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De Ierse dichter Trevor Joyce werd geboren op 26 oktober 1947 in Dublin. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
o tiny
universe
alongside
the many other
possible
universes
some of which
could easily
be ten
or a thousand
times more
vast
you are
small
pretentious
and a little
pathetic
i will
keep you
for later
*
She is my love
was most my misery
preferred for wasting me
to her could cure
She is my fair
would fast enfeeble me
not whisper for my going oh!
or mind my grave
She is my dear
natures accessory
wouldnt reach a hand to hold my head
lay me for gold
She is my why
drops not a hint to me
heeds no true word
spares no regard
Great is my grief
too long this lingering
who most suspects me
is all my love
Trevor Joyce (Dublin, 26 oktober 1947)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Pat Conroy werd geboren op 26 oktober 1945 in Atlanta, Georgia. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2009.
Uit: South of Broad
It was my father who called the city the Mansion on the River.
He was talking about Charleston, South Carolina, and he was a native son, peacock proud of a town so pretty it makes your eyes ache with pleasure just to walk down its spellbinding, narrow streets. Charleston was my father's ministry, his hobbyhorse, his quiet obsession, and the great love of his life. His bloodstream lit up my own with a passion for the city that I've never lost nor ever will. I'm Charleston-born, and bred. The city's two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, have flooded and shaped all the days of my life on this storied peninsula.
I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and sun-hardened and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St. Michael's calling cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians. It comes to me as a surprising form of knowledge that my time in the city is more vocation than gift; it is my destiny, not my choice. I consider it a high privilege to be a native of one of the loveliest American cities, not a high-kicking, glossy, or lipsticked city, not a city with bells on its fingers or brightly painted toenails, but a ruffled, low-slung city, understated and tolerant of nothing mismade or ostentatious. Though Charleston feels a seersuckered, tuxedoed view of itself, it approves of restraint far more than vainglory.
As a boy, in my own backyard I could catch a basket of blue crabs, a string of flounder, a dozen redfish, or a net full of white shrimp. All this I could do in a city enchanting enough to charm cobras out of baskets, one so corniced and filigreed and elaborate that it leaves strangers awed and natives self-satisfied. In its shadows you can find metalwork as delicate as lace and spiral staircases as elaborate as yachts.
Pat Conroy (Atlanta, 26 oktober 1945)
De Duitse schrijver Ulrich Plenzdorf werd geboren op 26 oktober 1934 in Berlijn. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008.
Uit: Die neuen Leiden des jungen W.
"Bei Ed wußte man nie. Der dachte sich noch ganz andere Sachen aus. Ganze Songs zum Beispiel. Text und Melodie! Irgendein Instrument, das er nach zwei Tagen nicht spielen konnte, gab's überhaupt nicht. Oder nach einer Woche, von mir aus. Er konnte Rechenmaschinen aus Pappe baun, die funktionieren heute noch. Aber die meiste Zeit haben wir gemalt."
"Edgar hat gemalt? - Was waren das für Bilder?"
"Immer DIN A 2."
"Ich meine: was für Motive? Oder kann man welche sehen?"
"Nicht möglich. Die hatte er alle bei sich. Und "Motive" kann man nicht sagen. Wir malten durchweg abstrakt. Eins hieß Physik. Und: Chemie. Oder: Hirn eines Mathematikers. Bloß, seine Mutter war dagegen. Edgar sollte erst einen "ordentlichen" Beruf haben. Ed hatte ziemlich viel Ärger deswegen, wenn sie das interessiert. Aber am sauersten war er immer, wenn er rauskriegte, daß sie, also seine Mutter, mal wieder eine Karte von seinem Erzeuger..., ich meine: von seinem Vater..., ich meine: von Ihnen zurückgehalten hatte. Das kam hin und wieder vor. Dann war er immer ungeheuer sauer."
Das stimmt. Das stank mich immer fast gar nicht an. Schließlich gab es immer noch so was wie ein Briefgeheimnis und die Karten waren eindeutig an mich. An Herrn Edgar Wibeau, den ollen Hugenotten. Jeder Blöde hätte gemerkt, daß ich eben nichts wissen sollte über meinen Erzeuger, diesen Schlamper, der soff und der es ewig mit den Weibern hatte. Der schwarze Mann von Mittenberg. Der mit seiner Malerei, die kein Mensch verstand, was natürlich allemal an der Malerei lag.
Ulrich Plenzdorf (26 oktober 1934 9 augustus 2007)
De Schotse dichter Sorley MacLean (Schots Gaelic: Somhairle MacGill-Eain) werd geboren op 26 oktober 1911 Osgaig op het eiland Raasay. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008.
The Choice
I walked with my reason
out beside the sea.
We were together but it was
keeping a little distance from me.
Then it turned saying:
is it true you heard
that your beautiful white love
is getting married early on Monday?
I checked the heart that was rising
in my torn swift breast
and I said: most likely;
why should I lie about it?
How should I think that I would grab
the radiant golden star,
that I would catch it and put it
prudently in my pocket?
I did not take a crosss death
in the hard extremity of Spain
and how then should I expect
the one new prize of fate?
I followed only a way
that was small, mean, low, dry, lukewarm,
and how then should I meet
the thunderbolt of love?
But if I had the choice again
and stood on that headland,
I would leap from heaven or hell
with a whole spirit and heart.
Sorley MacLean (26 october 1911 - 24 november 1996)
De Russische schrijver en theoreticus van het symbolisme Andrej Bely werd geboren op 26 oktober 1880 in Moskou. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008.
Uit: Glossolalia (Vertaald door Thomas R. Beyer)
All motion of the tongue in the cavity of our mouth is - a gesture of an armless dancer, twirling the air, like a gaseous, dancing veil; as they fly off to the sides, the tips of the veil tickle the larynx; and - out comes a dry, aery, quick "h," pronounced like the Russian "kh"; the gesture of arms extended (
upwards and to the side) is - "h". The gestures of the arms reflect all the gestures of the armless dancer, dancing in a murky dungeon: beneath the arches of the palate; the movement of the arms relfects an armless mimicry; these movements are - giants of an enormous world, invisible to sound; in this way the tongue directs its bulk, the body, from out os its cave; and the body draws for us gestures; and the storms of meaning are - beneath them. Out armless tongue observed the gesture of the arm; and duplicated it in sounds; sounds know the mysteries of ancient movements of our spirits; just as we pronounce the sounding meanings of words, so too were we once created; pronounced with meaning; our sounds - words - will become the world: we create people out of words; and the words are acts. Sounds are - ancient gestures in the millenia of meaning; in the millenia of my coming being an arm will sing to me with cosmic meaning. Gestures are - youthful sounds of meanings implanted in my body, but not yet composed; the same thing that is occuring for the time being in a single place of the bosy, under the skullbone, will with the flow of time occur throughout my entire body. My entire body will brim full of meaning.
Andrej Bely (26 oktober 1880 8 januari 1934)
Portret door Leon Bakst
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