De Amerikaanse schrijver Truman Capote werd geboren op 30 september 1924 als Truman Streckfus Persons in New Orleans. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 september 2006.

Uit: The Walls Are Cold

"... so Grant just said to them come on along to a wonderful party, and, well it was as easy as that. Really, I think it was just genius to pick them up, God only knows they might resurrect us from the grave." The girl who was talking tapped her cigarette ash on the Persian throw rug and looked apologetically at her hostess.

The hostess straightened her trim, black dress and pursed her lips nervously. She was very young and small and perfect. Her face was pale and framed with sleek black hair, and her lipstick was a trifle too dark. It was after two and she was tired and wished they would all go, but it was no small task to rid yourself of some thirty people, particularly when the majority were full of her father's scotch. The elevator man had been up twice to complain about the noise; so she gave him a highball, which is all he is after anyway. And now the sailors. .. oh, the hell with it.

"It's all right, Mildred, really. What are a few sailors more or less? God, I hope they don't break anything. Would you go back in the kitchen and see about ice, please? I'll see what I can do with your new-found friends."

"Really, darling, I don't think it's at all necessary. From what I understand, they acclimate themselves very easily."

The hostess went toward her sudden guests. They were knotted together in one corner of the drawing-room, just staring and not looking very much at home.

The best looking of the sextet turned his cap nervously and said, "We didn't know it was any kind of party like this, Miss. I mean, you don't want us, do you?"

"Of course you're welcome. What on earth would you be doing here if I didn't want you?"

The sailor was embarrassed.

"That girl, that Mildred and her friend just picked us up in some bar or other and we didn't have any idea we was comin' to no house like this."

"How ridiculous, how utterly ridiculous," the hostess said. "You are from the South, aren't you?"

He tucked his cap under his arm and looked more at ease. "I'm from Mississippi. Don't suppose you've ever been there, have you, Miss?"

She looked away toward the window and ran her tongue across her lips. She was tired of this, terribly tired of it. "Oh, yes," she lied. "A beautiful state."

He grinned. "You must be mixed up with some other place, Miss. There sure's not a lot to catch the eye in Mississippi, 'cept maybe around Natchez way."

"Of course, Natchez. I went to school with a girl from Natchez. Elizabeth Kimberly, do you know her?"

"No, can't say as I do."

Suddenly she realized that she and the sailor were alone; all of his mates had wandered over to the piano where Les was playing Porter. Mildred was right about the acclimation.

"Come on," she said, "I'll fix you a drink. They can shift for themselves. My name's Louise, so please don't call me Miss."

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Hendrik Marsman werd geboren op 30 september 1899 in Zeist Zie ook mijn blog van 30 september 2006.

Vrees

Ik vraag mij af

hoe lang het nog duren zal

dat ik als een bal

heen en weer word geslingerd

en van vreezen verval

tot steeds dieper vreesachtigheid

en hoe kort is de tijd

dat ik als een bevende voorjaarswingerd

tegen den machtigen muur van het leven hang!

waarvoor ben ik bang?

ik ben bang voor het uur

dat de dood mijn lichaam ontbinden zal

en mijn ziel wordt gezet in het vuur,

ik ben bang dat ik staan zal tegen den muur

en dat de kogel niet missen zal...

ik ben bang, dat ik noch in den duur

noch daarna in de schaduwen van het Dal

den weg naar het hart des levens

meer vinden zal -

ach, de vreezen zijn zonder tal...

Maannacht

De maan breekt de wolken uiteen;

en stroomende uit die wel breken

kolken en kreken, gletschers en meren

naar alle verten uiteen.

de aarde is klein en alleen,

een slingerend schip in het ruim,

dat zich stampend en schuin

overstag gaand in doodsangst

kampende boven houdt

op het kolkende water des donkers

onder het stormende schuim.

ik lig in het ruim naast een vrouw.

haar borsten rijzen en dalen;

zij slaapt, zij denkt nu alleen

in haar droomen aan het geluk;

hoe vredig haar ademhalen:

zij weet niets van den nood

van ons schip, zij hoort

de seinen niet gillen,

noch het angstige fluiten driemaal

als een signaal

van den dood.

gun mij nog twee uren slaap,

ik kan zoo niet blijven waken

- neem dan nu afscheid van haar,

misschien zult gij den morgen niet halen,

tenzij in een ander land....

ik schuif mijn hand in haar hand

- zie, even beven haar wimpers, -

- zoo liggen wij naast elkaar

als tweelingen, sluim'rende kinderen -

zullen wij elkaar niet meer vinden