De Engels romanschrijver en dichter Thomas Hardy werd op 2 juni 1840 geboren in Higher Bockhampton, bij Dorchester. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas Hardy op dit blog.

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
-I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me.

A Poet

Attentive eyes, fantastic heed,
Assessing minds, he does not need,
Nor urgent writs to sup or dine,
Nor pledges in the roseate wine.

For loud acclaim he does not care
By the august or rich or fair,
Nor for smart pilgrims from afar,
Curious on where his hauntings are.

But soon or later, when you hear
That he has doffed this wrinkled gear,
Some evening, at the first star-ray,
Come to his graveside, pause and say:

'Whatever his message his to tell
Two thoughtful women loved him well.'
Stand and say that amid the dim:
It will be praise enough for him.

A Thunderstorm in Town

She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.

Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.

Thomas Hardy (2 juni 1840 – 11 januari 1928)

Portret door Reginald Grenville Eves, 1923

De Franse schrijver Donatien Alphonse François, Markies de Sade werd geboren op 2 juni 1740 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Markies de Sade op dit blog.

Uit: La philosophie dans le boudoir

“Si la matière agit, se meut, par des combinaisons qui nous sont inconnues, si le mouvement est inhérent à la matière, si elle seule, enfin, peut, en raison de son énergie, créer, produire, conserver, maintenir, balancer dans les plaines immenses de l'espace tous les globes dont la vue nous surprend et dont la marche uniforme, invariable, nous remplit de respect et d'admiration, quel sera le besoin de chercher alors un agent étranger à tout cela, puisque cette faculté active se trouve essentiellement dans la nature elle-même, qui n'est autre chose que la matière en action? Votre chimère déifique éclaircira-t-elle quelque chose?
Je défie qu'on puisse me le prouver. À supposer que je me trompe sur les facultés internes de la matière, je n'ai du moins devant moi qu'une difficulté. Que faites-vous en m'offrant votre Dieu? Vous m'en donnez une de plus. Et comment voulez-vous que j'admette, pour cause de ce que je ne comprends pas, quelque chose que je comprends encore moins? Sera-ce au moyen des dogmes de la religion chrétienne que j'examinerai... Que je me représenterai votre effroyable Dieu?
Voyons un peu comme elle me le peint...
Que vois-je dans le Dieu de ce culte infâme, si ce n'est un être inconséquent et barbare, créant aujourd'hui un monde de la construction duquel il se repent demain? Qu'y vois-je qu'un être faible qui ne peut jamais faire prendre à l'homme le pli qu'il voudrait? Cette créature, quoique émanée de lui, le domine; elle peut l'offenser et mériter par là des supplices éternels! Quel être faible que ce Dieu-là!”

Markies De Sade (2 juni 1740 – 2 december 1814)

Keir Dullea als de markies in de Amerikaanse-Duitse film „De Sade“ uit 1969

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Dorothy West werd geboren op 2 juni 1907 in Boston. Zie ook alle tags voor Dorothy West op dit blog.

Uit: Mammy

"How do you do?" the woman said in a soft drawl. She smiled. "You're from the relief office, aren't you? Do come in."

"Thank you," said the investigator, smiling, too, relievedly.

"Right this way," said Mrs. Coleman, leading the way into a charming living room. She indicated an upholstered chair. "Please sit down."

The investigator, who never sat in overstuffed chairs in the homes of her relief clients, plumped down and smiled again at Mrs. Coleman. Such a pleasant woman, such a pleasant room. It was going to be a quick and easy interview. She let her briefcase slide to the floor beside her.

Mrs. Coleman sat down in a straight chair and looked searchingly at the investigator. Then she said somewhat breathlessly, "You gave me to understand that Mammy has applied for relief."

The odious title sent a little flicker of dislike across the investigator’s face. She answered stiffly, "I had just left Mrs. Mason when I telephoned you for this appointment."

Mrs. Coleman smiled disarmingly, though she colored a little.

"She has been with us ever since I can remember. I call her Mammy, and so does my daughter."

"That's a sort of nurse, isn't it?" the investigator asked coldly. "I had thought Mrs. Mason was a general maid."

"Is that what she said?"

"Why, I understood she was discharged because she was no longer physically able to perform her duties."

"She wasn't discharged."

The investigator looked dismayed. She had not anticipated complications. She felt for her briefcase.

"I'm very confused, Mrs. Coleman. Will you tell me just exactly what happened, then? I had no idea Mrs. Mason was—was misstating the situation." She opened her briefcase.

Mrs. Coleman eyed her severely. "There's nothing to write down. Do you have to write down things? It makes me feel as if I were being investigated."

Dorothy West (2 juni 1907 – 16 augustus 1998)

De Spaanse schrijver Max Aub werd geboren op 2 juni 1903 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Max Aube op dit blog.

Uit: Field of Honour (Vertaald door Gerald Martin)

“There are no electric lights in Barcelona. Nor a moon. Only gunfire and blazing churches. Crowds in the streets move from one fire to another. The firemen tried to go out, but the people cut the hoses. The churches burn, but not the Cathedral, nor the monastery of Pedrables. Gothic buildings are not to be burned; this is the only order the people take note of. Barcelona in the darkness but with enough churches to be able to walk round the city, with the spectacle of its dead horses and flashes of gunfire from the fascists safely installed behind their balconies and murdering with impunity. A million inhabitants whose only light is a few gigantic torches. All the churches look like the Sagrada Familia now, and Barcelona smells of bonfires. Long branches, thick tongues of sparks against the blue, black night; and the smoke against the stars. People move quietly from one place to another, with their tragic sense of life in their pockets, hoping for a miracle; realizing that a new world is being born, one which may die in its infancy, as so often before in this very same bed; but they can all smell new birth; and, suspecting it, no one says anything; all that's to be heard is the crackling of fire. Fire rising to the skies and the black city with its wounded in the doorways and killers on the roofs. You can see the belly of the smoke in the light of the flames, but not its shoulders or its crest.”

Max Aub (2 juni 1903 – 22 juli 1972)

Cover van een Spaanstalige uitgave

De Deense schrijver Karl Adolph Gjellerup werd geboren op 2 juni 1857 in Roholte. Zie ook alle tags voor Karl Gjellerup op dit blog.

Uit: Minna (Vertaald door C. L. Nielsen)

“THE Term at the Polytechnic had been rather tiring.  Dresden had begun to grow unbearably hot, and, to make  matters worse, I was living at the time in one of the smaller streets of the " old city," which was not exactly airy, though clean and well-kept. I often felt a home-sick longing for the Danish " Sund." The evenings by the Elbe, though beautiful, brought hardly any refreshing coolness, and the thermometer still showed some eighty-eight degrees, even as late as between nine and ten p.m.,

when I dragged myself, gasping for a breath of air, up the steps of old Bruhl's famous terrace. In a way it was consoling, as it proved that I had an undoubted right to feel hot, and that it was an excusable luxury to take an ice-cream outside the Cafe Torniamenti, while I sat between the columns and listened to snatches of the concert in the " Wienergarten," on the opposite side of the river.

It was on such an evening that I made the bold decision to go into the country during the approaching summer holidays. To myself, at any rate, this decision appeared rather daring, as I was both obliged and accustomed to live very economically. The thought occurred to me that I would go to Saxon-Switzerland, and the last morsel of ice-cream had not melted in my mouth when I had decided

upon the little hamlet of Rathen. Dear, tiny nook that  it was, it had left upon me the impression of a rarely tender idyll, though, like most travellers, I had only seen it in passing, and then in the twilight, when coming down from the Bastei.

Towards noon, a few days later, I alighted at the little railway station, and walked past the fruit gardens down to the ferry. In this part the Elbe goes winding round cultivated land, which gradually rises into undulating country, dark with pine woods and overhung by rocks, while gently sloping down towards the river.”

Karl Gjellerup (2 juni 1857 – 11 oktober 1919)

In 1906

De Engelse schrijfster Barbara Pym werd geboren op 2 juni 1913 in Oswestry, Shropshire. Zie ook alle tags voor Barbara Pym op dit blog.

Uit: Quartet in Autumn

“Of the four only Letty used the library for her own pleasure and possible edification.  She had always been an unashamed reader of novels, but if she hoped to find one which reflected her own sort of life she had come to realise that the position of an unmarried, unattached, ageing woman is of no interest whatever to the writer of modern fiction.

“The organisation where Letty and Marcia worked regarded it as a duty to provide some kind of a retirement party for them, when the time came for them to give up working. Their status as ageing unskilled women did not entitle them to an evening party, but it was felt that a lunchtime gathering, leading only to more than usual drowsiness in the afternoon, would be entirely appropriate...

“The activities of their department seemed to be shrouded in mystery – something to do with records or filing, it was thought, nobody knew for certain, but it was evidently ‘women’s work’, the kind of thing that could easily be replaced by a computer.  The most significant thing about it was that nobody was replacing them, indeed the whole department was being phased out and only being kept on until the men working in it reached retirement age”.

Barbara Pym (2 juni 1913 – 11 januari 1980)

02-06-2013 om 19:14 geschreven door Romenu  

De Franse schrijver en journalist Patrick Besson werd geboren op 1 juni 1956 in Montreuil. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en alle tags voor Patrick Besson op dit blog.

Uit: Mais le fleuve tuera l'homme blanc

« Ça valait mieux. Installé près d’elle pendant plusieurs heures, j’aurais fini par lui poser des questions auxquelles elle n’aurait pas répondu. Si c’était encore la Blandine de Kergalec qui avait fait autrefois les gros titres des journaux. Dure comme le granit breton, avaient écrit à son sujet les éditorialistes dans leur style caractéristique. Elle était installée de l’autre côté de l’appareil, à deux rangs derrière moi. Elle occupait la place près du hublot. Elle garda son sac sur les genoux pendant plusieurs minutes, semblant douter de vouloir se rendre à destination, puis le glissa sous son siège. Elle n’avait pris ni livre, ni iPod, ni lecteur DVD. Elle passerait les six heures de vol à penser, comme tous les gens en proie à une obsession. Avait-elle remarqué que je la regardais ? Sa façon de ne pas me voir m’inclinait à croire que oui. Passa devant mes genoux une silhouette fluette, puis il y eut un souffle léger à ma droite : la créature infime s’asseyait. Une veste fluide flottait autour de son absence d’épaules. L’homme se présenta. Entre passagers de la classe affaires, on se présente. Pour faire des affaires. C’était un conseiller de présidents africains. Les conseillers de présidents africains sont intéressés par les hommes du pétrole et les hommes du pétrole par les conseillers de présidents africains. Ils exercent, en Afrique, la même profession : pomper. Il regarda alentour, vérifiant qu’il n’avait plus personne à saluer. Partiellement chauve, il avait choisi, comme nombre de footballeurs et de chanteurs hip-hop, de l’être en entier, et son petit crâne rasé luisait comme une pomme au-dessus des fauteuils. Il se rassit, ouvrit son ordinateur et se mit à écrire, sans doute à l’usage du président du pays où nous nous rendions, une note facturée 50 000 euros. 75 000 ? Il refusa le verre de champagne que lui proposait l’hôtesse. Je regardai, de l’autre côté de l’avion, si Blandine de Kergalec avait accepté le sien. Non plus. On se préparait pourtant à un long voyage et les longs voyages se passent mieux avec du champagne.”

Patrick Besson (Montreuil, 1 juni 1956)

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Edward Masefield werd geboren op 1 juni 1878 in Ledbury, in Herefordshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en eveneens alle tags voor John Masefield op dit blog.

Vagabond

Dunno a heap about the what an' why,

Can't say's I ever knowed.

Heaven to me's a fair blue stretch of sky,

Earth's jest a dusty road.

Dunno the names o' things, nor what they are,

Can't say's I ever will.

Dunno about God--he's jest the noddin' star

Atop the windy hill.

Dunno about Life--it's jest a tramp alone

From wakin'-time to doss.

Dunno about Death--it's jest a quiet stone

All over-grey wi' moss.

An' why I live, an' why the old world spins,

Are things I never knowed;

My mark's the gypsy fires, the lonely inns,

An' jest the dusty road.

[There is no God, as I was taught in youth...]

There is no God, as I was taught in youth,

Though each, according to his stature, builds

Some covered shrine for what he thinks the truth,

Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds.

There is no God; but death, the clasping sea,

In which we move like fish, deep over deep

Made of men's souls that bodies have set free,

Floods to a Justice though it seems asleep.

There is no God, but still, behind the veil,

The hurt thing works, out of its agony.

Still; like a touching of a brimming Grail,

Return the pennies given to passers by.

There is no God, but we, who breathe the air,

Are God ourselves and touch God everywhere.

John Edward Masefield (1 juni 1878 – 12 mei 1967)

Portret door William Strang, 1909 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Ferdinand Raimund werd geboren op 1 juni 1790 in Wenen. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en eveneens alle tags voor Ferdinand Raimund op dit blog.

Uit: Der Diamant des Geisterkönigs

„Erste Szene.

Zauberer.  Feen.  Geister.  (Einige mit Bittschriften.) Ein Feuergeist.

Chor.

Sollen wir noch lange harren?

Bald verläßt uns die Geduld!

Sind wir Geister seine Narren?

Unverzeihlich ist die Schuld.

Fee Aprikosa.  Welche Beleidigung, Damen solange warten zu lassen, als wären sie seine Domestiken!

Alle.  Das ist unerhört!

Erster Zauberer.  Ich frage, wie kann man ein Geisterkönig sein und so lange schlafen?

Zweiter Zauberer.  Und ich frage, wie kann man vernünftig sein und unvernünftig reden?  Geisterkönig ist er; er muß für uns alle wachen, folglich muß er auch für uns alle schlafen.

Erster Zauberer.  Seine Pflicht heischt aber, unsere Bitten zu hören.

Fee Amarillis.  Und er kümmert sich gar nicht um uns; spart seine Gunst nur für die Menschen auf.

Erster Zauberer.  Er hat schon ungeheure Schätze der Luft entzogen und sie der Erde zugewendet.

Zweiter Zauberer.  Sehen Sie, darum bauen sich die Leute jetzt so viele Luftschlösser.  Wenn nicht das Sterben bei ihnen noch Mode wäre, so ging's dem Volk besser als uns.

Fee Aprikosa.  Was wollen Sie denn?  Er hat ja erst gestern einen Menschen, den er auf der Erde kennen gelernt hat, unter die Geister aufgenommen, weil ihn bei dem letzten Wetter der Blitz erschlagen hat.

Erster Zauberer.  Ja, richtig; er heißt Zephise, war Taschenspieler und soll ein blitzdummer Kerl sein.

Zweiter Zauberer.  Sehr natürlich!  Dumm war er so schon, der Blitz hat ihn auch getroffen, also ist er blitzdumm.

Fee Amarillis.  Der Zauberkönig verschwendet zu viel.  Seine Reisen auf die Erde kosten ihm enorme Summen.“

Ferdinand Raimund (1 juni 1790 - 5 september 1836)

Scene uit “Der Diamant des Geisterkönigs“, Pegasus Theater, Aichach, 2009

De Duitse schrijver, essayist, journalist, biograaf en uitgever Peter de Mendelssohn werd op 1 juni 1908 in München geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en eveneens alle tags voor Peter de Mendelssohn op dit blog.

Uit: Zeitungsstadt Berlin

„1848 kam ein junger Mann von zweiundzwanzig Jahren aus Süddeutschland nach Berlin, um hier sein Glück zu machen. Er hieß Leopold Ullstein. Neun-zehn Jahre nach ihm kam ein junger Mann von 24 Jahren aus Ostdeutschland nach Berlin, um gleichfalls hier sein Glück zu machen. Er hieß Rudolf Mosse.

Abermals dreizehn Jahre später kam ein junger Mann von einunddreißg Jahren aus Westdeutschland nach Berlin, auch er, um hier sein Glück zu machen, das die beiden anderen schon gemacht hatten. Er hieß August Scherl.

Diese drei Männer veränderten das Gesicht der Stadt. Zusammen, wenn auch nicht gemeinsam, vereint, wenn auch im stetigen Wettstreit erbauten sie auf dem Fundament [...] der geschäftstüchtigen Buchhändler Rüdiger, Voss, Haude und Spener und nicht zuletzt des sie allzeit mahnenden Heinrich von Kleist die größte Zeitungsstadt der Welt.“

Peter de Mendelssohn (1 juni 1908 – 10 augustus 1982)
Ullstein Buchverlage in de Friedrichstraße in Berlijn

01-06-2013 om 14:00 geschreven door Romenu  

De Australische schrijfster Colleen McCullough werd geboren op 1 juni 1937 in Wellington. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en eveneens alle tags voor Colleen McCullough op dit blog.

Uit: The Thorn Birds

“The doll’s golden hair tumbled down, the pearls flew winking into the long grass and disappeared. A dusty boot came down thoughtlessly on the abandoned dress, smearing grease from the smithy across its satin. Meggie dropped to her knees, scrabbling frantically to collect the miniature clothes before more damage was done them, then she began picking among the grass blades where she thought the pearls might have fallen. Her tears were blinding her, the grief in her heart new, for until now she had never owned anything worth grieving for.

Frank threw the shoe hissing into cold water and straightened his back; it didn’t ache these days, so perhaps he was used to smithying. Not before time, his father would have said, after six months at it. But Frank knew very well how long it was since his introduction to the forge and anvil; he had measured the time in hatred and resentment. Throwing the hammer into its box, he pushed the lank black hair off his brow with a trembling hand and dragged the old leather apron from around his neck. His shirt lay on a heap of straw in the corner; he plodded across to it and stood for a moment staring at the splintering barn wall as if it did not exist, his black eyes wide and fixed.

He was very small, not above five feet three inches, and thin still as striplings are, but the bare shoulders and arms had muscles already knotted from working with the hammer, and the pale, flawless skin gleamed with sweat. The darkness of his hair and eyes had a foreign tang, his full-lipped mouth and wide-bridged nose not the usual family shape, but there was Maori blood on his mother’s side and in him it showed. He was nearly sixteen years old, where Bob was barely eleven, Jack ten, Hughie nine, Stuart five and little Meggie three. Then he remembered that today Meggie was four; it was December 8th. He put on his shirt and left the barn”.

Colleen McCullough (Wellington, 1 juni 1937)

Scene uit de tv-serie met Richard Chamberlain en Rachel Ward, 1983

De Argentijnse schrijver Macedonio Fernández werd geboren op 1 juni 1874 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 enook mijn blog van 1 juni 2010.

Uit: From The Museum of Eterna’s Novel (Vertaald door Margaret Schwartz)

“Horrible art and the accumulated glories of the past, which have always existed, are a result of the following: the sonorousness of language and the existence of a public; without this sonorousness, only thinking and creating would remain; without a clamoring public, art would not be drowned. Under these conditions, Literature would be pure art, and there would be many more beautiful works than there are at present: there would be three or four Cervantes, the Cervantes of the Quijote, without the stories, Quevedo the humorist and poet of passion, without the moralizing orator, various Gómez de la Sernas. We’ll be liberated from the likes of Calderón, the Prince of falsetto, from lack of feeling, which is poor taste itself; from the likes of Góngora, at least from time to time, with his exclamations of “Ay Fabio, o sorrow!” We’d have three Heines, each of sarcasm and sadness, or D’Annunzios to limitlessly versify passion. Happily, we would have only the first act of Faust, and in compensation various Poes, and various Bovaries—with their sad affliction of loveless appetite, despicable and bloody—and this other, lacerating absurdity: Hamlet’s lyric of sorrow, which convinces and breeds sympathy, despite the false psychologism of its source. We’ll be free of the scientific realism of Ibsen, one of Zola’s victims, and this magnificent artist for his part will be dismantled by sociology and theory of heresy and pathology, and instead of a dozen master works we’ll possess a hundred, of true, intrinsic artistic worth, not mere copies of reality. These works will be typically literary, works of Prose, not of didactics, without any musical language (meter, rhyme, sonorousness) or paintings with words, that is, descriptions.”

Macedonio Fernández (1 juni 1874 – 10 februari 1952)

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:

De Nederlandse dichter Dennis Gaens werd geboren in Susteren in 1982. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 juni 2010.

veertig graden

als we de kou hierbinnen
de ruimte geven
en onze koorts buiten
op straat laten spelen

ons zweet tussen
de groeven van klinkers
en door blaren in het asfalt
omhoog laten komen
de straat overstromen

lantaarnpalen laten smelten
dwars over de weg alleen
de stoep begaanbaar houden

met onze ruggengraat
door drempels breken
het bestemmingsplan
laten getuigen van
de onrust in onze botten

als we onze koorts
in straten laten razen
zijn we 38, 39, 40
dichterbij de zon

Dennis Gaens (Susteren, 1982)

De Britse schrijver Rhidian Brook werd geboren  in 1964 in Tenby. Zijn eerste roman “The Testimony Of Taliesin Jones” won drie prijzen, waaronder de 1997 Somerset Maugham Award, en werd verfilmd met in de hoofdrol Jonathan Pryce. Zijn tweede roman “Jesus And The Adman” werd gepubliceerd in 1999. Zijn derde roman “The Aftermath” verscheen in april 2013. Zijn korte verhalen zijn gepubliceerd door The Paris Review, Punch, The New Statesman, Time Out en andere tijdschriften, en verschillende ervan werden uitgezonden op BBC Radio 4's Short Story. Zijn eerste opdracht voor de televisie – “Mr Harvey Lights A Candle”- werd uitgezonden in 2005 op BBC1 met Timothy Spall in de hoofdrol. Brook schreef ook voor de BBC serie Silent Witness tussen 2005 en 2007, en de dramaproductie Atlantis voor BBC1 in 2008. Africa United, zijn eerste lange speelfilm kwam in het Verenigd Koninkrijk uit in oktober 2010.  Brook schreef eveneens artikelen voor kranten, waaronder The Observer, The Guardian en The Daily Telegraph. In 2005 presenteerde hij Nailing The Cross, een documentaire voor  BBC1. In 2006 werkte hij mee aanj een serie “In The Blood” van BBC World Service, en filmde hij de reis van zijn familie door de aids-pandemie. Zijn boek over die reis – “More Than Eyes Can See”- werd in 2007 gepubliceerd door Marion Boyars. Ook levert Brooks al meer dan 12 jaar regelmatig bijdragen aan Radio 4's "Thought For The Day.”

Uit: More Than Eyes Can See

“Our biceps were still aching from the final round of jabs when we arrived in the rural Kenyan town of Kithituni, where the Salvation Army had pioneered a communal response to HIV/Aids. We had been inoculated against a host of deadly diseases. We had learned all about the pandemic, explained to Gabriel and Agnes how HIV passed from one person to another, read books and talked to people trying to get a sense of what life would be like in the communities we were going to. Most of what we knew about Africa lay between the dualities of safari and catastrophe, between the writings of the starry-eyed accounts of settlers, naturalists, hunters and alarming news reports, movies and documentaries. None of it really prepared us for what we found.

There were immediate cultural adjustments to make and material discomforts to face: no cars, a "goat-powered" internet, pit latrines for toilets, no fridge (we only had power for three hours a day), no running hot water, and a limited amount of food produce consisting mainly of scrawny chicken, beans, rice and the maize breeze-block otherwise known as ugali. There were big bugs to worry about and an over-neurotic applic  ation of Deet at sundown, but we adjusted quickly and the kids seemed to be enjoying it as much as we were. It was the people who made it easy.

Every day, the chief patriarch and matriarch in the area – Jonathan and Agnes (every other woman seemed to be called Agnes in Kithituni) – would swing by on their way to market to check that we were OK; hordes of children would come to play football with our children (with a football made from plastic bags and string) or play with Gabriel's Gameboy until the power ran out. George the baptist would stop off for tea, deliver his home-grown onions and discuss some finer theological point. Lelu showed us how to kill the army ants that walked in through the front door at exactly 7pm every night. And on the 45-minute walk to market we'd learn Swahili by practising the local greetings 100 times a day. By the time we had bought the children two goats at Friday market (we called them Malarone and Larium after the malaria tablets) we were well and truly part of the community and able to thank God in three more languages.”

Rhidian Brook (Tenby, 1964)

01-06-2013 om 13:54 geschreven door Romenu  

De Amerikaanse dichter Walt Whitman werd geboren op 31 mei 1819 in Westhills, Long Island, New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Whalt Whitman op dit blog.

A Leaf For Hand In Hand

A LEAF for hand in hand!
You natural persons old and young!
You on the Mississippi, and on all the branches and bayous of the
Mississippi!
You friendly boatmen and mechanics! You roughs!
You twain! And all processions moving along the streets!
I wish to infuse myself among you till I see it common for you to
walk hand in hand!

As Adam, Early In The Morning

AS Adam, early in the morning,
Walking forth from the bower, refresh'd with sleep;
Behold me where I pass--hear my voice--approach,
Touch me--touch the palm of your hand to my Body as I pass;
Be not afraid of my Body.

Uit: Calamus Poems

11.

When I heard at the close of the day how my name had been received with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that followed;

And else, when I caroused, or when my plans were accomplished, still I was not happy;

But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refreshed, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,

When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the morning light,

When I wandered alone over the beach, and, undressing, bathed, laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,

And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way coming, O then I was happy;

O then each breath tasted sweeter -- and all that day my food nourished me more -- And the beautiful day passed well,

And the next came with equal joy -- And with the next, at evening, came my friend;

And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly continually up the shores,

I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me, whispering, to congratulate me,

For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,

In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined toward me,

And his arm lay lightly around my breast -- And that night I was happy.

Walt Whitman (31 mei 1819 – 26 maart 1893)

Hier met vriend Peter Doyle (rechts)

De Duitse schrijver en cabaretier Frank Goosen werd geboren op 31 mei 1966 in Bochum. Zie ook alle tags voor Frank Goosen op dit blog.

Uit: Sommerfest

“Als er aufwacht, kommt ihm alles sehr klein vor. Auch in der Nacht hatte er diesen Eindruck schon,
aber da hat er nicht so genau hingesehen. Es war dunkel, nur die Dielenlampe warf einen fahlen Kegel hier herein. Stefan zog sich schnell um und fiel ins Bett, einigermaßen angetrunken, weil er sich im Bordbistro die anderthalb Stunden Verspätung hatte schöntrinken müssen, die der Zug auf seiner Strecke von München hierher, nach Hause, zusammengefahren hatte. Außerdem hatte er getrunken, weil er sich kurz vor Aufbruch noch mit Anka gestritten hatte, die nicht verstehen konnte, weshalb er sie an diesem Wochenende nicht dabeihaben wollte, und er ihr zum x-ten Male hatte erklären müssen, dass er lauter Leute von früher treffen und über alte Zeiten reden würde, sodass sie sich elendiglich langweilen würde, was sie nicht glauben wollte, und es war ja auch tatsächlich nur die halbe Wahrheit.
Es schmerzt ihn, dass er Onkel Hermanns Beerdigung verpasst hat, die schon am Donnerstag gewesen ist, aber da hatte Stefan abends noch Vorstellung, sodass er erst am Freitag fahren konnte. Zwar ist die Beerdigung am Donnerstagvormittag gewesen, aber er hat so kurzfristig keinen Flug mehr bekommen, der ihn rechtzeitig zur Vorstellung nach München zurückgebracht hätte, und die Vorstellung ausfallen zu lassen war keine Option. Er hat Kollegen gesehen, die auf der Bühne gestanden haben, obwohl der Vater oder die Mutter am gleichen Tag überraschend gestorben waren, und wenn er ehrlich ist, hat er Onkel Hermann immer gemocht, ihm aber nie so richtig nahegestanden.
Freitag etwas zeitiger loszufahren war nicht möglich, da Anka ihn darauf festgenagelt hatte, am frühen Abend wenigstens noch einen Happen mit ihr zu essen, wenn sie schon nicht mitkommen dürfe. Das Wochenende hier mit Anka herumzulaufen wäre über seine Kräfte gegangen. Er will nichts erklären, er will niemandem irgendwelche Leute vorstellen, er will nur hier sein und erledigen, was zu erledigen ist.“

Frank Goosen (Bochum, 31 mei 1966)

De Oostenrijkse schrijver, toneelspeler en regisseur Gabriel Barylli werd geboren op 31 mei 1957 in Wenen. Zie ook alle tags voor Gabriel Barylli op dit blog.

Uit: Butterbrot

„Man sieht jede Bewegung und jedes Zucken in den Wimpern, jeden Ansatz eines Lächelns im Gesicht eines anderen. Man sieht sogar den Ursprung des Gedankens, der einem Lächeln vorausgeht – die Morgenröte jeder Empfindung liegt auf einem silbernen Tablett zum Greifen nah. Aber man kommt nicht hin, man kommt nicht hin, denn das, wodurch man den anderen sieht, ist Panzerglas – spiegelfreies Panzerglas, hinter dem man jede Lüge offen verbergen kann – und dieses Panzerglas heißt  Nähe.

Wozu? Wozu das Ganze? Um nicht allein zu sein? In jeder Einsamkeit hat man zumindest einen Partner – sichselbst. Wenn man sich aber über die Reling beugt, um zu dem anderen Schiff eine Hand hinüberzustrecken, stürzt man ab und landet im Meer. Es liegt alles am Anfang die erste Millionstelsekunde eines Anfangs zwischen einem Mann und einer Frau trägt schon wie ein Samenkorn die ganze Geschichte einer Begegnung in sich –alles – alles – alles liegt in dieser Filmdose zusammengerollt bereit, und man hat sogar die Möglichkeit der Ahnung – des Wissens – des Sehens… Irgend etwas in einem selbst kennt den ganzen Film, der da aufgerollt herangereicht wird, und das Herz weiß alles und trotzdem beginnt man schon in der zweiten Millionstelsekunde die Bilder nacheinander ablaufen zu lassen, obwohl man erkannt hat, wo der Filmriß einprogrammiert ist. Man setzt die Scheuklappen auf und startet durch als Mann, als Held, als Sieger. Das wäre ja noch schöner, wenn man das Schicksal nicht geradebiegen könnte – wenn man die hundert Meter nicht in vier Sekunden sprinten könnte – die Erde nicht doch flachhämmern könnte.“

Gabriel Barylli (Wenen, 31 mei 1957)

De Russische schrijver Konstantin Paustovski werd geboren op 31 mei 1892 in Moskou. Zie ook alle tags voor Konstantin Paustovski op dit blog.

Uit: The Story of a Life (Vertaald door Manya Harari en Andrew Thomson)

“The mother always sat in front — a dry, wrinkled old woman with knotty fingers. Whatever she was like in life — gentle and uncomplaining or shrewish and foolish — the picture always showed her with a face of stone and with tight-pressed lips. In the flash of the camera’s lens she always became the inexorable mother, the embodiment of the stern necessity of carrying on the race. And around her there always sat and stood her wooden children and her bulging-eyed grandchildren.

You had to look at these pictures for a long time to see and to recognize in their strained figures the people whom you knew well — the old woman’s consumptive, silent son-in-law — the village shoemaker, his wife, a big-bosomed, shrewish woman in an embroidered blouse and with shoes with tops which flapped against the base calfs of her legs, a young fellow with a forelock and with that strange emptiness in the eyes which you find in hooligans, and another fellow, dark and laughing, in whom you eventually recognized the mechanic known throughout the whole region. And the grandchildren — frightened kids with the eyes of little martyrs. These were children who had never known a caress or an affectionate greeting. Or maybe the son-in-law who was the shoemaker sometimes took pity on them quietly and gave them his old boot lasts to play with.”

Konstantin Paustovski (31 mei 1892 – 14 juli 1968)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 31^e mei ook mijn blog van 31 mei 2001 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

31-05-2013 om 19:28 geschreven door Romenu  

De Wit-Russische schrijfster en onderzoeksjournaliste Svetlana Alexandrovna Alexievich  werd geboren op 31 mei 1948 in Stanyslaviv (sinds 1962 Ivano - Frankivsk) Na haar schoolopleiding werkte ze als verslaggever in diverse lokale kranten, en vervolgens als correspondente voor het literaire tijdschrift “Neman” in Minsk. Zij maakte carrière in de journalistiek en door het schrijven van verhalen, gebaseerd op interviews met getuigen van de meest dramatische gebeurtenissen in het land zoals de Tweede Wereldoorlog,de Sovjet - Afghaanse oorlog, de val van de Sovjet- Unie en de ramp in Tsjernobyl. Na de vervolging door het Loekasjenko-regime  verliet zij Belarus in 2000. Gedurende de volgende tien jaar woonde ze in Parijs, Göteborg en Berlijn .In 2011 verhuisde Alexievich terug naar Minsk. Haar boeken worden beschreven als een literaire kroniek van de emotionele geschiedenis van de Sovjet -en post-Sovjet-mens. Haar meest opmerkelijke werken in Engelse vertalingen gaan over de oorlog in Afghanistan (The Boys of Zinc) en over de ramp in Tsjernobyl (Voices from Chernobyl. Haar eerste boek “Het onvrouwelijk gezicht van de oorlog” kwam uit in 1985. Het werd meerdere malen herdrukt en er werden meer dan twee miljoen exemplaren van verkocht. Deze roman is opgebouwd uit monologen van vrouwen in de oorlog die spreken over de aspecten van de Tweede Wereldoorlog die nooit eerder aan de orde kwamen. Een ander boek, “De laatste getuige: het Boek van onkinderlijke verhalen” beschrijft persoonlijke herinneringen van kinderen in oorlogstijd. In 1993 publiceerde ze “Betoverd door de dood”, een boek over geslaagde zelfmoorden en zelfmoordpogingen als gevolg van de ondergang van de Sovjet- Unie. Veel mensen voelden zich onlosmakelijk verbonden met de communistische ideologie en waren niet in staat om de nieuwe orde en de nieuw geïnterpreteerde geschiedenis te accepteren . Alexievich 's boeken zijn gepubliceerd in vele landen, waaronder de VS, Duitsland, Groot-Brittannië, Japan, Zweden, Frankrijk, China, Vietnam, Bulgarije en India met een totaal van 19 landen in totaal. Ze heeft 21 scripts voor documentaires op haar naam en drie toneelstukken die werden opgevoerd in Frankrijk, Duitsland en Bulgarije.

Uit: Voices from Chernobyl

“Lyudmilla Ignatenko Wife of deceased Fireman Vasily Ignatenko

We were newlyweds. We still walked around holding hands, even if we were just going to the store. I would say to him, “I love you.” But I didn’t know then how much. I had no idea . . . We lived in the dormitory of the fire station where he worked. I always knew what was happening—where he was, how he was.

One night I heard a noise. I looked out the window. He saw me. “Close the window and go back to sleep. There’s a fire at the reactor. I’ll be back soon.”

I didn’t see the explosion itself. Just the flames. Everything was radiant. The whole sky. A tall flame. And smoke. The heat was awful. And he still hadn’t come back.

They went off just as they were, in their shirtsleeves. No one told them. They had been called for a fire, that was it.

Seven o’clock in the morning. At seven I was told he was in the hospital. I ran over there‚ but the police had already encircled it, and they weren’t letting anyone through. Only ambulances. The policemen shouted: “The ambulances are radioactive‚ stay away!” I started looking for a friend, she was a doctor at that hospital. I grabbed her white coat when she came out of an ambulance. “Get me inside!” “I can’t. He’s bad. They all are.” I held onto her. “Just to see him!” “All right‚” she said. “Come with me. Just for fifteen or twenty minutes.”

I saw him. He was all swollen and puffed up. You could barely see his eyes.

“He needs milk. Lots of milk‚” my friend said. “They should drink at least three liters each.”

“But he doesn’t like milk.”

“He’ll drink it now.”

Many of the doctors and nurses in that hospital‚ and especially the orderlies‚ would get sick themselves and die. But we didn’t know that then.

At ten‚ the cameraman Shishenok died. He was the first.”

Svetlana Alexievich (Stanyslaviv, 31 mei 1948)

31-05-2013 om 00:00 geschreven door Romenu  

Bij Sacramentsdag

Abendmahl door Hans Leonhard Schäufelein, 1515, Ulmer Münster

Am Fronleichnamstage

"Mein Fleisch ist wahrhaftig eine Speise,
und mein Blut ist wahrhaftig ein Trank"

O fasse Mut; er ist dir nah!
Du hast sein Fleisch, sein heilig Blut
Genossen ja.
O meine arme Seele, fasse Mut;
Er ist ja dein, er ward dein Fleisch und Blut.

Nicht, wie ich sollte, reich und warm
Kam freilich ich zu deinem Mahl:
Ich war ein arm
Zerlumpter Gast; doch zitterte die Qual
In mir des Sehnens; Tränen sonder Zahl

Hab' ich vergossen in der Angst,
Die dennoch Freudeschauer war.
Sprich, warum bangst
Du vor der Arzenei so süß und klar,
Die Leben dir und Frieden bietet dar?

Wohl ist es furchtbar, seinen Gott
Zu einen mit dem sünd'gen Leib;
Es klingt wie Spott.
O Herr, ich bin ein schwach und wirres Weib,
Und stärker als die Seele ist der Leib!

So hab' ich schuldbeladen dir
In meiner Sünde mich vereint;
Doch riefst du mir
So laut wie Einem, der um Leben weint:
So ist es Gnade, was von oben scheint.

Und hast du des Verstandes Fluch
Zu meiner Prüfung mir gestellt:
Er ist ein Trug.
Doch hast du selber ja, du Herr der Welt,
Hast selber den Verführer mir gesellt.

Drum trau ich, daß du dessen nicht
Vergessen wirst an jenem Tag,
Daß dein Gericht
Mir sprechen wird: Den Irren seh' ich nach;
Dein Herz war willig, nur dein Kopf war schwach.

Annette von Droste-Hülshoff (10 januari 1797 – 24 mei 1848)

De Paulusdom in Münster, dichtbij Drostes geboortehuis

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Elizabeth Alexander werd geboren op 30 mei 1962 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Elizabeth Alexander op dit blog.

Race

Race

Sometimes I think about Great-Uncle Paul who left Tuskeegee,
Alabama to become a forester in Oregon and in so doing
became fundamentally white for the rest of his life, except
when he travelled without his white wife to visit his siblings —
now in New York, now in Harlem, USA — just as pale-skinned,
as straight-haired, as blue-eyed as Paul, and black. Paul never told anyone
he was white, he just didn’t say that he was black, and who could imagine,
an Oregon forester in 1930 as anything other than white?
The siblings in Harlem each morning ensured
no one confused them for anything other than what they were, black.
They were black! Brown-skinned spouses reduced confusion.
Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
When Paul came East alone he was as they were, their brother.

The poet invents heroic moments where the pale black ancestor stands up
on behalf of the race. The poet imagines Great-Uncle Paul
in cool, sagey groves counting rings in redwood trunks,
imagines pencil markings in a ledger book, classifications,
imagines a sidelong look from an ivory spouse who is learning
her husband’s caesuras. She can see silent spaces
but not what they signify, graphite markings in a forester’s code.

Many others have told, and not told, this tale.
The one time Great-Uncle Paul brought his wife to New York
he asked his siblings not to bring their spouses,
and that is where the story ends: ivory siblings who would not
see their brother without their telltale spouses.
What a strange thing is “race,” and family, stranger still.
Here a poem tells a story, a story about race.

Peccant

Maryland State Correctional Facility for Women,
Baltimore County Branch, has undergone a face-lift.
Cells are white and ungraffitied, roomlike, surprisingly airy.
This is where I must spend the next year, eating slop from tin trays,
facing women much tougher than I am, finding out if I am brave.
Though I do not know what I took, I know I took something.

On Exercise Day, walk the streets of the city you grew up in,
in my case, D.C., from pillar to post, Adams-Morgan to Anacostia,
Shaw to Southwest, Logan to Chevy Chase Circles,
recalling every misbegotten everything, lamenting, repenting.

How my parents keen and weep, scheme to spring me,
intercept me at corners with bus tokens, pass keys, files baked in cakes.
Komunyakaa the poet says, don’t write what you know,
write what you are willing to discover, so I will
spend this year, these long days, meditating on what I am accused of
in the white rooms, city streets, communal showers, mess hall,
where all around me sin and not sin is scraped off tin trays
into oversized sinks, all that excess, scraped off and rinsed away.

Elizabeth Alexander (New York, 30 mei 1962)

De Afro-Amerikaanse dichter Countee Cullen werd geboren als Countee LeRoy Porter op 30 mei 1903 in Louisville, Kentucy, of Baltimore. Zie ook alle tags voor Countee Cullen op dit blog.

Lines To My Father

The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
Happy the wretched host if Day be brief,
That with the cool oblivion of sleep
A dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.

If from the soil our sweat enriches sprout
One meagre blossom for our hands to cull,
Accustomed indigence provokes a shout
Of praise that life becomes so bountiful.

Now ushered regally into your own,
Look where you will, as far as eye can see,
Your little seeds are to a fullness grown,
And golden fruit is ripe on every tree.

Yours is no fairy gift, no heritage
Without travail, to which weak wills aspire;
This is a merited and grief-earned wage
From One Who holds His servants worth their hire.

So has the shyest of your dreams come true,
Built not of sand, but of the solid rock,
Impregnable to all that may accrue
Of elemental rage: storm, stress, and shock.

Harlem Wine

This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams

This is a wine that must flow on
Not caring how or where
So it has ways to flow upon
Where song is in the air.

So it can woo an artful flute
With loose elastic lips
Its measurements of joy compute
With blithe, ecstatic hips.

Countee Cullen (30 mei 1903 – 9 januari 1946)

De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Emmanuel Hiel werd geboren in Sint-Gillis-bij-Dendermonde op 30 mei 1834. Zie ook alle tags voor Emmanuel Hiel op dit blog.

Levenslust

Men staakt het sombre treuren,
wanneer de lente zingt,
en als met ‘t bloemengeuren,
de hoop in ‘t harte dringt.

Naar ‘t dorpke trekt de jongen
zo fris, zo welgezind;
daar komt hem toegesprongen
een blozend boerenkind.

Ter stede komt het meisje,
zij zoekt haar huisgerief;
maar vindt ook menig meisje
een flinke hartendief.

Zo toont zich, naar gewendte,
de zoele levenslust,
wanneer de gulle lente
de harten wakker kust.

Emmanuel Hiel (30 mei 1834 - 27 augustus 1899)

Sint-Gillis-Buitenkerk in Sint-Gillis-bij-Dendermonde

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Martin Jankowski werd op 29 mei 1965 in Greifswald geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Martin Jankowski op dit blog.

Zunder

die hitze über dem fluß und
das rauschen der bäume

die dächer liegen rot im licht
wie zunder

das land breitet sich leuchtend
unter den himmel

im flirren der blätter tanzen
die halbschatten

und die wellen blinken
wie zunder

die abendhitze summt da kommt noch was
weit hinten klingt es wie musik

und das schilf am graben hinter der wiese
riecht wie zunder

wirf das streichholz weg
steig ins boot

so kann man's aushalten
den kopf voll illusionen in der linken

in der rechten eine handvoll luft
milliarden jahre alt

Martin Jankowski (Greifswald, 29 mei 1965)

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:

De Vlaamse dichter Jan Geerts werd geboren in Hoogstraten in 1972. Zie ook alle tags voor Jan Geerts op dit blog.

Stoel

Voor het open keukenraam,
uitkijkend naar de tuin
bind ik haar vast aan de stoel.

Zij zingt. Ik vind niets
om haar kwalijk te nemen.
Ik betrap mijzelf met een schaar

en begin haar natte haar
te knippen. Langzaam.
Zoiets vraagt tijd.

Of ze gaat dood, of ze doet
dat niet. Maar ze gaat dood.
Een andere keuze is er niet.

Jan Geerts (Hoogstraten, 1972)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 30^e mei ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

30-05-2013 om 17:32 geschreven door Romenu  

De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver André Brink werd geboren op 29 mei 1935 in Vrede. Zie ook alle tags voor André Brink op dit blog.

Uit: Philida

“Here come shit. Just one look, and I can see it coming. Here I walk all this way and God know that is bad enough, what with the child in the abbadoek on my back, and now there's no turning back, it's just straight on to hell and gone. This is the man I got to talk to if I want to lay a charge, they tell me, this Grootbaas who is so tall and white and thin and bony, with deep furrows in his forehead, like a badly ploughed wheat field, and a nose like a sweet potato that has grown past itself.
It's a long story. First he want to find out everything about me, and it's one question after another. Who am I? Where do I come from? What is the name of my Baas? What is the name of the farm? For how long I been working there? Did I get a pass for coming here? When did I leave and how long did I walk? Where did I sleep last night? What do I think is going to happen to me when I get home again? And every time I say something, he first write it down in his big book with those knobbly hands and his long white fingers. These people got a thing about writing everything down. Just look at the back pages of the black Bible that belong to Oubaas Cornelis Brink, that's Francois Gerhard Jacob's father.
While the Grootbaas is writing I keep watching him closely. There's something second-hand about the man, like a piece of knitting gone wrong that had to be done over, but badly, not very smoothly. I can say that because I know about knitting. On his nose sit a pair of thick glasses like a bat with open wings, but he look at me over them, not through them. His long hands keep busy all the time. Writing, and dipping the long feather in the ink, and sprinkling fine sand on the thick paper, and shifting his papers this way and that on top of the table that is really too low for him because he is so tall. He is sitting, I keep standing, that is how it's got to be.

In the beginning I feel scared, my throat is tight. But after the second or third question I start feeling better. All I can think of is: If it was me that was knitting you, you'd look a bit better, but now whoever it was that knitted you, did not cast you off right. Still, I don't say anything. In this place it's only him and me and I don't want to get on his wrong side. I got to tell him everything, and that is exactly what I mean to do today, without keeping anything back.”

André Brink (Vrede, 29 mei 1935)

De Catalaanse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Eduard Escoffet werd geboren op 29 mei 1979 in Barcelona. Zie ook alle tags voor Eduard Escoffet op dit blog.

Wenn ich dich seh

wenn ich dich seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh

wenn ich dich seh: jetzt; wenn ich dich nicht seh: jetzt

wenn ich dich seh: körper und körper; wenn ich dich nicht

                                                         seh: körper und körper

wenn ich dich seh: du das haus das gewicht; wenn ich dich nicht seh:

                                                                         du das haus das gewicht

wenn ich dich seh und es regnet; wenn ich dich nicht seh und es regnet

wenn ich dich seh: die dinge die du mir sagst; wenn ich dich nicht seh:

                                                                         die dinge die du mir sagst

wenn ich dich seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür; wenn ich dich

                                      nicht seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür

wenn ich dich seh und wenn ich dich nicht seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh und

                                                                                           wenn ich dich seh

wenn ich dich seh, wenn ich dich seh und sterbe wenn ich dich seh;

wenn ich dich nicht seh, wenn ich dich nicht seh und sterbe wenn ich dich

                                                                                                        nicht seh

wenn ich dich seh: tat und tat; wenn ich dich nicht seh: nichts

wenn ich dich seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht dreht sich im kreis;

wenn ich dich nicht seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht

                                                                              dreht sich im kreis

wenn ich dich seh und es schließt; wenn ich dich nicht seh

                                                                                 und es schließt die rose

Vertaald door Àxel Sanjosé

Eduard Escoffet (Barcelona, 29 mei 1979)

De Engelse letterkundige, schrijver en journalist Gilbert Keith Chesterton werd geboren in Londen op 29 mei 1874. Zie ook alle tags voor G. K. Chesterton op dit blog.

Uit: Father Brown. The Essential Tales (The Blue Cross)

“There was a short railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver "with blue stones" in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above it.”

G. K. Chesterton (29 mei 1874 - 14 juli 1936)

Mark Williams als Father Brown in de nieuwe BBC - serie

De Franse schrijver Bernard Charles Henri Clavel werd geboren op 29 mei 1923 in Lons-le-Saunier. Zie ook alle tags voor Bernard Clavel op dit blog.

Uit: l'Hiver

“Il y a chaque année, à partir du début décembre, dans la vitrine de ce magasin qu'on appelle "Le Grand Bazar", un train électrique fabuleux. Tout y est, une gare, des signaux lumineux qui fonctionnent, une énorme locomotive, au moins sept ou huit wagons, un passage à niveau avec des barrières qui se lèvent et retombent. Tout, absolument ! Il faut jouer des coudes pour approcher la devanture.
J'attends toujours le 25 décembre avec une grande impatience. Bien longtemps avant ce jour merveilleux, en m'appliquant beaucoup, j'écris au Père Noël. Puis nous portons ma lettre à la poste, maman et moi, et je m'efforce d'être sage pour mériter ce que j'ai demandé.

Une année, je devais avoir cinq ou six ans, je fis une lettre particulièrement longue (au moins dix lignes) et appliquée ; à peine une douzaine de fautes d'orthographe. J'avais apporté à l'écrire énormément de soin, car je demandais un train électrique. J'avais précisé, pour que le Père Noël ne se trompe pas : "Celui qui est dans la vitrine du Grand Bazar". Maman avait soupiré : "Tu es trop exigeant. Le Père Noël n'est pas assez riche. Si tous les enfants font comme toi, le pauvre homme sera bien embarrassé !". Mais j'avais tenu bon, et ma lettre était partie.”

Bernard Clavel (29 mei 1923 – 5 oktober 2010)

De Hebreeuwse dichteres, schrijfster en letterkundige Leah Goldberg werd geboren in Königsberg (Pruisen) op 29 mei 1911. Zie ook alle tags voor Leah Goldberg op dit blog.

About Myself

My seasons are etched in my verse
As a tree’s are in its rings
As my years are in furrowed skin.

I have no hard words—
To hamper my visions.
My images
Are as clear as a church’s window.
Through them
One can see
The changes in the light outside
How my loves
Like dead birds fall
From the sky.

Vertaald door Haim Watzman

Will there ever come days

To Y., with pride and gratitude.

Is it true - will there ever come days of forgiveness and mercy?
And you'll walk in the field, and it will be an innocent's walk.
And your feet on the medick's small leaves will be gently caressing,
And sweet will be stings, when you're stung by the rye's broken stalks!

And the drizzle will catch you in pounding raindrops' folly
On your shoulders, your breast and your neck, while your mind will be clean,
You will walk the wet field, and the silence will fill you -
As does light in a dark cloud's rim

And you'll breathe in the furrow in breaths calm and even,
And the pond's golden mirror will show you the Sun up above,
And once more all the things will be simple, and present, and living,
And once more you will love - yes, you will, yes, once more you will love!

You will walk. All alone. Never hurt by the blazing inferno
Of the fires on the roads fed by horrors too awful to stand,
And in your heart of hearts you'll be able to humbly surrender,
In the way of the weeds, in the way of free men.

Leah Goldberg (29 mei 1911 – 15 januari 1970)

In 1946

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e mei ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

29-05-2013 om 21:08 geschreven door Romenu  

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Adriaan Bontebal werd als Aad van Rijn op 28 mei 1952 in Leidschendamgeboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Adriaan Bontebal op dit blog.

ONTWAKEN

Ieder ontwaken
een feest

Ik sta op
rek me uit en
krab me eens flink
aan het onderlijf

Als rijpe vruchten
vallen de eitjes
van mijn schaamluis
op het dauwvochtige
slaapkamerzeil

Iedere morgen
een feest

Zwarte koffie
zware shag en
scharreleieren
bij het ontbijt

PAULUS POTTERSTRAAT

naar De Dapperstraat van J.C.Bloem

De legen kom je aan de randen tegen
Waar stoffig op de schoorsteen prijkt:
‘Over mijn lijk naar de Schilderswijk’
Dat volk ervaart de rust als zegen

Maar zo niet ik, voor mij geen kassen
Hoewel ik van een dorpje ben
De stad niet echt van huis uit ken
Haal ‘k nu mijn lucht uit uitlaatgassen

Als kneuter ben ik afgemeld
Mijn teugen zijn steeds voller teugen
De stedeling hij kent geen maat

Tevreden heb ik vastgesteld
Ik deug niet en ik zal nooit deugen
Dom weg gelukkig in de Potterstraat

Adriaan Bontebal (28 mei 1952 – 11 februari 2012)

De Belgische schrijver Leo Pleysier werd geboren in Rijkevorsel op 28 mei 1945. Zie ook alle tags voor Leo Pleysier op dit blog.

Uit: The Yellow River Is Frozen (Vertaald door Tanis Guest.)

“The first time I saw her in the flesh was in the early fifties when she, one of the last remaining Western nuns, was expelled from the country for good on the orders of the government of the Chinese People's Republic. I was a small boy of seven or eight. And she was a tall, bony creature dressed in white with a black veil who was staying with us for a while. She looked thin and pale. I had noticed her eyes at once: they were huge, sunk deep in their sockets. I also found her disquietingly silent as she sat there at table with us. Suddenly, instead of sending a letter she had come herself. That in itself was a wonder. So she really did exist. She had a face. Maybe, under her clothes, there was even a body of flesh and blood. And on top of that she had brought someone else with her. A sort of replica of herself. But a much softer version. Applecheeked, even. It turned out she was the daughter of a fruit farmer and came originally from Montenaken, not far from Sint-Truiden. A sweetly smiling guardian angel from Limburg. Born and bred in the Haspengouw hills. Among the apples and pears.

- You can call me Sister Irma.

- Hullo, Sister Irma.

- That's a clever boy.

But actually she was a sort of watchdog they'd sent to keep an eye on Aunt Roza. Not for nothing was it called The Guardian, the mother house in Leefdaal.

Black nuns and white nuns. The black ones I was familiar with from kindergarten. The white ones, to whom Aunt Roza belonged, were new to me. And I thought her sort and her plumage were much finer. More elegant, especially. There was something of a big, slow bird about her. A seagull. A stork. A pelican who had landed unexpectedly at our house after a long journey. Had come here to rest and get its strength back.

- You've got to feed yourself up!”

Time and again I heard my father telling her that and he kept piling much too much food on her plate. She weighed barely forty kilos when she came home from China. She'd weighed as little as that once before, when she was about twenty-five, so my mother said. That time she had gone on hunger strike because Grandfather and Grandmother wouldn't let her ‘take the veil’. And it had been weeks before her parents gave in to her blackmail.”

Leo Pleysier (Rijkevorsel, 28 mei 1945)

De Duitse schrijver Frank Schätzing werd geboren in Keulen op 28 mei 1957. Zie ook alle tags voor Frank Schätzing op dit blog.

Uit: Mordshunger

„Sie hatte ihm eine Gurke geschenkt mit dem Ratschlag,sie sich sonst wohin zu stecken, und war ausgezogen.

»Ein guter Kriminalist«, pflegte er zu sagen, »wird verlassen. Er muss verlassen werden. Würde er der Idee verfallen, hinter Wahnsinnigen und Mördern herzulaufen, wenn man ihn nicht verlassen hätte? Fähige Polizisten neigen zum Verlust der Freundin, die Genies sind allesamt geschieden. Schön, ich hab nur eine Freundin. Aber ich bin ein guter Polizist! Folglich wird sie mich verlassen, irgendwann, das ist die Tragik meiner Profession.

Ich frage mich eigentlich nur, ob ich sie vorher schnell heiraten sollte, um hinterher ein ganz besonders genialer Polizist zu sein. Verzwickt, das Ganze! Geht mir im Kopf rum, immer wieder. Im Allgemeinen gehe ich dann was essen und sage mir, langsam Cüpper. Sechsunddreißigmal kauen, jeden Bissen. Hat alles noch Zeit.«

Es hatte keine Zeit.

Sie hatte ihm eine Gurke geschenkt, weil sie wusste, dass er keine Gurken mochte, dass es nur drei Dinge gab, die er von Herzen verabscheute: Gurken, Kümmel, Kokos.

Er war um die Gurke herumspaziert, als könne sie den Lauf der Dinge biegen, während im Nebenzimmer Blusen, Röcke, Jeans, Dessous flupp flupp in den Koffer flogen. Dann kamen die Packer, und man trug die Couch und den Glastisch und die zwei CD-Regale und die komplette Stereoanlage und noch bedenklich viel mehr an ihm vorbei nach draußen und fütterte einen schier unersättlichen Möbelwagen. Währenddessen lag die Gurke lang und dunkelgrün vor ihm und begann ihn auf merkwürdige Weise zu faszinieren, bis einer der Männer sie kurzerhand auf die Fensterbank legte, um das Schränkchen wegzutragen, das ihm, wie er sich mit einem Mal entsann, auch nicht gehörte.“

Frank Schätzing (Keulen, 28 mei 1957)

De Ierse schrijfster en columniste Maeve Binchy werd geboren op 28 mei 1940 in Dalkey. Zie ook alle tags voor Maeve Binchy op dit blog.

Uit: Scarlet Feather

“On the radio show they were asking people what kind of a New Year's Eve did they really want. It was very predictable. Those who were staying at home doing nothing wanted to be out partying, those who were too busy and rushed wanted to go to bed with a cup of tea and be asleep before the festivities began.
Cathy Scarlet smiled grimly as she packed more trays of food into the van. There could hardly be anyone in Ireland who would answer the question by saying that they really and truly wanted to spend the night catering a supper party for a mother-in-law. Now that was the punishment posting tonight, feeding Hannah Mitchell's guests at Oaklands. Why was she doing it then? Partly for practice, and of course it would be a good way to meet potential customers. Jock and Hannah Mitchell knew the kind of people who could afford caterers. But mainly she was doing it because she wanted to prove to Hannah Mitchell that she could. That Cathy, daughter of poor Lizzie Scarlet, the maid who cleaned Oaklands, who had married the only son of the house, Neil, was well able to run her own business and hold her head as high as any of them.
Neil Mitchell was in his car when he heard the radio program. It annoyed him greatly. Anyone looking at him from another car would have seen his sharp, handsome face frown. People often thought they recognized him; his face was familiar from television, but he wasn't an actor. He just turned up on the screen so often, pushing the hair out of his eyes, passionate, concerned and caring, always the spokes- person for the underdog. He had the bright burning eyes of a crusader. This kind of whining and moaning on a radio show really drove him mad. People who had everything, a home, a job, a family, all telephoning a radio station to complain about the pressures of life.”

Maeve Binchy (28 mei 1940 – 30 juli 2012)

De Ierse dichter en songwriter Thomas Moore werd geboren op 28 mei 1779 in Dublin. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas Moore op dit blog.

Come, Send Round the Wine

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly?
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

Thomas Moore (28 mei 1779 – 25 februari 1852)

Standbeeld in Dublin

De Britse schrijver Ian Fleming werd geboren op 28 mei 1908 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Ian Fleming op dit blog.

Uit: From Russia With Love

“Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by the stewardess. ‘Fasten your seat-belts, please.’ As she spoke the plane dropped sickeningly and soared up again with an ugly note of strain in the scream of the jets. The sky outside was suddenly black. Rain hammered on the windows. There came a blinding flash of blue and white light and a crash as if an anti-aircraft shell had hit them, and the plane heaved and bucketed in the belly of the electric storm that had ambushed them out of the mouth of the Adriatic.
    Bond smelt the smell of danger. It is a real smell, something like the mixture of sweat and electricity you get in an amusement arcade. Again the lightning flung its hands across the windows. Crash! It felt as if they were the centre of the thunder clap. Suddenly the plane seemed incredibly small and frail. Thirteen passengers! Friday the Thirteenth! Bond thought of Loelia Ponsonby’s words and his hands on the arms of his chair felt wet. How old is this plane, he wondered? How many flying hours has it done? Had the deathwatch beetle of metal fatigue got into the wings? How much of their strength had it eaten away? Perhaps he wouldn’t get to Istanbul after all. Perhaps a plummeting crash into the Gulf of Corinth was going to be the destiny he had been scanning philosophically only an hour before.
    In the centre of Bond was a hurricane-room, the kind of citadel found in old-fashioned houses in the tropics. These rooms are small, strongly built cells in the heart of the house, in the middle of the ground floor and sometimes dug down into its foundations. To this cell the owner and his family retire if the storm threatens to destroy the house, and stay there until the danger is past. Bond went to his hurricane room only when the situation was beyond his control and no other possible action could be taken. Now he retired to this citadel, closed his mind to the hell of noise and violent movement and focused on a single stitch in the back of the seat in front of him, waiting with slackened nerves for whatever fate had decided for BEA Flight No. 130.”

Ian Fleming (28 mei 1908 – 12 augustus 1964)

Scene uit de film “From Russia With Love”, 1963

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 28e mei ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2 en ook deel 3.

28-05-2013 om 18:55 geschreven door Romenu  

De Franse schrijver Louis-Ferdinand Céline (pseudoniem van Louis Ferdinand Destouches) werd geboren in Courbevoie op 27 mei 1894. Zie ook alle tags voor Louis-Ferdinand Céline op dit blog.

Uit: Journey To The End Of The Night (Vertaald door Ralph Manheim)

“Lola had a genuine official uniform, and it was really natty, decorated with little crosses all over, on the sleeves and on the tiny cap that she perched at a rakish angle on her wavy hair. She'd come to help us save France, as she told the hotel manager, to the best of her humble ability but with all her heart! We understood each other right away, but not completely, because the transports of the heart were beginning to give me a pain, I was more interested in the transports of the body. You can't trust the heart, not at all. I'd learned that in the war, and I wasn't going to forget it in a hurry.

Lola's heart was tender, weak, and enthusiastic. Her body was sweet, it was adorable, so what could I do but take her all together as she was? Lola was a good kid all right, but between us stood the war, the monstrous frenzy that was driving half of humanity, lovers or not, to send the other half to the slaughterhouse. Naturally this interfered with our relationship. 

To me her body was a joy without end. I never wearied of exploring that American body. I have to admit that I was a terrible lecher. I still am. And I formed the pleasant and fortifying conviction that a country capable of producing bodies so daringly graceful, so tempting in their spiritual flights, must have countless other vital revelations to offer, of a biological nature, it goes without saying.

I made up my mind, while feeling and fondling Lola, that sooner or later I'd take a trip, or call it a pilgrimage, to the United States, the sooner the better. And the fact is that I knew neither peace nor rest (in an implacably adverse and harassed life) until I managed to go through with that profound and mystically anatomical adventure.

So it was in the immediate vicinity of Lola's rear end that I received the message of a new world. Of course Lola wasn't all body, she also had a wee little face that was adorable and just a bit cruel because of her gray-blue eyes that slanted slightly upward at the corners like a wildcat's.”

Louis-Ferdinand Céline (27 mei 1894 - 1 juli 1961)

De Nederlandse schrijver, journalist en columnist Jan Blokker werd geboren in Amsterdam op 27 mei 1927. Zie ook alle tags voor Jan Blokker op dit blog.

Uit: Satire na de dood van Satire

“Bij wijze van tussenvraag: is satire per definitie ‘links’, en zo nee, waarom schijnt zelfs geen poging te worden ondernomen om tot een rechts satirisch programma te komen, dat bij de Tros toch zo onder dak zou zijn? (Van Tros-hoofd mr J.M. Landré heb ik thuis nog een briefkaart liggen waarop hij dankbaar schrijft zich tranen te hebben gelachen om de Zo-is-het-aflevering van 11 februari 1966 waarin drie nummers en een stuk of acht losse grappen voorkwamen rondom het huwelijk van Beatrix en twee ‘items’ tegen De Telegraaf. Ga zo door, smeekte Landré. Drie maanden later beloofde hij in De Telegraaf dat de Tros-programma's de huiskamer zouden ‘respecteren’ en dat niemand bang hoefde zijn voor ontsporingen à la Zo is het. Een bewegelijke man.)

Ik zie mogelijkheden genoeg - of hebben mensen als Jacques de Kadt, Jacques Gans, Godfried Bomans, Frits Behrendt, schoutbij-nacht Moorman en G.B.J. Hiltermann geen idealen meer op het gebied van Vietnam, Israel, de zuiverheid der moederkerk, de vernietiging van Sowjet-Rusland, Zuid-Afrika en Elsevier die in de werkelijkheid van onze samenleving worden ondermijnd door uiterst rode weg-met-onzers? Van Riel heeft er een tijdje geleden antwoord op gegeven. In tegenstelling tot linkse intellectuelen, zei hij, zijn rechts geaarde intellectuelen tevreden met hun werkelijkheid. Rechtse intellectuelen immers zijn aangepast aan de maatschappij: ze hebben hun academische studie tot het laatste toe volbracht, ze hebben een passende sociale functie in de samenleving gevonden en zien geen enkel belang in de wijziging van hun status quo, integendeel. Kijk daarentegen naar intellectueel links, grotendeels te vinden in de hoek van kunstenaars, journalisten en televisiemakers: dat zijn voor 80% gesjeesde studenten die tot op hoge leeftijd onvrede blijven koesteren over de status die ze niet bereikt hebben. De ene groep is gebaat bij stilstand. De andere kan van beweging nooit minder worden. Van Riel heeft gelijk. Rechtse intellectuelen houden er geen idealen op na. Satire - het genre waarin de tegenstelling tussen werkelijkheid en ideaal wordt gehekeld - is per definitie links.”

Jan Blokker (27 mei 1927 - 6 juli 2010)

De Nederlandse schrijver, journalist, blogger en gamedeskundige Niels 't Hooft werd geboren in Leiderdorp op 27 mei 1980. Zie ook alle tags voor Niels ‘t Hooft op dit blog.

Uit: Gamen met Mondriaan

“Games kunnen tal van vormen aannemen. Ik doe nu mee aan Your Daily Victory Boogie Woogie, volgens de initiatiefnemers van literair tijdschrift De Gids en gamebureau Hubbub een “experimentele literaire game”. Als je naar de site gaat, Gidsgame.nl, zie je een verzameling illustraties en proza- en poëziefragmenten. Neem je de moeite om erin te duiken, dan blijken die samen een verhaal vormen, rond een nieuw ontdekte versie van Piet Mondriaans omstreden schilderij.

Het spel begint zodra je je inschrijft en er een schrijfopdracht in je inbox landt. De game vraagt je om voort te borduren op eerdere bijdrages in een bepaalde categorie, maar laat je verder vrij. Door te schrijven ga je in feite een improviserende interactie aan met de andere spelers en de schrijversredactie, speel je met hen, en beïnvloed je uiteindelijk het verhaal.

Zelf ‘beheer’ ik Godfried de Ridder, een kunstenaar van een jaar of vijftig die in zijn laatste poging relevant te worden steeds meer op het randje van de waanzin balanceert. Wekelijks schrijf ik over zijn avonturen. Maar andere spelers zijn vrij om Godfried op te voeren. Laatst nam een oud-klasgenoot Godfried ineens mee uit eten, en kwam ik nieuwe dingen te weten over het verleden van mijn personage. Mijn voorafbedachte plan viel in de soep, maar de nieuwe richting was minstens zo interessant.”

Niels 't Hooft (Leiderdorp, 27 mei 1980)

De Estse schrijver Kaur Kender werd geboren op 27 mei 1971 in Estland. Zie ook alle tags voor Kaur Kender op dit blog.

Uit: Through Peaceful Eyes (Vertaald door Jurgen Kaljuvee)

“She does not expect my calls anymore. She invited me for a quick cup of coffee. To the “No Name” bar. It was close by. I ran there. I lied: “I have no money.” She paid for me. I lied that I was falling in love with a strip dancer. She made a sad expression. Then I jumped in the car. I almost collided with a BMW (5th series, a few years old, about 500 000, monthly leasing payment about 12 000). I drove home. Rent apartment (with a cleaning lady and everything else about 7000 a month). I put on new clothes. I drove by a flower shop. I bough a lot of roses (20 crowns each, 33 flowers). And I drove to get Maria. She lives in Kallavere. She was wearing a beautiful pink shirt and pink pants with embroidery. She was sincerely happy to see me. I gave her the pink roses and the sports bag. We drove to a clothing boutique in the Old Town. Maria picked up beige pants (1800), shoes (2450), shirt (890) and a top (690). I paid with a credit card. I wanted that we would look a little alike so that everyone would understand that we are together. From the next store I bought us Police sunglasses (2400 and 2300).

We then went to eat. To the “Noku” club. It’s a closed club for young artistic people. I am a member of the club. We ordered chicken and bacon salad, ice cream with whip cream and strawberries, a pack of Camel Lights, a pack of blue Barclays, and an ice cream cocktail (a little over 300 in total).

“I want,” she said.

“What?” I asked.

“Drive your car!” I nodded. We went outside. A woman accosted Maria on the street.

“Maria, I have been looking for you! I want to take you to London and New York!”

Kaur Kender (Estland, 27 mei 1971)

De Belgische Franstalige schrijver Georges Eekhoud werd in Antwerpen geboren op 27 mei 1854. Zie ook alle tags voor Georges Eekhoud op dit blog.

Uit: La faneuse d'amour

“Ses tabliers et ses bonnets très blancs alléchaient, dès qu’elle se montrait, le manœuvre le plus absorbé. La coquette résista aux cajoleries de Nikkel, crut le maintenir parmi ses soupirants ordinaires ; le luron ne l’entendait pas ainsi. Il commença par l’amuser, il finit par l’émouvoir. Ce falot mal nippé, à la dégaine de casseur, trouva pour la séduire d’irrésistibles suppliques de gestes et de regards. Un soir de kermesse qu’il l’avait énervée et pétrie à point aux spirales érotiques de la valse, il l’entraîna dans les fours à briques, en partie éteints et déserts les dimanches, et posséda goulûment cette femme déjà rendue et pâmée.

Cinq mois après, Mme de Dhose, prude et rigoriste, pas mal prévenue contre les airs évaporés et les toilettes claires de la pupille des bonnes sœurs, constatait son embonpoint anormal et la chassait ignominieusement. La maladroite ne songea pas un instant à retourner chez ses premières protectrices. Par bonheur Nikkel Mortsel restait absolument féru de sa conquête. Le coureur de guilledou se doublait chez lui d’un esprit pratique, il devinait en Rikka des qualités de ménagère qui le déterminèrent à l’épouser. La pauvresse ne s’estima que trop heureuse de s’unir chrétiennement à ce gaillard dégourdi qu’elle avait cru leurrer sans jamais faire la culbute.

Elle le suivit à Niel où naquît la petite Clara.”

Georges Eekhoud (27 mei 1854 - 29 mei 1927)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e mei ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2 en ook deel 3.

27-05-2013 om 19:10 geschreven door Romenu  

De Britse schrijver Alan Hollinghurst werd geboren op 26 mei 1954 in Stoud, Gloucestershire. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Hollinghurst op dit blog.

Uit: The Line of Beauty

“When Gerald had won Barwick, which was Nick's home constituency, the arrangement was jovially hailed as having the logic of poetry, or fate.

Gerald and Rachel were still in France, and Nick found himself almost resenting their return at the end of the month. The housekeeper came in early each morning, to prepare the day's meals, and Gerald's secretary, with sunglasses on top of her head, looked in to deal with the imposing volume of post. The gardener announced himself by the roar of the mower outside an open window. Mr Duke, the handyman (His Grace, as the family called him), was at work on various bits of maintenance. And Nick was in residence, and almost, he felt, in possession. He loved coming home to Kensington Park Gardens in the early evening, when the wide treeless street was raked by the sun, and the two white terraces stared at each other with the glazed tolerance of rich neighbours. He loved letting himself in at the three-locked green front door, and locking it again behind him, and feeling the still security of the house as he looked into the red-walled dining room, or climbed the stairs to the double drawing room, and up again past the half-open doors of the white bedrooms. The first flight of stairs, fanning out into the hall, was made of stone; the upper flights had the confidential creak of oak. He saw himself leading someone up them, showing the house to a new friend, to Leo perhaps, as if it was really his own, or would be one day: the pictures, the porcelain, the curvy French furniture so different from what he'd been brought up with. In the dark polished wood he was partnered by reflections as dim as shadows. He'd taken the chance to explore the whole house, from the wedge-shaped attic cupboards to the basement junk room, a dim museum in itself, referred to by Gerald as the trou de gloire. Above the drawingroom fireplace there was a painting by Guardi, a capriccio of Venice in a gilt rococo frame; on the facing wall were two large gilt-framed mirrors. Like his hero Henry James, Nick felt that he could 'stand a great deal of gilt'.

Scene uit de tv-serie „The Line of Beauty“ uit 2006

Sometimes Toby would have come back, and there would be loud music in the drawing room; or he was in his father's study at the back of the house making international phone calls and having a gin-and-tonic - all this done not in defiance of his parents but in rightful imitation of their own freedoms in the place. He would go into the garden and pull his shirt off impatiently and sprawl in a deckchair reading the sport in the Telegraph. Nick would see him from the balcony and go down to join him, slightly breathless, knowing Toby quite liked his rower's body to be looked at. It was the easy charity of beauty. They would have a beer and Toby would say, 'My sis all right? Not too mad, I hope,' and Nick would say, 'She's fine, she's fine,' shielding his eyes from the dropping August sun, and smiling back at him with reassurance, among other unguessed emotions.”

Alan Hollinghurst (Stoud, 26 mei 1954)

De Egyptische schrijfster en literatuurwetenschapster Radwa Ashour werd geboren op 26 mei 1946 in Caïro. Zie ook alle tags voor Radwa Ashour op dit blog.

Uit: A Clean Kill (Vertaald door Gretchen Head)

“In Death in the Afternoon, Hemingway says: "The only place where you could see life and death, i.e., violent death now that the wars were over, was in the bull ring and I wanted very much to go to Spain where I could study it. I was trying to learn to write, commencing with the simplest things, and one of the simplest things of all and the most fundamental is violent death."

R. hadn't yet read Hemingway's book that exhausting afternoon when she’d lost her way and ended up at the hotel Sultan, a different hotel than the one in which she had made a reservation earlier, before her arrival in the city. She secured a room for the night, dropped off her suitcase, then left the hotel and headed for her destination. She returned at six in the evening. She took off her clothes, bathed, settled down in front of the television, and watched a live broadcast of a bullfight on its screen. That was in the beginning of the nineties. R. watched the bull as it charged into the ring. She took note of its weight, its power, the arch of the taut muscles swelling behind its neck. She followed the team of bullfighters as they overcame it: The picador on the back of his horse pushing, with force, his spear into the bull's upper back. The three banderilleros leaping one after the other, each of them embedding colored arrows in its neck. The bull's repeated attempts to injure the bullfighters while they provoke it, tricking it with their bicolored capes. And finally the matador and the red cape, he plunges the sword deep into the bull's neck. She turned off the television and held her pen; she wrote "maqam 'iraq," then crossed it out and replaced it with "maqama 'iraqiyya." She wrote several lines. She read them. She muttered: "Bad writing, incomprehensible!" She tore up the paper.

She noticed that the air-conditioned room, virtually sealed shut, was filled with smoke. She put out her cigarette and carried the ashtray to the wastebasket. She emptied the cigarette butts in it and cleaned the ashtray. She walked to the window and opened it. The air was hot and thick in the summer evening, without the slightest breeze.”

Radwa Ashour (Caïro, 26 mei 1946)

De Belgische schrijver Hugo Raes werd geboren in Antwerpen op 26 mei 1929. Zie ook alle tags voor Hugo Raes op dit blog.

Uit: Hemel en dier

‘Mijn prooi, mijn godin die ik koningin maak en slachtoffer. Zo is het: slachtoffer maken of slachtoffer zijn. En als je je ooit wegrukt van mij, dan onderga ik de aanval waaruit ik slechts half zal herrijzen, zoals een die verlamd is van de heupen tot de voeten toe, of met een hart dat nog slechts onregelmatig klopt, en zwakjes, en het niet lang meer zal kunnen volhouden.’ In de laatste bladzijden van het boek is een dergelijke toestand werkelijk ingetreden, en als een wanhoopskreet klinkt het dan: ‘En ik moet voort en moe en leeg ben ik maar ik wil blijven leven ...’ Ik meen daarom dat de twee polen van het boek inderdaad wel de mogelijkheid en onmogelijkheid van de liefde zijn, maar dan met een sterk accent op enerzijds de energieverwekkende kracht van de liefde en anderzijds de noodzaak van de energie om de liefde te kunnen beleven. In het laatste deel van de roman gaat het teloorgaan van de liefde essentieel gepaard met een totaal verlies van de energie, en één van de onloochenbare symptomen van dit teloorgaan is precies een angstige bedenking over het ouder worden.”

(…)

‘Want ik heb niet gewild dat je wegging. En jou treft geen schuld. Het was een tijdelijke verslapping, en die zijn altijd gevaarlijk, een verraderlijke vermoeidheid, de slijtage, die vanzelf, zelfstandig de splitsing van onze eenheid, van ons samenzijn bewerkt, zonder dat wij het wilden, maar de moeheid, de verminderde belangstelling, is een dekmantel, een kunstmatig mistgordijn dat dit verhult.’

Hugo Raes (Antwerpen, 26 mei 1929)

Hier met zijn familie op jongere leeftijd

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Maxwell Bodenheim werd geboren op 26 mei 1892 in Hermanville, Mississippi. Zie ook alle tags voor Maxwell Bodenheim op dit blog

Broadway

With sardonic futility

The multi-coloured crowd,

Hurried by fervent sensuality,

Flees from something carried on its back.

Endlessly subdued, a sound

Pours up from the crowd,

Like some one ever gasping for breath

to utter releasing words.

Through the artificial valley

Made by gaudy evasions,

The stifled crowd files up and down,

Stabbing thought with rapid noises.

Women strutting dulcetly,

Embroider their unappeased hungers,

And men stumble toward a flitting opiate.

Sometimes a moment breaks apart

And one can hear the knuckles

Of children rapping on towering doors:

Rapping on the highway

Where civilization parades

Its frozen amiabilities!

The Child Meditates

The oak-tree in front of my house

Smells different every morning.

Sometimes it smells fresh and wise

Like my mother's hair.

Sometimes it stands ashamed

Because it doesn't own the smell

It borrowed from our flower-garden.

Sometimes it has a windy smell,

As though it had come back from a long walk.

The oak-tree in front of my house

Has different smells, like grown up people.

My doll hides behind her pink cheeks,

So that you can't see when she moves,

But it doesn't matter because

She always moves when no one is looking,

And that is why people think she is still.

People laugh when I say that my doll is alive,

But if she were dead, my fingers

Wouldn't know that they were touching her.

She lives inside a little house.

And laughs because I cannot find the door.

The colours in my room

Meet each other and hesitate.

Is that what people call shape?

Nobody seems to think so,

But I believe that lines are dead shapes

Unless they fall against each other

And look surprised, like the colours in my room!

Maxwell Bodenheim (26 mei 1892 – 6 februari 1954)

Hier in de jaren 1930

De Duitse schrijfster Isabella Nadolny (eig. Isabella Peltzer) werd geboren op 26 mei 1917 in München. Zie ook alle tags voor Isabella Nadolny op dit blog.

Uit: Ein Baum wächst übers Dach

„Mama nicht. Sie war nicht einmal verblüfft, sondern packte ihre Koffer, nahm den kleinen Leo,

die russische Kinderfrau, fuhr nach Bayern und suchte sich mit Papa eine Wohnung in Schwabing.

Eine hochherrschaftliche Wohnung mit Stuckdekken. Papa lernte malen, Mama, die bildschön war, wurde gemalt, und beide besuchten mit Erfolg die legendären Künstlerfeste jener Zeit, die man im ›Simplicissimus‹ älterer Jahrgänge abgebildet findet.

Als der Weltkrieg vorüber war und die all- jährlichen Rußlandreisen zur Familie für immer

aufhörten, kam ich zur Welt. Und just um diese Zeit begannen auch die ersten Vermögensschwierigkeiten und die ersten Sorgen. Papa malte weiter, ihm genügte es, von den leidigen Geldangelegenheiten nicht zu sprechen und alles damit Zusammenhängende zu ignorieren. Von Mamas Gefühlen und Erwägungen ist nichts bekannt, sie war eine echte Dame und ließ sich nichts anmerken. Nun zum erstenmal seit Jahren sahen wir die Hoffnung auf einen Hund zugleich mit dem Gedanken an ein Sommerhaus in ihrem Auge aufleuchten.

Bruder Leo zeichnete noch immer. Jetzt ergriff er ein Lineal und zog eine Linie.

»Wie viele Zimmer brauchen wir denn?« fragte er.

»Bloß nicht zu viele«, sagte Mama, die sich seit langem in der Wohnung mit einem Mädchen behelfen mußte.

Papa saß Papa saß am Schreibtisch und legte eine Patience. Er hatte noch den Malmantel an, mit dem er aus dem Atelier gekommen war, und an seinem Hosenbein klebte ein wenig Preußischblau. Er hatte Schwierigkeiten beim Durchzeichnen einer Birkengruppe in einem Abendhimmel und durfte sich eine Pause gönnen. Rein zufällig geriet er in das allgemeine Sinnen und Trachten.“

Isabella Nadolny (26 mei 1917 – 31 juli 2004)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26 mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

26-05-2013 om 19:04 geschreven door Romenu  

De Tsjechische dichter en vertaler Vítezslav Nezval werd geboren op 26 mei 1900 in Biskoupky. Zie ook alle tags voor Vítězslav Nezval op dit blog.

Fireworks 1924, A Cinemagenic Poem (Fragment)

the detective while choosing a magazine stares deep into the lady’s eyes (medium close shot)
the lady getting up (full shot)
the detective grabs his heart & sinks down to the floor (fade out)
a crowd of guests & waiters
the lady puts a handkerchief on the detective’s head
(close-up) the detective’s hand picking a photo & 2 tram tickets from the lady’s bag
in the fields the hare is pricking up its ears
a railway station where a train is being boarded
a gentleman with monocle at ticket counter
a hand plugging lines in at the phone exchange
the detective makes a call while staring at the tram ticket
index finger in the book
the tram ticket held in two hands as it grows in size till it dissolves into
the image of the tram (interior)
the dispatcher in his office struggling to recall something (medium close shot)
presses his index finger to his forehead (full shot)
& gives a smile (medium close shot)
giving a large banknote to the gentleman with the monocle seated beside the lady in the tram
a maze of telegraph wires
a postal clerk pondering a telegram
a lookout post in front of which there stands a yardman
the yardman runs into the lookout
a corridor inside the train down which the man with monocle is passing
he is entering the toilet
dumping his revolver
his pocket watch
(fade out) in the dark a sign HOTEL

Vertaald door Jerome Rothenberg en Milos Sovak

Vítězslav Nezval (26 mei 1900 – 6 april 1958)

De Belgische, Franstalige, schrijver en essayist Ivan O. Godfroid werd geboren in Boussu op 26 mei 1971. Zie ook alle tags voor Ivan O. Godfroid op dit blog.

Uit: Pacte de contrition - Essai sur la folie

“La « folie » (le mot fait peur, mais ce n’est que l’ancien nom des troubles psychologiques) est non seulement peu connue du public, mais aussi mal comprise par les professionnels, et traitée de manière insatisfaisante. Que la santé mentale soit une utopie n’y arrange rien. Dans un style séduisant, Godfroid met en cause l’incapacité de la science à expliquer les liens qui unissent le cerveau et la pensée. C’est tout un pan de la médecine qui se voit affaibli par cette lacune fondamentale, et ceci explique également l’incompréhension profonde du rôle du « psy » dans la société contemporaine, qui le traite tour à tour en sorcier moderne, en régulateur social, voire en philosophe domestique. Il faut sans cesse nourrir le développement de ce domaine en explorant de nouvelles voies, comme le rôle du sexe du patient, ou encore les implications de l’effet placebo. Godfroid nous propose dès lors la théorie de la psychiagénie comme une solution inédite au problème cerveau-esprit, et nous révèle comment celle-ci bouleverse la conception du monde dans lequel nous vivons. Cet essai, qui tente de susciter la réflexion non seulement par la raison mais aussi par l’émotion, se termine par un plaidoyer sur la nécessaire émergence d’un nouveau traitement : la psychothérapie unifiée. À la fois surprenant et passionnant, cet ouvrage inclassable s’adresse tant au grand public qu’aux professionnels.”

Ivan O. Godfroid (Boussu, 26 mei 1971)

De Franse schrijver Edmond de Goncourt  werd geboren op 26 mei 1822. Zie ook alle tags voor Edmond de Goncourt op dit blog.

Uit: Histoire de Marie-Antoinette Samen met Jules de Goncourt)

“Au milieu du dix-huitième siècle, la France avait perdu l'héritage de gloire de Louis XIV, le meilleur de son sang, la moitié de son argent, l'audace même et la fortune du désespoir. Ses armées reculant de défaites en défaites, ses drapeaux en fuite, sa marine balayée, cachée

dans les ports, et n'osant tenter la Méditerranée, son commerce anéanti, son cabotage ruiné, la France, épuisée et honteuse, voyait l'Angleterre lui enlever un jour Louisbourg, un jour le Sénégal, un jour Gorée, un jour Pondichéry, et le Coromandel, et Malabar, hier la Guadeloupe, aujourd'hui Saint-Domingue, demain Cayenne. La France détournait-elle ses yeux de son empire au delà des mers, la patrie, en écoutant à ses frontières, entendait la marche des troupes prusso-anglaises. Sa jeunesse était restée sur les champs de bataille de Dettingen et de Rosbach; ses vingt-sept vaisseaux de ligne étaient pris; six mille de ses matelots étaient prisonniers; et l'Angleterre, maîtresse de Belle-Isle, pouvait promener impunément l'incendie et la terreur le long de ses côtes, de Cherbourg à Toulon. Un traité venait consacrer le déshonneur et l'abaissement de la France. Le traité de Paris cédait en toute propriété au roi d'Angleterre, le Canada et Louisbourg, qui avaient coûté à la France tant d'hommes et tant d'argent, l'île du Cap-Breton, toutes les îles du golfe et du fleuve Saint-Laurent. Du banc

de Terre-Neuve, le traité de Paris ne laissait à la France, pour sa pêche à la morue, que les îlots de Saint-Pierre et de Miquelon, avec une garnison qui ne pouvait pas excéder cinquante hommes. Le traité de Paris enfermait et resserrait la France dans sa possession de la Louisiane par une ligne tracée au milieu du Mississipi. Il chassait la France de ses

établissements sur le Gange. Il enlevait à la France les plus riches et les plus fertiles des Antilles, la portion la plus avantageuse du Sénégal, la plus salubre de l'île de Gorée. Il punissait l'Espagne d'avoir soutenu la France, en enlevant la Floride à l'Espagne. Mais

l'Angleterre n'était point satisfaite encore de l'imposition de ces conditions, qui lui donnaient presque tout le continent américain, depuis le 25e degré jusque sous le pôle.”

Edmond De Goncourt (26 mei 1822  -  16 juli 1896) 

In 1822 

De Engelse schrijfster Lady Mary Wortley Montagu werd geboren in Thoresby Hall, Nottinghamshire, op 26 mei 1689. Zie ook alle tags voor Mary Wortley Montagu op dit blog.

Uit: Letters

“Nuremberg, Aug. 22. O. S. 1716.

After five days travelling post, I could not sit down to write on any other occasion, than to tell my dear lady, that I have not forgot her obliging command, of sending her some account of my travels. I have already passed a large part of Germany, have seen all that is remarkable in Cologn, Frankfort, Wurtsburg, and this place. 'Tis impossible not to observe the difference between the free towns and those under the government of absolute princes, as all the little sovereigns of Germany are. In the first, there appears an air of commerce and plenty. The streets are well-built, and full of people, neatly and plainly dressed. The shops are loaded with merchandise, and the commonalty are clean and cheerful. In the other you see a sort of shabby finery, a number of dirty people of quality tawdered out; narrow nasty streets out of repair, wretchedly thin of inhabitants, and above half of the common sort asking alms. I cannot help fancying one under the figure of a clean Dutch citizen's wife, and the other like a poor town lady of pleasure, painted and ribboned out in her head-dress, with tarnished silver-laced shoes, a ragged under-petticoat, a miserable mixture of vice and poverty. — They have sumptuary laws in this town, which distinguish their rank by their dress, prevent the excess which ruins so many other cities, and has a more agreeable effect to the eye of a stranger, than our fashions. I need not be ashamed to own, that I wish these laws were in force in other parts of the world. When one considers impartially, the merit of a rich suit of clothes in most places, the respect and the smiles of favour it procures, not to speak of the envy and the sighs it occasions (which is very often the principal charm to the wearer), one is forced to confess, that there is need of an uncommon understanding to resist the temptation of pleasing friends and mortifying rivals; and that it is natural to young people to fall into a folly, which betrays them to that want of money which is the source of a thousand basenesses.”

Mary Wortley Montagu (26 mei 1689 – 21 augustus 1762)

Portret door Gervase Spencer

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:

De Nederlandse dichteres Machteld Brands werd geboren in 1986 in Kampen. Zie ook alle tags voor Machteld Brands op dit blog.

Kees

Als een bolletje wol
netjes opgerold
onder donzen dekens

lig je zacht knorrend
van hemels geluk
en genoegzame gedachten

dromend van
bakken vol brokjes
en een kusje op je kop

glanst je vacht mooi
en hoef je toch
nooit in bad.

O, lieve kat
kon ik maar jouw garen
spinnen.

Machteld Brands (Kampen, 1986)

26-05-2013 om 18:59 geschreven door Romenu  

De Oostenrijkse schrijver en essayist Egyd Gstättner werd geboren op 25 mei 1962 in Klagenfurt. Zie ook alle tags voor Egyd Gstättner op dit blog.

Uit: Absturz aus dem Himmel

„Eigentlich wollte ich – literarisch gerade wieder einmal frei geworden, was ein nervlich strapaziöser und auf Dauer wenigstens mir unausstehlicher Zustand ist – die Geschichte eines mündigen Staatsbürgers schreiben, der nach einem langen Wahlkampf in der Wahlzelle plötzlich von einer akuten Unentschiedenheit gepackt wird.
Denn er hält alle Parolen und Versprechungen und Gesichter aller Kandidaten aller Parteien gegeneinander und weiß partout nicht, in welchen Kreis er sein Kreuz machen könnte: eine Prosa übrigens, die deutliche autobiografische Züge enthalten soll; immerhin sagt eine meiner wenigen Literaturtheorien, dass meine Existenz von Haus aus derart dramatisch ist, dass ich keine andere benötige und nichts erfinden muss. Ich muss nur Ordnung schaffen.
Ich kann von meinem Leben leben. Weil er trotz der dringlichen Aufforderungen der Wahlhelfer der Parteien die Wahlzelle stundenlang nicht wieder verlässt mit der Begründung, eine solche Wahl sei eine heikle Angelegenheit und die gründlichste und genaueste Überlegung daher ein unerlässlicher Sachzwang, ungeachtet des sicher stimmigen Einwands, dass zunehmende Gründlichkeit und Genauigkeit dieser Überlegung eine daran anschließende Entscheidung für einen der Spitzenkandidaten, denen von der Meinungsforschung seriöse Gewinnchancen zugebilligt werden, keineswegs vereinfache, sondern im Gegenteil erschwere und verunmögliche, wird bald nicht nur die Warteschlange außerhalb der Wahlzelle, sondern auch das Fernsehen und damit das gesamte Bundesgebiet auf den Wähler aufmerksam, denn der Fernsehmoderator muss der am Höhepunkt der Hochspannung befindlichen Bevölkerung eingestehen, dass die für siebzehn Uhr angekündigte Hochrechnung, die das für das politische Leben der nächsten Jahre oder gar Jahrzehnte so richtungweisende und bedeutsame und mit einem Wort entscheidende Endergebnis der Wahlen erfahrungsgemäß mit verblüffender Exaktheit vorwegnimmt, nicht ausgestrahlt werden könne, obwohl sie natürlich bereits vorliege, aber erst veröffentlicht werden dürfe, sobald das letzte Wahllokal geschlossen habe.“

Egyd Gstättner (Klagenfurt, 25 mei 1962)

De Franse schrijfster Claire Castillon werd geboren op 25 mei 1975 in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Zie ook alle tags voor Claire Castillon op dit blog.

Uit: De wonderen (Vertaald door Kiki Coumans)

“Ik moet steeds weer aan die eerste mei denken, maar razendsnel, want dat kan ik niet langzaam. Lulu was al bij ons, maar hij was nog niet helemaal van mij, de puppy was toen nog van het hele gezin.

We hadden een appartement in de stad en Lulu zat urenlang te blaffen achter de deur van de eerste verdieping, waar ik woonde met mijn broer, mijn moeder en mijn vader. Hij blafte omdat hij wilde dat we thuiskwamen. Hij at sponzen op, hij knaagde aan stoelpoten en schoenveters, hij kon niet tegen de eenzaamheid. Mijn moeder werkte in een doe-het-zelfzaak, waar ze klanten advies gaf zonder dat ze er ook maar enig verstand van had. Op den duur was ze daar goed in geworden. Soms liet ze zich meeslepen door haar eigen geklets; eigenlijk was het haar droom prulletjes of kleren te gaan verkopen en soms zei ze over een boormachine: U kunt beter een grijze nemen, dat heeft iets jongs, en dan smeet ze het ding voor een klant neer alsof het een overhemd was.

Ze nam nooit pauze en vroeg nergens om, alleen als wij ziek waren, mijn broer en ik, belde ze de directie om haar werktijden te veranderen. Ze had dan ook geen vrienden, want bij stakingen werkte zij gewoon door om bij de chefs wat krediet op te bouwen voor als ze een keer niet kon komen. Ze werd zelfs weleens op de afdeling stofzuigers gezet omdat ze daar veel vanaf wist, en dat leverde haar extraatjes op. Mijn vader was vaak van huis als vertegenwoordiger in vernislakken, hij maakte strakke bochten met die rotauto van hem, liet muntjes in zijn broekzak rammelen en als het maar even kon zat hij naar gaatjes te loeren op meubelbeurzen, waardoor hij vaak te laat thuiskwam.”

Claire Castillon (Neuilly-sur-Seine, 25 mei 1975)

De Amerikaanse schrijfster en feminste Eve Ensler werd op 25 mei 1953 in New York geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Eve Ensler op dit blog.

Uit: In the Body of the World

“In the Congo there has been a war raging for almost thirteen years. Nearly eight million people have died and hundreds of thousands of women have been raped and tortured. It is an economic war fought over minerals that belong to the Congolese but are pillaged by the world. There are local and foreign militias from Rwanda, Burundi, and Uganda. They enter villages and they murder. They rape wives in front of their husbands. They force the husbands and sons to rape their daughters and sisters. They shame and destroy families and take over the villages and the mines. The minerals are abundant in the Congo — tin, copper, gold, and coltan, which are used in our iPhones and PlayStations and computers.

Of course by the time I got to the Congo, I had witnessed the epidemic of violence toward women that scoured the planet, but the Congo was where I witnessed the end of the body, the end of humanity, the end of the world. Femicide, the systematic rape, torture, and destruction of women and girls, was being employed as a military/corporate tactic to secure minerals. Thousands and thousands of women were not only exiled from their bodies, but their bodies and the functions and futures of their bodies were rendered obsolete: wombs and vaginas permanently destroyed.

The Congo and the individual horror stories of her women consumed me. Here I began to see the future—a monstrous vision of global disassociation and greed that not only allowed but encouraged the eradication of the female species in pursuit of minerals and wealth.”

Eve Ensler (New York, 25 mei 1953)

De Duitse schrijver Friedrich Dieckmann werd geboren op 25 mei 1937 in Landsberg an der Warthe. Zie ook alle tags voor Friedrich Dieckmann op dit blog.

Uit: Freiheit ist nur in dem Reich der Träume (Schillers Jahrhundertwende)

„Dabei hatte die Krankheit immer auf der Lauer gelegen, diese Krämpfe in der Brust und darunter, ein schlafender Drache, der jederzeit aufwachen konnte. Aber derzeit schien alles gutzugehen, so groß die Spannung war – oder weil sie so groß war? »Es ist der Geist, der sich den Körper schafft« – das hatte er Wallenstein sagen lassen, als alles verloren war, und mit dem Körper war die Armee gemeint, die er zweimal aus dem Boden gestampft hatte, allerdings

Für den Kaiser dahinten in Wien, wo der Krieg niemals hingekommen war, nicht ohne oder gar gegen ihn. Er hatte das Gleichnis weitergefhrt und mußte lachen über den Vers, in den sein von der Armee verlassener Held sich verstiegen hatte:

»Wenn Haupt und Glieder sich trennen, dann wird sich zeigen, wo die Seele wohnt.« Im Moment hingen Körper und Geist ganz gut bei ihm zusammen. Aber es war gut, nach der langen Probe noch ein wenig durch das Städtchen zu laufen, das gerade zur Ruhe ging; niemand kam ihm auf der Straße entgegen. Er war an der Ackerwand entlanggegangen, zu seiten des Ilmparks; wer ihn so sah, dachte er bei sich, das Lämpchen mit dem gefalteten Blechdeckel – so kam Luft an die Ölflamme – und der eingesetzten Glasscheibe wie einen Krug in der Hand haltend, konnte ihn glatt für einen neuen Diogenes halten.

Auf der Bühne war alles gutgegangen, man hatte im fertigen Kostüm gespielt, was nicht immer vorkam, ganz historisch hatte es ausgesehen mit diesen Kollern und Wämsern und Hellebarden – auch die Schneider hatten sich ins Zeug gelegt. Hatte man nicht sogar alte Ofenplatten ausfindig gemacht, um den Stil von 1630 zu treffen? Die Schauspieler hatten ihren Text nicht nur gelernt, sie schienen ihn auch verstanden zu haben, diese Knittelverse, deren Reime man um Himmels willen nicht betonen durfte. Sie durften nur anklingen, sonst wurde es platt.“

Friedrich Dieckmann (Landsberg an der Warthe, 25 mei 1937)

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Raymond Carver werd geboren op 25 mei 1938 in Port Angeles. . Zie ook alle tags voor Raymond Carver op dit blog.

Circulation

And all at length are gathered in.
--LOUISE BOGAN

By the time I came around to feeling pain
and woke up, moonlight
flooded the room. My arm lay paralyzed,
propped up like an old anchor under
your back. You were in a dream,
you said later, where you'd arrived
early for the dance. But after
a moment's anxiety you were okay
because it was really a sidewalk
sale, and the shoes you were wearing,
or not wearing, were fine for that.

*

"Help me," I said. And tried to hoist
my arm. But it just lay there, aching,
unable to rise on its own. Even after
you said, "What is it? What's wrong?"
it stayed put -- deaf, unmoved
by any expression of fear or amazement.
We shouted at it, and grew afraid
when it didn't answer. "It's gone to sleep,"
I said, and hearing those words
knew how absurd this was. But
I couldn't laugh. Somehow,
between the two of us, we managed
to raise it. This can't be my arm
is what I kept thinking as
we thumped it, squeezed it, and
prodded it back to life. Shook it
until that stinging went away.

We said a few words to each other.
I don't remember what. Whatever
reassuring things people
who love each other say to each other
given the hour and such odd
circumstance. I do remember
you remarked how it was light
enough in the room that you could see
circles under my eyes.
You said I needed more regular sleep,
and I agreed. Each of us went
to the bathroom, and climbed back into bed
on our respective sides.
Pulled the covers up. "Good night,"
you said, for the second time that night.
And fell asleep. Maybe
into that same dream, or else another.

*

I lay until daybreak, holding
both arms fast across my chest.
Working my fingers now and then.
While my thoughts kept circling
around and around, but always going back
where they'd started from.
That one inescapable fact: even while
we undertake this trip,
there's another, far more bizarre,
we still have to make.

Raymond Carver (25 mei 1938 – 2 augustus 1988)

Cover 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jamaica Kincaid (eig. Elaine Cynthia Potter Richardson) werd geboren in Saint John's, Antigua en Barbuda, op 25 mei 1949. Zie ook alle tags voor Jamaica Kincaid op dit blog.

Uit: See Now Then

“See now then, the dear Mrs. Sweet who lived with her husband Mr. Sweet and their two children, the beautiful Persephone and the young Heracles in the Shirley Jackson house, which was in a small village in New England. The house, the Shirley Jackson house, sat on a knoll, and from a window Mrs. Sweet could look down on the roaring waters of the Paran River as it fell furiously and swiftly out of the lake, a man-made lake, also named Paran; and looking up, she could see surrounding her, the mountains named Bald and Hale and Anthony, all part of the Green Mountain Range; and she could see the firehouse where sometimes she could attend a civic gathering and hear her government representative say something that might seriously affect her and the well-being of her family or see the firemen take out the fire trucks and dismantle various parts of them and put the parts back together and then polish all the trucks and then drive them around the village with a lot of commotion before putting them away again in the firehouse and they reminded Mrs. Sweet of the young Heracles, for he often did such things with his toy fire trucks; but just now when Mrs. Sweet was looking out from a window in the Shirley Jackson house, her son no longer did that. From that window again, she could see the house where the man who invented time-lapse photography lived but he was dead now; and she could see the house, the Yellow House, that Homer had restored so carefully and lovingly, polishing the floors, painting the walls, replacing the pipes, all this in the summer before that awful fall, when he went hunting and after shooting with his bow and arrow the largest deer he had ever shot, he dropped down dead while trying to load it onto the back of his truck.”

Jamaica Kincaid (Saint John's, 25 mei 1949)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 25^e mei ook mijn vorige twee blogs van vandaag.

25-05-2013 om 14:20 geschreven door Romenu  

De Amerikaanse schrijver Robert Ludlum werd geboren in New York op 25 mei 1927. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Ludlum op dit blog.

Uit: The Janson Directive

“N. Indian Ocean, 250 miles east of Sri Lanka
Northwestern Anura
The night was oppressive, the air at body temperature and almost motionless. Earlier in the evening there had been light, cooling rains, but now everything seemed to radiate heat, even the silvery half-moon, its countenance brushed with the occasional wisps of cloud. The jungle itself seemed to exhale the hot, moist breath of a predator lying in wait.
Shyam shifted restlessly in his canvas chair. It was, he knew, a fairly ordinary night on the island of Anura for this time of year: early in the monsoon season, the air was always heavy with a sense of foreboding. Yet only the ever attentive mosquitoes disturbed the quiet. At half past one in the morning, Shyam reckoned he had been on checkpoint duty for four and a half hours. In that time, precisely seven motorists had come their way. The checkpoint consisted of two parallel lines of barbed-wire frames--"knife rests"--set up eighty feet apart on the road, to either side of the search and administration area. Shyam and Arjun were the two sentries on forward duty, and they sat in front of the wooden roadside booth. A pair of backups was supposedly on duty on the other side of the hill, but the hours of silence from them suggested that they were dozing, along with the men in the makeshift barracks a few hundred feet down the road. For all the dire warnings of their superiors, these had been days and nights of unrelieved boredom. The northwestern province of Kenna was sparsely populated in the best of times, and these were not the best of times.
Now, drifting in with the breeze, as faint as a distant insect drone, came the sound of a gunned motor.
Shyam slowly got to his feet. The sound was growing closer.
"Arjun," he called out in a singsong tone. "Ar-jun. Car coming."
Arjun lolled his head in a circle, working out a crick in his neck. "At this hour?" He rubbed his eyes. The humidity made the sweat lie heavily on his skin, like mineral oil.

Robert Ludlum (25 mei 1927 – 12 maart 2001)

De Amerikaanse dichter Theodore Huebner Roethke werd geboren in Saginaw, Michigan op 25 mei 1908. Zie ook alle tags voor Theodore Roethke op dit blog.

Once More, the Round

What's greater, Pebble or Pond?
What can be known? The Unknown.
My true self runs toward a Hill
More! O More! visible.

Now I adore my life
With the Bird, the abiding Leaf,
With the Fish, the questing Snail,
And the Eye altering All;
And I dance with William Blake
For love, for Love's sake;

And everything comes to One,
As we dance on, dance on, dance on.

The Bat

By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.
He likes the attic of an aging house.

His fingers make a hat about his head.
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead.

He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees that face the corner light.

But when he brushes up against a screen,
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:

For something is amiss or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face.

Theodore Roethke (25 mei 1908 - 1 augustus 1963)

De Franse schrijver en historicus Georges Bordonove werd geboren in Enghien-les-Bains op 25 mei 1920. Zie ook alle tags voor Georges Bordonove op dit blog.

Uit: Chien de feu

“Sais-tu, loup, que nous sommes pareils ? Nous appartenons à une race révolue, une race qui doit disparaître. La terre donne une nouvelle floraison, d’autres bêtes, d’autres hommes que nous. Il ne doit plus y avoir de seigneurs bardés de fer derrière leurs créneaux, ni de loups hurlant dans leurs bois. Cela fait partie d’un passé déjà mort. Nous nous survivons, toi et moi ; c’est dire que nous sommes condamnés. Mais quelle importance ? Nous avons eu nos vies, nos plaisirs. Nous avons cru que cela devait durer toujours. Tes pairs, dans les années qui s’annoncent, périront par le poison. Les miens, par la ruine. C’est chose douce que de comprendre ! Ainsi, tu vois, vieux loup, nous nous affronterons, parce que ce sera dans notre rôle. Je t’attaquerai, tu te défendras, tu feras front et je te daguerai. Et puis... Mais est-ce qu’on empêche l’eau de couler ? Est-ce qu’on arrête la marche des saisons ? Je suis content que ce soit toi, car tu es brave et d’expérience. Que les autres ne soient point venus à bout de ta malice ! Tu m’attendais. Il y a entre nous un pacte, une convenance. Eh bien, si tu veux, que cela soit, et jouons le jeu.”

Georges Bordonove (25 mei 1920 - 16 maart 2007)

Cover

De Canadese schrijver William Patrick Kinsella werd geboren op 25 mei 1935 in Edmonton, Alberta. Zie ook alle tags voor W. P. Kinsella op dit blog.

Uit: Shoeless Joe

“Annie: She has never once called me crazy. Just before I started the first landscape work, as I stood looking out at the lawn and the cornfield, wondering how it could look so different in daylight, considering the notion of accepting it all as a dream and abandoning it, Annie appeared at my side and her arm circled my waist. She leaned against me and looked up, cocking her head like one of the red squirrels that scamper along the power lines from the highway to the house. "Do it, love," she said as I looked down at her, that slip of a girl with hair the color of cayenne pepper and at least a million freckles on her face and arms, that girl who lives in blue jeans and T-shirts and at twenty-four could still pass for sixteen.

I thought back to when I first knew her. I came to Iowa to study. She was the child of my landlady. I heard her one afternoon outside my window as she told her girl friends, "When I grow up I'm going to marry . . ." and she named me. The others were going to be nurses, teachers, pilots, or movie stars, but Annie chose me as her occupation. Eight years later we were married. I chose willingly, lovingly, to stay in Iowa. Eventually I rented this farm, then bought it, operating it one inch from bankruptcy. I don't seem meant to farm, but I want to be close to this precious land, for Annie and me to be able to say, "This is ours."

Now I stand ready to cut into the cornfield, to chisel away a piece of our livelihood to use as dream currency, and Annie says, "Oh, love, if it makes you happy you should do it." I carry her words in the back of my mind, stored the way a maiden aunt might wrap a brooch, a remembrance of a longlost love. I understand how hard that was for her to say and how it got harder as the project advanced. How she must have told her family not to ask me about the baseball field I was building, because they stared at me dumb-eyed, a row of silent, thickset peasants with red faces. Not an imagination among them except to forecast the wrath of God that will fall on the heads of pagans such as I. “

 W. P. Kinsella (Edmonton, 25 mei 1935)

De Duitse schrijver Max von der Grün werd geboren op 25 mei 1926 in Bayreuth. Zie ook alle tags voor Max von der Grün op dit blog.

Uit: Wie war das eigentlich?

„Der vom Fähnleinführer niedergeschlagene Junge fragte unseren Lehrer, warum in unserer Schule gelehrt würde, daß es Unterdrückung sei, wenn man den Hut des Herrn Geßler grüßen müsse, und wollte wissen, warum man niedergeschlagen würde, wenn man die Fahne nicht grüße, schließlich sei es doch dasselbe.
Wir saßen alle mucksmäuschenstill. Wir warteten auf Antwort, aber unser Lehrer sagte nur: »Bestelle deinem Vater, er soll sich morgen Mittag beim Rektor melden.«
Ich habe nie erfahren, was bei der Unterredung herauskam. Mein Schulkamerad schwieg hartnäckig, wenn wir ihn darauf ansprachen und als ich einmal merkte, wie er heimlich weinte, hörten wir mit den Fragen auf.
Es wurde darüber getuschelt, der Rektor habe dem Vater gedroht, daß er ihn wegen Verunglimpfung hoheitlicher Symbole anzeigen werde, wenn er weiterhin darauf bestehen würde, für seinen Sohn Genugtuung zu fordern.
Daß es sogar lebensgefährlich war, die Hakenkreuzfahne nicht zu grüßen, beweist der Fall des evangelischen Pfarrers Paul Schneider.“

Max von der Grün (25 mei 1926 – 7 april 2005)

De Amerikaanse schrijver en journalist John Gregory Dunne werd geboren op 25 mei 1932 in West Hartford, Connecticut. Zie ook alle tags voor John Gregory Dunne op dit blog.

Uit: Nothing Lost

“I broke an Internet password. Read the spaces between the lines. Traced the implication of things. Guessed the unseen from the seen. Judged the whole piece by the pattern. Surmised. Triangulated. Extrapolated.
Anything that passed through my filter carries my shadows, my impri- matur. As fact, it might be suspect, but as truth it is as close as I can get. If you were the filter, your facts, or your memory of them, might be equally suspect, but the truth, presupposing your honesty, or as close as you could get to it.
But you weren’t there, and I was, so fuck off.
I think I got it right.
Mostly.
And if I didn’t, it’s the available version.

Of course it began with Edgar Parlance.
His death, and the obscene brutality of it, immediately captured the headlines and the newsbreaks of the gluttonous 24/7 news cycle, searching as always for the correct and visually gratifying metaphor to validate the American experience, or, better yet, to provide a dark parable about that same experience. It is my own feeling that life began going downhill with “You give us twenty-two minutes, we’ll give you the world.” I think I would have preferred to live in the age of the pony express, allowing as it did, I would like to think, a time for contemplation before action was deemed necessary. 24/7, plus the transitory involvement of a president looking for a way to act presidential as the second term of his forgettable administration was winding down to its unlamented conclusion, gave Edgar Parlance’s murder the push it needed to become a major media event, bringing with it the usual suspects, talking heads prattling about race hatred and the phenomenon of what they insisted on calling “Terror in the Heartland.” It was a heartland that existed only in their fevered imaginations, neighborly values and small-town ways, stoked not by reality but by Oscar Hammerstein, we know we belong to the land, and the land we belong to is grand. Crap, of course. This land was fertilized with blood. Jesse and Frank James, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, killers all, sanitized into public darlings by Tyrone Power and Henry Fonda, Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway.”

John Gregory Dunne (25 mei 1932 – 30 december 2003)