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De Amerikaanse schrijver Michael Anthony Dorris werd geboren op 30 januari 1945 in Louisville, Kentucky. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 januari 2010 en ook mijn blog van 30 januari 2011.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Broken Cord
I sat in the lobby of the Pierre airport, waiting. The terminal resembled an oversized department store display case, the kind in which jewelry or cosmetics are arranged--a glass front, neutral colors, brightly lit--except that this one existed in isolation, a rectangular box on the flat, wind-scoured plain of central South Dakota. A draft of air had lifted the wings of the small commuter plane just before we landed, releasing first a collective moan of dread and then the embarrassed laughter of survival among my fellow passengers.
On the ground I got a better look at them: three bureaucrats, dressed in wrinkle-free suits, with business in the state capital; two ranchers sporting their go-to-town buckles--large silver and turquoise affairs that divided barrel chests from thin, booted legs; a harried mother trying to convince a small child with pressure-stopped ears to yawn or swallow; a visiting in-law, met loudly by a woman in curlers and Bermuda shorts.
I felt exhilarated and out of place, a stranger on a mission no one would suspect: within the hour, I was due to become an unmarried father.
The year was 1971 and I was twenty-six years old, ex-would-be hippie, candidate for a Yale doctorate in anthropology, a first-year instructor at a small experimental college in New England. This cloudy afternoon in Pierre was the culmination of a journey I had begun nine months before when, while doing fieldwork in rural Alaska, it occurred to me that I wanted a child, I wanted to be a parent.
I remember precisely the context of this realization. I was living then in a cabin in Tyonek, an Athapaskan-speaking Indian community on the west coast of CookInlet, collecting information about the impact of modernization and oil revenues on the life of this remote fishing village. Much of my time was spent in the study of the local language, linguistically related to Navajo and Apache but distinctly adapted to the subarctic environment.
Michael Dorris (30 januari 1945 10 april 1997)
De Engels-Amerikaanse schrijfster Barbara Wood werd geboren op 30 januari 1947 in Warrington. Zie ook alle tags voor Barbara Wood op dit blog.
Uit: The Golden Land
Lady Margaret awoke in sudden pain.
Lying in the darkness, trying to determine the hour of the day, she heard the rain pelting the mullioned windows and remembered that she had decided to lie down before dinner.
She must have fallen asleep
Another sharp pain. No! It's too soon!
With great effortthe baroness was eight months pregnantshe managed to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. It had been daylight when she had come into the bedroom; now it was dark and no lamps were lit. She groped frantically for the bell rope and as she gave it a pull, she felt warm dampness spread beneath her.
"No," she whispered. "Please God, no...." Another sharp pain made her cry out.
By the time the housekeeper arrived, the pains had become stronger and closer together. Mrs. Keen rushed to the bedside, where the glow from her oil lamp fell upon bed sheets soaked in blood. And Her Ladyship-"Dear God," whispered the housekeeper as she eased the shockingly white baroness back down onto the pillows.
"The baby," gasped Lady Margaret. "It's coming...."
Mrs. Keen stared at her. Lady Margaret's long red hair, streaming down her back and over her shoulders, made her seem younger than her twenty-three years. She looked frail and vulnerable. And now the premature pains.
Earlier, when Lady Margaret had said she was feeling out of sorts, Lord Falconbridge had gone himself to fetch the doctor at Willoughby Hall. But that had been hours ago. Had the storm washed the road out? "Don't you worry, Your Ladyship," Mrs. Keen crooned. "Your husband and Dr. Willoughby will be here shortly."
Barbara Wood (Warrington, 30 januari 1947)
De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Richard Brautigan werd geboren op 30 januari 1935 in Tacoma, Washinton. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Brautigan op dit blog.
It's Raining In Love
I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.
All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace
I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammels and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
Deer Tracks
Beautiful, sobbing
high-geared fucking
and then to lie silently
like deer tracks in the
freshly-fallen snow beside
the one you love.
That's all.
Richard Brautigan (30 januari 1935 september 1984)
In 1960
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hans Erich Nossack werd op 30 januari 1901 geboren in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Hans Erich Nossack op dit blog.
Uit: Der jüngere Bruder
Worum es mir jetzt noch geht, ist allein die Geschichte meines Suchens nach einem Menschen, den ich für meinen Jüngeren Bruder hielt, und da ich ihn immer noch dafür halte, drängt es mich, sie niederzuschreiben. Ich setze die Bezeichnung Jüngerer Bruder in Anführungsstriche, da sie zweifelhaft ist; auf keinen Fall hat sie etwas mit Familie und sogenannter Blutsverwandtschaft zu tun. Man hat mir andere Bezeichnungen vorgeschlagen, doch obwohl sie im Munde der Menschen, die sich ihrer bedienten, recht glaubhaft klangen - es waren Menschen, auf die ich bei meiner Suche stieß und die ich sehr schätze -, möchte ich lieber bei meinem Ausdruck bleiben, der mir ein klein wenig präziser zu sein scheint. Zum mindesten stimmt das Eigenschaftswort >jünger<. Der, nach dem ich suchte, muß irgendwann einmal sechzehn Jahre jünger gewesen sein als ich, ja, ich möchte es sogar noch genauer formulieren: er muß geboren sein, als ich sechzehn war; denn wieviel jünger er in diesem Augenblick ist, vermag ich nicht zu sagen. Das klingt wie Unsinn, denn natürlich müßte er auch heute sechzehn Jahre jünger sein, und wenn ich das während der ganzen Monate meines Suchens bezweifelte, mag es daran liegen, daß ich mir eine falsche Vorstellung von ihm machte. Das Zahlenmäßige spielt auch keine Rolle, wichtig ist eben nur, daß er jünger ist - oder war. Ich weiß nämlich nicht, ob er noch existiert, ich weiß nur, daß er existiert hat. Nach einem Gerede, das mir zugeflüstert wurde, soll er umgekommen sein, doch alles sträubt sich in mir, dieser Mitteilung Glauben zu schenken. In unserm Zeitalter, und vor allem in diesem Europa, laufen viele Menschen umher, die ihre Herkunft vergessen haben, verschollene, aufgejagte und im Stich gelassene Menschen, und wenn nun so eine Person ums Leben kommt, ist die Polizei nur zu froh, eine der zahlreichen Lücken in den Akten mit dem Toten ausfallen zu können.
Hans Erich Nossack (30 januari 1901 2 november 1977)
Portret door Ludwig Meidner
De Estlandse schrijver Anton Hansen Tammsaare werd geboren op 30 januari 1878 in Albu. Zie ook alle tags voor Anton Hansen Tammsaare op dit blog.
Uit: I Loved a German
"We had heard about it since childhood from our mothers and fathers, older brothers and sisters, relatives and friends. God had burdened the parish with all manner of woe and worry, whereas endless feasts went on at the manor. The parish suffered constant deprivation, even hunger, while the manor enjoyed perpetual affluence, wealth, splendour,"
(,,,)
"We had taken over the manors, and now we hastened to take over their way of life ... We did what we could, in order to adopt, together with the manors, their traditions, customs, way of life, world view, the whole ethical and aesthetic approach to life .... Our heart revolves around the empty abode of our own slave master, as if our conscience were tormenting us."
Anton Hansen Tammsaare (30 januari 1878 1 maart 1940)
Monument in het naar Tammsaare genoemde park in Tallin
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 30e januari ook mijn blog van 30 januari 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2
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