Martinique Quotes

If some volcano in the Alleghanies threatens North Carolina with a disaster similar to that of Martinique, buried beneath the outpourings of Mont Pelee, then these people must leave their homes.

ma chère penchons sur les filons géologiques (my dear let us lean on geographical veins)

Sitting under the candlenut tree in the courtyard is pleasant in the afternoon. Laced in shadows, frangipani & coral hibiscus ward away the memory of recent evil. The sisters go about their duties, Sister Martinique tends her vegetables, the cats enact their feline comedies & tragedies.

There is nothing more defenseless than a naked man.

I can remember every second of that morning, if I shut my eyes I can see the deep blue colour of the sky and the mango leaves, the pink and red hibiscus, the yellow handkerchief she wore around her head, tied in the Martinique fashion with the sharp points in front, but now I see everything still, fixed for ever like the colours in a stained-glass window. Only the clouds move. It was wrapped in a leaf, what she had given me, and I felt it cool and smooth against my skin.

If you see your neighbor's beard on fire, water your own. --Martinique proverb

It was like my life hung on the chapters of a novel - and each scene ended in a cliffhanger.

Let those who want to hatch hatch their own eggs. ----Martinique proverb

French Caribbean island of Martinique, a tiny territory less than one-fourth the size of Long Island, imported more slaves than all the U.S. states combined.

I am a man and what I have to recapture is the whole past of the world, I am not responsible only for the slavery involved in Santo Domingo, every time man has contributed to the victory of the dignity of the spirit, every time a man has said no to an attempt to subjugate his fellows, I have felt solidarity with his act. In no way does my basic vocation have to be drawn from the past of peoples of color. In no way do I have to dedicate myself to reviving some black civilization unjustly ignored. I will not make myself the man of any past. My black skin is not a repository for specific values. Haven’t I got better things to do on this earth than avenge the blacks of the 17th century? I as a man of color do not have the right to hope that in the white man there will be a crystallization of guilt towards the past of my race. I as a man of color do not have the right of stamping down the pride of my former master. I have neither the right nor the duty to demand reparations for my subjugated ancestors. There is no black mission. There is no white burden. I do not want to be victim to the rules of a black world. Am I going to ask this white man to answer for the slave traders of the 17th century? Am I going to try by every means available to cause guilt to burgeon in their souls? I am not a slave to slavery that dehumanized my ancestors. It would be of enormous interest to discover a black literature or architecture from the 3rd century B.C, we would be overjoyed to learn of the existence of a correspondence between some black philosopher and Plato, but we can absolutely not see how this fact would change the lives of 8 year old kids working the cane fields of Martinique or Guadeloupe. I find myself in the world and I recognize I have one right alone: of demanding human behavior from the other.

I returned to New Orleans and my problems with pari-mutuel windows and a dark-haired, milk-skinned wife from Martinique who went home with men from the Garden District while I was passed out in a houseboat on Lake Pontchartrain, the downdraft of U.S. Army helicopters flattening a plain of elephant grass in my dreams.

The basis for the universe is that all thoughts are living things. That all things in being were originally something thought up.

I learned at that moment as ethereal tears streamed down my face and I opened the trunk to comfort a frightened little girl. There are worse things than losing. There was always winning.

I once used "Astral Travel" in the ad... I'd come up with nothing, other than a few scary people... I really didn't have the heart to tell that one girl that Charles Manson wasn't dead yet, even though she really looked the part, right down to the swastika on her forehead and the beard.

But I went on thinking about false teeth, and then about piano-keys and about that time the blind man from Martinique came to tune the piano and then he played and we listened to him sitting in the dark with the jalousies shut because it was pouring with rain and my father said, 'You are a real musician.' He had a red moustache, my father. And Hester was always saying, 'Poor Gerald, poor Gerald.' But if you'd seen him walking up Market Street, swinging his arms and with his brown shoes flashing in the sun, you wouldn't have been sorry for him. That time when he say, 'The Welsh word for grief is hiraeth.' Hiraeth. And that time when I was crying about nothing and I thought he'd be wild, but he hugged me up and he didn't say anything. I had on a coral brooch and it got crushed. He hugged me up and then he said, 'I believe you're going to be like me, you poor little devil.' And that time when Mr Crowe said, 'You don't mean to say you're backing up that damned French monkey?' meaning the Governor, 'I've met some Englishmen,' he said, 'who were monkeys too.

Yes?” “That is what equality is, Jim. It’s the capacity for becoming equal. The same way a black man in Martinique can learn French and so become French, he can also acquire the skills of equality and so become equal. But I repeat myself.” “I hate you,” I said through my fever and chills. “You realize, of course, that I have been bitten by a snake. Only to have you come to me in this delirium.” “Well, yes, but all men are equal. That’s my point. But even you have to admit the presence of, shall we call him—it—the devil, in your African humans.” Voltaire adjusted his position and held his hands to the fire. “You’re saying we’re equal, but also inferior,” I said. “I’m detecting a disapproving tone,” he said. “Listen, my friend, I’m on your side. I’m against the institution of slavery. Slavery of any kind. You know that I am an abolitionist of the first order.” “Thank you?” “You’re welcome.” “You do not believe that humans are inherently bad?” I asked. “I do not. If they were, they would kill as soon as they could walk.” “How do you explain slavery? Why are my people subjected to it, treated with such cruelty?” Voltaire shrugged. “Let me try this,” I said. “You have a notion, like Raynal, of natural liberties, and we all have them by virtue of our being human. But when those liberties are put under

The West Indian campaign had even graver effects on the course of the war. In January, 1794, Lieutenant-General Sir Charles Grey's 7,000 troops, after a six weeks' voyage, reached Barbados. Despite their small numbers they at once attacked the French islands, and as a result of brilliant co-operation between Grey and Vice-Admiral Sir John Jervis overcame all resistance in Martinique, St. Lucia and Guadeloupe by the end of May. But the real campaign had scarcely begun. Almost at once the victors were simultaneously assailed by reinforcements from France and a negro and mulatto rising. For by denouncing slavery—the gap in Britain's moral front—the French had secured a formidable ally. With the help of the revolted slaves the force from Rochefort, which had evaded the loose British blockade, was able to reconquer Guadeloupe before the end of the year. Yet it was yellow fever more than any other cause which robbed Britain of her West Indian conquests. Within a few months the dreaded “black vomit” had destroyed 12,000 of her finest soldiers and reduced the survivors to trembling skeletons.

Kokomo Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I want to take ya Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go, Jamaica Off the Florida Keys, there's a place called Kokomo That's where you want to go to get away from it all Bodies in the sand, tropical drink melting in your hand We'll be falling in love to the rhythm of a steel drum band Down in Kokomo [Chorus] Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I want to take you to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go Ooh I want to take you down to Kokomo, we'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow That's where we want to go, way down in Kokomo. Martinique, that Montserrat mystique We'll put out to sea and we'll perfect our chemistry And by and by we'll defy a little bit of gravity Afternoon delight, cocktails and moonlit nights That dreamy look in your eye, give me a tropical contact high Way down in Kokomo [Chorus] Port au Prince, I want to catch a glimpse Everybody knows a little place like Kokomo Now if you want to go and get away from it all Go down to Kokomo [Chorus] Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I want to take you to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go Ooh I want to take you down to

Fanon had learned that freedom was not indivisible. He was a black soldier in a white man’s army. Writing to his mother that same month, Fanon tried to hide his true feelings, and spoke longingly of the punch and blaff he was looking forward to when he got back to Martinique, but another letter written to both his parents on 12 April 1945 tells a different story: Today, 12 April. It is a year since I left Fort-de-France. Why? To defend an obsolete ideal. I don’t think I’ll make it this time. During all the scraps I’ve been in, I’ve been anxious to get back to you, and I’ve been lucky. But today, I’m wondering whether I might not soon have to face the ordeal. I’ve lost confidence in everything, even myself. If I don’t come back, and if one day you should learn that I died facing the enemy, console each other, but never say: he died for the good cause. Say: God called him back to him. This false ideology that shields the secularists and the idiot politicians must not delude us any longer. I was wrong!

Whether he likes it or not, the black man has to wear the livery the white man has fabricated for him

When the Planters fled from Haiti, they established coffee farms or cafetales, as part of their newly formed Plantation. Generally, coffee profits were about 5%, whereas sugar gave them a 10% return, but much was dependent on the economy and local conditions. Cafetales were easier to start and with as little as 10 slaves, a planter could begin his enterprise. Most of the French plantation owners took great pride in their holdings and beautified their plantations with magnificent palms lining grand entryways and spectacular wrought iron gates. The eastern end of Cuba was still available for development and many big plantations started in this modest way, but eventually the coffee plants were replaced with sugar cane due to the greater profit margin. Though blamed by many as the sole cause for the decline of Cuba’s coffee industry, the U.S. Import Tariff of 1835 was only partially to blame for the fall in coffee production. From the beginning, the prices of sugar fluctuated and prevented the Cuban economy from ever becoming stable. The first time was when the prices reached a high, during the Peace of Amiens in 1802. The treaty only survived for a year and shortly thereafter prices plunged, when the supply exceeded demand. During the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, the price of sugar soared again, until the British conquest of Martinique and Guadeloupe brought the price tumbling down. The following year during the War of 1812 prices rose again, and by 1814 they reached another all-time high. This continued into modern times, creating a feast or famine economy.

We’re already running low on champagne,” Martinique informs me. “There’s five more cases in the walk-in fridge.” “I’ll tell the bussers. Did you know you have paint on your nose?” Could this day get any worse? “Yes, Martinique—I’m well aware that I have paint on my nose. It’s to match the centerpieces.

It has a plunging neckline and an open back, and unlike Martinique, she won’t have to worry about her tits bouncing around. Dixon’s are small and perky and contained. She’s wearing a flowy skirt with a high slit, and when we practiced our spins earlier, that material billowed all around her, the slit showcasing her footwork. Apparently, it’s supposed to accentuate her movements. All I know is I can see a lot of thigh, and my dick is happy.

of the title refers not simply to Martinique but to every pays where Black people have endured slavery and exploitation.

They were all to cross the Atlantic and link up with Admiral Missiessy off Martinique.

Napoleon took action. In May he confirmed the legality of slavery in those colonies, Martinique and Réunion, where it had never been abolished. He also imposed restrictions on people of color in metropolitan France. Then, in quick succession, he authorized the resumption of the slave trade in the colonies and the restoration of slavery in Guadeloupe and Guiana.

The 1954 syndications came packaged to a memorable signature. An opening musical sting was followed by the announcement: Bagdad! Martinique! Singapore! And all the places of the world where danger and intrigue walk hand in hand—there you will find Steve Mitchell, on another dangerous assignment! Lloyd Burrell played Mitchell on the transcriptions.

As my cab rolled up to the front of the magnificent white colonial building with black shutters, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful setting. The grass was perfectly cut, leaving perfectly aligned traces of the mower’s blades. The landscaping was immaculate, with freshly planted seasonal flowers artistically clustered about. It had tan and brown tiles on the walkway around the building and looked impressive, as a wide path led up to the front door. The large American flag flying from a tall flagpole, and the emblem identifying the building as a United States Consulate, left little doubt but that I had arrived at the right place. There were no guards, and when I entered the building from the bright sunshine, my eyes had difficulty focusing. I could barely make out the reception desk on the other side of the lobby. Knowingly, a beautiful olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sat there laughing. Once my eyes adjusted, her laughter turned into a delightful, fetching smile. I didn’t know what to expect when she greeted me, but I noticed that she spoke English with a French accent. Wasn’t this a little piece of the United States? Her accent threw me, but I was cool about it and pretended not to notice. “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to get some...

The Awakening of La Muse. At Sea. Martinique said: “I was enraged every moment of every day I was owned by another person. Maybe it’s different for you. I mean . . . you were born into captivity; you know nothing else. I was not. I was forced into it. Maybe that’s the difference. But still, it ain’t right you should seem so content. You were born to be free. It is God’s gift to you. It was taken from you.” She paused. “Take it back!

History was fact, History was a cannon, not a lizard; De Grasse leaving Martinique, and Rodney crouching to act in the right wind. Iounalo, my royal arse! Hewanorra, my hole! Was the greatest battle in naval history, which put the French to rout, fought for a creature with a disposable tail and elbows like a goalie?

Increase of light and increase of labour have always gone hand in hand. If today, when our gaze is no longer able to penetrate the pale reflected glow over the city and its environs, we think back to the eighteenth century, it hardly seems possible that even then, before the Industrial Age, a great number of people, at least in some places, spent their lives with their wretched bodies strapped to looms made of wooden frames and rails, hung with weights, and reminiscent of instruments of torture or cages. It was a peculiar symbiosis which, perhaps because of its relatively primitive character, makes more apparent than any later form of factory work that we are able to maintain ourselves on this earth only by being harnessed to the machines we have invented. That weavers in particular, together with scholars and writers with whom they had much in common, tended to suffer from melancholy and all the evils associated with it, is understandable given the nature of their work, which forced them to sit bent over, day after day, straining to keep their eye on the complex patterns they created. It is difficult to imagine the depths of despair into which those can be driven who, even after the end of the working day, are engrossed in their intricate designs and who are pursued, into their dreams, by the feeling that they have got hold of the wrong thread. On the other hand, when we consider the weavers’ mental illnesses we should also bear in mind that many of the materials produced in the factories of Norwich in the decades before the Industrial Revolution began – silk brocades and watered tabinets, satins and satinettes, camblets and cheveretts, prunelles, callimancoes and florentines, diamantines and grenadines, blondines, bombazines, belle-isles and martiniques – were of a truly fabulous variety, and of an iridescent, quite indescribable beauty as if they had been produced by Nature itself, like the plumage of birds. – That, at any rate, is what I think when I look at the marvellous strips of colour in the pattern books, the edges and gaps filled with mysterious figures and symbols, that are kept in the small museum of Strangers Hall, which was once the town house of just such a family of silk weavers who had been exiled from France.

The President told them he had chosen the island of Martinique for his exile because of his friendship with the poet Aimé Césaire, who at that time had just published his Cahier d’un retour au pays natal, and had helped him begin a new life. With what remained of his wife’s inheritance, the President bought a house made of noble wood in the hills of Fort-de-France, with screens at the windows and a terrace overlooking the sea and filled with primitive flowers, where it was a pleasure to sleep with the sound of crickets and the molasses-and-rum breeze from the sugar mills. There he stayed with his wife, fourteen years older than he and an invalid since the birth of their only child, fortified against fate by his habitual rereading of the Latin classics, in Latin, and by the conviction that this was the final act of his life. For years he had to resist the temptation of all kinds of adventures proposed to him by his defeated partisans.

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