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De Franse dichteres Marceline Desbordes-Valmore werd geboren op 20 juni 1786 in Douai. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 20 juni 2008.
Aveu d'une femme
Savez-vous pourquoi, madame,
Je refusais de vous voir ?
J'aime ! Et je sens qu'une femme
Des femmes craint le pouvoir.
Le vôtre est tout dans vos charmes,
Qu'il faut, par force, adorer.
L'inquiétude a des larmes :
Je ne voulais pas pleurer.
Quelque part que je me trouve,
Mon seul ami va venir ;
Je vis de ce qu'il éprouve,
J'en fais tout mon avenir.
Se souvient-on d'humbles flammes
Quand on voit vos yeux brûler ?
Ils font trembler bien des âmes :
Je ne voulais pas trembler.
Dans cette foule asservie,
Dont vous respirez l'encens,
Où j'aurais senti ma vie
S'en aller à vos accents,
Celui qui me rend peureuse,
Moins tendre, sans repentir,
M'eût dit : " N'es-tu plus heureuse ? "
Je ne voulais pas mentir.
Dans l'éclat de vos conquêtes
Si votre coeur s'est donné,
Triste et fier au sein des fêtes,
N'a-t-il jamais frissonné ?
La plus tendre, ou la plus belle,
Aiment-elles sans souffrir ?
On meurt pour un infidèle :
Je ne voulais pas mourir.
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore (20 juni 1786 23 juli 1859)
Plafondschildering in het Théâtre de Douai
De Russische dichter en schrijver Robert Ivanovich Rozhdestvensky werd geboren op 20 juni 1932 in Kosikha in het district Altai Krai. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juni 2007.
Marc Chagall
He's old and resembles his loneliness.
He doesn't't care to discourse on the weather.
Right away with a question:
"Are you not from Vitebsk?"
An old fashioned blazer with worn out lapels . . .
"No, I'm not from Vitebsk . . ."
A long pause.
And then -- dull and monotonous
words:
"I work and I'm sick,
there's an exhibition in Venice . . . .
So, you're not from Vitebsk?"
"No, I'm not from Vitebsk."
He looks to the side.
Doesn't hear.
With a foreign distance he sighs,
attempting to cautiously reach for his childhood . . .
And there's no Cannes,
no Azure shore,
no present glory . . .
Brightly and perplexedly
he's yearning for Vitebsk, as if a plant . . .
His Vitebsk
is industrial and hot,
pinned to the Earth with a watch-tower.
There's weddings and deaths, prayers and fairs.
There, especially, blossom large heavy apples,
and a sleepy cabdriver rolls down the square . . .
". . . Are you not from Vitebsk? . . . "
He becomes silent.
And suddenly pronounces
the names of streets:
Smolenskaya,
Zamskovaya.
As if the Volga, he brags about the river Vidba,
and waves with a kid-like open hand . . .
"So, you're not from Vitebsk . . . "
Time to bid farewell.
Soon its time to return home.
Down the road the trees
stand at attention.
And it's a pity
that I'm not from Vitebsk.
Robert Rozhdestvensky (20 juni 1932 19 augustus 1994)
De Zwitserse schrijfster Laure Wyss werd geboren op 20 juni 1913 in Biel/Bienne. Zij studeerde talen in Parijs, Zürich en Berlijn en behaalde een bevoegheid tot lerares. Tijdens WO II verbleef zij in Zweden waar zij teksten vertaalde uit het Scandinavische verzet. Vanaf 1945 werkte zij als journaliste en redactrice voor kranten en voor de televisie. Na haar pensionering bleef zij werkzaam als zelfstandig schrijfster.
Uit: Wahrnehmungen
Das Läuten der Abendglocken tönte über die Stadt. Es war an einem Samstag vor Ostern, das Geläute lauter als sonst, es drang in die Stube, wo wir zusammen sassen, es lag über unserem Gespräch.
Er möchte mit mir über seine Mutter reden, hatte Josy gesagt. Und seine Lebensgefährtin schien zufrieden, dass diese Frage an mich endlich passierte, sie mischte sich nicht ein, aber sie beteiligte sich lebhaft mit Kopfnicken oder Kopfschütteln. Sie wusste ja, dass Josy vor vielen Jahrzehnten, zwischen seinem dreizehnten und vierzehnten Lebensjahr, bei mir im Bergdorf gewohnt hatte und dass ich seine Mutter gern gehabt hatte. Selbst erinnerte sich Josy nicht mehr daran, wie es gewesen war, wusste nichts mehr von seiner Kindheit, nichts von einer Beziehung zur Mama. War es für ihn überhaupt eine gewesen? Das plagte den Josy seit langem.
«Was, du weisst nicht mehr, wie stolz deine Mutter auf dich gewesen ist und wie sie die Worte mein Josy, mein Sohn ausgesprochen hat? Der innige Tonfall deiner Mutter hat mir immer gefallen.»
Das habe er so empfunden, räumte Josy ein, sie habe ihn immer bewundert und für sehr gescheit erklärt ... viel zu sehr eigentlich, obschon man das als Kind schätze
aber er habe immer gespürt, dass sie ihm gegenüber ein schlechtes Gewissen habe und habe deshalb dem hohen Lob nie ganz getraut. Und noch einmal: «Was hast du an meiner Mutter geschätzt?»
Laure Wyss (20 juni 1913 21 augustus 2002)
De Amerikaanse schrijfster en vertaalster Lillian Hellman werd geboren op 20 juni 1905 in New Orleans. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juni 2007.
Uit: Scoundrel Time
One of the forms I had filled out a few days before, ready for mailing, was the usual questionnaire from Who's Who in America. I suppose I found some amusement in reading it again: I ha' by that day written
The Children's Hour, Days t' Come, The Little Foxes, Watch on the Rhine, The Searching Wind, Another Part of the Forest, The Autumn Garden. I had collected and introduced volume of Chekhov letters, written movies and tinkered with others, belonged to organizations, unions-all the stuff I always have to look up from the previous Who's Who because I can't remember the dates.
Then I took a nap and woke up in a sweat of bewilderment about myself. I telephoned Hammett and he said he would take the next train from Katonah, so to sit still and do nothing until he got there. But the calm was gone now and I couldn't do that.
I went immediately to Stanley Isaacs, who had been borough president of Manhattan and who had suffered under an attack, led by Robert Moses, because one of his minor assistants was a member of the Communist Party. Stanley had stood up well under the attack, although, of course, the episode hurt his very Republican career. (I had gone to him as an admiring stranger as soon as he returned to his own law practice and had brought along with me, in the following years, quite a few people who liked and admired him.) Isaacs was an admirable man, but I think by the time of my subpoena he was more worried than he wanted to admit, and knew that his way back to politics-he was, in fact, never to have a way back-could be mended only with care. Isaacs and I were fond of each other and his face looked pained as he told me that he didn't believe he should handle the case, he didn't know enough about the field, but together we would find the right man.
Lillian Hellman (20 juni 1905 30 juni 1984)
De Afrikaans-Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Charles Waddell Chesnutt werd geboren op 20 juni 1858 in Cleveland, Ohio. In 1887 werd zijn eerste korte verhaal gepubliceerd in The Atlantic Monthly. Zijn eerste verhalenbundel The Conjure Woman verscheen in 1899. In zijn verhalen en romans onderzocht hij de complexiteit van raciale en sociale identiteit. Chesnutts ouders waren "free persons of color" en zelf noemde hij zich voor 7/8e blank.
Uit: The Colonel's Dream
Two gentlemen were seated, one March morning in 189, in the private office of French and Company, Limited, on lower Broadway. Mr. Kirby, the junior partnera man of thirty-five, with brown hair and mustache, clean-cut, handsome features, and an alert manner, was smoking cigarettes almost as fast as he could roll them, and at the same time watching the electric clock upon the wall and getting up now and then to stride restlessly back and forth across the room.
Mr. French, the senior partner, who sat opposite Kirby, was an older mana safe guess would have placed him somewhere in the debatable ground between forty and fifty; of a good height, as could be seen even from the seated figure, the upper part of which was held erect with the unconscious ease which one associates with military training. His closely cropped brown hair had the slightest touch of gray. The spacious forehead, deep-set gray eyes, and firm chin, scarcely concealed by a light beard, marked the thoughtful man of affairs. His face indeed might have seemed austere, but for a sensitive mouth, which suggested a reserve of humour and a capacity for deep feeling. A man of well-balanced character, one would have said, not apt to undertake anything lightly, but sure to go far in whatever he took in hand; quickly responsive to a generous impulse, and capable of a righteous indignation; a good friend, a dangerous enemy; more likely to be misled by the heart than by the head; of the salt of the earth, which gives it savour.
Charles W. Chesnutt (20 juni 1858 15 november 1932)
20-06-2009 om 20:20
geschreven door Romenu 
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