De Duitse schrijver Kristof Magnusson werd geboren op 4 maart 1976 in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Kristof Magnusson op dit blog.

Uit: Ik was het niet (Vertaald door Hilde Keteleer)

“Ik vroeg de anderen wat ze ervan vonden dat Felix Magath nu trainer van Schalke werd. Iedereen kende alleen maar Bayern München. Natuurlijk wist ik wel dat het zinvol was om met de collega’s iets te gaan drinken.
Netwerken en zo. Het wás ook werk, maar niet zo productief dat je er een hele nacht aan hoefde te besteden. Waarom dronken ze niet gewoon twee pintjes, handelden intussen de hele riedel van Tottenham en Arsenal, Auditt, Range Rover en vrouwelijke collega’s af en gingen dan maffen?
Eindelijk ging de kroeg dicht. Ik liep naar het hotel en had al op de liftknop geduwd toen Vikram, de in Bombay geboren Arsenalfan, aan mijn mouw trok en me meezeulde naar de hotelbar, waar iedereen bij elkaar zat. ‘We drinken Jägermeister, man’, had hij gezegd, alsof ik dan als Duitser geen nee kon zeggen. En dus dronk ik. Veroorzaakte een pijnlijke stilte toen ik zei dat ik geen auto had. Om drie uur deed ik alsof ik naar de wc moest, liep naar mijn kamer, kotste, douchte, dronk twee liter water, nam twee magnesiumtabletten, drie paracetamols en een Pantozol, pakte mijn koffer, nam een taxi naar Heathrow en stapte om 5.03 uur in dit vliegtuig terug naar Chicago.
De stewardess nam mijn jasje aan en hing het op een knaapje, waaraan ze mijn instapkaart vastmaakte als een garderobenummer. Daarna kwam ze met een glas champagne.
Ik moest me beheersen om niemand te laten merken hoe blij ik was met mijn stoel in de businessclass. Per slot van rekening was deze vlucht geen cadeau van Rutherford & Gold maar een noodzakelijke uitgave.”

 
Kristof Magnusson (Hamburg, 4 maart 1976)

De Afghaanse schrijver Khaled Hosseini werd geboren op 4 maart 1965 in Kabul. Zie ook alle tags voor Khaled Hosseini op dit blog.

Uit: A Thousand Splendid Suns

“Later, when she was older, Mariam did understand. It was the way Nana uttered the wordnot so much saying it as spitting it at herthat made Mariam feel the full sting of it. She understood then what Nana meant, that a harami was an unwanted thing; that she, Mariam, was an illegitimate person who would never have legitimate claim to the things other people had, things such as love, family, home, acceptance.
Jalil never called Mariam this name. Jalil said she was his little flower. He was fond of sitting her on his lap and telling her stories, like the time he told her that Herat, the city where Mariam was born, in 1959, had once been the cradle of Persian culture, the home of writers, painters, and Sufis.
"You couldn't stretch a leg here without poking a poet in the ass," he laughed. Jalil told her the story of Queen Gauhar Shad, who had raised the famous minarets as her loving ode to Herat back in the fifteenth century. He described to her the green wheat fields of Herat, the orchards, the vines pregnant with plump grapes, the city's crowded, vaulted bazaars.
"There is a pistachio tree," Jalil said one day, "and beneath it, Mariam jo, is buried none other than the great poet Jami." He leaned in and whispered, "Jami lived over five hundred years ago. He did. I took you there once, to the tree. You were little. You wouldn't remember."
It was true. Mariam didn't remember. And though she would live the first fifteen years of her life within walking distance of Herat, Mariam would never see this storied tree. She would never see the famous minarets up close, and she would never pick fruit from Herat's orchards or stroll in its fields of wheat. But whenever Jalil talked like this, Mariam would listen with enchantment. She would admire Jalil for his vast and worldly knowledge. She would quiver with pride to have a father who knew such things.
"What rich lies!" Nana said after Jalil left. "Rich man telling rich lies. He never took you to any tree. And don't let him charm you. He betrayed us, your beloved father. He cast us out. He cast us out of his big fancy house like we were nothing to him. He did it happily." Mariam would listen dutifully to this. She never dared say to Nana how much she disliked her talking this way about Jalil. The truth was that around Jalil, Mariam did not feel at all like a harami. For an hour or two every Thursday, when Jalil came to see her, all smiles and gifts and endearments, Mariam felt deserving of all the beauty and bounty that life had to give. And, for this, Mariam loved Jalil.”

 
Khaled Hosseini (Kabul, 4 maart 1965)

De Oostenrijkse dichter en schrijver Robert Kleindienst werd geboren op 4 maart 1975 in Salzburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Kleindienst op dit blog.

Ich weiß, was es heißt, glücklich zu sein

wir zwei stehen hier also zu dritt und
halten die Hand fester. so viel Grün, wie uns
der Frühling schenkt, überrascht uns dann
doch, das hätten wir nur im Traum
gedacht. nicht im Traum aber spiegeln wir
uns im Weiher, sehen Entenküken
nach, die Spuren ziehen im Wasser.
am Horizont leuchten Berge weiß, wir
warten noch eine Weile, schwimmen
weiter, dem Ufer zu

Heute, vor langer Zeit

siehst du, die Schaukel steht still
in Sisak. siehst du, ein Kind
sitzt darauf, das keinen Schatten wirft,
bis es der Wind hebt ans andere Ufer.
wir warten nicht dort, es ist
schon zu spät, sagt man uns
in der Lobby. alle frühzeitig
abgereist. später werden wir
die Rechnung zahlen,
abfahren, ein einziges Mal
zurückblicken, zu sehen,
wer winkt

Einklang

Dieser ruhige Atem
neben meiner Nacht.
Diese kleine Hand
in meiner Welt, die sich
öffnet, die ich schließe
in mir.

 
Robert Kleindienst (Salzburg, 4 maart 1975)

De Russische dichteres en dissidente Irina Ratushinskaya werd geboren op 4 maart 1954 in Odessa. Zie ook alle tags voor Irina Ratushinskaya op dit blog.

And I undid the old shawl

And I undid the old shawl
And at once there came to rm:
The four winds from all the roads,
From the clouds; of the earth.

And the first wind sang Inc a song,
About a house behind a hlack mountain.
And the second wind told me
About an enchanted arquebus.

And the third wind began to dance,
And the fourth gave me a ring.
But the fifth wind came laughing
And I recognised his face.

And I asked: “Where have you come from?
And who has sent you to mc'?’
But he looked into my features
And said nothing.

And I touched his shoulder
And sent all the others away.
And this wind blew out the candle.
When night. fell.

Vertaald door David McDuff

 
Irina Ratushinskaya (Odessa, 4 maart 1954)
Cover

De Engelse schrijver Alan Sillitoe werd geboren op 4 maart 1928 in Nottingham. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Sillitoe op dit blog.

Uit: Saturday Night and Sunday Morning

““Loudmouth grunted and tried to ignore her eulogy, but at the end of a fiery and vivid description of a brothel in Alexandria he called over to Arthur: "I hear you drink a lot, matey?"
Arthur didn't like being called "matey." It put his back up straight away. "Middlin'," he answered modestly. "Why?"
"What's the most you've ever drunk, then?" Loudmouth wanted to know. "We used to have boozing matches on shore- leave," he added with a wide, knowing smile to the aroused group of spectators. He reminded Arthur of a sergeant-major who once put him on a charge.
"I don't know," Arthur told him. "I can't count, you see."
"Well," Loudmouth rejoined, "let's see how much you can drink now. Loser pays the bill."
Arthur did not hesitate. Free booze was free booze. Anyway, he begrudged big talkers their unearned glory, and hoped to show him up and take him down to his right size.
Loudmouth's tactics were skilful and sound, he had to admit that. Having won the toss-up for choice, he led off on gins, and after the seventh gin he switched to beer, pints. Arthur enjoyed the gins, and relished the beer. It seemed an even contest for a long time, as if they would sit there swilling it back for ever, until Loudmouth suddenly went green halfway through the tenth pint and had to rush outside. He must have paid the bill downstairs, because he didn't come back. Arthur, as if nothing had happened, went back to his beer.
He was laughing to himself as he rolled down the stairs, at the dull bumping going on behind his head and along his spine, as if it were happening miles away, like a vibration on another part of the earth's surface, and he an earthquake-machine on which it was faintly recorded. This rolling motion was so restful and soporific, in fact, that when he stopped travelling-having arrived at the bottom of the stairs-he kept his eyes closed and went to sleep. It was a pleasant and faraway feeling, and he wanted to stay in exactly the same position for the rest of his life.”

 
Alan Sillitoe (4 maart 1928 - 25 april 2010)
Cover DVD

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 4e maart ook mijn twee vorige blogs van vandaag.

04-03-2017 om 12:59 geschreven door Romenu  

De Poolse schrijver dichter en journalist Ryszard Kapuściński werd geboren in Pinsk, Polen (thans Wit-Rusland), op 4 maart 1932. Zie ook alle tags voor Ryszard Kapuściński op dit blog.

Uit: Travels with Herodotus (Vertaald door Klara Glowczewska)

« Before Herodotus sets out on his travels, ascending rocky paths, sailing a ship over the seas, riding on horseback through the wilds of Asia; before he happens upon the mistrustful Scythians, discovers the wonders of Babylon, and plumbs the mysteries of the Nile; before he experiences a hundred different places and sees a thousand inconceivable things, he will appear for a moment in a lecture on ancient Greece, which Professor Bieiunska-Malowist delivers twice weekly to the first-year students in Warsaw University’s department of history.
He will appear and just as quickly vanish.
He will disappear so completely that now, years later, when I look through my notes from those classes, I do not find his name. There are Aeschylus and Pericles, Sappho and Socrates, Heraclitus and Plato; but no Herodotus. And yet we took such careful notes. They were our only source of information. The war had ended six years earlier, and the city lay in ruins. Libraries had gone up in flames, we had no textbooks, nobooks at all to speak of.
The professor has a calm, soft, even voice. Her dark, attentive eyes regard us through thick lenses with marked curiosity. Sitting at a high lectern, she has before her a hundred young people the majority of whom have no idea that Solon was great, do not know the cause of Antigone’s despair, and could not explain how Themistocles lured the Persians into a trap.
If truth be told, we didn’t even quite know where Greece was or, for that matter, that a contemporary country by that name had a past so remarkable and extraordinary as to merit studying at university. We were children of war. High schools were closed during the war years, and although in the larger cities clandestine classes were occasionally convened, here, in this lecture hall, sat mostly girls and boys from remote villages and small towns, ill read, undereducated. It was 1951. University admissions were granted without entrance examinations, family provenance mattering most-in the communist state the children of workers and peasants had the best chances of getting in.”

 
Ryszard Kapuściński (4 maart 1932 - 23 januari 2007)
Getekend door Angelero 

De Madagassische dichter en schrijver Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo werd geboren op 4 maart 1901 in Antananarivo. Zie ook alle tags voor Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo op dit blog.

Autre naissance du jour

On ne sait si c’est de l’Est ou de l’Ouest
qu’est venu le premier appel ;
mais maintenant,dans leur huttes transpercées par les étoiles
et les autres sagaies des ténèbres,
les coqs se dénombrent,
soufflent dans les conques marines
et se répondent de partout
jusqu’au retour de celui qui est allé dormir dans l’océan
et jusqu’à l’ascension de l’alouette
qui va à sa rencontre avec des chants
imbus de rosée.

Read

Make no sound, do not speak:
off to explore a forest, eyes, heart,
mind, dreams . . .

Secret forest; yet you can touch this forest
with your hands.

Forest astir with stillness,
forest where the bird is gone, the bird to catch,
catch in a trap and make him sing
or make him cry.

Make him sing or make him cry
and tell the place where he was hatched.

Forest. Bird.
Secret forest, bird hidden
in your hands.

Vertaald door John Reed en Clive Wake

 
Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo (4 maart 1901 – 22 juni 1937)

De Duitse schrijfster en vertaalster Annette Seemann werd geboren op 4 maart 1959 in Frankfurt am Main. Zie ook alle tags voor Annette Seemann op dit blog.

Uit:Schillers Schwester Christophine

“Als alte Frau, im Jahr 1845, legt Christophine Reinwald die sogenannten Notizen über meine Familie nieder, in denen sie die Herkunft vor allem des Bruders beschreibt, doch freilich auch auf sich selbst zu sprechen kommt. So setzt dieser Text mit den Worten ein: »Ob ich schon vermute, daß die bisherigen Lebensbeschreibungen von meinem sel[igen] Bruder fast alles berhrt haben, was meine Familie betrifft, so könnte doch vielleicht teilnehmenden Freunden nicht unwillkommen sein, was ich als älteste Schwester in meinen Erinnerungen noch aufbewahrt habe, und es hiermit aufzeichne.« Die »teilnehmenden Freunde« sind es, diejenigen, die dereinst den Nachlaß ordnen wrden – namentlich war dies die einzige damals noch lebende Nichte Emilie von Gleichen-Rußwurm (1804-1872). Damit ist ein zentrales Lebensthema Christophine Reinwalds genannt: die Freundschaft, die ihr fast wichtiger als die Liebe war. Trotz hoher moralischer und geistiger Ansprche gewann sie lebenslang viele Freunde, fast ausschließlich Frauen. Ein zweites Identifikationsmerkmal stellt sie dem Leser in diesem ersten Satz vor: »Christophine Reinwald, geborene Schiller« – so sollte sie im Alter fast alle Briefe unterzeichnen. Sie sah sich in erster Linie als »Schillers lteste Schwester«. Diese Identität schloß andere Identitäten aus,die gleichwohl einen Großteil ihres Lebens ausmachten: Tochter von Johann Caspar und Elisabeth Dorothea Schiller, Schwester von Louise und Christiane Schiller, Ehefrau von Wilhelm Reinwald, oder einfach nur: Christophine Reinwald, begabte Zeichnerin und Malerin!
Sie fährt fort: »Unser lieber Vater, Johann Caspar Schiller, ward in Bittenfeld, einem Dorfe unweit Ludwigsburg in Württemberg, 1723 geboren.
Sein Vater war daselbst Schultheiß, den er aber sehr früh verlor, und seine Mutter,Witwe mit sieben Kindern, mußte sich sehr einschränken und konnte nicht viel auf seine Ausbildung verwenden. Sie wollte ihn daher nur für ländliche Geschäfte erziehen, und er mußte sich mit großer Mühe einige Kenntnisse verschaffen.“

 
Annette Seemann (Frankfurt am Main, 4 maart 1959)
Cover

De Duitse dichter, graficus, karikaturist en satiricus F. W. Bernstein (eig. Fritz Weigle) werd geboren op 4 maart 1938 in Göppingen. Zie ook alle tags voor F. W. Bernstein en ook voor Bernstein op dit blog

Guten Morgen!

Guten Morgen!
O Morgenröte um halb acht,
Die kalte Nacht vergangen.
Ich lebe und bin aufgewacht,
Der Tag hat angefangen.

O Bademantelmorgenstund!
Ein Stückchen Schokolade?
Die Heizung gluckert glücklich und
ich zieh mich aus und bade.

Die bildenden Künste

Wichtig ist das Kleinformat
weil’s uns was zu sagen hat.
Große Bilder zeigen
Farb und Form und schweigen.

Waldunsinn

Pü Reh rennt wiehernd durch den Tann,
weil es sich selber melken kann.
Das Veilchen platzt; die Nelken welken,
sie können sich nicht selber melken.
Pü Reh tut weiter wiehern,
statt sie zu erziehern.

 
F. W. Bernstein (Göppingen, 4 maart 1938)

De Italiaanse schrijver Giorgio Bassani werd geboren op 4 maart 1916 in Bologna. Zie ook alle tags voor Giorgio Bassani op dit blog.

Uit:The Garden of the Finzi-Continis (Vertaald door Jamie McKendrick)

'Ask that gentleman back there,' he said, jerking his thumb towards me. Giannina turned. Her mouth hidden by the top of the seat, she gave me a rapid glance, severe, filled with mistrust. I waited for her to repeat the question. But she didn't: she promptly turned around and looked straight ahead.
Coming down the road, which continued to rise slightly, flanked by a double row of cypresses, groups of villagers were approaching us, girls and young men. It was the Sunday stroll. Arm in arm, the girls at times formed chains that stretched to the center of the road. At the moment we passed them, we felt ourselves inspected through the windows by their laughing eyes, in which curiosity was mixed with a kind of strange pride, barely dissimulated contempt.
"Papà,' Gianninia asked again, 'why is it that ancient tombs are not as sad as new ones?'
A group more numerous than the others, occupying a good part of the road, and singing in chorus with no thought of making way for us, had forced the car almost to a stop. Her father shifted into second.
'That's obvious,' he answered. 'People who have just died are closer to us, and so we are fonder of them. The Etruscans, after all, have been dead for a long time' – again he was telling a fairy tale – 'so long it's as if they had never lived, as if they had always been dead.'
Another longer pause. At the end of it (we were already near the open space I front of the entrance to the necropolis, full of automobiles and buses), it was Giannina's turn to impart the lesson.
'But now, if you say that,' she ventured softly, 'you remind me that the Etruscans were also alive once, and so I'm fond of them, like everyone else.'
Our visit then to the necropolis, I recall, was completely affected by the extraordinary tenderness of this sentence. Giannina had prepared us to understand. It was she, the youngest, who somehow guided us."

 
Giorgio Bassani (4 maart 1916 – 13 april 2000)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 4e maart ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

04-03-2017 om 12:58 geschreven door Romenu  

De Surinaamse dichter Bernardo Ashetu (Eig. Hendrik George van Ommeren) werd geboren in Kasabaholo op 4 maart 1929. Zie ook alle tags voor Bernardo Ashetu op dit blog.

Niets

Ach,
vandaag
was er niets
op de berg,
zelfs geen snipper
van een vod.
Daarom bevind ik
mij hier op de
hoge toren bij de
gepolijste vlaggestok. -
En ik hijs de vlag
en ik strijk de vlag
en hijs de vlag
en strijk de vlag.
en ik woeker met
haar kleuren.

Roet

Ik was tot aan de grens van de zee
bijna bij het einde
toen een loktoon mij terugvoerde
naar dit veren bed
op gras dat reeds lang verdord is.
Iedere avond kom jij dan nog
in 't half-duister schuivend aan
en gooit roet in m'n kleurloos eten.

 
Bernardo Ashetu (4 maart 1929 - 3 augustus 1982)

De Franse dichter en essayist Léon-Paul Fargue werd geboren op 4 maart 1876 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Léon-Paul Fargue op dit blog.

Spleen

Dans un vieux square où l'océan
Du mauvais temps met son séant
Sur un banc triste au yeux de pluie
C'est d'une blonde
Rosse et gironde
Que je m'ennuie
Dans ce cabaret du Néant
Qu'est notre vie.

Amour tremblant

Amour tremblant . Crainte de proie.
J'aime vos deux instincts frappants.
Crainte tenace. Amour tremblant.
Je sais ton style heureusement.
Je suis le maître dans la nuit.
Amour tenace. Amour tremblant.
Tu t'es posé sur le rebord
De l'âme la plus misérable.
comme un aigle sur un balcon !
Amour tenace. Amour tremblant.
L’horloge creuse la mort
Je l'honore dans tes beaux yeux,
Je la distingue aux seins blessants.
Les fleurs qu'on ne voit que la nuit
C'est ce qui fait qu'on réfléchit.
Mais veuille surveillez nos yeux.
Quand nous souffrons fais-nous pleurer.
lorsqu'on pleure on est presque heureux.
Amour tenace. amour tremblant !

 
Léon-Paul Fargue (4 maart 1876 – 24 november 1947)

De Duits-sorbische dichter, schrijver en vertaler Kito Lorenc werd geboren op 4 maart 1938 in Schleife (Oost-Sachsen). Zie ook alle tags voor Kito Lorenc op dit blog.

Singende Amsel

Als die steinerne Stadt
unter Sirenenrufen
ans Sonnenufer rollte
und Rauchopfer aufstiegen
ins Blau, früh, als ich heimkam
sah ich dich auf deinem Mast:
Gelbe Flöte schwarzes Herz –
es schwingt noch
das Mundstück aus Horn
vor der leis zitternden Säule zarter Luft.
Kleines bebendes Herz, glühst rötlich
durch dein schwarzes Gefieder,
geflügeltes Herz,
so zu singen
Angesicht in Angesicht: Sonne und Herz

Da flog sie auf:
Sing, sing du

Sorbisch-deutsche Abendlesung

Nacht steigt
Poës, frische
Wische

Schöne Fröse
unvergleichlich
Wallei

Mond Glotze
duse später
Tolpen

Weine Klitte
so verschieden
Prossetlein

Blei bai Unz
schinki schanki
Hypp!

 
Kito Lorenc (Schleife, 4 maart 1938)

De Franse dichter Jacques Dupin werd geboren in Privas, Ardèche, op 4 maart 1927. Zie ook alle tags voor Jacques Dupin op dit blog.

Grand vent

Nous n’appartenons qu’au sentier de montagne
Qui serpente au soleil entre la sauge et le lichen
Et s’élance à la nuit, chemin de crête,
À la rencontre des constellations.
Nous avons rapproché des sommets
La limite des terres arables.
Les graines éclatent dans nos poings.
Les flammes rentrent dans nos os.
Que le fumier monte à dos d’hommes jusqu’à nous !
Que la vigne et le seigle répliquent
À la vieillesse du volcan !
Les fruits de l’orgueil, les fruits du basalte
Mûriront sous les coups
Qui nous rendent visibles.
La chair endurera ce que l’œil a souffert,
Ce que les loups n’ont pas rêvé
Avant de descendre à la mer.

L'angle du mur

Ma méditation ton manteau se consument

Pour te perdre mieux
Ou te mordre blanche.

La tour délivrée de son lierre croule.

La terreur conduit sous terre ma semence,
L'éclairé et la refroidit.
J'attends la déflagration.

Et je tutoie les morts, les nouveaux venus.
Celle que j'aime est dans leur camp,
Fourche, flamme et minerai.

Le sang qui brille sur la page de garde
Ne sera jamais le sien.

 
Jacques Dupin (4 maart 1927 – 27 oktober 2012)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas S. Stribling werd geboren op 4 maart 1881 in Clifton, Tennessee. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas S. Stribling op dit blog.

Uit: The Store

“In response to his wife's uncertain inquiry about the political speaking, Colonel Miltiades Vaiden called back from his gate that he did not think there would be any ladies at the courthouse that evening.
By laying stress on the word "think" the Colonel not only forecasted a purely masculine attendance in Courthouse Square that summer evening in Florence, Alabama, but at the same time he subtly expressed his own personal disapproval of women appearing at political gatherings at any place or time whatsoever.
The heavy wife in the doorway hesitated at the Colonel's implication. She had wanted to go. She felt the gregarious impulse of fleshy persons to foregather with crowds, to laugh and fraternize with the audience, to propel her large body among her lighter fellows with the voluptuous and genial ruthlessness of a fat person. However, on the other hand, her feminine fear of being the only woman in the audience stood in her path.
But behind these two antagonistic impulses lay another cause of depression which the ponderous wife knew too well but which she never frankly had admitted even to herself. This was that her husband did not want her to go with him to this or to any other public gathering; it was ... that he was ashamed of her.
This fact wavered in the woman's mind until she expelled it by calling out:
"Oh, Mr. Milt, there'll be a lot of leading men down there, I expect. Maybe some of 'em will offer you a—a better position...."
At this mention of position a disagreeable tickle went through the husband's chest, but he answered in an impassive, corrective tone:
"Not likely such a topic will come up at a political meeting, Ponny."
"Well ... if it does ... you ... you mustn't repulse 'em, Mr. Milt."

 
Thomas S. Stribling (4 maart 1881 – 8 juli 1965)

04-03-2017 om 12:57 geschreven door Romenu