Rainer Malkowski
(26 december 1939 1 september 2003)
De Duitse dichter Rainer Malkowski werd geboren op 26 december 1939 in Berlijn-Tempelhof. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 december 2006.
Ein Tag für Impressionisten
Ein Tag für Impressionisten
Auch nach drei Wochen
noch keine Spur von Langeweile
beim Anblick des Sees.
Das Wasser schmatzt am Ufer
mit ungestilltem Appetit.
Ein Tag für Impressionisten,
vielleicht etwas windig.
Der alte Mann auf der Bank
hält die flatternde Buchseite fest.
Nichts überschlagen.
Jedes Wort ist das gesuchte.
Eine Glocke buchstabiert die Mittagsstunde
ruhig und bestimmt ins Blaue.
Was ich unter anderem noch schreiben will:
Was ich unter anderem
noch schreiben will:
Einen schimmernden Vers
über einen Frauenschenkel.
Meinen Dank an einen Rock,
der wußte,
wann er sich zurückziehen muss.
Ein Spottlied
über alternde Männer,
die sich zum Narren machen.
Eine Verteidigungsrede
für jede Narrheit,
die das Leben ist.
Augenblick
Wie sicher die Fliege
sich durchs Zimmer bewegt,
jetzt
auf einem Blatt Papier sitzt,
von dem sie nicht weiß,
daß es ein Brief ist,
in dem ein Freund beiläufig
über die Fliegen im Sommer klagt,
und in derselben Sekunde,
in der sie wieder abhebt,
höre ich,
wie Klaus und Carla im Nebenzimmer
über das Universum sprechen.
De Amerikaanse schrijver Henry Miller werd geboren op 26 december 1891 In New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 december 2006.
Uit: Sexus
"If you persist in throttling your impulses you end by becoming a clot of phlegm. You finally spit out a gob which completely drains you and which you only realize years later was not a gob of spit but your inmost self. If you lose that you will always race through dark streets like a madman pursued by phantoms. You will always be able to say with perfect sincerity: "I don't know what I want to do in life." You can push yourself clean through the filament of life and come out at the wrong end of the telescope, seeing everything beyond you, out of grasp, and diabolically twisted. From then on the game's up. Whichever direction you take you will find yourself in a hall of mirrors; you will race like a madman, searching for an exit, to find that you are surrounded only by distorted images of your own sweet self. ...
The world would only begin to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became- myself. The State, the nation, the united nations of the world, were nothing but one great aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it till death- and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it "life". If you asked anyone to explain or define life, what was the be-all and end-all, you got a blank look for an answer. Life was something which philosophers dealt with in books that no one read. Those in the thick of life, "the plugs in harness," had no time for such idle questions. "You've got to eat, haven't you.?" This query, which was supposed to be a stopgap, and which had already been answered, if not in the absolute negative at least in a disturbingly relative negative by those who knew, was a clue to all the other questions which followed in a veritable Euclidian suite. From the little reading I had done I had observed that the men who were most in life, who were molding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned nothing or little. They had no illusions about duty, or perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and truth alone. They recognized only one kind of activity- creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give. This was the way of life which appealed to me: it made sound sense. It was life- not the simulacrum which those about me worshipped. ...
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 26 december 2006.
De Franse schrijver en filosoof Julien Benda werd geboren op 26 december 1867 in Parijs.
De Engelse dichter en geleerde Thomas Gray werd geboren op 26 december 1716 in Londen.
26-12-2007 om 11:14
geschreven door Romenu 
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