De Turkse schrijver Orhan Kemal (eig. Mehmet Raşit Öğütçü) werd geboren op 15
september 1914 in Ceyhan. Zie ook mijn
blog van 15 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Orhan Kemal
op dit blog.
Uit: The Idle Years (Vertaald door Cengiz Lugal)
“Off we went. We eventually found the docks
and walked around all the tobacco warehouses there. And, sure enough, by
lunchtime, there was Nejip, standing in front of us, covered in a ﬁlthy brown
layer of muck. He stank of tobacco. He could not believe his eyes. He hugged
me, hugged Gazi, then hugged me again. Then he went inside a warehouse and
asked for a short break. He shoved us into the restaurant next door and told us
to have ourselves a good meal.
‘I’ve got to get back now,’ he said, ‘but when you’re ﬁnished here
you can wait for me at the café. I’ll have a word, so don’t you pay for
Gazi had already sat down. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ he said to
me. ‘Sit down, and let’s tuck in!’ He impatiently tapped his fork on his plate.
‘Let’s not get too carried away,’ I warned, ‘because…’
‘Leave me alone. I’m so hungry I can’t see straight. Waiter,
excuse me, over here…. These waiters are a bit dozy… Hey, waiter, over here’
The waiter came over.
‘First,’ said Gazi, ‘bring me some cold dolma… Or, no, wait. I’ll
have hot dolma, but make sure the chef gives me some big ones!’
The waiter chuckled as he went off.
‘What are you staring at?’ Gazi asked me. ‘I’m going to eat a
week’s worth. What’s it to you? But how did Nejip know we were hungry? Do we
look that starved, I wonder? That’s what you call a friend. One look at us, and
he could tell we were hungry. Good on him!’
(15 september 1914 – 2 juni 1970)
De Zweedse dichter en schrijver Bengt Gunnar Ekelöf werd geboren op 15 september 1907 in Stockholm. Zie
blog van 15 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor
Gunnar Ekelöf op dit blog.
You sit in the garden
alone with your notebook, a sandwich,
flask, and pipe.
It is night but so calm
that the candle burns without flickeing,
spreads its glow over
the table of rough planks
and gleams in bottle and
You take a sip, a
bite, and fill and light your pipe.
You write a line or
two and give yourself pause and ponder
the thin streak of
evening red slowly passing to the red of morning,
the sea of wild
chervil, green-white foaming in the darkness
of summer night,
not one moth around
the candle but choirs of gnats in the oak,
leaves so stillagaint
the sky … And the aspen rustles in the
All nature strong
with love and death around you.
As if were the last
evening before a long, long journey:
You have the ticket
in your pocket and finally everything is packed.
And you can sit and
sense the nearness of the distant land,
sense how all is in
all, both its end and its beginning,
sense that here and
mow is both your departure and retur
sense how death and
life are as strong as wine inside you!
Yes, to be one with
the night, one with myself, with the candle’s flame
which looks me in the
eye still, unfathomable and still,
one with the aspen
that trembles and whispers,
one with the crowds
of flowers leaning out of darkness to listen
to something I had on
my tongue to say but never got said,
something I don’t
want to reveal even if I could.
And that it murmurs
inside me of purest happiness!
And the flame rises …
It is as though the flowers crowded
nearer and nearer the
light in a rainbow of shimmering points.
The aspen trembles
and plays, the evening red passes
and all that was
inexpressible and distant is inexpressible and near
I sing of the only
thing that reconciles,
only of what is
practical, for all alike.
Vertaald door L. Nathan en J. Larson
Ekelöf (15 september 1907 – 16 maart 1968)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Jim Curtiss werd geboren op
15 september 1969 in Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Jim Curtiss op dit blog.
Uit: Change me
“The city was lovely in December. Most of the
narrow streets in the town center were draped in lighting, and I’m not talking
schmaltzy, blinking, trailer-trash numbers either. These were uniformly white
strands, their elegance adding to the city’s already over-the-top beauty. And
the streets were simply packed in the evenings — everyone just finishing up
work, kids running around, street musicians competing for the attention of
passersby. The stores were packed with holiday shoppers, but the wares they had
for sale were nothing like what the street vendors were peddling.
The street vendor’s routine was similar to
that of most illegal street sellers: Spread a huge blanket on the sidewalk, and
arrange the goodies over it in a way that facilitates a hasty, gather-it-up
getaway should the police come around. Most of the vendors, who often displayed
their goods in packs of six or seven, had things like rainbow-colored knitted
caps and scarves, leather belts and bags — things I wasn’t interested in. But
one fellow had an absolute gem of a thing: a foot-high stuffed cow standing
upright on a fairly stable set of hind legs. When turned on, its upper body
simply thrashed in every direction. The action of the upper portion led the
legs to waddle here and there, and the effect of 20 of these cows doing this in
concert just captivated me.
As I stood at a distance watching, I pictured
the toy as a gift for my three-year-old nephew, Zdenek — how much he would
enjoy it! The vendor, a short fellow who looked to be about 30, had a shock of
straight, combed-over black hair. He wore a lined flannel shirt over jeans, and
running shoes. He had a pleasant-looking face, but his eyes were nervous and
constantly scanning the crowds. I must have looked suspicious to him standing
across the pedestrian way, because his eyes kept returning to mine. Eventually
(more to stop him from eyeing me than from a real desire to buy), I went over
and asked him how much one of the thrashing cows cost”
(Beaver Falls, 15 september 1969)
schrijfster en dichteres Ina Seidel werd geboren op
15 september 1885 in Halle. Zie
ook mijn blog van 15 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Ina Seidel op dit blog.
Viel zu wenig kenne ich die Bäume,
Die vor meinem Fenster stehn und rauschen,
Viel zu selten baun sich meine Träume
Nester, um die Winde zu belauschen,
Und des Himmels Silberwolkenspiele
Gehn vorüber, ohne mich zu trösten -
Ganz vergessen habe ich so viele
Wunder, die mir einst das Herz erlösten.
Ein Tropfen Traurigkeit
Ein Tropfen Traurigkeit ist gut dem Blute.
Das dunkle läutert sich und schimmert heller-
Das allzu schwere rinnt ein wenig schneller,
Das schon gestillt in satter Süße ruhte.
(15 september 1885 – 2 oktober 1974)
15-09-2013 om 15:28
geschreven door Romenu
Tags:Orhan Kemal, Gunnar Ekelöf, Jim Curtiss, Ina Seidel, Romenu