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De Russisch-Amerikaanse dichter Joseph Brodsky werd op 24 mei 1940 in Leningrad (het huidige St.Petersburg) geboren als Iosif Brodski. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Joseph Brodsky op dit blog.
24 mei 1980
In plaats van een beest heb ik me steeds in een kooi laten zetten,
mijn straftijd en nummer heb ik gekrast in celmuren,
'k heb aan zee gewoond, gespeeld aan de roulette,
in rok gesoupeerd met de vreemdste sinjeuren.
Hoog op een gletsjer had ik de halve wereld voor ogen,
'k ben driemaal verdronken, heb tweemaal onder het mes gelegen.
Het land dat mij grootbracht heb ik verloochend.
Je kunt een stad vullen met allen die mij zijn vergeten.
'k Heb door steppen gedwaald waar de grond zich de Hunnen herinnert,
kleren aangehad die weer in de mode raken,
rogge gezaaid, schuren van hardhout getimmerd
en het enige dat ik nimmer dronk is droog water.
'k Heb mijn dromen gevuld met 't stalen oog van de bewaking,
het genadebrood van de balling tot de laatste kruimel verslonden.
Elke klank is mijn keel gepasseerd behalve janken;
'k ben gaan fluisteren. Vandaag ben ik veertig geworden.
Wat moet ik zeggen van het leven ? Dat het lang is gebleken.
Solidariteit voel ik alleen met mislukten en manken.
Maar zolang mijn strot niet onder de klei wordt vertreden
zal 't geluid dat hij geeft enkel dit zijn: danken.
Ter nagedachtenis aan mijn vader: Australië
Ik droomde dat je nog leefde en geëmigreerd
was naar Australië. Doodgemoedereerd
kwam je stem tot mij, mopperend over het klimaat
en het behang: de flat die je hebt gehuurd staat
jammer genoeg niet in het centrum maar aan zee,
vier hoog, geen lift, wel een bad, dat valt mee,
dikke enkels, 'En m'n pantoffels ben ik kwijt'
klonk het goed verstaanbaar en ietwat zuur.
En in de hoorn gierde opeens 'Adelaide ! Adelaide !',
het bulderde, beukte, alsof er tegen een muur
een luik sloeg, van de scharnieren bijna los.
Toch is dit stukken beter dan de urn met je as,
dan het document waarop je sterfdatum staat -
deze flarden van een stem die praat en praat
en de pogingen nors te lijken en onaangedaan
de eerste keer sinds jij in rook bent opgegaan.
Vertaald door Jan Robert Braat e.a.
I threw my arms about those shoulders
I threw my arms about those shoulders, glancing
at what emerged behind that back,
and saw a chair pushed slightly forward,
merging now with the lighted wall.
The lamp glared too bright to show
the shabby furniture to some advantage,
and that is why sofa of brown leather
shone a sort of yellow in a corner.
The table looked bare, the parquet glossy,
the stove quite dark, and in a dusty frame
a landscape did not stir. Only the sideboard
seemed to me to have some animation.
But a moth flitted round the room,
causing my arrested glance to shift;
and if at any time a ghost had lived here,
he now was gone, abandoning this house.
Joseph Brodsky (24 mei 1940 – 28 januari 1996)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Michael Chabon werd geboren op 24 mei 1963 in Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Michael Chabon op dit blog.
Uit:Telegraph Avenue
“Just before his hostess for the evening, who held the patent on a gene that coded for a protein to prevent the rejection of a transplanted kidney, directed everyone to gather under the carved and stenciled fir beams of her living room, and sent the young woman from the campaign out to tell the band to knock it off for ten minutes so that the state senator, Obama of Illinois, could address his fellow guests, each of whom had contributed at least one thousand dollars to attend this event, an address in which he would attempt by measured words and a calm demeanor to reassure them (vainly and mistakenly, as it would turn out) that their candidate for the presidency of the United States would not go down to inglorious defeat in November, Obama stopped in the doorway that opened onto the flagstone patio to listen for a minute to the hired band. They were cooking their way with evident seriousness of intent through an instrumental cover of “Higher Ground.”
“Those guys are pretty funky,” he observed, directing his remark to a short, extraordinarily pregnant woman in a man’s bowling shirt who stood beyond the open patio doors, dark, pretty, her hair worn in a fetching artful anemone of baby dreadlocks. The fingers of her right hand flicked shadow-bass notes on her belly. At his remark, the pregnant woman nodded without turning to look at him—there was an elaborate candelabra of a potted cactus behind whose tapered thorns she appeared to be attempting, somewhat punitively, to conceal herself. Obama was running for the United States Senate that summer and had given a wonderful speech last month at the Democratic Convention in Boston. When she did turn to him, her eyes got very wide”.
Michael Chabon (Washington, 24 mei 1963)
De Amerikaanse zanger, songwriter en dichter Bob Dylan werd geboren als Robert Allen Zimmerman op 24 mei 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Zie ook alle tags voor Bob Dylan op dit blog.
Every Grain of Sand
In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need,
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed,
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.
Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake -
Like Cain I now behold this chain of events that I must break.
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.
Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer.
Ah, the sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way,
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.
I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name.
Then onward in my journey I've come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.
I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night,
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintery light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.
I hear the agéd footsteps like the motion of the sea,
Sometimes I turn - there's someone there - other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man,
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.
Bob Dylan (Duluth, 24 mei 1941)
De Franse schrijver, dichter en schilder Henri Michaux werd geboren op 24 mei 1899 in Namur in België. Zie ook alle tags voor Henri Michaux op dit blog.
Lieux Inexprimables
Deux peupliers perdent leurs feuilles, perdent éternellement leurs dernières feuilles jaunâtres.
Les passants sont rares et un froid jusqu'à l'âme les saisit à s'engager plus loin.
Un sapin guette une femme derrière une porte.
Qu'arrivera-t-il?
Eh!
Eh!
Cela dépend de l'heure, cela dépend du chapeau que par une embrasure à demi masquée elle arrache pour se le mettre, pour s'en aller se pavaner avec, si elle peut, si elle
peut oublier...
La campagne dort.
La ville est morte.
Les ombres d'un soir tôt venu et qui n'en finit pas, et qui n'en finira pas, s'étendent, s'étendent.
Une voiture plus encroûtée dans l'immobile que la muraille d'une ancienne forteresse occupe une place inchangée, à jamais inchangée.
Le lugubre habite ici.
Une horloge solennelle marque des heures qui ne comptent plus.
Henri Michaux (24 mei 1899 – 19 oktober 1984)
De Ierse schrijver William Trevor werd geboren op 24 mei 1928 in Mitchelstown, County Cork. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2010
Uit: Love and Summer
“But even so it was an exaggeration when people said that the Connultys owned half of Rathmoye. Compact and ordinary, it was a town in a hollow that had grown up there for no reason that anyone knew or wondered about. Farmers brought in livestock on the first Monday of every month, and borrowed money from one of Rathmoye's two banks. They had their teeth drawn by the dentist who practised in the Square, from time to time consulted a solicitor there, inspected the agricultural machinery at Des Devlin's on the Nenagh road, dealt with Heffernan the seed merchant, drank in one of the town's many public houses. Their wives shopped for groceries from the warehouse shelves of the Cash and Carry, or in McGovern's if they weren't economizing; for shoes in Tyler's; for clothes, curtain material and oilcloth in Corbally's drapery. There had once been employment at the mill, and at the mill's electricity plant before the Shannon Scheme came; there was employment now at the creamery and the condensed-milk factory, in builders' yards, in shops and public houses, at the bottled-water plant. There was a courthouse in the Square, an abandoned railway station at the end of Mill Street. There were two churches and a convent, a Christian Brothers' school and a technical school. Plans for a swimming-pool were awaiting the acquisition of funds. Nothing happened in Rathmoye, its people said, but most of them went on living there. It was the young who left -- for Dublin or Cork or Limerick, for England, sometimes for America. A lot came back. That nothing happened was an exaggeration too. The funeral Mass was on the morning of the following day, and when it was over Mrs Connulty's mourners stood about outside the cemetery gates, declaring that she would never be forgotten in the town and beyond it. The women who had toiled beside her in the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer asserted that she had been an example to them all. They recalled how no task had been too menial f Excerpted from Love and Summer by William Trevor All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.“
William Trevor (Mitchelstown, 24 mei 1928)
De Duitse schrijver en tekenaar Tobias Falberg werd geboren op 24 mei 1976 in Wittenberg. Zie ook alle tags voor Tobias Falberg op dit blog.
Sporen
Maßgefertigter Staub. Siehst du die Rädchen drehn
an der stählernen Wand? Dort tritt der Grundstoff aus,
Nanoteilchen, geschaffen
um sich später zu finden und
miteinander vereint Server zu bilden, Land
abzudecken. Der Staub ruht für gewisse Zeit,
wird sich fliegend verbreiten,
bis er plötzlich nach Bindung strebt.
Fliegt er, filtre die Luft, atme nicht ohne Schutz,
sonst befällt er dich schnell. Vorsicht, wenn feiner Sand
silbern schimmert, sich ohne
Fremdeinwirkung zu Mustern prägt.
Ist ein Setzling komplett, bootet er. Sein Impuls
gibt den Teilchen Struktur, scannt die Umgebung, sucht
nach identischen Partnern,
lädt im Licht, um ans Netz zu gehn.
Ich erst erschuf dich
Ich erst erschuf dich, ich las
dich aus dem Sand, Meer-
tochter, aus dem Wirbel der Düne,
entkörnte die Kehlen
der Knie: ihr Atem lief an
meine Finger beschreiben den Schritt
in Sanskrit, ins Schwarz-
buch der Sinne: es spricht
von gestrandetem Licht.
Tobias Falberg (Wittenberg, 24 mei 1976)
De Britse schrijver Arnold Wesker werd geboren op 24 mei 1932 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Arnold Wesker op dit blog..
Uit: Diary 1956
“From 27 May 1956 until 17 January 1957 I lived in Paris with Dusty, my wife-to-be, and worked as a chef in Restaurant Le Rallye on the Boulevard des Capucines. Aged 24, I kept a diary and recorded the first few days at work. From this experience came The Kitchen.
In the notes I wrote to myself before writing the play, I asked: 'The question really is, can the screen do it better?' And answered: 'This idea (of The Kitchen) has one advantage. The action only has significance in one place: the kitchen. It does not depend on any other scene or outside connections, for its strength.'
Another question: must I decide upon a theme or does the theme arise out of character behaviour? I've never decided to write on a specific theme. When driven to write, it is because I sense that my characters and their actions which have drawn me to write about them embody a theme. I would not have begun to write about people I met in the Paris kitchen if I hadn't sensed they embodied a theme that could cross time and frontiers.
Nor did I preconceive the play's structure. The material dictated its own shape. I learnt early on in my career never to impose upon the material what doesn't belong to it. I, the author, am not important, the material is . . .”
Arnold Wesker (Londen, 24 mei 1932)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 24e mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.
24-05-2014 om 13:23
geschreven door Romenu 
Tags:Joseph Brodsky, Michael Chabon, Bob Dylan, Henri Michaux, William Trevor, Tobias Falberg, Arnold Wesker, Romenu
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