De Amerikaanse schrijver Nicholas Sparks werd geboren in Omaha, Nebraska op 31 december 1965. Zie ook alle tags voor Nicolas Sparks op dit blog.
Uit: Dear John
My name is John Tyree. I was born in 1977, and I grew up in Wilmington, North Carolina, a city that proudly boasts the largest port in the state as well as a long and vibrant history but now strikes me more as a city that came about by accident. Sure, the weather was great and the beaches perfect, but it wasn't ready for the wave of Yankee retirees up north who wanted someplace cheap to spend their golden years. The city is located on a relatively thin spit of land bounded by the Cape Fear River on one side and the ocean on the other. Highway 17 -- which leads to Myrtle Beach and Charleston -- bisects the town and serves as its major road. When I was a kid, my dad and I could drive from the historic district near the Cape Fear River to Wrightsville Beach in ten minutes, but so many stoplights and shopping centers have been added that it can now take an hour, especially on the weekends, when the tourists come flooding in. Wrightsville Beach, located on an island just off the coast, is on the northern end of Wilmington and far and away one of the most popular beaches in the state. The homes along the dunes are ridiculously expensive, and most of them are rented out all summer long. The Outer Banks may have more romantic appeal because of their isolation and wild horses and that flight that Orville and Wilbur were famous for, but let me tell you, most people who go to the beach on vacation feel most at home when they can find a McDonald's or Burger King nearby, in case the little ones aren't too fond of the local fare, and want more than a couple of choices when it comes to evening activities.”
Nicholas Sparks (Omaha, 31 december 1965)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Gottfried August Bürger werd geboren op 31`december 1747 in Molmerswende. Zie ook alle tags voor Gottfried August Bürger op dit blog.
Überall Molly und Liebe
In die Nacht der Tannen oder Eichen,
Die das Kind der Freude schauernd flieht,
Such ich oft, von Kummer abgemüht,
Aus der Welt Gerassel wegzuschleichen.
Könnt ich nur, wie allem meinesgleichen,
Auch sogar der Wildnis, die mich sieht,
Und den Sinn zu neuer Arbeit zieht,
Bis ins Nichts hinein zur Ruh entweichen!
Dennoch ist so heimlich kein Revier,
Ist auch nicht ein Felsenspalt so öde,
Daß mich nicht, wie überall, auch hier
Liebe, die Verfolgerin, befehde;
Daß nicht ich mit ihr von Molly rede,
Oder sie, die Schwätzerin, mit mir.
Himmel und Erde
In dem Himmel quillt die Fülle
Der vollkommnen Seligkeit.
Ich auch, wär’ es Gottes Wille,
Tränke gern aus dieser Fülle
Labsal für der Erde Leid.
Für das Leid, das meiner Tage
Schöne Rosenfarbe bleicht,
Das ich tief im Busen trage,
Das ich Arzt und Priester klage,
Welches keinem Balsam weicht.
Längst sind über Thal und Hügel
Alle Freuden mir entflohn.
Lahm sind meiner Hoffnung Flügel,
Rauher Hindernisse Hügel
Sprechen selbst den Wünschen Hohn. –
Dennoch setzt’ ich auch auf Erden
Gern noch fort den Pilgerstab.
Sollte Molly mir nur werden,
Trüg’ ich aller Welt Beschwerden
Noch den längsten Pfad hinab.
Gottfried August Bürger (31 december 1747 – 8 juni 1794)
Gottfried-August-Bürger-Haus in Molmerswende
De Schotse dichter Alexander Smith werd geboren op 31 december 1830 in Kilmarnock. Zie ook alle tags voor Alexander Smith op dit blog.
THE BROKEN moon lay in the autumn sky,
And I lay at thy feet;
You bent above me; in the silence I
Could hear my wild heart beat.
I spoke; my soul was full of trembling fears
At what my words would bring:
You rais’d your face, your eyes were full of tears,
As the sweet eyes of Spring.
You kiss’d me then, I worshipp’d at thy feet
Upon the shadowy sod.
Oh, fool, I lov’d thee! lov’d thee, lovely cheat!
Better than Fame or God.
My soul leap’d up beneath thy timid kiss;
What then to me were groans,
Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss,
I seem’d to walk on thrones.
And you were with me ’mong the rushing wheels,
’Mid Trade’s tumultuous jars;
And where to awe-struck wilds the Night reveals
Her hollow gulfs of stars.
Before your window, as before a shrine,
I ’ve knelt ’mong dew-soak’d flowers,
While distant music-bells, with voices fine,
Measur’d the midnight hours.
There came a fearful moment: I was pale,
You wept, and never spoke,
But clung around me as the woodbine frail
Clings, pleading, round an oak.
Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul,
And flung thee from myself;
I spurn’d thy love as ’t were a rich man’s dole,—
It was my only wealth.
I spurn’d thee! I, who lov’d thee, could have died,
That hop’d to call thee “wife,”
And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side,
Through all the shocks of life!
Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears,
Thy vows, thy passionate breath;
I ’ll meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres
Made visible by Death.
Alexander Smith (31 december 1830 - 5 januari 1867)
The Cross, Kilmarnock, Schotland, 1890 – 1900
De Uruguayaanse schrijver Horacio Quiroga werd geboren op 31 december 1878 in Salto. Zie ook alle tags voor Horacio Quiroga op dit blog.
Uit: The Feather Pillow (Vertaald door A.Z. Foreman)
“Suddenly Jordan, with deep tenderness, ran his hand very slowly over her head, and Alicia instantly burst into sobs, throwing her arms around his neck. For a long time she cried out all the fears she had kept silent, redoubling her weeping at Jordan's slightest caress. Then her sobs subsided, and she stood a long while, her face hidden in the hollow of his neck, not moving or speaking a word.
This was the last day Alicia was well enough to be up. On the following day she awakened feeling faint. Jordan's doctor examined her with minute attention, prescribing calm and absolute rest.
'I don't know,' he said to Jordan at the street door. 'She has a great weakness that I am unable to explain. And with no vomiting, nothing...if she wakes tomorrow as she did today, call me at once.
When she awakened the following day, Alicia was worse. There was a consultation. It was agreed there was an anaemia of incredible progression, completely inexplicable. Alicia had no more fainting spells, but she was visibly moving toward death. The lights were lighted all day long in her bedroom, and there was complete silence. Hours went by without the slightest sound.
Alicia dozed. Jordan virtually lived in the drawing room, which was also always lighted. With tireless persistence he paced ceaselessly from one end of the room to the other. The carpet swallowed his steps. At times he entered the bedroom and continued his silent pacing back and forth alongside the bed, stopping for an instant at each end to regard his wife.
Suddenly Alicia began to have hallucinations, vague images, at first seeming to float in the air, then descending to floor level. Her eyes excessively wide, she stared continuously at the carpet on either side of the head of her bed. One night she suddenly focused on one spot. Then she opened her mouth to scream, and pearls of sweat suddenly beaded her nose and lips.”
Horacio Quiroga (31 december 1878 – 19 februari 1939)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 31e december ook mijn blog van 31 december 2010 deel 2 en ook deel 3 en eveneens deel 4.
31-12-2012 om 12:47
geschreven door Romenu
Tags:Nicholas Sparks, Gottfried August Bürger, Alexander Smith, Horacio Quiroga, Romenu