Nothing Was Made In Trinidad.

My Publisher, Who Was So Good As A Taster And Editor, When She Became A Writer, Lo And Behold, It Was All This Feminine Tosh.

Some Writers Can Only Deal With Childhood Experience, Because It's Complete. For Another Kind Of Writer, Life Goes On, And He's Able To Keep Processing That As Well.

I Became Very Interested In The Islamic Question, And Thought I Would Try To Understand It From The Roots, Ask Very Simple Questions And Somehow Make A Narrative Of That Discovery.

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

I Often Wonder What Would Have Happened To Me If I Hadn't Made That Decision. I Suppose I Would Have Sunk. I Suppose I Would Have Found Some Kind Of Hole And Tried To Hide Or Pass. After All, We Make Ourselves According To The Ideas We Have Of Our Possibilities. I Would Have Hidden In My Hole And Been Crippled By My Sentimentality, Doing What I Was Doing, And Doing It Well, But Always Looking For The Wailing Wall. And I Would Never Have Seen The World As The Rich Place That It Is. You Wouldn't Have Seen Me Here In Africa, Doing What I Do.