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De Amerikaanse schrijver Miles Marshall Lewis werd geboren op 18 december 1970 in The Bronx, New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Miles Marshall Lewis op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: Bronx Noir
The all-night Baychester Diner harbored the same two wisecracking women in kempt hairweaves found at the counter every weekend past midnight. Each sported something slightly outré signaling her street profession. One wore a bright Wonder Woman bodice with deep cleavage on display, the other scarlet, fi shnets with a spiked leather dominatrix collar. Both brandished fi ve-inch stilettos. At the far corner banquette a young couple argued in Creole patois.
Si ou pa vlé bébé-an, ale vous an, hissed the pregnant teen in the pink Von Dutch cap.
Kingston and Lacey found an isolated booth and ordered breakfast from a homely waitress. Rain broke the August humidity, slicking the asphalt of Boston Road, while Kingston explained all about the Hernández brothers pushing their numbers turf further down Washington Heights into Harlem, their violent efforts to force him out, and his contingency fl ight plan to New Orleans.
King. You gonna up and leave just like that? Lacey asked. She craved a Newport.
They aint runnin me out, he bluffed. I done made plenty these past fi fteen years. I dont mind it. Business aint like it used to be nohow. Playin the numbers is old school, kiddo. More white folks is movin into Harlem now and they dont know nothin about me. They play Lotto.
Lacey laughed.
You never talked about retiring to New Orleans before.
Not to me, she thought.
I done told you bout the house. We aint never been together, but its down there. Since 2000. My cousin look after it, she over in Baton Rouge.
When are you talking about going?
I aint right decided yet. Could be two weeks.
Two weeks? Thats enough time for you to wrap up everything?
We gon see.
Miles Marshall Lewis (New York, 18 december 1970)
De Britse toneelschrijver Christopher Fry, pseudoniem van Christopher Harris, werd geboren in Bristol op 18 december 1907. Zie ook alle tags voor Christopher Fry op dit blog.
Uit: The Lady's Not for Burning
ACT I
THOMAS: (Off)
Soul!
RICHARD:
... and the plasterer, that's fifteen pence ...
THOMAS:
Hey, soul!
RICHARD:
... for stopping the draught in the privy ...
THOMAS: (Appearing)
Body!
You calculating piece of clay.
RICHARD:
Damnation!
THOMAS:
Don't mention it. I've never seen a world
So festering with damnation. I have left
Rings of beer on every alehouse table
From the salt sea coast across half a dozen counties,
But each time I thought I was on the way
To a faintly festive hiccup
The sight of the damn world sobered me up again.
Where is the Mayor? I've business with His Worship.
RICHARD:
Where have you come from?
THOMAS:
Straight from your alehouse.
Damnation's pretty active there this afternoon,
Licking her lips over gossip of murder and witchcraft.
There's mischief brewing for someone. Where's the Mayor?
RICHARD:
I'm the Mayor's clerk.
THOMAS:
How are you?
RICHARD:
Can I have your name?
THOMAS:
It's yours.
RICHARD:
Now, look...
THOMAS:
It's no earthly
Use to me. I travel light; as light,
That is, as a man can travel who will
Still carry his body around because
Of its sentimental value. Flesh
Weighs like a thousand years, and every morning
Wakes heavier for an intake of uproariously
Comical dreams which smell of henbane,
Guts, humors, ventricles, nerves, fibres,
And fat ... the arterial labyrinth, body's hell.
Still it was the first thing my mother gave me,
God rest her soul. What were you saying?
Christopher Fry (18 december 1907 - 30 juni 2005)
De Duitse schrijver Thomas Strittmatter werd geboren op 18 december 1961 in St. Georgen in het Zwarte Woud. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 december 2010.
Uit: Raabe Baikal
Raabe war nicht groß, seine Augen dunkel, seine Brust war trotz der langen, schweren Arbeit schmal geblieben. Anfangs hatte er gedacht, er könne die bevorstehende Zeit mit dem Steinmetzen nicht durchstehen. Der hatte auch am ersten Tag keinerlei Rücksicht auf Raabes offensichtliche, körperliche Schwäche genommen. Er hatte seine Anweisungen gegeben, wie es Menschen eigen ist, die ihr Leben in eine Arbeit einbringen, deren Leben von ihrer Arbeit abzuhängen scheint. Solche Anweisungen waren Befehle, die Raabe entweder ausführen mußte, oder er aber unweigerlich das Gefühl bekommen hätte, er verlöre jegliche Berechtigung, in der Nähe dieses leidenschaftlich arbeitenden Menschen zu sein. Raabe hätte sich selbst verachtet, wenn er gegangen wäre, und abgesehen davon hätte er nicht gewußt, wohin er ohne sein willentliches Zutun gekommen wäre. Vier Tage arbeitete der Steinmetz mit wenigen Unterbrechungen weiter. Auch Raabe fand keine Zeit und keine Ruhe mehr zu schlafen, und immer, wenn er es versuchte, hielten ihn der Lärm und seine dahinrasenden Gedanken davon ab. Sein schmächtiger Körper entfaltete viel Kraft, die auch den Steinmetzen erstaunt hätte, wäre er noch in der Lage gewesen, etwas wahrzunehmen, was sich nicht in dem kleinen Lichtkreis um seinen Stein befand. Sobald Raabe seine Augen schloß, krochen Heere von Mistkäfern oder tanzten schwebende Steintrümmer an ihm vorbei.
Thomas Strittmatter (18 december 1961 - 29 augustus 1995)
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