De Duitse schrijver en arts Jens Petersen werd geboren op 20 maart 1976 in Pinneberg. Zie alle tags voor Jens Petersen op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Uit: Bis dass der Tod

„Nana, flüsterte er.

Nun hockt er auf einem Findling am Ufer, kneift die Augen zusammen und horcht inmitten des eisigen Morgengrauens in sich hinein. Sie sind allein; die ersten Wanderer werden erst später kommen, bloß der zerzauste Hund streunt im Dickicht des Schilfs umher, uriniert an den Grenzpflock und humpelt schließlich Richtung Wald, tief geduckt, mit hängendem Schwanz, am Steiß eine schwarze Wunde.

Alex schaltet den Gaskocher ein, rührt Kaffee in das trübe Wasser und legt die Tabletten aus dem Dispenser auf den schmalen Tisch, zwei große gelbe, die bitter schmecken, dazu eine weiße mit Zuckerhülle und dem Schriftzug eines bankrotten Konzerns. Nana kauert auf der Matratze und lauscht mit offenem Mund einem Sinfoniekonzert im Radio. Alex kann sehen, wie sie mit den Lidern blinzelt, zweimal.

Meinst du, sagt er.

Noch ein Blinzeln.

Ist gut, sagt Alex. Moment.

Er bückt sich und nimmt eine der weißen Einwegspritzen aus dem Kühlschrank. In seinem Inneren zieht sich seit ein paar Tagen alles zusammen; nie hat er solche Krämpfe gehabt, nie war sein Kopf so leer und dabei so schwer, so erfüllt von Stechen, Ziepen und diesem Rumoren. Manchmal meint er, Stimmen zu hören. Dann wäre alles aus. Hörte er Stimmen, würde er keinen Schritt mehr weitergehen, aber es ist bloß eine Art Murmeln, und meistens verebbt es im Nichts.

Er presst die Kanüle auf die Spritze und schiebt sie dann beinah bis zum Anschlag in das Fläschchen mit dem Morphium. Das Zeug ist zu schwach, Nana zu schaden; es nimmt ihr nicht mal den Schmerz. Er zögert, geht dann die kurze Strecke vom Herd hinüber zum Bett, hört das Tappen seiner Füße auf dem Laminat. Manchmal sieht er sich, wie er linkisch versucht, einen Verschluss zu öffnen oder auf dem Boden verschüttete Tabletten zusammenkratzt. Wie er singt, etwas vorliest oder Nana die Hand hält; wie er sie stützt und mit ihr spricht, fast, als versuchte er, etwas mit seiner Spucke zu kitten, das in Abermillionen harter Teile zerborsten ist.“

Jens Petersen (Pinneberg, 20 maart 1976)

De Australische schrijver David Malouf werd geboren op 20 maart 1934 in Brisbane. Zie alle tags voor David Malouf op dit blog.

Uit: Remembering Babylon

„The stick-like legs, all knobbed at the joints, suggested a wounded waterbird, a brolga, or a human that in the manner of the tales they told one another, all spells and curses, had been changed into a bird, but only halfway, and now, neither one thing nor the other, was hopping and flapping towards them out of a world over there, beyond the no-man's-land of the swamp, that was the abode of everything savage and fearsome, and since it lay so far beyond experience, not just their own but their parents' too, of nightmare rumours, superstitions and all that belonged to Absolute Dark.
A bit of blue rag was at its middle from which sleeves hung down. They swung and signalled. But the sticks of arms above its head were also signalling, or beating off flies, or licks of invisible flame. Ah, that was it. It was a scarecrow that had somehow caught the spark of life, got down from its pole, and now, in a raggedy, rough-headed way, was stumbling about over the blazing earth, its leathery face scorched black, but with hair, they saw, as it bore down upon them, as sun-bleached and pale-straw coloured as their own.
Whatever it was, it was the boy's intention to confront it. Very sturdy and purposeful, two paces in front of his cousins, though it might have been a hundred yards in the tremendous isolation he felt, and with a belief in the power of the weapon he held that he knew was impossible and might not endure, he pushed the stick into his shoulder and took his stance.
The creature, almost upon them now and with Flash at its heels, came to a halt, gave a kind of squawk, and leaping up onto the top rail of the fence, hung there, its arms outflung as if preparing for flight. Then the ragged mouth gapped.
'Do not shoot,' it shouted. 'I am a B-b-british object!'

David Malouf (Brisbane, 20 maart 1934)

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Johann Christian Friedrich Hölderlin werd geboren op 20 maart 1770 in Lauffen am Neckar in het Hertogdom Württemberg. Zie alle tags voor Friedrich Hölderlin op dit blog.

Die Nacht

Seid gegrüßt, ihr zufluchtsvolle Schatten,

Ihr Fluren, die ihr einsam um mich ruht;

Du stiller Mond, du hörst, nicht wie Verleumder lauren,

Mein Herz, entzückt von deinem Perlenglanz.

Aus der Welt, wo tolle Toren spotten,

Um leere Schattenbilder sich bemühn,

Flieht der zu euch, der nicht das schimmernde Getümmel

Der eitlen Welt, nein! nur die Tugend liebt.

Nur bei dir empfindt auch hier die Seele,

Wie göttlich sie dereinst wird sein,

Die Freude, deren falschem Schein so viel Altäre,

So viele Opfer hier gewidmet sind.

Weit hinauf, weit über euch, ihr Sterne,

Geht sie entzückt mit heilgem Seraphsflug;

Sieht über euch herab mit göttlich heilgem Blicke,

Auf ihre Erd, da wo sie schlummernd ruht....

Goldner Schlaf, nur dessen Herz zufrieden

Wohltätger Tugend wahre Freude kennt,

Nur der fühlt dich. - Hier stellst du dürftig schwache Arme,

Die seine Hülfe suchen, vor ihn hin.

Schnell fühlt er des armen Bruders Leiden;

Der arme weint, er weinet auch mit ihm;

Schon Trost genug! Doch spricht er, gab Gott seine Gaben

Nur mir? nein, auch für andre lebe ich. -

Nicht von Stolz, noch Eitelkeit getrieben,

Kleidt er den Nackten dann, und sättigt den,

Dem blasse Hungersnot sein schwach Gerippe zählet;

Und himmlisch wird sein fühlend Herz entzückt.

So ruht er, allein des Lasters Sklaven

Quält des Gewissens bange Donnerstimm,

Und Todesangst wälzt sie auf ihren weichen Lagern,

Wo Wollust selber sich die Rute hält.

Friedrich Hölderlin (20 maart 1770 – 7 juni 1843)

Portret door Franz Karl Hiemer, 1792

De Franse schrijver Benoît Duteurtre werd geboren op 20 maart 1960 in Saint-Adresse nabij le Havre. Zie alle tags voor Benoît Duteurtre op dit blog.

Uit: Just like in the movies (Drôle de temps, vertaald door Ophelia Fadullon Lizot en Luis Antonio Maneru)

„Enclosed in the invitation was a photocopied plan indicating the different routes to Mass, then to dinner. Lionel excused himself saying he could ouly attend dinner. When the day arrived, he took the train to the nearest station, jumped into a cab, followed a winding roud along a river, then entered a forest. Exiting the woods, the driver pointed to a château dominating the valley: a middle-class 19th century folly, converted into a restaurant-hotel for family receptions and company seminars.
The entrance to the estate opened on to a paved alley decorated with woodworm-riddltd statues, maintaining the illusion of a park. The rest of the gardens were converted into a parking lot. Lionel paid the taxi. Around him, men in suits and women with hats got out of their big expensive cars ? injection models, in dark colors, with flashing warning lights. They walked with the spring wind, in the euphoria of the wedding ceremouy. The conversation revolved around business, children, studies, and holidays. At the château's entrance, the newlywed couple, dressed in coattails and a white dress, welcomed guests. Lionel kissed his uncle and annt, the bridegroom's parents, disguised as the Lord and his Lady. Wearing a formal top hat, Uncle Jean was smoking a cigar, assuming the airs of country gentry.
Cocktails were served before dinner. The guests gathered in the living room which had sliding doors opening out above the river. Lionel greeted several cousins who found him in top form, which reassured him. At 31 years of age, his late bloomer bohemian attire, a ratty pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a slogan in big letters that said: "Never Work," bothered some people; but tonight, everyLody was amused by it. Words rang out in discussions revolving around golf, skiing, cars, eelevision, family, and politics. A District Member of Parliament, a friend of the family, was talking with an industrialist.“

Benoît Duteurtre (Saint-Adresse, 20 maart 1960)

De Afrikaans-Amerikaanse schrijver, journalist en cultuurcriticus Touré werd geboren op 20 maart 1971 in Milton, Massachusetts. Zie alle tags voor Touré op dit blog.

Uit: The Portable Promised Land: Stories

„So he cruised with Stevie every day. Stevie fit every mood. If he felt upbeat and wanted to groove, he pushed button number one and Stevie preached: "Very supa-stish-uuus..." If he felt sad it was number seventeen: "Lately I have had the strangest feel-ing...." When he had his sweet, late mother on his mind he soothed her memory with number twelve: "You are the sunshine of my life..." When thinking politics, number seventythree: "Living for the City." Every June first, as the sun sang out and the days got hot, number 129: "Ma cher-ee a-mour..." When he started a new relationship, number ninety-seven: "Send her your love...." Yes, he loved Stevie's entire catalog, even the 80s shlock like Jungle Fever, loved it with the unquestioning devotion the faithful reserve for their God. Huggy Bear was a devout Stevie-ite. To him Stevie was a wise, gifted, mystical being, most definitely from another planet and of another consciousness, part eternal child, part social crusader, part sappy sentimentalist, an unabashed lover of God and women and all things sweet and just. When he cruised down Freedom Ave blasting Stevie, he was taking lessons on life. He was meditating. He was praying.

Each Sunday morning Huggy Bear rose with the sun to wash, wax, buff, and pamper his cathedral on wheels. He walked to the gas station to fill his portable can (walking ended up being faster). And then he sat and chose the day's album, carefully matching it with his mood, spending as much time on this as many women take to get dressed for a big night. When he found the perfect album he laid back, way back, and placed the first finger of his right hand on the bottom of the wheel so that his hand rested between his legs (there was something phallic about it, but he chose not to follow that line of thought). Then he eased away from the curb and cruised into downtown Soul City and onto Freedom Ave, looking for his homeboys Mojo Johnson, Boozoo, and Groovy Lou. They were all Stevie-ites and they all had they own little chapels. Together they would turtle down Freedom Ave, all four rides blasting the same Stevie song at the same time.“

Touré (Milton, 20 maart 1971)

Hier met DJ Spooky (rechts) op het Brooklyn Book Festival, 2009

De Amerikaanse dichter en fotograaf Gerard Joseph Malanga werd geboren op 20 maart 1943 in New York. Zie alle tags voor Gerard Malanga op dit blog.

The Nature of Violent Storms (Fragment)

I thought writing this

Of the "soft shoulder" you spoke freely

As difficult in the tunnel

You come through but

In the winter the drainpipe

To decide the soft edge of a headache.

There was no return to the approach but the signs were in sight.

We get happy, on

The hate

All the trees

Students visit

Winter brushes the shackle

The boy has lived in this house

Hold in the darkness all year.

Is the ambulance with the red tape?

"Mush" categorically "goes"

We are helpless in the turn on the road,

But the lights and the passion persist,

Knowing we cannot move to miss them.

Yet I own every suit I am wearing.

And the high degree of the promise

Through long distance is easy.

Though we are not almost always alone,

There are many cigarettes in the cigarette

Machine. Something goes into my veins

And excites me. We learn

Nothing as the result of being

Somewhere else, and I find

It's too often brief and precise

In terms that allow time for personal

Bank checks to clear.

Gerard Malanga (New York, 20 maart 1943)

Nico en Gerard Malanga in Andy Warhol's 'Chelsea Girls'