JOHN HEARNE. There are, in fiction, a few 'complete' characters: people about whom a writer tells you all you need to know. There are, equally, in painting, a few faces in which the whole record of a life's passion and experience is not only caught but prophesied. But a country, any good country, remains essentially undiscovered for all time. It replenishes and recreates itself from all human endeavour - even from the endeavour of those who try to define it. We can seek only for a sort of truth, insufficient but valid like our declarations of love, rather than a precise catalogue of qualities. Always, we are defeated, in the quest for any final response by the ceaseless and creative dialogues between our memory and the land itself on which we are only guests. Anyone who sets out to commit his country to print must work within the limits defined by Virginia's Captain John Smith. As geography without history, he wrote, more than three centuries ago, seemeth a carkasse without motion, so history without geography wandreth as a vagrant without certain habitation. . If you wish to understand us in Jamaica, you must also understand that most Jamaicans would accept John Smith's definition of the meaning of a place. Perhaps all of us in the New World are informed by this common humility: that we all belong to the new found land we seized and exploited with such desperate temerity. Certainly, most people between Alaska and Argentina who have known something like a history seem to endure this half-ecstatic ecstasy of wanting to grasp and realise the whole earth; seem to move towards a fulfilment that the peoples of Europe and Asia or Africa have achieved these many thousand years. I don't know why this should be so, and the fulfilment spoken of is not only political: it contains also, a confidence, as yet lacking, of possession by the whole man. Speaking to his own parish of the Americas, Stephen Vincent Benet said: They tried to fit you with an English song And clip your speech into the English tale But even from the first the words went wrong The catbird pecked away the nightingale ...... ........ They planted England with a stubborn trust But the cleft dust was never English dust. For England read any of the great countries or cultures from three continents whose unreturned prodigals we are. And Jamaica, although itself, is only an island, 'a part of the maine: a small vivid piece of the great American experience that began one October morning over five hundred and fifty years ago. There is less time between Columbus' first landfall and now, than between the collapse of Rome's Western Empire and the crowning of the first French King. All the same, five hundred and fifty years is a respectable continuity, and Jamaica, which Columbus discovered less than two years after the Santa Maria hove to off Watling Island in the Bahamas, has had Western civic government without a break since 1509. That is, our first township, with all the administrative and ecclesiastical and commercial institutions that go to make a European town, was built in the same year Henry VIII came to the English throne, a century before Pocohontas saved Captain John Smith from execution, over three generations before the first Founding Father stepped from a longboat on to Plymouth Rock. But this continuity of ordered, familiar, European civilization was first built on a base of genocide without any parallel in the records of man. Since prehistory, when Cro-Magnon clashed with Neanderthal, there has been nothing with which we can compare the destruction of the aboriginal, Arawak Indians of the major Caribbean islands - Puerto Rico, Hispaniola, Cuba and Jamaica by the Spaniards. A demon so horrible, so inexplicable, so inaccessible to any forms of inquiry we now have seems to have entered quite ordinary fathers and descent sons of Castille, Andalusia, Aragon and, soft Valencia, so that even now in the West Indies we try to pretend that the representatives of fifteen hundred years of Christ found an unpeopled garden. …