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De Amerikaanse schrijver Tony Kushner werd geboren op 16 juli 1956 in New York. Hij studeerde Engels aan de Columbia Unicversity. In 2003 trouwde hij met zijn vriend Mark Harris, een redacteur bij Entertainment Weekly. Zijn bekendste theaterstuk is het omstreden Angels in America waarvoor hij o.a. de Pulitzer prijs kreeg. Een gelijknamige opera van Peter Eötvös ging in 2004 in Parijs in première. Ook is er een miniserie van gemaakt voor de televisie. Het is het verhaal over een groep homos die halverwege de jaren tachtig worstelen met hun identiteit en de ziekte aids. Andere stukken van hem zijn Slavs, Homebody/Kabul en Carolin, or Change.
Uit: Angels in America
(Joe and Louis sitting shoulder to shoulder in the dunes at Jones Beach, facing the ocean. It's cold. The sound of waves and gulls and distant Belt Parkway traffic. New York Romantic. Joe is very cold, Louis as always is oblivious to the weather.)
JOE. Louis ...?
LOUIS. The winter Atlantic. Wow, huh?
JOE. Ferocious. It's freezing, what are we ...
LOUIS. There used to be guys in the dunes even when it snowed. Nothing deterred us from the task at hand.
JOE. Which was?
LOUIS. Exploration. Across an unmapped terrain. The body of the homosexual human male. Here, or the Ramble, or the scrub pines on Fire Island, or the St. Mark's Baths. Hardy pioneers. Like your ancestors.
JOE. Not exactly.
LOUIS. And many have perished on the trail. I fucked around a whole lot more than he did. So why is he the sick one? No justice. Anyway I wanted you to see this.
JOE. Why?
LOUIS. No reason.
(Little pause)
JOE. I love you.
LOUIS. No you don't.
JOE. Yes I do.
LOUIS. NO YOU DON'T. You think you do but that's just the gay virgin thing, that's ...
JOE. (tousling Louis' hair) Stop working so hard. Listen to the ocean. I love it when you can get to places and see what it used to be. The whole country was like this once. A paradise.
LOUIS. Ruined now.
JOE. It's a great country. Best place on earth. Best place to be.
LOUIS. I can't believe you're a Mormon. You never told me.
JOE. You never asked.
LOUIS. You said you were a Protestant.
JOE. I am. Sort of.
LOUIS. So what else haven't you told me? So the fruity underwear you wear, that's ...
Tony Kushner (New York, 16 juli 1956)
De Cubaanse dichter en schrijver Reinaldo Arenas werd geboren op 16 juli 1943 in Holguin. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2008.
Uit: The Empty Shoes (Vertaald door Dolores M. Koch)
Gosh! when did this happen? Heaven knows. . . . A while back, no date I can remember, everything was always so much the same that it was really difficult to distinguish one month from the next. Oh, but January was different. You know, January is the month of the upitos and the bellflowers, but it is also the month when the Three Wise Men pay us a visit.
The grass by the window was tall enough for their horses, and my shoes, a little bashful because they had holes in their tips, were there, waiting, openmouthed and a bit damp with evening dew.
It will soon be midnight.
They will come after youre asleep, my cousin had whispered in a confidential tone. And they will leave your gifts on top of the shoes. When I am asleep! But I couldnt fall asleep, I was hearing the crickets chirping outside, and I thought I heard steps too; but no, it was not them.
To sleep. I had to fall asleep, but how? My shoes were there on the windowsill, waiting.
I have to think about something else so I can fall asleep. Yes, thats it, Ill think about something else: Tomorrow we have to trim the flight feathers and fill the water tank. After that Ill go by the brook and bring back a basket of honey berries. . . . I should not have brought down that nest that had two naked baby birds with gaping beaks and a look of fear in their eyes. . . .
I woke up. It was so early that only a few scant rays of light were coming through the window. Almost blindly I walked to the window. How many surprises, I thought, were awaiting me. . . . But no. I touched the moist leather of my shoes: they were empty, completely empty.
Then my mother came and kissed me in silence, caressed my wet eyes with hands tired of washing dishes, nudged me softly to the edge of the bed, and slipped the shoes on my feet. Come, she whispered then, the coffee is ready. Then I went out and got soaked with dew. I had some flight feathers to trim.
Reinaldo Arenas (16 juli 1943 7 december 1990)
De Belgische dichter en schrijver Georges Rodenbach werd geboren in Doornik op 16 juli 1855. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2008.
Le Soir Dans Les Vitres (Fragment)
I.
Le soir descend dans les vitres et les submerge...
Un rayon y vacille un moment comme un cierge,
Dernier cierge frileux des vêpres terminées!
L'ombre déferle; on ne sait quoi chavire en elles;
Les ultimes clartés sont vite éliminées,
Et c'est comme un sommeil délayant des prunelles.
Clair-obscur! Douloureux combat de la Lumière
Et de l'Ombre, parmi les vitres -- non moins beau
Que le même conflit dans le ciel et dans l'eau,
Quand le soleil n'est plus qu'une rose trémière
Qui s'effeuille parmi le déluge du soir.
Et les vitres, dernier champ clos du crépuscule,
Où l'Ombre a poursuivi le Couchant et l'accule,
Luisent, à cause d'eux, d'un adieu jaune et noir.
II.
Pourtant l'ombre s'amasse aux fenêtres vaincues.
Les vitrages, bouquets brodés et tulle frêle,
Cèdent, et l'on dirait que leur blancheur dégèle,
Comme s'ils adhéraient aux vitres contiguës
Et que leur givre en fleur était né dans le verre.
Unanime débâcle: un bouquet se desserre,
Un brusque afflux de soir rompt la plus claire branche,
Et c'est la fin d'un fin bouton de rose blanche
Qui fond, s'écoule en pleurs et lentement s'annule,
Débâcle d'un dégel dans les rideaux de tulle.
Georges Rodenbach (16 juli 1855 25 december 1898)
De Engelse schrijfster en historica Anita Brookner werd geboren op 16 juli 1928 in Herne Hill, een voorstad van Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2008.
Uit: Leaving Home
Suddenly, from the depths of an otherwise peaceful night, a name erupted from the past: Dolly Edwards, my mothers friend, a smiling woman with very red lips and a fur coat. I remember the coat because it was not removed for the whole of her visit, which she no doubt intended to be fleeting, having, she implied, much to do. There was another friend from my mothers prehistory, before I existed, but this presence was less distinct, perhaps not seen at such close quarters. Betty? Betty Pollock? The Pollock seemed shifting, uncertain, an approximation. Maybe that had been her name before she married, for in my mothers day everyone got married. Women wore their husbands much as they wore their pearl necklaces, or indeed their fur coats. The shame that attached to unmarried women was indelible, and my mother seemed to bear something of that imprint although she was a respectable widow. Dolly Edwards, with her flourishing presence, obviously felt sorry for my mother in her lonely state, with only an eight-year-old child for company. Fortunately my mother did not perceive this, although I did. My mother was impressed by this visit, grateful, even happy. And Dolly Edwards played her part valiantly, reminiscing, producing names unknown to me and rejected by me as having no relevance to my own life. I may even have been jealous of this woman who had known my mother before her anomalous condition was confirmed by the death of my father. Truth to tell she did not much miss him: solitude seemed so much her natural state that Dolly Edwards was not mistaken in making of this a flying visit. My mother marvelled for days over this, with no resentment. It was less a visit than a visitation. It was never repeated.
Anita Brookner (Herne Hill, 16 juli 1928)
De Duitse schrijver en journalist Jörg Christian Fauser werd geboren op 16 juli 1944 in Bad Schwalbach. Zie ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 16 juli 2008.
Uit: Der dunkle Ort
Als ich anfing zu schreiben, wollte die deutsche Literatur noch vernünftiger sein, als sie es schon gewesen war. Sie ging daran, die Welt zu verbessern. Damals gab es für mich keinen einzigen interessanten deutschschreibenden Autor. Sie waren alle unglaublich optimistisch, penetrant wohlmeinend, und außerordentlich rührig um ihren Betrieb bemüht. Mit meiner Art zu leben, und so ähnlich lebten damals nicht wenige, hatten sie und ihre Produktionen nicht sehr viel zu tun. Unser Lebensgefühl war von Amerika geprägt, ohne daß wir je dort gewesen waren oder hin wollten. Aber wir lebten in einer amerikanischen Provinz.
Das Deutschland, das die Literaten beschrieben, war nicht unser Land. Ich erkannte mich nicht darin. Ich erkannte mich eher in einem Gedicht der Lasker-Schüler, aber das war ja Expressionismus, untergegangen mit all dem anderen. Und wie war das, bitte, mit diesem Untergang gewesen? Das konnte doch gar kein Untergang gewesen sein.
Was war denn untergegangen? Der Staat war da, die Politik war da, die Kirche war da. Das Geschäft blühte, die Polizei blühte, die Wissenschaft blühte. Auf den Trümmerplätzen waren jetzt Terrassencafés, und nicht die Dichter berührten das Blau des Himmels, sondern die Flugzeuge und Wolkenkratzer. Die Mörder saßen mit den Opfern am Tisch. Tranken sie Brüderschaft? In den Terrassencafés saßen wirkliche Juden und machten wirkliche Geschäfte. Nach Auschwitz sollte es
keine Gedichte mehr geben. Geschäfte waren keine Gedichte. Sie machten weiter, wie alles weitermachte, außer den Toten. Aber die machten ja auch weiter. Im Himmel. Nicht wahr? Was ist denn wahr, wenn das wahr sein soll? Ich suchte nach Antworten in der Literatur.
Jörg Fauser (16 juli 1944 17 juli 1987)
16-07-2009 om 20:20
geschreven door Romenu 
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