deny What You've Learned; You Can't Deny Your Travels; You Can't Deny The Nature Of Your Life.

Home Is, I Suppose Just A Child's Idea. A House At Night, And A Lamp In The House. A Place To Feel Safe.