|
De Indisch-Britse schrijver en essayist Sir Salman Rushdie werd geboren in Bombay op 19 juni 1947. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2008 en mijn blog van 19 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2006. xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Satanic Verses
It was during one of these playful sessions at the end of a working day, when the girls were alone with their eunuchs and their wine, that Baal heard the youngest talking about her client, the grocer, Musa. 'That one!' she said. 'He's got a bee in his bonnet about the Prophet's wives. He's so annoyed about them that he gets excited just by mentioning their names. He tells me that I personally am the spitting image of Ayesha herself, and she's His Nibs's favourite, as all are aware. So there.'
The fifty-year-old courtesan butted in. 'Listen, those women in that harem, the men don't talk about anything else these days. No wonder Mahound secluded them, but it's only made things worse. People fantasize more about what they can't see.'
Especially in this town, Baal thought; above all in our Jahilia of the licentious ways, where until Mahound arrived with his rule book, the women dressed brightly, and all the talk was of fucking and money, money and sex, and not just the talk either.
He said to the youngest whore: 'Why don't you pretend for him?'
'Who?'
'Musa. If Ayesha gives him such a thrill, why not become his private and personal Ayesha?'
'God,' the girls said. 'If they heard you say that they'd boil your balls in butter.'
Salman Rushdie (Bombay, 19 juni 1947)
De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Sybren Polet (pseudoniem van Sybe Minnema) werd geboren in Kampen op 19 juni 1924. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2008
Boomgedicht
Zoveel als deze boom heb ik nooit beloofd:
mijn schaduw is minder, mijn nutteloze insekten tieren
weliger,
geen konijnen nestelen aan mijn voet.
Wel is mijn schors schor en hees
en ik overschreeuw mijzelf dagelijks met kinderen en bladeren.
Traag en moeizaam is mijn ringen
en even moeizaam wen ik aan het snoeien van handen,
de taal die mensen spreken.
Uit mijn hout worden geen goden gesneden,
ook zonder hen wordt mijn hout ouder.
Soms is het in mijn merg zo onophoudelijk donker
als in het windstil centrum van een ziekte;
je hoort er mensen als marmotten piepen
diep uit de zwartste zwammen van hun menszijn.
Maar jij die uit dit hout een stem wilt snijden,
snijdt een stem. Zoals mijn litteken is zing ik.
Mijn litteken is mijn sieraad.
Strandschap
Achter de duinen het overbodige landschap.
Geronselde wolkenhorden. Strand dat
langzaam zichzelf schept.
In ouderwetse rieten strandstoelen
zitten mensen te sterven, tatoes
op hun geloken oogleden.
Een enkel sigarettenrokend lijk
lost op in rook.
Een beroepshond met een bijbaantje
snuffelt langs de vloedlijn.
Vindt een kinkhoorn.
Uit de schelp klinkt het zachte geblaf
van een dode zeehond.
Sybren Polet (Kampen, 19 juni 1924)
De Tsjechische schrijver Josef Nesvadba werd geboren op 19 juni 1926 in Praag. Hij was opgeleid tot psichiater en introduceerde de groepstherapie in Tsjechoslowakije. Hij begon met het vertalen van Engelse gedichten. Als student schreef hij ook al toneelstukken. Aan het eind van de jaren vijftig begon hij korte verhalen te schrijven die men het best omschrijven kan als satirische science fiction. In de jaren zeventig ontwikkelde hij zich van dit genre vandaan richting meer psychologische romans. Verschillende van zijn boeken werden verfilmd door Juraj Herz.
Uit: The Einstein Brain
"The situation is extremely grave," Professor Kozhevkin brought his report to a close. "During the lifetime of the last few generations our progress in various technical fields has liberated mankind, freed mankind from drudgery, hunger and war, and opened the way to the Universe. I can still remember the time when the Engineering Faculties of our Universities had the pick of the finest students, and when it was the heart's desire of every young man to study some branch of technical science. Look at things today! Our young people have lost interest in what we are doing. Physics, chemistry and mathematics suddenly seem to have lost all interest for them. Every year there are fewer and fewer students applying for entrance to our Engineering Faculty in Alma-Ata. There is a danger that in a few years we shall find ourselves obliged to restrict our research work and set limits to the number of staff we can employ. This state of affairs cannot be allowed to go on. Our machines cannot work without people to control them; they cannot take care of the needs of mankind unless there is someone to run them. Energetic steps must be taken."
We all clapped and Dr. Kozhevkin sat down.
"At our University in Toronto," Professor Clark Smith-Jones took the floor, "things are almost worse. We have already had to shut down several of our specialised departments in certain aspects of space research, as well as the Department for Research into the Nature of Elementary Particles.
Josef Nesvadba (19 juni 1926 26 april 2005)
De Japanse schrijver Osamu Dazai (eig. Shūji Tsushima) werd geboren op 19 juni 1909 in Tsugaru. Osamu Dazai behoort tot de generatie van Mishima, Kawabata en Tanizaki. Hij was echter een enfant terrible die geen aansluiting vond bij de gevestigde orde. Hij had en heeft de status van cultheld. In 1948 pleegde hij samen met zijn minnares zelfmoord. Deze en andere sensationele gegevens uit zijn leven krijgen vaak meer aandacht dan zijn werk. Zijn eerste korte verhaal dat hij ondertekende met zijn pseudoniem was Ressha dat verscheen in 1933. Na zijn zelfmoord trof men 14 verhalen aan onder de veelzeggende titel 'Jaren van verval'.
.
Uit: The setting sun
I drink out of desperation. Life is too dreary to endure. The misery, the loneliness, crampedness theyre heartbreaking. Whenever you can hear the gloomy sighs of woe from the four walls around your, you know that theres not a chance of happiness existing just for you. What feelings do you suppose a man has when he realizes that he will never know happiness or glory as long as he lives? Hard work. All that amounts to is food for the wild beasts of hunger. There are too many pitiful people. Is that a pose again?
No.
Only love. Just like you wrote in your letters.
Yes.
My love was extinguished.
When the room became faintly light, I stared at the face of the man sleeping beside me. It was the face of a man soon to die. It was an exhausted face.
The face of a victim. A precious victim.
My man. My rainbow. My child. Hateful man. Unprincipled man.
It seemed to me then a face of a beauty unmatched in the whole world. My breast throbbed with the sensation of resuscitated love. I kissed him as I stroke his hair.
The sad, sad accomplishment of love.
Mr. Uehara, his eyes still shut, took me in his arms. I was all wrong. What do you expect of a farmers son?
I could never leave him.
I am happy now. Even if I were to hear the four walls all shriek in anguish, my feeling of happiness would still be at the saturation point.
Mr. Uehara laughed. But its too late now. Its dusk already.
Its morning!
That morning my brother Naoji committed suicide.
Osamu Dazai (19 juni 1909 13 juni 1948)
De Filippijnse schrijver José Rizal (eig. José Protacio Rizal Mercado y Alonso Realonda) werd geboren op 19 juni 1861. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 juni 2008
A Poem That Has No Title
To my Creator I sing
Who did soothe me in my great loss;
To the Merciful and Kind
Who in my troubles gave me repose.
Thou with that pow'r of thine
Said: Live! And with life myself I found;
And shelter gave me thou
And a soul impelled to the good
Like a compass whose point to the North is bound.
Thou did make me descend
From honorable home and respectable stock,
And a homeland thou gavest me
Without limit, fair and rich
Though fortune and prudence it does lack.
To Virgin Mary
Mary, sweet peace, solace dear
Of pained mortal ! You're the fount
Whence emanates the stream of succor,
That without cease our soil fructifies.
From thy throne, from heaven high,
Kindly hear my sorrowful cry!
And may thy shining veil protect
My voice that rises with rapid flight.
Thou art my Mother, Mary, pure;
Thou'll be the fortress of my life;
Thou'll be my guide on this angry sea.
If ferociously vice pursues me,
If in my pains death harasses me,
Help me, and drive away my woes!
José Rizal (19 juni 1861 - 30 december 1896)
Portret door Fabian Dela Rosa, 1902
|
