“We lived in a society which denied itself heroes.” – V.S. Naipaul
“This is not writing. He should stop writing. He should be selling sausages.” – Eqbal Ahmad on V.S. Naipaul
As you try and bleed the past onto the speak of now, Look for the hooded guilt past the sentence of ilk & Brood, the tripping verb thrilled by the possibility Of sheen that traps the rook, the sow, the seed that Bit the hand that fed the pith of scorn, the hand of Up, of law. And as you try and mock the horn of dust And cut of rain, and gasp at awe & awe again, whence Will come the ore of night, which die is cast today?