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De Noorse schrijver, schilder en essayist Jens Bjørneboe werd geboren op 9 oktober 1920 in Kristiansand. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2008.
Uit: Powderhouse(Vertaald door Esther Greenleaf Müer)
For a resident of such a distinguished and well-known madhouse as La Poudrière I must admit that I feel fine, and enjoy a bewildering degree of freedom of thought, expression and movement. At any rate greater than the stars'. And then there's my own highly ambiguous position at the hospital. As caretaker and a kind of jack-of-all-trades (including that of observer) I have at my disposal one of the gardeners' cottages, along with the abovementioned grape and tomato arbor: they lie at the park's outer edge and are surrounded by a high, palisade-like fence with a heavy, lockable gate, so that when I wish I can be wholly isolated in my own world. For example I can get drunk in peace, though that happens very seldom now. And I can smoke hashish with al Assadun, even if we usually do that up in the tower at Lefèvre's, where he has installed a first-class hi-fi setsince music is an almost indispensable part of the hash. Likewise Dr. Lefèvre and I can travel to the sun as often as we wish; this always happens at my house.
But that isn't the most important thing; most important are the mornings and the nights, when I can be utterly undisturbed in my work, and can sit in the garden with my breakfast before proceeding up to the Institute or the clinic to discharge my more routine duties.
The grape and tomato arbor I've described, but the house is just as important; it's old, whitewashed and very simple, like the oldest peasant houses in this district: dirt floor, open fireplace, heavy ceiling beams and a very small sleeping alcove. Outside: the brook, some leafy trees and the plants. Best of all are the mornings, going out barefoot and almost naked right after sunrise, feeling the spicy, fresh scent, the cool morning air, and looking at the light in the treetops or the espaliers. I get a boundless pleasure from these simple things; strictly speaking it's the only happiness I have. I prefer each day to be exactly like the one before.
This has brought me complete clarity of soul, the old man's peace, a quiet heart. Perhaps I miss the sea at times, I don't know.
I said "as caretaker." Of course it's not that simple. It turns out that nothing, absolutely nothing, is simple when you look a bit more closely. Now, for example, there's someone howling up in the clinic again; it's probably the Russian ambassador's wife. She cries like a wolf. In the soundless night this lonely wolf-howl from the ward cuts loose like a stripe on the black night sky, like the trail of a shooting star. The ululating, drawn-out cry is repeated a couple of times. Why do the wolves in the forest also howl thus? For all its wolfishness it's still first and foremost a human howl. She's probably up there hanging onto the window bars while she howls, as she usually does during attacks. If it continues, Dr. Lefèvre will have to leave his desk and his work and go over to the ward to take care of her. al Assadun can't do it because she always tries to rape him.
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Jens Bjørneboe (9 oktober 1920 9 mei 1976)
De Senegalese schrijver Léopold Senghor werd geboren op 9 oktober 1906 in het plaatsje Joal aan de Atlantische kust, zo'n 70 kilometer van de Senegalese hoofdstad Dakar. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 oktober 2007 en ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2008.
Noliwe
The weakness of the heart is holly...
Ah! You think that I never loved her
My Negress fair with palmoil, slender as a plume
Thighs of a starlet otter, of Kilimanjaro snow
Breasts of mellow rice-fields, hills of acacias under the
East Wind.
Noliwe with her arms of boas, lips of the adder
Noliwe, her eyes were constellations there is no
need of moon or drum
But her voice in my head and the feverous pulse of the
night
Ah! You think that I never loved her!
But these long years, this breaking on the wheel of the years, this carcan strangling every act
This long night without sleep I wandered like a
mare from the Zambezi, running and rushing at the
stars
Gnawed by a nameless suffering, like the leopards in the
trap.
I would not have killed her if I had loved her less.
I had to escape from doubt
From the intoxication of the milk of her mouth, from
the throbbing drum of the night of my blood
From my bowels of fervent lava, from the uranium
mines of my heart in the depths of my Blackness
From love of Noliwe
From the love of my black skinned People.
Léopold Sédar Senghor (9 oktober 1906 - 20 december 2001)
De Duitse dichter, schrijver, schilder en graficus Johannes Theodor Baargeld werd geboren op 9 oktober 1892 in Stettin. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2008.
Der Vogelobre Hornebomm - vulgo dadamax
Strüh us strüh us dien Jungfernkorn
Der Vogelobre kommt der Hornebomm
Die hornen Fähnchen uf dien Ei
Dien Sträusschen frei die Fähnchen frei
Der Utterschneck die Scherenbraut
Die stossen ihm die Kufen auf
Die nackten Inseln schlagen an
Die nackten Sträusschen schlagen an
Der Vogelobre Hornebomm das grosshell Fisch
das Oberschiff
Nickt die Korallenwürmer auf
Nickt die Otterhöschen auf
Den Wasserhamster nickt er auf den hintendrauf
Kommen schon die 17 Bunteglas
Und Busenzottel die der an sich trägt
Der Zeterfisch der Fischkalb Halbesohn
Zwischen ein und halbe Sohn
Halber Zeter halber Sohn
Was scherts den Obre Hornebomm
Den Leckenmaul im Oberhorn
Ihm staht sein Rogeneuter ob dem Horn
Das staht ihm gefreit
Der Hornsturm drin der Hornsturm drin
Darinnen ist die Paarungszeit
Die tiefe Turm die tiefe Zeit
Die Horne Sträusschen und die Ei
Und immer wied die Paarungszeit
Das Schiffchen auf dem Türmegrund
Das Schiffchen auf dem Sträusschengrund
Die hornen Fähnchen hochgeweiht
Und allerob das Hochgeweih
Des hohe Vogel Hornebomm
Das Obergroßschiff Hornebomm
Johannes Theodor Baargeld (9 oktober 1982 18 augustus 1927)
De Russische dichteres en schrijfster Marína Tsvetájeva werd geboren op 9 oktober 1892 in Moskou. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2008.
In the Winter
Bells again break the silence,
Wailing with remorse
Only several streets divide us,
Only several words!
A silver sickle in the night,
The city sleeps this hour,
The falling snowflakes set alight
The stars upon your collar.
Are the sores of the past still aching?
How long will they abide?
Youre teased by captivating,
New and shimmering eyes.
They (blue or brown?) are dearer
Than anything pages hold!
Their lashes are turning clearer,
Out in the freezing cold
Church bells have faded to silence
Powerless from remorse
Only several streets divide us,
Only several words!
The silver crescent, at this hour,
Looks at poetic souls in awe,
The winds are gusting and your collar
Is covered with the snow.
This night, I wander, all alone
This night, I wander, all alone outside, -
A sleepless nun, a homeless traveler! -
I have the keys from all the gates tonight
Of this unique, and one and only capital!
Insomnia has pushed me into town,
- How stunning you appear, O dusky Kremlin! -
This night, I kiss the boisterous and round,
The hostile, warring planet on the temple!
The muggy wind blows straight into the soul.
And not the hair arises, but the fleece!
This night, alone, I pity, one and all, -
Those who are pitied presently and kissed.
Vertaald door Andrey Kneller
Marína Tsvetájeva (9 oktober 1892 31 augustus 1941)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2006 en mijn blog van 13 oktober 2006.
De Servisch-Kroatische schrijver Ivo Andrić werd geboren op 9 oktober 1892 in het dorpje Dolac in de buurt van Travnik, Bosnië.
De Duitse schrijver Christian Reuter werd geboren op 9 oktober 1665 in Kütten bei Halle.
De Deense schrijver Holger Drachmann werd geboren op 9 oktober 1846 in Kopenhagen.
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