A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid

By Jamaica Kincaid

An excellent examine colonialism and its results in Antigua—by the writer of Annie John

"If you visit Antigua as a vacationer, this can be what you will see that. in the event you come by way of aeroplane, you are going to land on the V. C. poultry foreign Airport. Vere Cornwall (V. C.) poultry is the top Minister of Antigua. you will be this sort of vacationer who might ask yourself why a first-rate Minister would wish an airport named after him—why no longer a college, why now not a health facility, why no longer a few nice public monument. you're a vacationer and you have got no longer but visible . . ."

So starts Jamaica Kincaid's expansive essay, which exhibits us what we haven't but noticeable of the ten-by-twelve-mile island within the British West Indies the place she grew up.

Lyrical, sardonic, and forthright through turns, in a Swiftian mode, A Small position can't support yet magnify our imaginative and prescient of 1 small position and all that it signifies.

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Conversation makes me quite sleepy," Malcolm explained. "You see, usually all I have to do with people is have them wait on me. A maid will bring me a cup of chocolate, or the man from the tonsorial parlor will cut my hair and nails, and I exchange a few words with the leader of the string orchestra in the hotel, but no more than that. But since I have met Mr. " "Lie down on the sofa and I will talk to you, then, while you rest," Kermit told him. 'Td rather you didn't talk while I lie down," Malcolm said, and he went over to the sofa and stretched out.

You must drink a great deal, Madame Girard," Malcolm said, a note of genuine worry in his voice, and there were again cries of laughter, but greatly mufBed this time, while Mr. Girard bit his pipe and looked away toward a row of vases all filled with fresh garnet roses. '' Madame Girard inquired, a kind of stunned craftiness in her voice, like one who 50 MALCOLM must discover the precise detail which will convict her enemy. "I think you are intoxicated, madame," Malcolm said. The laughter from the young men now became unrestrained.

Suddenly they both heard loud outcries in the back room, and soon Laureen rushed out, her hair down, and her dress torn, holding her arm, which had blood on it. "Peter bit me and scratched me," she cried. She seemed near hysterics. "Fetch that pitcher over there," Kermit ordered Malcolm. Malcolm brought the pitcher to Kermit and the latter quickly threw the contents on Laureen. The water, or whatever it was in the pitcher, was a sooty color and when it had covered her head completely, Malcolm thought that Laureen resembled ever so noticeably Cora Naldi, but of course the two ladies were not at all alike, and Laureen wore no wig, and probably could not sing a note.

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