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De Duits-Israëlische dichter en schrijver Jehuda Amichai werd op 3 mei 1924 geboren in Würzburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
The First Rain
The first rain reminds me
Of the rising summer dust.
The rain doesn't remember the rain of yesteryear.
A year is a trained beast with no memories.
Soon you will again wear your harnesses,
Beautiful and embroidered, to hold
Sheer stockings: you
Mare and harnesser in one body.
The white panic of soft flesh
In the panic of a sudden vision
Of ancient saints.
Vertaald door Barbara en Benjamin Harshav
Tourists
Visits of condolence is all we get from them.
They squat at the Holocaust Memorial,
They put on grave faces at the Wailing Wall
And they laugh behind heavy curtains
In their hotels.
They have their pictures taken
Together with our famous dead
At Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's Tomb
And on Ammunition Hill.
They weep over our sweet boys
And lust after our tough girls
And hang up their underwear
To dry quickly
In cool, blue bathrooms.
Pity, We Were A Good Invention
They amputated
Your thighs from my waist.
For me they are always
Surgeons. All of them.
They dismantled us
One from another. For me they are engineers.
Pity, We were a good and loving
Invention: an airplane made of man and woman,
Wings and all:
We soared a bit from the earth,
We flew a bit.
Jehuda Amichai (3 mei 1924 22 september 2000)
De Britse schrijver en komiek Ben Elton werd geboren in Londen op 3 mei 1959. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2009.
Uit: Chart Throb
Some years from now
The nation had watched Shaiana cry so many times. Heard her voice crack as she struggled to complete her sentence.
'I just want this so much. I really, really want it so much. It's all I ever wanted. Since I was a little girl . . . It's my . . . It's my . . .'
She couldn't do it. Words failed her. Her lip quivered, her nostrils flared and a watery film spread across her eyes. The lids closed in an agonized grimace and squeezed out a glistening tear.
Just a tear, a single tear, but such a tear. One of the most scrutinized tears that was ever shed. Few tears in all history would be seen by so many and so often. Over and over again it had teetered momentarily upon the thickly mascaraed lashes of Shaiana's lower lid before tipping forward and rolling heavily across the downy expanse of that now nationally familiar cheek, tracing its course through the heavy blusher with which the makeup artist had struggled in vain to cover the tiny blemishes on Shaiana's quivering face.
The people in their millions had absorbed this scene immediately before the last break and also before the break which preceded that. They had seen it at the very beginning of the programme and in the trailers that had played throughout the earlier part of the evening. Those with access to the digital channels had been able to watch the tear for nearly a week already and grainy stills of it had appeared in the press. It was also possible to download it to one's mobile phone by accessing the 'preview highlights' section of the Chart Throb website.
But despite all this massive exposure, up until now that tear had always been a future tear, a tear which, in the endlessly repeated phrase of Keely the presenter, was 'still to come'.
'And still to come, it's all too much for Shaiana.'
'Still to come, Shaiana struggles to keep it together.'
'Is Shaiana's dream turning into a nightmare? All that and more, still to come.'
And so the tear had teetered. A maybe tear, present and entirely familiar but nonetheless a tear in waiting. But now finally it had arrived. No longer a tear that was 'still to come' but all of a sudden a clear and present tear, a tear that was on its way. And for the first time (but most certainly not the last) the viewing millions saw it disappear beneath the square white plastic nail of Shaiana's outstretched finger as she rested her chin upon Keely's gorgeous skinny shoulder, and failed to find the word for which she was struggling.
Ben Elton (Londen, 3 mei 1959)
De Duitse schrijver Jens Wonneberger werd in Großröhrsdorf geboren op 3 mei 1960. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 3 mei 2009.
Uit: P. Dienemann Nachf.
P. Dienemann Nachf., Buchhandlung und Antiquariat, befindet sich in der Nähe vom Bahnhof Neustadt in einem alten Haus, dessen Eingang man nur über den Hof erreicht.
Vor der Haustür liegt ein Gitterrost aus Stahl. Bitte die Füße abtreten, steht auf einem Schild an der Haustür.
Vor der Zwischentür liegt ein Fußabtreter aus Bürsten. Bitte die Füße abstreichen, steht auf einem Schild an der Zwischentür.
Vor der Ladentür liegt eine Fußmatte aus Kokos. Auf dem Schild an der Ladentür steht, Bitte die Füße sorgfältig abstreichen.
P. Dienemann Nachf. ist privat. Privat heißt, daß am Montag geschlossen ist. Hier gehen die Uhren anders, sagt Fräulein Leukroth. Fräulein Leukroth ist die Tochter des Nachfolgers und in einem Alter, in dem das Wort Fräulein eine Offenbarung ist. Sie kommt jeden Morgen mit gesenktem Kopf und kleinen, schnellen Schritten in das Geschäft. Jeden Morgen trägt sie ein anderes Kleid. Die Kleider sehen alle gleich aus. Jeden Morgen trägt Fräulein Leukroth einen Stoffbeutel ins Geschäft, der aussieht wie ihr Kleid. Wenn sie kommt, hat sie einen steifen Arm, der beim Gehen fast den Boden berührt. Bevor sie das Geschäft betritt, hat sie sich zweimal normal und einmal sorgfältig die Schuhe abgetreten. Das Linoleum im Laden ist so oft gebohnert worden, daß es kein Muster mehr hat, nur auf den vier kleinen Kreisen um die Füße eines Tisches ist es noch zu erkennen.
Jens Wonneberger (Großröhrsdorf, 3 mei 1960)
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