De Nederlandse dichter schrijver Remco Campert werd op 28 juli 1929 in Den Haag geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Remco Campert op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Uit: De Schrijver (Het leven een droom)

“Suzie was met haar rug naar me toe gaan liggen en deed er het zwijgen toe. Ik ging achter haar liggen en legde een verkennende hand op haar heup. Ze duwde mijn hand weg en schoof een stukje van me af - niet erg ver, omdat ze anders uit het bed zou vallen.

Opnieuw stuurde ik mijn hand in de richting van haar onwillige lijf. Opnieuw werd hij weggebonjourd. ‘Hou op.’

‘Suzie, het spijt me. Ik geef toe dat ik niet erg aardig was. Het komt door die nachtmerrie. Die zat me dwars, maar het is nu over.’

‘Echt?’

‘Echt.’

Nu liet ze mijn hand toe. Ik kuste haar op haar oor. Ze maakte een knorrend geluidje en draaide zich om. Ik streelde haar rug en haar billen, maar toen haar hand die langs mijn dijen omhoog was gekropen zich om mijn stijve pik sloot, was mijn reactie heftig en tegengesteld aan waar we beiden op uit waren.

Ik trok me met een ruk terug en ging overeind zitten.

‘Wat is er nu weer?’

Uit: Het leven is vurrukkulluk

“Ik heb Etta Zoon versiert’, zei Boelie. ‘Maar ik ben stom geweest. Ik heb gezegd dat ik van haar hou, want ik dacht dat het me anders niet zou lukken.’
‘En hou je van haar?’
‘Misschien nu wel, maar morgen waarschijnlijk niet meer.’
‘Zij waarschijnlijk ook niet.’
‘Ik weet het niet. Ze is erg serieus. Ik schijn haar maanden geleden eens gekust te hebben en dat wist ze nu nog.’
‘Dat is niet zo best.’
‘Wat moet ik nu doen? Ik bedoel, zal ik er mee doorgaan? Voor je het weet komen er scheidingen van en dan zit ik aan haar vast.’
‘Nou, en?’
‘Dat kan toch niet. Dat wil ik niet.’
‘Veel bidden maar.’

Remco Campert (Den Haag, 28 juli 1929)

De Engelse dichter, verhalen- en romanschrijver Malcolm Lowry werd geboren 28 juli 1909 in Birkenhead Merseyside. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2010

Uit: Under the Volcano

“Slightly to the right and below them, below the gigantic red evening, whose reflection bled away in the deserted swimming pools scattered everywhere like so many mirages, lay the peace and sweetness of the town. It seemed peaceful enough from where they were sitting. Only if one listened intently, as M. Laruelle was doing now, could one distinguish a remote confused sound—distinct yet somehow inseparable from the minute murmuring, the tintinnabulation of the mourners—as of singing, rising and falling, and a steady trampling—the bangs and cries of the fiesta that had been going on all day.

M. Laruelle poured himself another anís. He was drinking anís because it reminded him of absinthe. A deep flush had suffused his face, and his hand trembled slightly over the bottle, from whose label a florid demon brandished a pitchfork at him.

"—I meant to persuade him to go away and get déalcoholisé," Dr Vigil was saying. He stumbled over the word in French and continued in English. "But I was so sick myself that day after the ball that I suffer, physical, really. That is very bad, for we doctors must comport ourselves like apostles. You remember, we played tennis that day too. Well, after I looked the Consul in his garden I sended a boy down to see if he would come for a few minutes and knock my door, I would appreciate it to him, if not, please write me a note, if drinking have not killed him already."

M. Laruelle smiled.

"But they have gone," the other went on, "and yes, I think to ask you too that day if you had looked him at his house."

"He was at my house when you telephoned, Arturo."

"Oh, I know, but we got so horrible drunkness that night before, so perfectamente borracho, that it seems to me, the Consul is as sick as I am." Dr. Vigil shook his head. "Sickness is not only in body, but in that part used to be call soul. Poor your friend he spend his money on earth in such continuous tragedies."

Malcolm Lowry (28 juli 1909  - 26 juni 1957)

De Argentijnse schrijfster Angélica Gorodischer werd geboren in Buenos Aires op 28 juli 1928. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2010

Uit: Kalpa Imperial (Vertaald door Ursula K. Le Guin)

“The storyteller said: Now that the good winds are blowing, now that we’re done with days of anxiety and nights of terror, now that there are no more denunciations, persecutions, secret executions, and whim and madness have departed from the heart of the Empire, and we and our children aren’t playthings of blind power; now that a just man sits on the Golden Throne and people look peacefully out of their doors to see if the weather’s fine and plan their vacations and kids go to school and actors put their heart into their lines and girls fall in love and old men die in their beds and poets sing and jewelers weigh gold behind their little windows and gardeners rake the parks and young people argue and innkeepers water the wine and teachers teach what they know and we storytellers tell old stories and archivists archive and fishermen fish and all of us can decide according to our talents and lack of talents what to do with our life—now anybody can enter the emperor’s palace, out of need or curiosity; anybody can visit that great house which was for so many years forbidden, prohibited, defended by armed guards, locked, and as dark as the souls of the Warrior Emperors of the Dynasty of the Ellydr�vides. Now any of us can walk those wide, tapestried corridors, sit down in the courtyards to listen to the fountains run, go into the kitchens and cadge a doughnut from a fat, grinning cook’s helper, pick a flower in the gardens, admire ourself in the mirror galleries, watch maids go by with baskets full of clean laundry, tickle the foot of a marble statue with an irreverent finger, say good morning to the crown prince’s tutors, smile at the princesses playing ball on the lawn; and then go on to the door of the throne room and simply wait our turn to come right up to the emperor and say to him, for instance, “Sir, I love plays, but my town doesn’t have a theater. Do you think you might tell them to build one?”

Angélica Gorodischer (Buenos Aires, 28 juli 1928)

De Engelse dichter en Jezuïet Gerard Manley Hopkins werd geboren op 28 juli 1844 in Stratford, Essex. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 28 juli 2010

The Windhover

To Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-    

dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding   

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding      

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing   

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding 

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding  

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!   

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here     

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion  

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!    

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion      

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,      

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Spring and Fall:

to a Young Child

Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow's springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

The Soldier

YES. Why do we áll, seeing of a soldier, bless him? bless       

Our redcoats, our tars? Both these being, the greater part,     

But frail clay, nay but foul clay. Here it is: the heart,         

Since, proud, it calls the calling manly, gives a guess  

That, hopes that, makesbelieve, the men must be no less;      

It fancies, feigns, deems, dears the artist after his art;     

And fain will find as sterling all as all is smart,      

And scarlet wear the spirit of wár thére express.  

Mark Christ our King. He knows war, served this soldiering through;           

He of all can handle a rope best. There he bides in bliss   

Now, and séeing somewhére some mán do all that man can do,      

For love he leans forth, needs his neck must fall on, kiss,    

And cry ‘O Christ-done deed! So God-made-flesh does too:     

Were I come o’er again’ cries Christ ‘it should be this’.           

Gerard Manley Hopkins (28 juli 1844 – 8 juni 1889)