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“That the native does not like the tourist is not hard to explain. For every native of every place is a potential tourist, and every tourist is a native of somewhere. Every native everywhere lives a life of overwhelming and crushing banality and boredom and desperation and depression, and every deed, good and bad, is an attempt to forget this. Every native would like to find a way out, every native would like a rest, every native would like a tour. But some natives—most natives in the world—cannot go anywhere. They are too poor. They are too poor to go anywhere. They are too poor to escape the reality of their lives; and they are too poor to live properly in the place they live, which is the very place you, the tourist, want to go—so when the natives see you, the tourist, they envy you, they envy your ability to leave your own banality and boredom, they envy your ability to turn their own banality and boredom into a source of pleasure for yourself.”

NativeTouristAntigua
Book:A Small Place
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“It was not long after that Ganesh saw a big new notice in the shop, painted on cardboard. ‘Is Leela self who write that,’ Ramlogan said. ‘I didn’t ask she to write it, mind you. She just sit down quiet quiet one morning after tea and write it off.’ It read: NOTICE NOTICE, IS. HEREBY; PROVIDED: THAT, SEATS! ARE, PROVIDED. FOR; FEMALE: SHOP, ASSISTANTS! Ganesh said, ‘Leela know a lot of punctuation marks.’ That is it, sahib. All day the girl just sitting down and talking about these puncturation marks. She is like that, sahib.”

WritingHumorHumourPost Colonial
Book:The Mystic Masseur and Miguel Street
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“I say, ‘Man, you best behave youself this time, cause we ain’t never getting this mattress out from in here.’ … Berry say, ‘Don’t you worry about that. Cause I’s a married man now, I got to behave. My name done write.’ He say, ‘Why I going in some other bed when I got this big foam bed to lie in?’ I say, ‘It ain’t the bed it’s who does hot the sheets.’ He say, ‘Well best bring them sheets let we hot them up right now.”

CaribbeanTrinidadPost Colonial
Book:Blessed Is the Fruit: A Novel
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“He was a dark and stormy knight. A latter-day rake with eyes the color of emeralds worth a queen's ransom. His smile promised voyages to the moon. And heaven alone knew how many females lay littered in his wake. To a rousing burst of Rachmaninoff, he swept into my London flat one January evening and, with the hauteur of his greeting, captured my virgin heart forever and a day. 'Miss Ellie Simons? My car awaits. Shall we splurge on dinner or parking tickets?”

Humorous Mysteries
Book:Femmes Fatal
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