Sunday, November 30, 2008

Jamaica Kincaid Knows Me

I'm reading a book for class called A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid. It's addressed to you, the white tourist visiting her native Antigua, and describes the things you will see and the things you will overlook. On page 15, I swear she was writing directly to me:

From day to day, as you walk down a busy street in the large and modern and prosperous city in which you work and live, dismayed, puzzled (a cliché, but only a cliché can explain you) at how alone you feel in this crowd, how awful it is to go unnoticed, how awful it is go to unloved, even as you are surrounded by more people than you could possibly get to know in a lifetime that lasted for millennia, and then out of the corner of your eye you see someone looking at you and absolute pleasure is written all over that person's face, and then you realise that you are not as revolting a presence as you think you are (for that look just told you so).

Um, thanks, Jamaica. Now you made me get all introspective and stuff.


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