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De Zuidkoreaanse schrijver Yi Mun-yol werd
geboren op 18 mei 1948 in Yongyang. Zie ook alle tags voor Yi Mun-yol
op dit blog.
Uit: Our
Twisted Hero (Vertaald door Kevin O'Rourke)
As soon as my mother
brought me into the room, the teacher in charge came over to greet us. He too
fell far short of my expectations. If we couldn't have a beautiful and kind
female teacher, I thought at least we might have a soft-spoken, considerate,
stylish male one. But the white rice-wine stain on the sleeve of his jacket
told me he didn't measure up. His hair was tousled; he had not combed it much
less put oil on it. It was very doubtful if he had washed his face that
morning, and his physical attitude left grave doubts about whether he was
actually listening to Mother. Frankly, it was indescribably disappointing that
such a man was to be my new teacher. Perhaps already I had a premonition of the
evil that was to unfold over the course of the next year.
That evil showed itself days later when I was being introduced to the class.
"This is the new transfer student, Han Pyongt'ae. I hope you get on
well."
The teacher, having concluded this one line introduction, seated me in an empty
chair in the back and went directly into classwork. When I thought of how
considerate my Seoul teachers had been in invariably giving prolonged proud
introductions to new students, almost to the point of embarrassment, I could
not hold back my disappointment. He didn't have to give me a big buildup, but
he could at least have told the other children about some of the things I had
to my credit. It would have helped me begin to relate to the others and them to
me.
There were a couple of things the teacher could have mentioned. First of all,
there was my school work. I may not have been first very often, but I was in
the first five in my class in an outstanding Seoul school. I was quietly proud
of this; it had played no small part in ensuring good results in my relations
not only with teachers but also with the other children. I was also very good
at painting. I was not good enough to sweep a national
children's art contest, but I did get the top award in a number of contests at
the Seoul level. I presume my mother stressed my marks and artistic ability
several times, but the teacher ignored them completely. In some circumstances,
my father's job, too, could havebeen a help. So what if he had suffered a
setback in Seoul, even a bad one, bad enough to drive him from Seoul to here?
He still ranked with the top few civil servants in this small town.
Yi
Mun-yol (Yongyang, 18 mei 1948)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Markus Breidenich werd geboren in
Düren op 18 mei 1972. Zie ook alle tags voor Markus
Breidenich op dit blog.
Im
Herbarium
Wir hatten Blätter, aufgehängt zum Trocknen,
über uns. Den letzten Mückenstich in Kupfer schon
gepresst. Von Blütenträumen falscher Zwanziger
berieselt, in Bücher uns vergraben. Alte
Würmer, in erotischen Motiven. Reich
der Carnivoren: Venusfliegenfallen, schön:
Auf hadernhaltigem Papier der Druck der abge-
schlossenen Kapitel, waren wir. In Blei gesetzte
Namen, Spiegelschrift, der Rosen.
Fliegen
Aufeinander so fliegen. Bestäubtest du nicht
die Bücher meiner Regale? Die Narben. Narben
im Innern der Zimmer. Wachsen. Jetzt warte.
Warte auf Blütenkelche und blaue Himmel.
Dann findest du Honig in gläsernen Spendern.
Und weißt. Du weißt von den Körnerbrötchen.
Streichzarten Butterblumen so viel. Dem
Aufstrich der Rosen im Fenstereck. Dann
siehst du den Blättern das Grünzeug an. Das
über den Tischen wächst. Bis über die Dielen
Schatten wirft. Durch Scheiben die Sonne auf
Quittengelee. Fällt ein Tropfen mir ein
von Johannisbeersaft. Von dir ist der Nektar in
wabenförmigen Eiswürfelbechern. Der Tau
aller frisch gepressten Gräser. In Seiten von
Alben. Erinnerungsstücken. Von uns. Und
von dir ist das Summen der Boxen am Morgen.
Das strahlende Spiel auf den Flügeln. Komm.
Lass noch einmal uns kreisen und über den
Krümeln eine Fliege uns machen. Zu zweit.
Markus Breidenich (Düren, 18 mei 1972)
De Duitse schrijver W.G. Sebald werd geboren in Wertach (Allgäu) op 18 mei
1944. Zie ook alle tags
voor W. G. Sebald op dit blog.
Uit: Austerlitz (Vertaald door
Anthea Bell)
It was several months after this meeting in
Liege that I came upon Austerlitz, again entirely by chance, on the old Gallows
Hill in Brussels, on the steps of the Palace of justice which, as he
immediately told me, is the largest accumulation of stone blocks anywhere in
Europe. The building of this singular architectural monstrosity, on which
Austerlitz was planning to write a study at the time, began in the 1880s at the
urging of the bourgeoisie of Brussels, over-hastily and before the details of
the grandiose scheme submitted by a certain Joseph Poelaert had been properly
worked out, as a result of which, said Austerlitz, this huge pile of over seven
hundred thousand cubic meters contains corridors and stairways leading nowhere,
and doorless rooms and halls where no one would ever set foot, empty spaces
surrounded by walls and representing the innermost secret of all sanctioned
authority.
Austerlitz went on to tell me that he himself,
looking for a labyrinth used in the initiation ceremonies of the Freemasons,
which he had heard was in either the basement or the attic story of the palace,
had wandered for hours through this mountain range of stone, through forests of
columns, past colossal statues, upstairs and downstairs, and no one ever asked
him what he wanted.
During these wanderings, feeling tired or
wishing to get his bearings from the sky, he had stopped at one of the windows
set deep in the walls to look out over the leaden gray roofs of the palace,
crammed together like pack ice, and down into ravines and shaft-like interior
courtyards never penetrated by any ray of light.
W.G. Sebald (18 mei 1944 14 december 2001)
De Franse schrijver François
Nourissier werd geboren op 18 mei 1927 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor
François Nourissier op dit blog.
Uit: Lettre à
mon chien
« Sil est vrai
quon a les chiens quon mérite, comme je suis fier de ta démence et de tes
tendresses ! Dans cette vie de partout corsetée, colmatée, nourrie de labeurs
et de décorations, tu es la fuite du cur, la fissure par où sinsinuent les
déraisons. Il y a trente ans je ne taurais pas méritée, justement, jétais
trop empêtré dordre et de calculs. Je croyais aux investissements. »
"Chaque matin à mon réveil, tu me rappelles - leçon sans prix - que
la gravité est une grimace repoussante et que seules comptent les fêtes de la
vie. Puissé-je m'en souvenir au jour de la grande peine de ton départ -
si je suis là pour la souffrir."
(
)
"Chaque matin à mon réveil, tu me
rappelles - leçon sans prix - que la gravité est une grimace repoussante et que
seules comptent les fêtes de la vie. Puissé-je m'en souvenir au jour de
la grande peine de ton départ - si je suis là pour la souffrir."
François
Nourissier (18 mei 1927 15 februari 2011)
De IJslandse dichter en schrijver Gunnar Gunnarsson werd
geboren op 18 mei 1889 in Fljótsdalur. Zie ook alle tags voor Gunnar
Gunnarsson op dit blog.
Uit: Father And Son (Vertaald door
Peter Foote)
Among the few words
that passed between them, however, was one sentence that came up again and
again--when old Snjolfur was talking to his son. His words were:
The point is to pay
your debts to everybody, not owe anybody anything, trust in Providence.
In fact, father and
son together preferred to live on the edge of starvation rather than buy
anything for which they could not pay on the spot. And they tacked together
bits of old sacking and patched
and patched them so
as to cover their nakedness, unburdened by debt.
Most of their
neighbours were in debt to some extent; some of them only repaid the factor at
odd times, and they never repaid the whole amount. But as far as little
Snjolfur knew, he and his father had
never owed a penny to
anyone. Before his time, his father had been on the factor's books like
everyone else, but that was not a thing he spoke much about and little Snjolfur
knew nothing of those
dealings.
It was essential for
the two of them to see they had supplies to last them through the winter, when
for many days gales or heavy seas made fishing impossible. The fish that had to
last them through the
winter was either
dried or salted; what they felt they could spare was sold, so that there might
be a little ready money in the house against the arrival of winter. There was
rarely anything left, and
sometimes the
cupboard was bare before the end of the winter; whatever was eatable had been
eaten by the tune spring came on, and most often father and son knew what it
was like to go hungry.
Gunnar Gunnarsson (18 mei 1889 21 november 1975)
Hier met collega schrijver Halldór Laxness (rechts) in 1947
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 17e mei
ook mijn
vorige blog van vandaag.
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