Romenu is een blog over gedichten, literatuur en kunst Maar Romenu is ook een professionele freelance vertaler Du-Ne en Ne-Du http://www.roumen-vertalingen.nl/
Georg Trakl werd op 3 februari 1887 in het conducteurshuis aan de Waagplatz 2 in Salzburg geboren. Zijn vader, Tobias Trakl, was een handelaar in ijzerwaren en zijn moeder, die ook psychische problemen had, was Maria Catharina Trakl, (meisjesnaam Halik). Voorts had hij nog drie broers en drie zussen. Margarethe (doorgaans Grethe genoemd) stond hem het naast, zelfs zodanig dat sommigen een incestueuze verhouding vermoeden. Zijn jeugd bracht hij door in Salzburg. Vervolgens bezocht hij van 1897 tot 1905 het humanistische gymnasium. Om toch een academische opleiding te kunnen volgen, werkte hij tot 1908 in de praktijk bij een apotheker. Sommigen vermoedden dat hij dit vooral deed om zichzelf opiaten te kunnen verschaffen. Bij het uitbreken van WO I werd Trakl als medicus naar het front in Galicië (heden ten dage in Oekraïne en Polen) gestuurd. Zijn gemoedsschommelingen leidden tot geregelde uitbraken van depressie, die verergerd werden door de afschuw die hij voelde voor de verzorging van de ernstig verwonde soldaten. De spanning en druk dreven hem ertoe een suïcidepoging te ondernemen, welke zijn kameraden nochtans verhinderden. Hij werd in een militair ziekenhuis opgenomen in Kraków, alwaar hij onder strikt toezicht geplaatst werd.Trakl verzonk daar in nog zwaardere depressies en schreef Ficker om advies. Ficker overtuigde hem ervan dat hij contact moest opnemen met Wittgenstein, die inderdaad op weg ging na Trakls bericht te hebben ontvangen. Op 4 november 1914, drie dagen voordat Wittgenstein aan zou komen, overleed hij echter aan een overdosis cocaïne
Paul Celan
Paul Celan werd onder de naam Paul Antschel op 23 november 1920 geboren in Czernowitz, toentertijd de hoofdstad van de Roemeense Boekovina, nu behorend bij de Oekraïne. Paul Celans ouders waren Duitssprekende joden die hun zoon joods opvoedden en hem naar Duitse christelijke scholen stuurden. In 1942 werden Celans ouders door de Duitse bezetter naar een werkkamp gedeporteerd en daar vermoord. Hijzelf wist aanvankelijk onder te duiken, maar moest vanaf juli 1942 in een werkkamp dwangarbeid verrichten. Celan overleefde de oorlog. Via Boekarest en Wenen vestigde Celan zich in 1948 in Parijs. Daar was hij werkzaam als dichter, vertaler en doceerde hij aan de prestigieuze Ecole Normale Supérieure. Vermoedelijk op 20 april 1970 beëindigde hij zijn leven zelf door in de Seine te springen.
Gerard Reve
Gerard Reve over: Medearbeiders ”God is in de mensen, de dieren, de planten en alle dingen - in de schepping, die verlost moet worden of waaruit God verlost moet worden, door onze arbeid, aangezien wij medearbeiders van God zijn.” Openbaring ”Tja, waar berust elk godsbegrip op, elke vorm van religie? Op een openbaring, dat wil zeggen op een psychische ervaring van zulk een dwingende en onverbiddelijke kracht, dat de betrokkene het gevoel heeft, niet dat hij een gedachte of een visioen heeft, maar dat een gedachte gedachte of visioen hem bezit en overweldigt.”
Simon Vestdijk
Simon Vestdijk (Harlingen, 17 oktober 1898 – Utrecht, 23 maart 1971) was een Nederlands romancier, dichter, essayist en vertaler. Zijn jeugd te Harlingen en Leeuwarden beschreef hij later in de Anton Wachter-cyclus. Van jongs af aan logeerde hij regelmatig bij zijn grootouders in Amsterdam, waar hij zich in 1917 aan de Universiteit van Amsterdam inschrijft als student in de medicijnen. Tijdens zijn studie die van 1917 tot 1927 duurde, leerde hij Jan Slauerhoff kennen.Tot 1932 is hij als arts in praktijken door heel Nederland werkzaam. In 1932 volgt zijn officiële schrijversdebuut met de uitgave van de bundel Verzen in De Vrije Bladen. Doorslaggevend voor Vestdijks uiteindelijke keuze voor de literatuur is zijn ontmoeting in 1932 met Eddy Du Perron en Menno ter Braak. Deze ontmoeting had tot resultaat dat hij redactielid werd van het tijdschrift Forum Kort daarop, in 1933, wordt zijn eerste novelle, De oubliette, uitgegeven. In hetzelfde jaar schrijft hij Kind tussen vier vrouwen, dat, eerst geweigerd door de uitgever, later de basis zal vormen voor de eerste drie delen van de Anton Wachter-romans. In 1951 ontvangt Vestdijk de P.C. Hooftprijs voor zijn in 1947 verschenen roman De vuuraanbidders. In 1957 wordt hij voor het eerst door het PEN-centrum voor Nederland voorgedragen voor de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur, die hij echter nooit zal krijgen. Op 20 maart 1971 wordt hem de Prijs der Nederlandse Letteren toegekend, maar voor hij deze kan ontvangen overlijdt hij op 23 maart te Utrecht op 72-jarige leeftijd. Vestdijk was auteur van ca. 200 boeken. Vanwege deze enorme productie noemde de dichter Adriaan Roland Holst hem 'de man die sneller schrijft dan God kan lezen'. Andere belangrijke boeken van Simon Vestdijk zijn: "Kind van stad en land" (1936), "Meneer Visser's hellevaart" (1936), "Ierse nachten" (1946), "De toekomst de religie" (1947), "Pastorale 1943" (1948), "De koperen tuin" (1950), "Ivoren wachters" (1951), "Essays in duodecimo" (1952) en "Het genadeschot" (1964).
K.P. Kavafis K.P. Kavafis werd als kind van Griekse ouders, afkomstig uit Konstantinopel, geboren in 1863 in Alexandrië (tot vandaag een Griekse enclave) waar hij ook het grootste deel van zijn leven woonde en werkte. Twee jaar na de dood van zijn vader verhuist het gezin in 1872 naar Engeland om na een verblijf van vijf jaar naar Alexandrië terug te keren. Vanwege ongeregeldheden in Egypte vlucht het gezin in 1882 naar Konstantinopel, om na drie jaar opnieuw naar Alexandrië terug te gaan. In de jaren die volgen maakt Kavafis reizen naar Parijs, Londen en in 1901 zijn eerste reis naar Griekenland, in latere jaren gevolgd door nog enkele bezoeken. Op de dag van zijn zeventigste verjaardag, in 1933 sterft Kavafis in Alexandrië. De roem kwam voor Kavafis pas na zijn dood, dus postuum. Deels is dat toe te schrijven aan zijn eigen handelswijze. Hij was uiterst terughoudend met de publicatie van zijn gedichten, liet af en toe een enkel gedicht afdrukken in een literair tijdschrift, gaf in eigen beheer enkele bundels met een stuk of twintig gedichten uit en het merendeel van zijn poëzie schonk hij op losse bladen aan zijn beste vrienden.
Thomas Mann
Thomas Mann, de jongere broer van Heinrich Mann, werd geboren op 6 juni 1875 in Lübeck. Hij was de tweede zoon van de graankoopman Thomas Johann Heinrich Mann welke later één van de senatoren van Lübreck werd. Zijn moeder Julia (geboren da Silva-Bruhns) was Duits-Braziliaans van Portugees Kreoolse afkomst. In 1894 debuteerde Thomas Mann met de novelle "Gefallen". Toen Thomas Mann met 21 jaar eindelijk volwassen was en hem dus geld van zijn vaders erfenis toestond - hij kreeg ongeveer 160 tot 180 goldmark per jaar - besloot hij dat hij genoeg had van al die scholen en instituties en werd onafhankelijk schrijver. Kenmerkend voor zijn stijl zijn de ironie, de fenomenale taalbeheersing en de minutieuze detailschildering. Manns reputatie in Duitsland was sterk wisselend. Met zijn eerste roman, Buddenbrooks (1901), had hij een enorm succes, maar door zijn sceptische houding tegenover Duitsland na de Eerste Wereldoorlog veranderde dit volledig. Stelde hij zich tot aan de jaren twintig apolitiek op (Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen, 1918), meer en meer raakte hij bij het Politiek gebeuren betrokken. Zijn afkeer van het nationaal socialisme groeide, zijn waarschuwingen werden veelvuldiger en heftiger. In 1944 accepteerde hij het Amerikaanse staatsburgerschap. Tussen 1943 en 1947 schreef Mann Doktor Faustus (zie Faust), de roman van de 'Duitse ziel' in de gecamoufleerd geschilderde omstandigheden van de 20ste eeuw. In 1947 bezocht hij voor het eerst sinds de Oorlog Europa, twee jaar later pas Duitsland. In 1952 vertrok hij naar Zwitserland. Op 12 augustus 1955 stierf hij in Zürich. Twintig jaar na zijn dood, in aug. 1975, is zijn literaire nalatenschap geopend: dagboekaantekeningen van 15 maart 1933 tot 29 juli 1955, alsmede notities uit de jaren 1918 tot en met 1921.Belangrijke werken zijn: Der Zauberberg, Der Tod in Venedig, Dokter Faustus , Joseph und seine Brüder en Die Bekenntnisse des Hochstaplers Felix Krull.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Rilke werd op 4 december 1875 geboren in Praag. Hij had al naam gemaakt als dichter met zijn bundels Das Stundenbuch en Das Buch der Bilder, toen hij de literaire wereld versteld deed staan en wereldfaam verwierf met de publicatie van zijn twee delen Neue Gedichte in 1907 en 1908. Hij verzamelde daarin het beste werk uit een van zijn vruchtbaarste periodes, die hij grotendeels doorbracht in Parijs. Rilke was daar diep onder de indruk gekomen van Rodin, bij wie hij een tijdlang in dienst was als particulier secretaris. Rodin, zei hij later, had hem leren kijken. Dit kijken kwam neer op intense concentratie, om het mysterie te kunnen zien ‘achter de schijnbare werkelijkheid'. Latere en rijpere werken als Duineser Elegien (1912-1923) en het ronduit schitterende Die Sonette an Orfeus (1924) illustreren Rilkes metafysische visie op het onzegbare, dat haar verwoording vindt in een hermetische muzikale taal. Op 29 december 1926 overlijdt Rilke in het sanatorium in Val-Mont aan de gevolgen van leukemie. Enkele dagen later wordt hij, overeenkomstig zijn wens, begraven op het kerkhof van Raron.
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Romenu
Over literatuur, gedichten, kunst en cultuur
09-08-2012
Dolce far niente (Amsterdam)
Dolce far niente (Amsterdam)
Tegenstroom
Nu polders van droogte open scheuren Pompt het Zeeburg-gemaal water Water uit het IJmeer in de Amstel Zo keert tegenstroom de waterloop
Ik beproef mijn dichtersziel en luister Luister hoe de rivier nu adem haalt Ik zie golven zuidwaarts drijven Dat is de wind die uit het Noorden komt
Wat moet er worden van een stad Die terugstuwt wat zij ontvangt Die haar mondingschap verliest Om 't dorstig achterland te laven
Amstel, vanaf de Nieuwe Amstelbrug
Ademhalen hoor ik niet. Ik ga te rade Bij de veerman, spreek hem op zijn boot Bij Driemond en Carré staan de sluizen open Het water stroomt als het moet stromen
Zegt hij en roeiers zeggen het hem na Tegenstroom kunnen wij niet ontwaren Het is de wind meneer, de wind die ons Tegen zit, stroom kan ons niet deren
Bij de Omval ligt het water blak Ik dacht het al, voor de Amstel Is een dichtersziel niet nodig Haar waarheid ligt aan het oppervlak.
De Antilliasanse dichter Elis Juliana werd op 8 augustus 1927
geboren op Curaçao als helft van een
tweeling waarvan de andere helft Gladys is. Hij bezocht twee jaar de lagere
technische school en werd leerling-monteur en leerling
bankwerker-instrumentmaker. Van 1946-1947 was hij als soldaat-schutter in
militaire dienst. Daarna werd hij tot 1952 fijnbankwerker, onderbroken door zes
maanden aspirant politie-agent, meterreparateur, manusje van alles en
gevangenbewaarder. Vanaf april 1959 was hij klerk bij Bureau Justitile
Jeugdzorg, de voorloper van het Bureau Cultuur en Opvoeding, waar hij zich met
volkskunde en archeologie bezighield tot zijn pensionering in 1987. Voor het
samen met pater Brenneker opgezette en uitgevoerde etnografisch werk volgde
Juliana in 1968 een opleiding van vier maanden in Leiden. Zijn belangstelling
voor oude Curaçaose muziekinstrumenten en voorwerpen leidde tot de oprichting
van de Fundashon Zikinzá, welke collectie bewaard wordt in het Centraal
Historisch Archief in Willemstad. Sedert 1960 is Juliana lid van de Culturele
Adviesraad Curaçao.
Elis Juliana behoort met Luis Daal en Pierre Lauffer tot
de 'Grote Drie' van de Antilliaanse dichtkunst in het Papiaments. De
kunstenaar, die niet alleen dicht maar ook tekent en beeldhouwt, staat bekend
om zijn haiku's, ritmische gedichten en zijn bevlogen voordrachten. Het
literaire werk van Elis Juliana beslaat meer dan een halve eeuw. In september
2011 verscheen een vertaling in Nederland van zijn dichtbundel 'Hé
Patu/Waggeleend'. Juliana is meerdere keren in de prijzen gevallen. In 1973
kreeg hij de Cola Debrotprijs voor bijzondere prestaties op het gebied van
beeldende kunst. Verder is hij geridderd in de Orde van Oranje-Nassau, heeft
hij een Krus di Mérito en ontving hij in Cuba de Jose Maria
Heredia-onderscheiding.
Zwijn (Porko)
Laat me jou dit
heel
duidelijk maken,
zodat jij precies weet
wie hier voor je staat.
Ik ben een volstrekt onafhankelijk man.
Misschien kunnen een of twee
mensen in mijn schoenen staan,
maar dit weet ik zeker:
niets kan me verdommen.
Ik heb twee kinderen bij Mosa,
drie bij Bea, twee bij Rosa,
vier bij Mina
en een bij Serafina.
Al in al een dozijn.
Zes mannelijk, zes vrouwelijk.
Tot onder mijn voetzolen
houd ik van mijn vrouwen
en ze weten allemaal:
trouwen is er niet bij.
Maar als een van god verlatene
mocht denken
dat hij hier kon komen
om met mijn dochters te klooien
en hem smeren zonder ze te trouwen,
dan zeg ik je,
en let op mijn woorden:
voordat de zon opkomt
is dat zwijn gecastreerd.
New York No siree, Mister President, you do not get these from pettin kitty cats. James Kipper nodded, smiling doubtfully as the slab-shouldered workman flexed his biceps and kissed each one in turn. His Secret Service guys didnt seem much bothered, and hed long ago learned to pick up on their unspoken signals and body language. They paid much less attention to the salvage crew in front of him than to the ruined façades of the office blocks looking down on the massive, rusting pileup in Lower Manhattan. The hard work and unseasonal humidity of Lower Manhattan had left the workman drenched in sweat, and Kipper could feel the shirt sticking to his own back. Having paid homage to his bowling-ball-sized muscles, the workman reached out one enormous, calloused paw to shake hands with the forty-forth president of the United States. Kippers grip was not as strong as it once had been and had certainly never been anywhere near as powerful as this gorillas, but a long career in engineering hadnt left him with soft fingers or a limp handshake. He returned the mans iron-fisted clench with a fairly creditable squeeze of his own. Whoa there, Mister President, the salvage and clearance worker cried out jokingly. I need these dainty pinkies for my second job. As a concert pianist, dontcha know. The small crush of men and women gathered around Kipper grinned and chuckled. This guy was obviously the clown of the bunch. A concert penis, you say? Kipper shot back. Whats that, some sorta novelty act? With one of those really tiny pianos? The groan of his media handler, Karen Milliner, was lost in the sudden uproar of coarse, braying laughter as the S&C workers erupted at the exchange. That did put his security detail a little on edge, but the man-mountain with the kissable biceps was laughing the loudest of them all, pointing at the chief executive and crying out, This fuggin guy. He cracks me up. Best fuggin president ever.
Uit: Day of the Oprichnik (Vertaald door Jamey Gambrell)
Always the same dream: Im walking across an endless fi eld, a Russian field. Ahead, beyond the receding horizon, I spy a white stallion; I walk toward him, I sense that this stallion is unique,the stallion of all stallions, dazzling, a sorcerer, fleet-footed; I make haste, but cannot overtake him, I quicken my pace, shout, call to him, and realize suddenly: this stallion contains all life,my entire destiny, my good fortune, that I need him like the very air; and I run, run, run after him, but he recedes with ever measured pace, heeding no one or thing, he is leaving me, leaving for-ever more, everlastingly, irrevocably, leaving, leaving, leaving . . .My mobilov awakens me:
One crack of the whip a scream.
Two a moan.
Three the death rattle
.Poyarok recorded it in the Secret Department, when they were torturing the Far Eastern general. It could even wake a corpse.I put the cold mobilov to my warm, sleepy ear. Komiaga speaking.
The best of health, Andrei Danilovich. Korostylev troubling you, sir. The voice of the old clerk from the Ambassadorial Department makes me snap to, and immediately his anxious, mustache-adorned snout appears in the air nearby.State your business.I beg to remind you: this evening, the reception for the Albanian ambassador is to take place. A dozen or so attendants arerequired.I know, I mutter grumpily, though, truth be told, Id for-gotten.
vanochtend na het ontbijt ontdekte ik, door mijn verstrooidheid, dat het deksel van een middelgroot potje marmite (het 4 oz net formaat) precies past op een klein potje Heinz sandwich spread
natuurlijk heb ik toen meteen geprobeerd of het sandwich-spread dekseltje ook op het marmite-potje paste
en jawel hoor: het paste eveneens
Zegt men
Je moet, zegt men, een keer volwassen worden. En bedoelt dan waarschijnlijk: heel serieus over God, Staat en Vaderland meemummelen, en nooit eens roepen: 'Krijg een dikke neus!'
Geen grapjes maken over het soort zaken waarmee zelfs een magnaat te worstelen heeft. Vooral, wanneer hij door een Hongkonggriepje geveld is. En plots merkt dat hij nog leeft.
De kans bij mij is, volgens de bookmakers van Londen: 13.000 tegen 1. En die, zegt men, verstaan hun vak. Helaas:
ik zal dus altijd onvolwassen blijven. En ik moet toegeven: bij elke schimmel, denk ik nog steeds: 'Ha 't paard van Sinterklaas!'
Cees Buddingh (7 augustus 1918 - 24 november 1985)
Ich war nicht einer deiner guten Jungen. An meinem Jugendtrotz ist mancher Rat Und manches wohlgedachte Wort zersprungen. Nun sieht der Mann, was einst der Knabe tat.
Doch hast du, alter Meister, nicht vergebens An meinem Bau geformt und dich gemüht. Du hast die besten Werte meines Lebens Mit heißen Worten mir ins Herz geglüht.
Verzeih, wenn ich das Alte nicht bereue. Ich will mich heut wie einst vor dir nicht bücken. Doch möcht ich dir für deine Lehrertreue nur einmal dankbar, stumm die Hände drücken.
Ruf zum Sport
Auf ihr steifen und verdorrten Leute aus Büros, Reißt euch mal zum Wintersporten Von den Öfen los.
Bleiches Volk an Wirtshaustischen, Stellt die Gläser fort. Widme dich dem freien, frischen, Frohen Wintersport.
Denn er führt ins lodenfreie Gletscherfexlertum Und bedeckt uns nach der Reihe All mit Schnee und Ruhm.
Doch nicht nur der Sport im Winter, Jeder Sport ist plus, Und mit etwas Geist dahinter Wird er zum Genuß.
Sport macht Schwache selbstbewußter, Dicke dünn, und macht Dünne hinterher robuster, Gleichsam über Nacht.
Sport stärkt Arme, Rumpf und Beine, Kürzt die öde Zeit, Und er schützt uns durch Vereine Vor der Einsamkeit,
Nimmt den Lungen die verbrauchte Luft, gibt Appetit; Was uns wieder ins verrauchte Treue Wirtshaus zieht.
Wo man dann die sporttrainierten Muskeln trotzig hebt Und fortan in illustrierten Blättern weiterlebt.
Joachim Ringelnatz (7 augustus 1883 17 november 1934)
Uit:The perils of being Skrak (Vertaald doorDavid McDuff)
At the time of Werner's stay in Cleveland Bruno and Maggie had already been divorced for some years, and in an irreconcilable manner. But they were still interested in their grown-up son, each in their own way; Maggie wrote often, and Werner replied, he wrote at length, and truthfully, for he knew that Bruno and Maggie no longer communicated; to Maggie he could admit that he hated corporate law and bookkeeping, and to her he dared to talk about the raw music he had found on the radio station WJW, he wrote to her that the music of the blacks had body and that he had found a great record store, it was called Rendezvous and was situated on Prospect Avenue and there he had also bought a ticket for a blues concert, wrote Werner, he thought that Maggie would understand. Bruno was not a great letter-writer, he sometimes dropped a line to Joe McNab on abrupt postcards in which he asked Joe to report on his son's progress in his studies, that was all. On the other hand, he sometimes telephoned, transatlantically and intercontinentally, it was a complicated and expensive and easily interrupted procedure that most often consisted of father and son being silent together at a distance of almost 10,000 kilometres from each other. When Bruno discovered by letter that his son, the Latin scholar and athlete and student of law, had by some strange means got hold of a ticket for a Negro concert and had also used it, he immediately booked an international call to McNab. When the call came through it was afternoon in Helsinki and early morning over there in Cleveland. After some preliminary questions and laconic replies and a period of silence accompanied by cosmic crackling and the roar of the mighty Atlantic between them, Bruno came to the point: 'I'm not paying for you to stay over there to be beaten up by Negroes, Werner,' he said. Werner was silent, then he said: 'So Uncle Joe has been gossiping.' 'I wouldn't call it gossiping,' retorted Bruno. 'You live with him, he's responsible for you.' 'I'm a grown man, Dad,' said Werner bitterly.
Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest: Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie: Go by, go by.
Late, Late, So Late
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now. No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridgegroom is so sweet? O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now."
Move Eastward, Happy Earth
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow: From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go: Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister world, and rise To glass herself in dewey eyes That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night.
Alfred Tennyson (6 augustus 1809 6 oktober 1892)
Il est midi. Je vois léglise ouverte. Il faut entrer. Mère de Jésus-Christ, je ne viens pas prier. Je nai rien à offrir et rien à demander. Je viens seulement, Mère, pour vous regarder. Vous regarder, pleurer de bonheur, savoir cela Que je suis votre fils et que vous êtes là Rien que pour un moment pendant que tout sarrête. Midi ! Être avec vous, Marie, en ce lieu où vous êtes. Ne rien dire, regarder votre visage, Laisser le cur chanter dans son propre langage. Ne rien dire, mais seulement chanter parce quon a le cur trop plein, Comme le merle qui suit son idée en ces espèces de couplets soudains. Parce que vous êtes belle, parce que vous êtes immaculée, La femme dans la Grâce enfin restituée, La créature dans son honneur premier et dans son épanouissement final, Telle quelle est sortie de Dieu au matin de sa splendeur originale. Intacte ineffablement parce que vous êtes la Mère de Jésus-Christ, Qui est la vérité entre vos bras, et la seule espérance et le seul fruit. Parce que vous êtes la femme, lEden de lancienne tendresse oubliée, Dont le regard trouve le cur tout à coup et fait jaillir les larmes accumulées. Parce quil est midi, parce que nous sommes en ce jour daujourdhui, Parce que vous êtes là pour toujours, Simplement parce que vous êtes Marie, Simplement parce que vous existez, Mère de Jésus-Christ, soyez remerciée !
Paul Claudel (6 augustus 1868 23 februari 1955)
Sculptuur van een jone Claudel door zijn zusCamille
Mustapha tourne le dos à Mourad, et s'assied sur un ponton... «Elle était revêtue d'une ample cagoule de soie bleu pâle, comme en portent depuis peu les Marocaines émancipées ; cagoules grotesques ; elles escamotent la poitrine, la taille, les hanches, tombent tout d'une pièce aux chevilles ; pour un peu, elles couvriraient les jambelets d'or massif (la cliente en portait un très fin et très lourd)... Ces cagoules dernier cri ne sont qu'un prétexte pour dégager le visage, en couvrant le corps d'un rempart uniforme, afin de ne pas donner prise aux sarcasmes des puritains... Elle m'a parlé en français. Désir de couper les ponts en me traitant non seulement comme un commissionnaire, mais comme un mécréant, à qui l'on signifie qu'on n'a rien de commun avec lui, évitant de lui parler dans la langue maternelle. Pas voulu que je l'accompagne en tramway... Le couffin n'était pas si lourd... J'aurais pu la suivre jusqu'à la villa, si elle ne m'avait vu au moment de descendre ; du tramway, je l'ai vue gravir un talus, disparaître ; puis mon regard s'est porté au sommet du talus. Elle avait ôté sa cagoule ; je l'aurais reconnue entre toutes les femmes, rien qu'à ses cheveux... » Mustapha interrompt sa rêverie, sans quitter le ponton, le regard attiré par l'eau. La nuit tombe ; Mourad n'a pas fini de parler ; il dit qu'il était le seul des trois à se trouver tantôt à la gare... Voyant Rachid s'approcher à son tour du ponton, Mourad gaffe encore, avec une sorte d'insistance : je ne peux expliquer décidément ce que le voyageur avait de ridicule et d'attristant ; c'était peut-être, comme Mustapha, un collégien en rupture de ban...
The doctors thought he should go to Nairobi Hospital, which is the best private hospital in East Africa. The telephone system hardly worked, and it did not seem worth the effort to call any doctors to tell them that he was coming. He could still walk, and he seemed able to travel by himself. He had money; he understood he had to get to Nairobi. They put him in a taxi to the airport, and he boarded a Kenya Airways flight.
A hot virus from the rain forest lives within a twenty-four hour plane flight from every city on earth. All of the earths cities are connected by a web of airline routes. The web is a network. Once a virus hits the net, it can shoot anywhere in a day æParis, Tokyo, New York, Los Angeles, wherever planes fly. Charles Monet and the life form inside him had entered the net.
The plane was a Fokker Friendship with propellers, a commuter aircraft that seats thirty-five people. It started its engines and took off over Lake Victoria, blue and sparkling, dotted with the dugout canoes of fishermen. The Friendship turned and banked eastward, climbing over green hills quilted with tea plantations and small farms. The commuter flights that drone across Africa are often jammed with people, and this flight was probably full. The plane climbed over belts of forest and clusters of round huts and villages with tin roofs. The land suddenly dropped away, going down in shelves and ravines, and changed in color from green to brown. The plane was crossing the Eastern rift valley. The passengers looked out the windows at the place where the human species was born. They say specks of huts clustered inside circles of thornbush, with cattle trails radiating from the huts. The propellers moaned, and the friendship passed through cloud streets, lines of puffy rift clouds, and began to bounce and sway. Monet became airsick.
Uit: A Thousand Deaths Plus One (Vertaald door Leland H. Chambers)
The naked body, which in the contrast of the dimly illuminated snapshot looks as white as if it were a lepers cadaver, barely fits on the work bench where it lies exposed, just as in that other one, fully dressed, it scarcely fits on the bed. And the feet jut out in the foreground of this one too, freed of those seven-league-boots and looking as though they belong to the old Slavic king placidly asleep after a wild night of feverish love, his beard and hair in disarray, his legs still firm, his broad chest covered with a light snow-colored down, the two dark nipples like eyes still alert, and the abdomen flat without a hint of that senile obscenity that is a flaccid belly, swollen with fat. The Slavic monarch seems to be enjoying the majesty of his repose, unaware of his nakedness, and Pauline could be taken for the servant girl who doesnt dare to wake him, her protuberant eyes fixed on his sex that rises from the furry mat of his pubic region like the pestle belonging to a pharmacists mortar. But all this serene harmony is shattered by the clumsy seam that is marked by long stitches from sternum to stomach. After performing a radical evisceration, necessary because a long journey by train all the way to St. Petersburg awaits the body, the embalmer has injected two liters of formol into his veins and has filled with tow the cavities that used to hold his soft organs before concluding by sewing up the lengthy incision with horse hair. Flauberts hypocritical rule asserts that one should not become involved, Du Camp says again after Primoli separates himself from Castellón, raising his arms as if asking for peace. Thirsty for new experiences, you can go off to Upper Egypt to observe the hunting expeditions for blacks and elephants, but only as an observer whose emotions cannot deflect you from your mission to see. The blacks, the elephants are simply motifs, pretexts of a nature that is rich in varieties of cruelty and the marvelous, destined for the eye.
Do not think me gentle because I speak in praise of gentleness, or elegant because I honor the grace that keeps this world. I am a man crude as any, gross of speech, intolerant, stubborn, angry, full of fits and furies. That I may have spoken well at times, is not natural. A wonder is what it is.
The Hidden Singer
The gods are less for their love of praise. Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing but its own wholeness, its health and ours. It has made all things by dividing itself. It will be whole again. To its joy we come together -- the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten, the lover and the loved. In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then, not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire, but as a little bird hidden in the leaves who sings quietly and waits, and sings.
Uit: Madame Parisse (Vertaald door Albert M. C. McMaster, A. E. Henderson en Mme. Quesada)
I was sitting on the pier of the small port of Obernon, near the village of Salis, looking at Antibes, bathed in the setting sun. I had never before seen anything so wonderful and so beautiful. The small town, enclosed by its massive ramparts, built by Monsieur de Vauban, extended into the open sea, in the middle of the immense Gulf of Nice. The great waves, coming in from the ocean, broke at its feet, surrounding it with a wreath of foam; and beyond the ramparts the houses climbed up the hill, one after the other, as far as the two towers, which rose up into the sky, like the peaks of an ancient helmet. And these two towers were outlined against the milky whiteness of the Alps, that enormous distant wall of snow which enclosed the entire horizon. Between the white foam at the foot of the walls and the white snow on the sky-line the little city, dazzling against the bluish background of the nearest mountain ranges, presented to the rays of the setting sun a pyramid of red-roofed houses, whose facades were also white, but so different one from another that they seemed to be of all tints. And the sky above the Alps was itself of a blue that was almost white, as if the snow had tinted it; some silvery clouds were floating just over the pale summits, and on the other side of the gulf Nice, lying close to the water, stretched like a white thread between the sea and the mountain. Two great sails, driven by a strong breeze, seemed to skim over the waves. I looked upon all this, astounded.
This view was one of those sweet, rare, delightful things that seem to permeate you and are unforgettable, like the memory of a great happiness. One sees, thinks, suffers, is moved and loves with the eyes. He who can feel with the eye experiences the same keen, exquisite and deep pleasure in looking at men and things as the man with the delicate and sensitive ear, whose soul music overwhelms.
Hang jij soms weer uit dat kostschoolraam, tegenwoordig? had Gertie hem plagerig gevraagd. Heel traag, na veel depressies, was er een verhaal gekomen. Ewout vertelt Gertie dat hij op de kostschool sex met een leraar heeft gehad en hij vond het best lekker. Gertie zegt dat dat normaal was voor leeftijd, omdat jongens dan wel vaker in de knoop zitten. Denk je? had Ewout geantwoord.
(...)
Ik moet nieuw werk gaan zoeken, ik moet het huis opruimen, ik moet aan een ander leven denken, ik moet gaan verhuizen, denk ik, als ik in bed lig. De telefoon laat ik overgaan: Ewout. Als ik niet kan slapen neem ik een pil, maar blijf nog wakker, meestal. Soms hoor ik geluiden uit de tuin, het padje dat een bruid zoekt. Jhè-kè-kè-kè. Whè-kaah? Ik moet aan de tuin gaan werken.
Rudi van Dantzig (4 augustus 1933 19 januari 2012)
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aery surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!
Percy Bysshe Shelley (4 augustus 1792 8 juli 1822)
I do not really know if I should continue these confessions. The publicists duty compels me to inform the public that rather too cretinous things are happening too cretinous to be revealed and, I believe, on this all speculation reliesthat an excess of cretinism does not allow these things to be revealed, that this is already too stupid to be expressed. Leaving the Café Paris, I went to the Café Rex. There an unknown gentleman who approached me and, having introduced himself as Zamszycki (maybe I heard this wrong), said that he had wanted to make my acquaintance for a long time. I said that it was my pleasure and then he thanked me, bowed, and left. Furious, I wanted to call him a cretin when, at that moment, I noticed that he was not a cretin because, after all, he had wanted to meet me and did, therefore, it was right that he should leave. Then I started to think: cretin or not? In the meantime, first one streetlight went on, then another, and when the second went on, a third lit up, then a fourth and with the fourth a fifth. Hardly had the fifth lit up when the sixth and the seventh go on, eighth, ninth, yet, at the same time, one, two, five cars go by; one, two, ten trams; people are coming, one, two, ten, fifteen; before me, one, two, three houses; the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh story and on the seventh, a balcony and on the balcony, who? Who but Henry and his wife! Beckoning to me.
Witold Gombrowicz (4 augustus 1904 - 24 juli 1969)
The bedroom in question isn't hard to find. A little mat of vomit in the hall. Splinters of wood. I step over the broken-down door and see the mother at the bed where the boy is laid out, and as I quietly introduce myself I take it all in. The room smells of pot and urine and disinfectant and it's clear that she's cut him down and dressed him and tidied everything up.
I slip in beside her and do the business but the kid's been gone a while. He looks about seventeen. There are ligature marks on his neck and older bruises around them. Even while I'm going through the motions she strokes the boy's dark, curly hair. A nice-looking kid. She's washed him. He smells of Pears soap and freshly laundered clothes. I ask for her name and for her son's, and she tells me that she's June and the boy's name is Aaron.
I'm sorry, June, I murmur, but he's passed away.
I know that.
You found him a while ago. Before you called.
She says nothing.
June, I'm not the police.
They're already on their way.
Can I open the wardrobe? I ask as Jodie steps into the doorway.
I'd prefer that you didn't, says June.
Okay. But you know that the police will.
Do they have to? The mother looks at me properly for the first time. She's a handsome woman in her forties with short, dark hair and arty pendant earrings, and I can imagine that an hour ago, when her lipstick and her life were still intact, she'd have been erect and confident, even a little haughty.
It's their job, June.
You seem to have made some kind of ... assumption.
Uit: A Trip to the Train Station (Vertaald door Alex Zucker)
The city was changing. Above it, as dependable as in the 10th century or any other time, the moon hung in the night's dark gateway, sometimes full and puffy like the face of a drunk, at other times floating in the clouds, almost invisible, a glassy bauble that didn't burn but still drove the city mongrels to madness. Here in this glow, whenever the moon climbed to its cool intensity, lovers would drink off the last of their bottle and hurl themselves at one another, lips nibbled raw out of love supreme, the killer would sneer as he twisted his knife in the wound, and here in this light, dear mommy would suddenly do something atrocious to her little papoose, and the golden force flowed down over the tracks of trams and trains and they glistened brilliantly in the flood of light... The Lord of the Earth caught hold of the dark at its centre and turned the night inside out like a freshly-peeled skin. Then the sun would blaze up in the sky, beating down on walls and sidewalks, and only then was filth filth and decay decay and you could see it. This searing sun caused blood to move slowly and lazily, turning sweet, or the other way around, made the pumps work so frantically that the blood seemed ready to burst out of its confines. That's how it seemed to me anyways, nothing too pretty. The city was changing. Iron grills and shutters left pulled down for years and gone to rust were given fresh coats of paint and often a sign with somebody's name on it. Dusty cellars and dirty beer joints in what used to be the Jewish quarter were cleverly converted into luxury stores. You could find steamer trunks from the last century, a book dictated by Madonna with a piece of her chain included, pineapples and fine tobacco, diaries of dead actresses and trendy wheels from old farmers' wagons, whips and dolls and travel grails with adventurer's blood in them, coins and likenesses of Kafka, shooting galleries with all the proletarian presidents as targets, rags and bones and skins, anything you could think of.
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.
1914 V: The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
WELCOME TO CYPRUS The airplane plip-plopped down the runway to a halt before the big sign: WELCOME TO CYPRUS. Mark Parker looked out of the window and in the distance he could see the jagged wonder of the Peak of Five Fingers of the northern coastal range. In an hour or so he would be driving through the pass to Kyrenia. He stepped into the aisle, straightened out his necktie, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. "Welcome to Cyprus, welcome to Cyprus . . ." It ran through his head. It was from Othello, he thought, but the full quotation slipped his mind. "Anything to declare?" the customs inspector said. "Two pounds of uncut heroin and a manual of pornographic art," Mark answered, looking about for Kitty. All Americans are comedians, the inspector thought, as he passed Parker through. A government tourist hostess approached him. "Are you Mr. Mark Parker?" "Guilty." "Mrs. Kitty Fremont phoned to say she is unable to meet you at the airport and for you to come straight to Kyrenia to the Dome Hotel. She has a room there for you." "Thanks, angel. Where can I get a taxi to Kyrenia?" "I ll arrange a car for you, sir. It will take a few moments." "Can I get a transfusion around here?" "Yes, sir. The coffee counter is straight down the hall."
Leon Uris (3 augustus 1924 21 juni 2003)
Scene uit de film Exodus uit 1960 met o.a. Paul Newman, Eva Marie Saint en Ralph Richardson
"ZAUBERKLEIDER!, so etwas hatte Isis. Die Kleider waren aus Nacktheit gemacht, aus tieferen Schichten der Sonnenstrahlen. Sie wurden einst angezogen, um sich bei jedem Gedanken zu verändern. Heute haben wir erfundene Währungen, gestrichelte Länder und die Gefährdung vom Soll her, niemand kommt mehr auf die Idee, Zauberkleider zu bestellen. Dabei kann alles aus Zahlen und Buchstaben mit tiefen Wünschen gebastelt werden. Im Sommer ist es besonders einfach. Nach einem slowenischen Kuss ist es mir, am Anfang eines Sommers, gut gelungen. Im Café aß ich ein Stück Kuchen und setzte mich an den Rand des Bürgersteigs. Ich zog meine Schuhe aus, die weiten Seidenhosen, das weiße bestickte Hemd, meine Schultern leuchteten, mein Mund, und ich ging aus der Stadt hinaus, barfuß, hatte Zeit, wollte das Meer suchen."
Marica Bodroić (Zadvarje, 3 augustus 1973)
De Duitse dichter Mirko Wenig werd geboren op 3 augustus 1977 in Gera. Hij studeerde germanistiek, sociologie en pedagogie in Jena en publiceerde in diverse tijdschriften en bloemlezingen. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Mirko Wenig op dit blog.
Nachtspaziergang
Sie hausen in Industriebaracken, klettern über Zäune und Garagendächer, beißen Ratten tot. Sie machen Katzen den Fressnapf streitig.
Doch dieser Fuchs, mein eigener verlauster, war zu alt für Beutezüge. Der Rücken gekrümmt, das Fell voll Wanzen, so schlich er nachts an den Abfallbehälter, stieß ihn um und fraß. Langsam nur näherte ich mich, wollte ihn nicht aufschrecken.
Ich sah ihm zu. Der Fuchs fraß, wie ein Tier frisst, schnell und hastig, ohne viel Aufhebens. Dann lief er davon und verschwand in den Büschen.
Nichts weiter passierte. Ich ging heim. Dass ich mich durch Steine fraß, an den Zitzen der Nacht saugte, wäre gelogen. Es regnete nicht. Wolken? Gab es keine.
Uit: Eva Luna (Vertaald door Margaret Sayers Peden)
My name is Eva, which means "life," according to a book of names my mother consulted. I was born in the back room of a shadowy house, and grew up amidst ancient furniture, books in Latin, and human mummies, but none of those things made me melancholy, because I came into the world with a breath of the jungle in my memory. My father, an Indian with yellow eyes, came from the place where the hundred rivers meet; he smelled of lush growing things and he never looked directly at the sky, because he had grown up beneath a canopy of trees, and light seemed indecent to him. Consuelo, my mother, spent her childhood in an enchanted region where for centuries adventurers have searched for the city of pure gold the conquistadors saw when they peered into the abyss of their own ambitions. She was marked forever by that landscape, and in some way she managed to pass that sign on to me. Missionaries took Consuelo in before she learned to walk; she appeared one day, a naked cub caked with mud and excrement, crawling across the footbridge from the dock like a tiny Jonah vomited up by some freshwater whale. When they bathed her, it was clear beyond a shadow of doubt that she was a girl, which must have caused no little consternation among them; but she was already there and it would not do to throw her into the river, so they draped her in a diaper to cover her shame, squeezed a few drops of lemon into her eyes to heal the infection that had prevented her from opening them, and baptized her with the first female name that came to mind. They then proceeded to bring her up, without fuss or effort to find out where she came from; they were sure that if Divine Providence had kept her alive until they found her, it would also watch over her physical and spiritual well-being, or, in the worst of cases, would bear her off to heaven along with the other innocents. Consuelo grew up without any fixed niche in the strict hierarchy of the Mission. She was not exactly a servant, but neither did she have the status of the Indian boys in the school, and when she asked which of the priests was her father, she was cuffed for her insolence. She told me that a Dutch sailor had set her adrift in a rowboat, but that was likely a story that she had invented to protect herself from the onslaught of my questions. I think the truth is that she knew nothing about her origins or how she had come to be where the missionaries found her.
Every writer in the English language, I should imagine, has at some point hated Shakespeare, has turned away from that monstrous achievement with a kind of sick envy. In my most anti-English days I condemned him as a chauvinist ("this England" indeed!) and because I felt it so bitterly anomalous that a black man should be forced to deal with the English language at all should be forced to assault the English language in order to be able to speak I condemned him as one of the authors and architects of my oppression.
Again, in the way that some Jews bitterly and mistakenly resent Shylock, I was dubious about Othello (what did he see in Desdemona?) and bitter about Caliban. His great vast gallery of people, whose reality was as contradictory as it was unanswerable, unspeakably oppressed me. I was resenting, of course, the assault on my simplicity; and, in another way, I was a victim of that loveless education which causes so many schoolboys to detest Shakespeare. But I feared him, too, feared him because, in his hands, the English language became the mightiest of instruments. No one would ever write that way again. No one would ever be able to match, much less surpass, him.
Well, I was young and missed the point entirely, was unable to go behind the words and, as it were, the diction, to what the poet was saying. I still remember my shock when I finally heard these lines from the murder scene in Julius Caesar. The assassins are washing their hands in Caesar's blood. Cassius says:
Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over, In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
What I suddenly heard, for the first time, was manifold. It was the voice of lonely, dedicated, deluded Cassius, whose life had never been real for me before I suddenly seemed to know what this moment meant to him. But beneath and beyond that voice I also heard a note yet more rigorous and impersonal and contemporary: that "lofty scene," in all its blood and necessary folly, its blind and necessary pain, was thrown into a perspective which has never left my mind.
Etends les bras et devant toi regarde et seulement devant toi Cest un pays notre pays qui doucement sapproche Nos pas nos secondes conquièrent ce sol et cette destinée Nous pouvons saisir lair comme un oiseau et atteindre ce fleuve cette lumière qui chante pour nous nous pouvons murmurer avec cette foule cette mer ces maisons murmurer notre joie la joie de tous ta joie et la mienne Crions écoutons ce grand chant de laube au crépuscule Vers la face de notre étoile Voici devant nous notre pays et notre vie Nattends plus ne regrette plus Car si une fois une seule fois tu tournais la tête tu perdrais en ouvrant les mains ce trésor qui est une seconde une unique seconde de ce temps notre temps
Philippe Soupault (2 augustus 1897 12 maart 1990)
I know that one of them was a woman. I remember loving all of the characters and kind of wishing that I was back in time and part of the group. And the whole setting of New York in 1896 was SO well done I truly felt like I was reading a novel that had been written IN the 1890s it had such a breath of reality to it, and it made me look at the streets of Manhattan in a new way (especially Union Square although I was unable to find the Union Square section this morning so Im wondering if that was actually from his second book Angel of Darkness?) Dont know. I remember almost nothing about The Alienist no plot points, nothing But I do remember these elements very well.
I wonder why on EARTH it hasnt been made into a film. It seems like it is MADE for a Hollywood movie treatment it feels very cinematic to me, inherently dramatic with a great cast of characters
I liked the book so much I even read the second one in the series (which, I think, stopped at 2) and that one I wasnt so wacky about. But I think he should have kept going. I would have definitely kept reading. The main draw about the book was the group of investigators and their interactions it was a pleasaure to read about them.
Anyhoo, I flipped thru the book this morning and was amazed by how much I didnt remember. And I couldnt find the Union Square section which I DID remember and wanted to excerpt so heres another excerpt I tripped over, that seems to capture the true time-machine appeal of this book.
Mijn diensttijd, als cavalerist in Assen, duurde precies tien weken. Na de verwarring van de eerste dagen, waarin je marcheren wordt geleerd en in snel tempo allerlei andere gewoontes aangekweekt worden, wist ik al gauw wat mijn plaats was: ergens ter zijde. De spitse uitspraken van de onderofficieren blijken zich nogal 's te herhalen en al jaren oud te zijn; er is tijd voor contemplatie en verder is het één grote padvinderij.
Veel tijd bracht ik in treinen door. Staande en vol verlangen, vooral de eerste tijd. Met een brief van Yvonne die ik op het appèl, vlak voor de afmars naar het station nog ontvangen had. Tussen de weekendtassen opgesteld in het gangpad, schuddend over de wissels, koud van de tocht, warm van de woorden die ik las.
In Rotterdam aangekomen - haast je rep je over de perrons, de trappen af - zag ik aan het eind van die lange uitgang haar al van verre staan.
Te laat, schat.
Altijd, als we een afspraak hebben, ergens, - als ik haar ontdek tussen de mensen, zie ik een gezicht dat, grijnzend, mij allang in het vizier heeft.
Vierentwintig uur zonder uniform, knus in ons huisje aan de spoordijk, alsof we een gezinnetje waren. 's Zondagsmorgens gewekt door de vogels, maakte ik het ontbijt klaar, verraste ik haar, nog in bed, met een kopje thee en een erectie.
's Middags, onder de voetbaluitslagen bij haar ouders, het pak weer aan, met zijn tweeën in de tram en dan, weer, het afscheid op het perron, niet langer dan nodig was. Ver voordat de trein vertrok ging ze al heen, zag ik haar, trots en recht, de witte regenjas als een zandloper, in het trapgat verdwijnen, mijn Euridice...
In de trein, op de lange tocht naar het Noorden, schreef ik uitspraken van haar op, allerlei woordjes die zij gezegd had. De sombere bossen op de Veluwe stoven voorbij in de schemering. In Assen was het nacht.
Ik ben de jongen die niet kan voetballen, of tenminste niet zo goed. Ik weet wel hoe het moet, maar mijn lichaam doet iets anders. Ik heb een lijf met eigenwijze trekjes, twee benen
met een grote bek die zich heus niet laat trainen. Ze doen maar wat, ze tackelen mezelf. Ik ben een elftal in mijn eentje, zoveel kanten ga ik op. Alleen door mijn verschijning ben ik al een strafschop waard, ik kijk en krijg twee rode kaarten. Alle witte lijnen wijken weg van mij. Ik ken het gras, dat is dan nog het enige. Maar veel te goed. En van dichtbij.
EEN LEESFEEST
Een Leesfeest, een Leesfeest, bij ons in de stad! Hoera en fantastisch. Maar hoe vieren we dat? - We gooien met planken en boeken van snoep. - Nee, nee, we gaan denken, heel stil in een groep. - Of roepen we schrijvers? Met pen en met gom? - Ja, dan gaan we zeggen: Dat woordje is stom. - En: zeg, hoeveel i's staan er in Mississippi? - En: denk jij dat Potter zou zoenen met Pippi?? Ukkeltjes! Sukkeltjes! Stop en denk mee! Een Serieus Leesfeest! Niet vechten nu! NEEEE!
(Laat ze maar, laat ze maar. Start je PC. Elke dag Leesfeest: punt nl, www.)
weet je het nog die fles Moët & Chandon - te mijner ere - op je treurige kamer? je radio dat kale frame alleen wat lampen en verlichte zenderschaal Tombe la neige van Adamo dat ene paar dure schoenen dat je van die oude zwetser had gekregen
ik ging met je naar je katholieke kerk dankte God als het orgel de einddreun inzette jong en stom was ik
al dertig jaar ben je dood maar dat verdomde merk Moët & Chandon brengt je telkens even terug
Fucked up yesterday, lost our last game in the summer 15-and-under league up at George Washington High School, and that deuced us out of the championship game today. We had a good squad, mostly cats from down the block in the projects but they had a rule that no Varsity players could play. That ruined our chances of using big Lewie Alcindor even though hes from the neighborhood and all. I mean, shit, most of the teams got ringers but its a little difficult to sneak in a seven foot All-Everything cat onto a court. He cant exactly use a fucking pair of sunglasses, dig? So I go up to watch the game today and pick up my trophy for the all-league team and what a hassle is steaming as I bop into the gym. THE SUGAR BOWL ALL-STARS, one of the teams playing, are in a rage bitching about the ringers on the RUTGERS team. So true! those cats didnt have a dude under eighteen running for them, none of them played school ball, but they were some of the best playground players in Harlem. I walked over and was rapping to a few friends, Vaughn Harper, an All-American from Boys High, and Earl Manigault, a Harlem legend of 5 ft. 10 in. who can take a half dollar off the top of a backboard.
Leonardo DiCaprio in de film The Basketball Diaries uit 1995
Hes invariably on and off his school team because of drug scenes and other shit. These two cats are, with big Lew, the best high school players in the city. Finally the captain of SUGAR BOWL points over to us and tells the other team and the man who runs the gig that if theyre gonna use that team, that their teams gonna use Harper, Goat Manigault, and me. The bossman axes the idea of letting in Harper and Goat but says they can use me, which is fine with the other team who dont even know who the fuck this white boy is. Before I say a fucking word I get a uniform tossed in my mug and since therere bunches of chicks in the stands, my new team mates are huddling around me and I whip on the shit and start warming up. Big fucking difference Im gonna make cause we need leapers for the boards and no backcourt dude like me. Anyway the slaughter starts and Im hitting long jumpers like a fucker (I gotta say that I always burn up that gym, something about it that I just cant miss, crazy) so were holding our own by the half and I got twenty-eight points, each move of which I make sticks out like a hardon because Im the only whiteman on the court and looking around, in the entire fucking place, in fact; my bright blond-red hair making me the whitest whitey this league has ever seen.
De Amerikaanse schrijver, dramaticus en essayist Gore Vidal is gisteren op 86-jarige leeftijd overleden. Gore Vidal werd geboren op 3 oktober 1925 in West Point, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Gore Vidal op dit blog.
Uit:The City and the Pillar
One by one, great stars appeared. Jim was perfectly contented, loneliness no longer turning in the pit of his stomach, sharp as a knife. He always thought of unhappiness as the "tar sickness." When tar roads melted in the summer, he used to chew the tar and get sick. In some obscure way he had always associated "tar sickness" with being alone. No longer.
Bob took off his shoes and socks and let the river cool his feet. Jim did the same.
"I'll miss all this," said Bob for the dozenth time, absently putting his arm around Jim's shoulders.
They were very still. Jim found the weight of Bob's arm on his shoulders almost unbearable: wonderful but unbearable. Yet he did not dare move for fear the other would take his arm away. Suddenly Bob got to his feet. "Let's make a fire."
In a burst of activity, they built a fire in front of the cabin. Then Bob brought the blankets outside and spread them on the ground.
"There," he said, looking into the yellow flames, "that's done." For a long moment both stared into the hypnotically quivering flames, each possessed by his own private daydream. Bob's dream ended first. He turned to Jim. "Come on," he said menacingly. "I'll wrestle you."
They met, grappled, fell to the ground. Pushing and pulling, they fought for position; they were evenly matched, because Jim, though stronger, would not allow Bob to lose or to win. When at last they stopped, both were panting and sweating. They lay exhausted on the blanket.
Then Bob took off his shirt and Jim did the same. That was better. Jim mopped the sweat from his face while Bob stretched out on the blanket, using his shirt for a pillow. Firelight gleamed on pale skin. Jim stretched out beside him. "Too hot," he said. "Too hot to be wrestling."
Bob laughed and suddenly grabbed him. They clung to one another. Jim was overwhelmingly conscious of Bob's body. For a moment they pretended to wrestle. Then both stopped. Yet each continued to cling to the other as though waiting for a signal to break or to begin again. For a long time neither moved. Smooth chests touching, sweat mingling, breathing fast in unison.
Abruptly, Bob pulled away. For a bold moment their eyes met. Then, deliberately, gravely, Bob shut his eyes and Jim touched him, as he had so many times in dreams, without words, without thought, without fear. When the eyes are shut, the true world begins.
As faces touched, Bob gave a shuddering sigh and gripped Jim tightly in his arms. Now they were complete, each became the other, as their bodies collided with a primal violence, like to like, metal to magnet, half to half and the whole restored.
So they met. Eyes tight shut against an irrelevant world. A wind warm and sudden shook all the trees, scattered the fire's ashes, threw shadows to the ground.
But then the wind stopped. The fire went to coals. The trees were silent. No comets marked the dark lovely sky, and the moment was gone. In the fast beat of a double heart, it died.
Spain is brutish, anarchic, egocentric, cruel. Spain is prepared to face disaster on a whim, she is chaotic, dreamy, irrational. Spain conquered the world and then did not know what to do with it, she harks back to her Medieval, Arab, Jewish and Christian past and sits there impassively like a continent that is appended to Europe and yet is not Europe, with her obdurate towns studding those limitless empty landscapes. Those who know only the beaten track do not know Spain. Those who have not roamed the labyrinthine complexity of her history do not know what they are travelling through. It is the love of a lifetime, the amazement is never-ending.
From the ship's rail I watch the dusk settle over the island where I have spent the summer. The approaching night steals into the hills, everything darkens; one by one the tall neon street-lamps come on to illuminate the quay with that dead white glow which is as much a part of the Mediterranean night as the moon. Arrival and departure. For years now I have been crossing to and fro between the Spanish mainland and the islands. The white ships are somewhat bigger than they used to be, but the ritual is unchanged. The quay full of white-uniformed sailors, kinsfolk and lovers come to wave goodbye, the deck crowded with departing holiday-makers, soldiers, children, grandmothers. The gangplank has already been raised, the ship's whistle will give one final farewell that will resound across the harbour and the city will echo the sound: the same, but weaker. Between the high deck and the quay below a last tenuous link, rolls of toilet paper. The beginnings flutter on the quay; up at the rail, the rolls will unwind slowly as the ship moves away, until the final, most fragile link with those staying behind is broken and the diaphanous paper garlands drown in the black water.
There is still some shouting, cries wafting back, but it is already impossible to tell who is calling out and what their messages signify. We sail out through the long narrow harbour, past the lighthouse and the last buoy -- and then the island becomes a dusky shadow within the shadow that is night itself. There is no going back now, we belong to the ship. Guitars and clapping on the afterdeck, people are singing, drinking, the deck passengers are settling down for a long night in their steamer chairs, the dinner bell rings, white-jacketed waiters cross and recross the antique dining room under the earnest regard of the king of Spain.
Il est de ces événements qui sortent tout le reste de nos pensées, Certaines circonstances qui nous stoppent nette dans notre lancé, Il est de ces réalités qu'on n'était pas près à recevoir, Et qui rendent toute tentative de bien-être illusoire.
J'ai pas les mots pour exprimer la puissance de la douleur, J'ai lu au fond de tes yeux ce que signifiait le mot malheur, C'est un souvenir glacial, comme ce soir de décembre, Où tes espoirs brulant ont laissé place à des cendres.
J'ai pas trouvé les mots pour expliquer l'inexplicable, J'ai pas trouvé les mots pour consoler l'inconsolable, Je n'ai trouvé que ma main pour poser sur ton épaule, Attendant que les lendemains se dépêchent de jouer leur rôle.
J'ai pas les phrases miracles qui pourraient soulager ta peine, Aucune formule magique parmi ces mots qui saignent, Je n'ai trouvé que ma présence pour t'aider à souffrir, Et constater dans ce silence que ta tristesse m'a fait grandir.
J'ai pas trouvé le remède pour réparer un cur brisé, Il faudra tellement de temps avant qu'il puisse cicatriser, Avoir vécu avec elle et apprendre à survivre sans, Elle avait écrit quelque part que tu verserais des larmes de sang.
Tu as su rester debout et je t'admire de ton courage, Tu avances la tête haute et tu traverses cet orage, A coté de ton épreuve, tout me semble dérisoire, Tous comme ces mots qui pleuvent que j'écris sans espoir.
Pourtant les saisons s'enchaineront saluant ta patience, En ta force et ton envie, j'ai une totale confiance, Tu ne seras plus jamais le même mais dans le ciel dès demain, Son étoile t'éclairera pour te montrer le chemin
Grand Corps Malade (Le Blanc-Mesnil, 31 juli 1977)
"This Potter," said Aunt Marge loudly, seizing the brandy bottle and splashing more into her glass and over the tablecloth, "you never told me what he did?" Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking extremely tense. Dudley had even looked up from his pie to gape at his parents. "He - didn't work," said Uncle Vernon, with half a glance at Harry. "Unemployed." "As I expected!" said Aunt Marge, taking a huge swig of brandy and wiping her chin on her sleeve. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who -" "He was not," said Harry suddenly. The table went very quiet. Harry was shaking all over. He had never felt so angry in his life. "MORE BRANDY!" yelled Uncle Vernon, who had gone very white. He emptied the bottle into Aunt Marge's glass. "You, boy," he snarled at Harry. "Go to bed, go on -" "No, Vernon," hiccuped Aunt Marge, holding up a hand, her tiny bloodshot eyes fixed on Harry's. "Go on, boy, go on. Proud of your parents, are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash (drunk, I expect) -" "They didn't die in a car crash!" said Harry, who found himself on his feet. "They died in a car crash, you nasty little liar, and left you to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives!" screamed Aunt Marge, swelling with fury. "You are an insolent, ungrateful little --" But Aunt Marge suddenly stopped speaking. For a moment, it looked as though words had failed her. She seemed to be swelling with inexpressible anger - but the swelling didn't stop. Her great red face started to expand, her tiny eyes bulged, and her mouth stretched too tightly for speech - next second, several buttons had just burst from her tweed jacket and pinged off the walls - she was inflating like a monstrous balloon, her stomach bursting free of her tweed waistband, each of her fingers blowing up like a salami
Joanne Rowling (Chipping Sodbury, 31 juli 1965) Scene uit de film uit 2004, Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) en Buckbeak
In the brutal nights we used to dream Dense violent dreams, Dreamed with soul and body: To return; to eat; to tell the story. Until the dawn command Sounded brief, low 'Wstawac' And the heart cracked in the breast.
Now we have found our homes again, Our bellies are full, We're through telling the story. It's time. Soon we'll hear again The strange command: 'Wstawac'
De Ierse schrijfster en columniste Meave Binchy is gisteren op 72-jarige leeftijd overleden.Maeve Binchy werd geboren op 28 mei 1940 in Dalkey. Zie ook alle tags voor Maeve Binchy op dit blog.
Uit: Circle of Friends
Annabel Hogan came in carrying three big bags. She was surprised to see her daughter sitting swinging her legs in the kitchen.
"Aren't you home nice and early? Let me put these things upstairs."
Benny ran over to Patsy when her mother's heavy tread was heard on the stairs.
"Do you think she got it?"
"Don't ask me Benny, I know nothing."
"You're saying that because you do know."
"I don't. Really."
"Was she in Dublin? Did she go up on the bus?"
"No, not at all."
"But she must have." Benny seemed very disappointed.
"No, she's not long gone at all. . . . She was only up the town."
Benny licked the spoon thoughtfully. "It's nicer raw," she said.
"You always thought that." Patsy looked at her fondly.
"When I'm eighteen and can do what I like, I'll eat all my cakes uncooked," Benny pronounced.
"No you won't, when you're eighteen you'll be so busy getting thin you won't eat cakes at all."
"I'll always want cakes."
"You say that now. Wait till you want some fellow to fancy you."
"Do you want a fellow to fancy you?"
"Of course I do, what else is there?"
"What fellow? I don't want you to go anyway."
"I won't get a fellow, I'm from nowhere, a decent fellow wouldn't be able to talk about me and where I came from. I have no background, no life before, you see."
"But you had a great life," Benny cried. "You'd make them all interested in you."
Uit: Unfall in der Nacht (Vertaald doorElisabeth Edl)
Vielleicht hatte ich mich bei meinem Sturz am Schädel verletzt. Ich habe mich zu der Frau gedreht. Es überraschte mich, daß sie einen Pelzmantel trug. Mir ist wieder eingefallen, daß Winter war. Außerdem trug der Mann uns gegenüber auch einen Mantel und ich eine von diesen alten Lammfelljacken, wie man sie auf Flohmärkten fand. Ihren Pelzmantel hatte sie bestimmt nicht auf dem Flohmarkt gekauft. Nerz? Zobel? Sie hatte ein sehr gepflegtes Äußeres, was nicht zu den Verletzungen in ihrem Gesicht paßte. Auf meiner Jacke, etwas oberhalb der Taschen, sah ich Blutflecken. Ich hatte eine lange Schramme im linken Handteller, und die Blutflecken auf dem Stoff,
die kamen sicher daher. Sie hielt sich sehr gerade, aber mit geneigtem Kopf, als starre sie auf etwas am Boden. Vielleicht auf meinen schuhlosen Fuß. Die Haare trug sie halblang, und im Licht des Foyers war sie mir blond vorgekommen. Das Polizeiauto war an der Ampel stehengeblieben, auf dem Quai, bei Saint-Germain-lAuxerrois. Der Mann beobachtete uns immer noch, mal sie und mal mich,
schweigend, mit seinem kalten Blick. Ich fühlte mich langsam an irgend etwas schuldig. Die Ampel wurde nicht grün. Es brannte noch Licht in dem Café an der Ecke Quai/Place Saint-Germain-lAuxerrois, wo mein Vater sich oft mit mir verabredet hatte. Das war der Augenblick, um zu fliehen. Vielleicht brauchten wir auch nur diesen Typen auf der Bank zu bitten, daß er uns gehen ließ. Aber ich fühlte mich außerstande, das kleinste Wort hervorzubringen. Er hat gehustet, ein schleimiges Raucherhusten, und ich war überrascht, einen Ton zu hören. Seit dem Unfall herrschte tiefe Stille um mich, als hätte ich das Gehör verloren. Wir fuhren den Quai hinunter. Als das Polizeiauto auf die Brücke einbog, spürte ich, wie ihre Finger mein Handgelenk umfaßten. Sie lächelte mich an, wie um mich zu beruhigen, aber ich hatte überhaupt keine Angst. Mir schien sogar, als wären wir, sie und ich, uns schon bei anderer Gelegenheit begegnet und als habe sie immer dieses Lächeln. Wo hatte ich sie schon gesehen?
Patrick Modiano (Boulogne-Billancourt, 30 juli 1945)
It sounded like a good idea at the time, which is probably going to be on my tombstonealong with a catty footnote about poor impulse control. But when Horace Bishop called me, practically breathless with delight and greed, telling me he was in Portland so we should get together and have a drink or something, I said okay, even though I probably shouldve said Id sooner wear plaid.
I dont wear plaid. Ever.
I dont wear orange, eithernot that theres anything inherently wrong with it. Really, its more of a
coloring thing. Im a solid winter blue- black hair and so fair Im practically translucent; it comes with
being undead. Orange always makes me look like Im having liver problems, so I skip itjust like deep
down I suspected I ought to skip that date with Horace, but what was I going to do? He already knew where I lived (roughly), and he already knew my price scale (more or less), and he was practically my agent. Or my pimp.
Anyway, Horace was vibratingtalking so fast I could hardly understand him. And what was he doing on the West Coast? He promised to tell me in person, and since he was flying back to New York from the Seattle- Tacoma airport, it wasnt terribly far out of his way to bounce into town for a conspiratorial adult beverage. I waited for him at a bar on Capitol Hill. I dont live in that neighborhood anymore, but thats the point. He knows I live in Seattle, but the less specific his knowledge is, the happier I am.
The truth is, I kind of trust him. I mean, if I were wounded and bloody and practically dying in New York City and I had no place else to go, I could probably fling myself onto his couch and generally assume that he wouldnt stake me in my sleep. After all, Ive earned him a metric assload of money over the years. And money has to mean something, doesnt it?
Cherie Priest (Tampa, 30 juli 1975)
De Mexicaanse dichter, schrijver, vertaler, televisiepresentator en ondernemer Salvador Novo werd geboren op 30 juli 1904 in Mexico City. Zie ook alle tags voor Salvador Novo op dit blog.
Uit: Pillar Of Salt (Vertaald doorMarguerite Feitlowitz)
A few months before, I had begun a casual friendship with a boy in the class ahead of me: the third and fourth years were sharing classrooms off the large patio. I dont remember how we began seeing each other. Given his inquisitive spirit, it must have been he who approached me, having learned that I had poems published in the school magazine, Policromías, where his first verses had also appeared.
We did not have classes together, but found times to chat; upon learning that he lived at 95 calle Mina, and I on calle Guerrero, I started calling for him at his house whence we would to walk to Preparatoria, which wasnt far and took us along quiet, little-used streets.
Xavier [Villaurrutia] had a large family: brothers and sisters. They lived on the lower floors of a stone house shaped like a 7, with patio and corridor bordered by iron railings, a living room with two balconies giving onto the street, a parallel dining room, and then the numerous bedrooms. Once he invited me home to eat, so I met his mother, Doña Julia González, and a few of his brothers and sisters. They all played tennis, and the girls were champions. Their brothers had a sort of small bank or financial firm on Avenida Cinco de Mayo, and a few times I accompanied Xavier when he went there to receive his monthly allowance. Little by little I learned that the family also included writers, artists, and relatives who were very wealthy.. They possessed original Ruelas, which Xavier showed me with pride. I also learnedfor he confided, reticently and swearing me to secrecythat the family had also had conjugal tragedies and pathetic nervous illnesses.
The predilection that Don Ezequiel showed toward me must have induced him to introduce the distinguished student to the young secretary of the Preparatoria, a poet, Xavier informed me, who taught literature classes in another schoolAdvanced Studiesnear our own. Between classes, I began visiting Jaime Torres Bodet. In his office he introduced me to another young poet and friend of his, who seemed always to be there: Bernardo Ortiz de Montellano.
But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark- skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling - to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love' vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return - the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame - shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
Emily Brontë (30 juli 1818 - 19 december 1848)
Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon in de film Wuthering Heights uit 1939
I seldom talked to Ella. She appeared to dislike me and gave the impression that she only put up with me because of her husband.
And then I noticed Ella hanging out some clothes at the stern.
I had often seen her do it before, but it had never struck me in the same way. I had always thought of her as Les's wife--she was always screaming at him about something or calling him Mr. High-and-Mighty in a thick sarcastic voice. I never saw her as a woman who could attract another man. That had never occurred to me--until now.
But there she was, trying very hard not to look round, pretending she wasn't interested in what was going on, and I found myself looking at her in a new way.
She was one of those heavy women, not more than thirty-five, with strong buttocks and big thighs. She was wearing a tight green cotton dress that pulled up above the backs of her knees as she stretched up to put the clothes on the line. I could see the flesh of her pink ankles growing over the rim at the back of her shoes. She was heavy all right, but her waist was small and her legs were not bad. I could imagine being between them, belly to belly, wrapped securely in the oval of their embrace.
I watched her, and I could see her walk through a park at night, her heels clacking, just a little bit hurriedly, and her heavy white calves were moving just ahead of me. Even in the dark I was able to see them. And I imagined the soft sound of her thighs as their surfaces grazed, as whatever she wore beneath her dress was wedged softly in their damp and tremulous moving. As she reached up, her buttocks tightened, the cotton dress fitting itself to their thrust, and then she alighted on her heels, bent down, and shook out the next garment.
My manhood stirred at the sight. The rest of the world slipped away and my mind filled with the thought of her. I longed to possess her and put her body to the test. Inspired by the back view I had now, I thought of raising that thin membrane of material as she bent, forcing her forward and belly down and mounting her from behind.
Ik open het raam en snuif de avondlucht door beide neusgaten naar binnen. Het is donker en het ruikt naar rook en houtsnippers. Morris, onze tuinman heeft een vuurtje aangelegd om gesnoeide takken te verbranden. Met een lange stok pookt hij het vuur op. Het knettert en knispert. Als hij me in het raam ziet staan, zwaait hij naar me. Ik heb geen idee hoe laat het is. Tegen achten denk ik. De verlichting in en om het huis floept automatisch aan als het begint te schemeren. Ik sluit het raam en ga voor de spiegel zitten. God, wat zie ik eruit. Ben ik het wel? Ja, ik ben het wel. Het zijn mijn rimpeltjes op mijn bovenlip, het zijn mijn kraaienpootjes, mijn uitgroei bij de haargrens. Het zijn mijn oneffenheden die door Michel zo mooi weggewerkt zijn. Op een schilderij kan alles. God, het schilderij. Ik hoef me niet om te draaien om het te zien. De cadeauverpakking zit er nog om. Het was een goed idee toch? Ik vind het nog steeds een wereldidee. Je man wordt tenslotte niet ieder jaar vijftig. Wat zit ik nou te doen? Ik ga gewoon door met poederen en smeren alsof er niets aan de hand is. Alsof hier niet vanaf twee uur vanmiddag twee politieagenten op de rand van mijn chaise longue hebben gezeten. Mevrouw Helène de Vos? Ik knikte. Klopt. Geboren 12 juni 1953? Tut tut, heren, zoiets vraagt men niet aan een dame. Gehuwd met Herbert Johan de Vos. Ik knikte. Ze rommelden met allerlei papieren die twee kerels, de een was nog Surinaams ook. Ik kon hen niet goed verstaan, er zat geraas in mijn oren. Het geraas van de branding in zon grote toeristische zeeschelp.
yes, of course I can come straight to the point and start with a sentence like: The telephone rang. Who's ringing whom? Why? It must be something important, otherwise the file wouldn't open with it. Suspense! Action! But I can't do it that way this time. On the contrary. Before anything can come to life here, we must both prepare ourselves through introspection and prayer. Anyone who wants to be swept along immediately, in order to kill time, would do better to close this book at once, put the television on, and sink back on the settee as one does in a hot foam bath. So before writing and reading any further we're going to fast for a day, and then bathe in cool, pure water, after which we will shroud ourselves in robes of the finest white linen.
I've switched the telephone and the front doorbell off and turned the clock on my desk away from me; everything in my study is waiting for the events to come. The first luminous words have appeared in the ultramarine of the computer screen, while outside the dazzling, setting autumn sun shines over the square. From the blazing western sky tram rails stream like molten gold from a blast furnace; between the black trees cars appear from the chaos, disappear into it, people walk at the tips of shadows that are yards long. From the position of the sun in my room I can see what time it is: the light is falling diagonally, it's six o'clock, rush hour, for most people the day's work is over.
The origin of man was a complicated affair. Much of it is still obscure, not only in biological, but also in theological circles. In the Bible, indeed, this creature is actually created twice, and to a certain extent three times. Genesis 1:27 tells us that on the sixth and last day of creation the following happened: "So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them." So there were two of them; immediately afterward God says: "Be fruitful, and multiply." So the man was Adam, but the woman wasn't Eve, because the primeval mother of us all saw the light of day only later, when the week of creation was long since over; she wasn't created separately, but came forth from a rib of Adam's.
In my first years in Bedley Run, things were a bit different. Even the town had another name, Bedleyville (this my attribution), which was changed sometime in the early 1970s because the town board decided it wasn't affluent-sounding enough. The town in fact wasn't affluent at the time, being just a shabby tan brick train station and the few stores that served it, some older village homes, several new housing developments, and the surrounding dairy cow pastures and wooded meadows, nothing fancy at all, which was how I was able to afford to move here and open a business. There were perhaps a few thousand residents, mostly shopkeepers and service people, and the small bedroom community who were their patronage.
I'd read about the town in the paper, a brief slice-of-life article with a picture of a meadow that had been completely cleared for new suburban-style homes, just white stakes in the frozen ground to mark where the streets would be. It looked sterile and desolate, like fresh blast ground, not in the least hopeful, and yet I felt strangely drawn to the town, in part because of the peaceful pace of life that the article noted, the simple tranquillity of the older, village section that made me think of the small city where I lived my youth, on the southwestern coast of Japan. I had already driven through the more established suburbs nearer to the city and found them distinctly cold, as well as too expensive. I'd ask for directions at a garage, or buy some gum at a candy store, and an awkward quiet would arise, that certain clippedness, and though I never heard any comments, I could tell I wasn't being welcomed to remain too long.
Ließen mich einst den Neumond gebären Nun laß ich ihn einfach gewähren Wenn er sich mutwillens voll - säuft Wie ein lüsterner Hund Trunken sich selbst überläuft Verliert er ganz ohne mein Tun Das so ersehnte vollmundige Rund Kehrt betrübt doch mehr klug als zuvor Zurück zu dem lichtlosen Anbeginn Den ich ihm einst verlieh'n Vielleicht kommt's ihm dann in den Sinn Endlich vor mir zu k n i e n Dann wäre ich wahrlich aufgeschmissen Aus meiner Selbstherrlichkeit rausgerissen Und müßte bekennen: Ich war es nicht Der Dich formloses Mondgesicht Einst aus düsterem Dunkel gebar Du bist das Geschöpf einer namlosen Kraft Die mir bis heute nicht offenbar
Doch bis dies zur Wirklichkeit wird Mag ruhig weiter die Mode sein: In der Regel schlafen die Frauen allein
Uit:Joost Zwagerman:Tegen de literaire quarantaine (fragment over Casino van Brouwers)
Net als Mystiek lichaam en De buitenvrouw beeldt ook Casino allerlei conflicten uit, in dit geval onder andere het conflict tussen de 'oude' intellectuele adel en de 'nieuwe' pragmatische rijken tussen de jaren zestig en de jaren negentig; tussen engagementsdenken en rendementsdenken. Marja Brouwers vervlecht die conflicten met een algemeen menselijke tragiek, en juist in die vervlechting schuilt de grote literaire kracht van Casino. Die kracht toont zich onder meer in de opzettelijk hoekige en losse vorm: verhalende fragmenten worden afgewisseld met essayistische passages, en die afwisseling is ruw, grillig en ongepolijst - en weerspiegelt zo de betrekkelijke ruwheid van de inhoud van de roman. Michaël Zeeman introduceerde in zijn artikel Casino als volgt: 'In haar roman Casino leidt Marja Brouwers ons binnen in de wereld van de veelverdieners, die in het afgelopen decennium zo spraakmakend en zichtbaar zijn geworden, de mannen van de "exorbitante zelfverrijking" over wie toenmalig minister-president Wim Kok met zoveel afschuw sprak. (..) De geest die Brouwers beschrijft en de zeden waartoe die geest (..) hebben geleid zijn springlevend. Zelfs wie maar sporadisch een krant leest, weet meteen waarover zij het heeft.' Hee, is dat niet diezelfde krant waaruit de schrijver nu juist volgens diezelfde Zeeman niét mocht putten? Raar is dat. Wie vraagt naar de moord op Van Gogh als mogelijk materiaal voor een roman, krijgt van Zeeman het dogma over het verbod op 'het dagelijks nieuws' om de oren; wie zich in een roman concentreert op het traject van idealisme van de jaren zestig naar verloedering in de jaren negentig wordt door diezelfde Zeeman bewierookt en toegejuicht. Dat zal wel een bedrijfsfoutje zijn.
Marja Brouwers (Bergen op Zoom, 29 juli 1948) Cover
Elke dag nog praat ze met zijn grafsteen op het kleine kerkhof aan de overkant uitzicht over het dal met het dunne riviertje glinsterend als een spinnendraad in het Noord-Franse licht
sinds hij dood is doet ze minder aan de tuin eens haar trots
ze kreeg er nog een prijs voor de senator kwam er voor over helemaal uit Parijs waar hij een appartement had en een vriendin het was vlak voor de verkiezingen die hij won
de koeien zijn verkocht de tractor staat te roesten in het hoge gras het erf is netjes aan kant en er is nog hout voor één winter
Het Vak
Langzaam groeit in mij de ander die in niets op mij lijkt en toch alles in zich heeft van mij die hem baren moet
dan rijst het doek dat me scheidt van mijn tijd die nu gekomen is de zaal opent zich veelvuldig gespiegeld vlees en bloed
even is het alles stilte wachtend op het eerste woord dat het schouwtoneel de wereld tot leven beven doet
côté jardin: de geliefde werpt haar mantel af côté cour: de moordenaar komt aangezet
Straattheater
In de zoele middagwind zat ik op een bankje op de Boulevard du Général Leclerc naast een oude heer die Indochina nog had meegemaakt rozet in zijn knoopsgat witte sjaal om zijn uitgedroogde hals en een mormel van een hondje aandachtig aan zijn voet toen Sophie Marceau actrice die ik kende uit de bladen vergezeld van haar fotograaf uit een limousine stapte en bij het lichtjes vasthouden van haar zonnehoed haar roomblanke oksel toonde
het hondje kefte en de oude heer en ik we stonden als één man op zongen een liedje maakten kleine pasjes draaiden met onze kont
M. Laruelle finished his drink. He rose and went to the parapet; resting his hands one on each tennis racquet, he gazed down and around him: the abandoned jai-alai courts, their bastions covered with grass, the dead tennis courts, the fountain, quite near in the centre of the hotel avenue, where a cactus farmer had reined up his horse to drink. Two young Americans, a boy and a girl, had started a belated game of ping-pong on the verandah of the annex below. What had happened just a year ago to-day seemed already to belong in a different age. One would have thought the horrors of the presentwould have swallowed it up like a drop of water. It was not so. Though tragedy was in the process of becoming unreal and meaningless it seemed one was still permitted to remember the days when an individual life held some value and was not a mere misprint in a communique. He lit a cigarette. Far to his left, in the northeast, beyond the valley and the terraced foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental, the two volcanoes, Popocatepetl and Itaccihuatl, rose clear and magnificent into the sunset. Nearer, perhaps ten miles distant, and on a lower level than the main valley, he made out the village of Tomalin, nestling behind the jungle, from which rose a thin blue scarf of illegal smoke, someone burning wood for carbon. Before him, on the other side of the American highway, spread fields and groves, through which meandered a river, and the Alcpancingo road. The watchtower of a prison rose over a wood between the river and the road which lost itself further on where the purple hills of a Dore Paradise sloped away into the distance. Over in the town the fights of Quauhnahuac's one cinema, built on an incline and standing out sharply, suddenly came on, flickered off, came on again. "No se puede vivir sin amar," Mr. Laruelle said . "As that estupido inscribed on my house."
Malcolm Lowry (28 juli 1909 - 26 juni 1957)
Scene uit de film van John Huston (1984) met Albert Finney, Jacqueline Bisset en Anthony Andrews
Uit: Kalpa Imperial (Vertaald door Ursula K. Le Guin)
Ekkemantes I will probably smile, since he too loves plays, and fall to talking enthusiastically about the poetic tragedy by OrabMaagg recently presented in the capital, until one of his counselors reminds him with a discreet cough that he cant spend an hour chattering with every one of his subjects because it would leave him no time to rule the Empire. And probably the good emperor, who seems born to smiles and good nature, though he wielded weapons like the black-winged angel of war when it was a matter of eradicating from the Empire the greed and cruelty of a damnable race, will reply to the counselor that chattering for an hour with each of his subjects is one way of ruling the Empire, and not the worst way, but that the lord counselor is right, and in order not to lose any more valuable time, hell dictate a decree to the lord counselor and sign it himself, ordering that a theater be constructed in the town of Sariaband. And very likely the counselor will stare and say: My lord! building a theater, even a theater for a very small town, is an expensive business!
And he said, If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee? out of the barnfloor, or out of the winepress? 2 Kings VI: 27 Thou that on sin's wages starvest, Behold we have the joy in harvest: For us was gather'd the first fruits, For us was lifted from the roots, Sheaved in cruel bands, bruised sore, Scourged upon the threshing-floor; Where the upper mill-stone roof'd His head, At morn we found the heavenly Bread, And, on a thousand altars laid, Christ our Sacrifice is made!
Thou whose dry plot for moisture gapes, We shout with them that tread the grapes: For us the Vine was fenced with thorn, Five ways the precious branches torn; Terrible fruit was on the tree In the acre of Gethsemane; For us by Calvary's distress The wine was racked from the press; Now in our altar-vessels stored Is the sweet Vintage of our Lord.
In Joseph's garden they threw by The riv'n Vine, leafless, lifeless, dry: On Easter morn the Tree was forth, In forty days reach'd heaven from earth; Soon the whole world is overspread; Ye weary, come into the shade.
The field where He has planted us Shall shake her fruit as Libanus, When He has sheaved us in His sheaf, When He has made us bear his leaf. - We scarcely call that banquet food, But even our Saviour's and our blood, We are so grafted on His wood.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (28 juli 1844 8 juni 1889)
Wat heb ik een drukke zaterdag achter de rug - en ik zeg dit met veel ironie. Het huisje dat ik huur in Kaapstad hoorde lang geleden tot het slavenkwartier. In de jaren zeventig en tachtig van de vorige eeuw werd het een whites only area, en de gekleurde Kaapmensen en moslims moesten verdwijnen. Maar de moslims hadden iets verderop nog een wijk in bezit die door het apartheidsregiem niet onteigend kon worden - de Bo-kaap - en daar bleef de moslimmedemens wonen: een bruine enclave in een wit centrum.
Die Groups Area Act is allang afgeschaft, maar de oude slavenwijk is nog steeds blank, omdat de huisjes er door designers werden opgeknapt, met daktuintjes, hippe badkamers en voor buiten een zeer bescheiden plunge-in pool ter grootte van een badkuip. Huur omhoog, blank toeristenvolk komt en blijft. Wat heb ik een drukke zaterdag achter de rug - en nu zal ik de ironie verklaren. Want iedere dag komt hier een vrouw die het beddengoed verschoont, de vloer veegt en de vaat doet. Zwart is zij, uit de Oost-Kaap. Dan is er de gekleurde conciërge, Ibrahim, die het dakterras nakijkt en de stoppen controleert. En voor dat kikkerbadje komt de poolman - want de kwaliteit van het water, je weet maar nooit, en de haperende pomp.
Er waren die zaterdag dus drie mensen om mij heen aan het werk. Ik zat achter mijn computer en ik probeerde te schrijven. In vroeger tijden moet de gezeten burgerij hier zeer bedreven in zijn geweest: het personeel loopt rond, maar jij ziet ze niet, ze zijn onzichtbaar, schemerlampen die op hun gebruikelijke plek staan. De gemiddelde Nederlander is dit leven niet gegeven. Bij ons is arbeid duur, je wacht je wel voor elk wissewasje iemand in te huren, en de eventuele hulp, éénmaal in de week, wordt ontvangen als een koningin overcompensatie.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes.
Claude Monet, Champs des coquelicots, 1881
St. Martin's Summer
AS swallows turning backward When half-way o'er the sea, At one word's trumpet summons They came again to me - The hopes I had forgotten Came back again to me.
I know not which to credit, O lady of my heart! Your eyes that bade me linger, Your words that bade us part - I know not which to credit, My reason or my heart.
But be my hopes rewarded, Or be they but in vain, I have dreamed a golden vision, I have gathered in the grain - I have dreamed a golden vision, I have not lived in vain.
Robert Louis Stevenson (13 november 1850 - 3 december 1894)
Steigt mir in diesem fremden Lande Die allbekannte Nacht empor, Klatscht es wie Hufesschlag vom Strande, Rollt sich die Dämmerung hervor, Gleich Staubeswolken mir entgegen Von meinem lieben starken Nord, Und fühl' ich meine Locken regen Der Luft geheimnisvolles Wort -
Dann ist es mir, als hör' ich reiten Und klirren und entgegenziehn Mein Vaterland von allen Seiten, Und seine Küsse fühl' ich glühn; Dann wird des Windes leises Munkeln Mir zu verworrnen Stimmen bald, Und jede schwache Form im Dunkeln Zur tiefvertrautesten Gestalt.
Burg Hülshoff
Und meine Arme muß ich strecken, Muß Küsse, Küsse hauchen aus, Wie sie die Leiber könnten wecken, Die modernden, im grünen Haus; Muß jeden Waldeswipfel grüßen, Und jede Heid' und jeden Bach, Und alle Tropfen, die da fließen, Und jedes Hälmchen, das noch wach.
Du Vaterhaus, mit deinen Türmen, Vom stillen Weiher eingewiegt, Wo ich in meines Lebens Stürmen So oft erlegen und gesiegt: - Ihr breiten, laubgewölbten Hallen, Die jung und fröhlich mich gesehn, Wo ewig meine Seufzer wallen Und meines Fußes Spuren stehn.
Du feuchter Wind von meinen Heiden, Der wie verschämte Klage weint, Du Sonnenstrahl, der so bescheiden Auf ihre Kräuter niederscheint; - Ihr Gleise, die mich fortgetragen, Ihr Augen, die mir nachgeblinkt, Ihr Herzen, die mir nachgeschlagen, Ihr Hände, die mir nachgewinkt.
Burg Hülshoff
Und Grüße, Grüße, Dach, wo nimmer Die treuste Seele mein vergißt Und jetzt bei ihres Lämpchens Schimmer Für mich den Abendsegen liest, Wo bei des Hahnes erstem Krähen Sie matt die graue Wimper streicht Und einmal noch vor Schlafengehen An mein verlaßnes Lager schleicht.
Ich möcht' euch alle an mich schließen, Ich fühl' euch alle um mich her, Ich möchte mich in euch ergießen, Gleich siechem Bache in das Meer. O, wüßtet ihr, wie krank gerötet, Wie fieberhaft ein Äther brennt, Wo keine Seele für uns betet Und keiner unsre Toten kennt!
Annette von Droste-Hülshoff(10 januari 1797 24 mei 1848) Borstbeeld in de tuin van Burg Hülshoff
