|
De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents
is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918. Zie ook alle tags voor Arthur
Laurents op dit blog.
Uit: West
Side Story
A-RAB: Great Daddy-O!
RIFF: so everybody dress up sweet and sharp and meet Tony and me at ten.
ALL:
Oh, when the Jets
fall in at the cornball dance
We'll be the sweetest
dressin' gang in pants!
And when the chicks
dig us in our Jet black ties,
They're gonna flip,
gonna flop, gonna drop like flies!
(They dance together
a little wild )
RIFF: Hey, Cool! Easy. Sweet. See ya. And walk tall!
(He runs off)
A-RAB: We always walk tall!
BABY JOHN: We're Jets!
ACTION: The greatest!
ACTION and BABY JOHN:
When you're a Jet
You're the top cat in
town
You're the gold-medal
kid
With the heavyweight
crown!
A-RAB, ACTION and BIG DEAL:
When you're a Jet
You're the
swingingest thing
Little boy, you're a
man
Little man, you're a
king
Arthur Laurents (14 juli 1918 - 5 mei 2011)
Scene uit de film West Side Story uit 1961
De Amerikaanse schrijver Owen Wister
werd geboren op 14 juli 1860 in Germantown, Pennsylvania. Zie ook alle tags voor Owen Wister
op dit blog.
Uit: The Virginian
The old man seemed to vibrate. "Tell you
there ain't been no other! Call me a Mormon,3 would you?"
"Why, that -- "
"Call me a Mormon? Then name some of my wives. Name two. Name one. Dare
you!"
" -- that Laramie wido' promised you -- "
"Shucks!"
" -- only her docter suddenly ordered Southern climate and -- "
"Shucks! You're a false alarm."
" -- so nothing but her lungs came between you. And next you'd most got
united with Cattle Kate, only -- "
"Tell you you're a false alarm!"
" -- only she got hung."
"Where's the wives in all this? Show the wives! Come now!"
"That corn-fed biscuit-shooter4 at Rawlins yu' gave the canary -- "
"Never married her. Never did marry -- "
"But yu' come so near, uncle! She was the one left yu' that letter
explaining how she'd got married to a young cyard-player the very day before
her ceremony with you was due, and -- "
"Oh, you're nothing; you're a kid; you don't amount to -- "
" -- and how she'd never, never forget to feed the canary."
"This country's getting full of kids," stated the old man,
witheringly. "It's doomed." This crushing assertion plainly satisfied
him. And he blinked his eyes with renewed anticipation. His tall tormentor
continued with a face of unchanging gravity, and a voice of gentle solicitude:
--
Owen Wister (14 juli 1860 21 juli
1938)
De Franse schrijfster van Belgische origine Béatrix Beck
werd geboren in Villars-sur-Ollon op 14 juli 1914. Zie ook alle tags voor
Béatrix Beck op dit blog.
Uit: L'Enfant chat
J'ai beau pédaler lentement, ma passagère est
terrifiée, malgré les sangles qui la maintiennent sur son siège. En tournant la
tête je vois ses griffes enfoncées dans la tête de son koala, sa gueule hagarde
sous le bonnet-chat azur confectionné au crochet par Wendy qui regrettait de
devoir faire, "à cause des oreilles", un ouvrage démodé. Cette
presque adolescente, peut-être nubile déjà, porte sans amertume des nippes, à
condition qu'elles soient au goût du jour. Ne pas se laisser distancer par les
temps qui courent. Etre dans le vent, d'où qu'il souffle.
Quand j'arrête devant l'école, S grince : "Conne !", ce qui est un
comble. Je feins de n'avoir rien entendu.
Béatrix Beck (14 juli 1914 - 30 november 2008)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Willard
Frances Motley werd geboren op 14 juli 1909 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Willard
Motley op dit blog.
Uit: Knock On Any Door
On Halsted Street,
Nick heard a loud and continuous honking of automobile horns. He turned and saw
a wedding procession. Streamers of colored tissue paper were wrapped around the
cars. On the backs of the car were big, unevenly lettered signs:
WATCH CHICAGO GROW/WE
CAN'T WAIT FOR TONIGHT. GRAND OPENING TONIGHT.
The cars stopped
before a photographer's shop. The wedding party went across the sidewalk in
front of Nick. The bride wasn't young; she was fat and wore a lacy white veil
that trailed to widened-out hips. The bridesmaids wore pink and blue and green
dresses made out of stuff that looked like curtains. The men were in tuxedos
with flowers in the buttonholes and the women held their arms. Nick walked past
them. He looked back at the dresses that swept against the dirty sidewalks, the
hands holding them up a little and the men dressed like a dead man he had seen
once.
Nick walked on,
looking at everything. There were Italian stores crowded together, with
spaghetti, olives, tomato puree for sale. He saw baskets with live snails in
them: 10 cents a pound. Nick, think of people eating them, spat on the
sidewalk. At the corner of 12th Street, taxi drivers stood in groups, smoking
and talking. The streets were crowded with people. All kinds of people. Negroes
in flashy clothes-high-waisted pants, wide-brimmed hats, loud shirts. Women
dragging kids by the hand. Young Mexican fellows with black hair and blue
sportshirts worn outside their pants and open at the neck. Kids, lots of kids.
Willard
Motley (14 juli 1909 15 maart 1965)
Cover
|
