De Canadese dichter, folk singer-songwriter en schrijver Leonard Cohen werd geboren op 21 september 1934 te Montréal. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
Uit: The favorite game
“For all the bodies in and out of bathing suits, clothes, water, going between rooms, lying on grass, taking the print of grass, dancing discipline, leaping over horses, growing in mirrors, felt like treasure, slobbered over, cheated for, all of them, the great ballet line, the cream in them, the sun on them, the oil anointed.
A thousand shadows, a single fire, everything that happened, twisted by telling, served the vision, and when he saw it, he was in the very center of things.
Blindly he climbed the wooden steps that led up the side of the mountain. He was stopped by the high walls of the hospital. Its Italian towers looked sinister. His mother was sleeping in one of them.
He turned and looked at the city below him.
The heart of the city wasn't down there among the new buildings and widened streets. It was right over there at the Allan, which, with drugs and electricity, was keeping the businessmen sane and their wives from suicide and their children free from hatred. The hospital was the true heart, pumping stability and erections and orgasms and sleep into all the withering commercial limbs. His mother was sleeping in one of the towers. With windows that didn't quite open.
The restaurant bathed the corner of Stanley and St. Catherine in a light that made your skin yellow and the veins show through. It was a big place, mirrored, crowded as usual. There wasn't a woman he could see. Breavman noted that a lot of the men used hair tonic; the sides of their heads seemed shiny and wet. Most of them were thin. And there seemed to be a uniform, almost. Tight chinos with belts in the back, V-neck sweaters without shirts.
He sat at a table. He was very thirsty. He felt in his pocket. Shell was right. He didn't have much money.
No, he wouldn't go to New York. He knew that. But he must always be connected to her. That must never be severed. Everything was simple as long as he was connected to her, as long as they remembered.
One day what he did to her, to the child, would enter his understanding with such a smash of guilt that he would sit motionless for days, until others carried him and medical machines brought him back to speech.
But that was not today.”
Leonard Cohen (Montréal, 21 september 1934)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Stephen Edwin King werd geboren in Portland, Maine, op 21 september 1947. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
„The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years – if it ever did end – began, so far as I know or can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.
The boat bobbed, listed, righted itself again, dived bravely through treacherous whirlpools, and continued on its way down Witcham Street toward the traffic light which marked the intersection of Witcham and Jackson. The three vertical lenses on all sides of the traffic light were dark this afternoon in the fall of 1957, and the houses were all dark, too. There had been steady rain for a week now, and two days ago the winds had come as well. Most sections of Derry had lost their power then, and it was not back on yet.
A small boy in a yellow slicker and red galoshes ran cheerfully along beside the newspaper boat. The rain had not stopped, but it was finally slackening. It tapped on the yellow hood of the boy’s slicker, sounding to his ears like rain on a shed roof … a comfortable, almost cozy sound. The boy in the yellow slicker was George Denbrough. He was six. His brother William, known to most of the kids at Derry Elementary School (and even to the teachers, who would never have used the nickname to his face) as Stuttering Bill, was at home, hacking out the last of a nasty case of influenza. In that autumn of 1957, eight months before the real horrors began, and twenty-eight years before the final showdown, Stuttering Bill was ten years old.
Bill had made the boat beside which George now ran. He had made it sitting up in bed, his back propped against a pile of pillows, while their mother played Fur Elise on the piano in the parlor and rain swept restlessly against his bedroom window.“
Stephen King (Portland, 21 september 1947)
De Franse schrijver Frédéric Beigbeder werd geboren op 21 september 1965 in Neuilly-sur-Seine.Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
Uit: Nouvelles sous ecstasy
„"L'hymne des plages, selon moi, n'est pas Sea, Sex and Sun de Serge Gainsbourg mais plutôt J'aime regarder les filles de Patrick Coutin. C'est une chanson magnifique : "J'aime regarder les filles qui marchent sur la plage / Quand elles se déshabillent et font semblant d'être sages." Chaque fois que je m'allonge sur du sable, j'entends cette ode à la frustration sexuelle, cette apologie du voyeurisme balnéaire. Je pense à ces milliers d'après-midi écrasants, passés à observer les demoiselles dorées, en monokini, à Bidart, Biarritz ou St Tropez, sans jamais oser les aborder. Je suis convaincu que ces inombrables heures de contemplation timide ont fait de moi l'ignoble obsédé sexuel que je suis devenu.
Leur poitrine gonflée par le désir de vivre / Leurs yeux qui se demandent : mais quel est ce garçon ? Il y a un crescendo violent dans la chanson de Coutin qui traduit bien l'impuissance exaspérée du vacancier hétérosexuel, anéanti par la chaleur, cerné par une atroce beauté incontrôlée. Les filles gambadent, soulèvent le sable brûlant, crient des prénoms de garçons plus bronzés que lui. Elles sortent de l'eau les tétons mauves ; les poils taillés de leur sexe se collent contre le slip de bain. Elles embrassent des surfeurs australiens, ou des disc-jokeys camarguais.
Elles ignorent les garçons malingres et verdâtres qui lisent des livres, la bite enfoncée dans leur serviette éponge. (...) Pourquoi laisse-t-on les filles de seize ans se balader en liberté sur les bords de mer ?"
Frédéric Beigbeder (Neuilly-sur-Seine, 21 september 1965)
De Amerikaanse schrijfster en actrice Fannie Flagg (eig. Patricia Neal) werd geboren op 21 september in Birmingham (Alabama). Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
Uit: Standing in the Rainbow
‚Almost everyone in town that had an extra room took in a boarder. There were no apartment buildings or hotels as of yet. The Howard Johnson was built a few years later but in the meantime bachelors needed to be looked after and single women certainly had to have a respectable place to live. Most people considered it their Christian duty to take them in whether they needed the few extra dollars a week or not, and some of the boarders stayed on for years. Mr. Pruiet, a bachelor from Kentucky with long thin feet, boarded with the Haygoods so long that they eventually forgot he was not family. Whenever they moved, he moved. When he finally did die at seventy-eight, he was buried in the Haygood family plot with a headstone that read:
STILL WITH US
PAID IN FULL
The homes on First Avenue North were located within walking distance of town and school and were where most of the town's boarders lived.
At present the Smith family's boarder is Jimmy Head, the short-order cook at the Trolley Car Diner; the Robinsons next door have Beatrice Woods, the Little Blind Songbird; the Whatleys up the street have Miss Tuttle, the high school English teacher. Ernest Koonitz, the school's band director and tuba soloist, boards with Miss Alma, who, as luck would have it, has a hearing problem. But soon the Smith family will take in a new boarder who will set in action a chain of events that should eventually wind up in the pages of history books. Of course they won't know it at the time, especially their ten-year-old son, Bobby. He is at the moment downtown standing outside the barbershop with his friend Monroe Newberry, staring at the revolving red and white stripes on the electric barber's pole“
Fannie Flag (Birmingham, 21 september 1944)
De Britse schrijver Herbert George Wells werd geboren op 21 september 1866 in Bromley, Kent. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
Uit: The War of the Worlds
„The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader, revolves about the sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000 miles, and the light and heat it receives from the sun is barely half of that received by this world. It must be, if the nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world; and long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its surface must have begun its course. The fact that it is scarcely one seventh of the volume of the earth must have accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could begin. It has air and water and all that is necessary for the support of animated existence.
Yet so vain is man and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer up to the very end of the nineteenth century expressed any idea that intelligent life might have developed there far, or indeed at all, beyond its earthly level. Nor was it generally understood that since Mars is older than our earth, with scarcely a quarter of the superficial area and remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that Mars is not only more distant from life’s beginning but also nearer its end.
The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already gone far indeed with our neighbor. Its physical condition is still largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter. Its air is much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk until they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and periodically inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which to us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the inhabitants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has brightened their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts. And looking across space with instruments, and with intelligences such as we have scarcely dreamed of they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 of miles sunward of them, a morning star of hope—our own warmer planet, green with vegetation and gray with water, with a cloudy atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses through drifting cloud-wisps of broad stretches of populous country and narrow navy-crowded seas.“
H. G. Wells (21 september 1866 - 13 augustus 1946)
De Duitse dichter Johann Peter Eckermann werd geboren op 21 september 1792 in Winsen (Luhe). Hij was bovenal de medewerker en vriend van Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2007. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2008. en ook mijn blog van 21 september 2009.
Glücklich Weimar! - Von den Städten allen
Bist du, kleine, wunderbar bedacht;
Man wird stets zu deinen Toren wallen,
Angezogen von der heil'gen Macht;
Und man wird nach großen Männern fragen,
Die in schönen Zeiten hier gestrebt,
Und mit edlem Neid wird man beklagen,
Dass man mit den Edlen nicht gelebt.
Musst kein Gedicht durch tiefes Sinnen
Dem Geiste mühsam abgewinnen:
Dem Dichter muss zumute sein,
Als flög' eine Taube zum Fenster herein
Gebraten, wo er nichts braucht dazu,
Als sie zu schmausen in guter Ruh.
Wer so das edle Dichten treibt,
Der stets ein lust'ger Geselle bleibt;
Wer's aber auf solche Weise nicht kann,
Tut besser, er fängt was anders an.
Johann Peter Eckermann (21 september 1792 - 3 december 1854)
Getekend door Ernst Förster, 1825
21-09-2010 om 19:34
geschreven door Romenu
Tags:Leonard Cohen, Stephen King, FrÃ©dÃ©ric Beigbeder, Fannie Flag, H.G. Wells, Johann Peter Eckermann, Romenu