De Zwitserse schrijver en filosoof Pascal Mercier (eig. Peter Bieri) werd geboren op 23 juni 1944 in Bern. Zie ook alle tags voor Pascal Mercier op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Uit: Nachtzug nach Lissabon

“Die Tasche ging auf, und die Hefte glitten auf den nassen Asphalt. Die Frau drehte sich um. Für einige Augenblicke sah sie reglos zu, wie die Hefte vom Wasser dunkler wurden. Dann zog sie einen Filzstift aus der Manteltasche, machte zwei Schritte, bückte sich zu Gregorius hinunter und schrieb ihm eine Folge von Zahlen auf die Stirn.
»Entschuldigen Sie«, sagte sie auf französisch, atemlos und mit fremdländischem Akzent, »aber ich darf diese Telefonnummer nicht vergessen und habe kein Papier bei mir.«
Jetzt blickte sie auf ihre Hände, als sähe sie sie zum erstenmal. »Ich hätte natürlich auch ...«, und nun schrieb sie, zwischen Gregorius' Stirn und der Hand hin und her blickend, die Nummer auf den Handrücken. »Ich . „ ich wollte sie nicht behalten, ich wollte alles vergessen, aber als ich den Brief dann fallen sah ... „ ich mußte sie festhalten.«
Der Regen auf den dicken Brillengläsern trübte Gregorius die Sicht, und er tastete ungeschickt nach den nassen Heften. Wiederum, so schien ihm, glitt die Spitze des Filzstifts über seine Stirn. Doch dann merkte er, daß es jetzt der Finger der Frau war, die mit einem Taschentuch die Zahlen wegzuwischen versuchte.
»Es ist eine Zumutung, ich weiß ...«, und nun begann sie, Gregorius beim Aufsammeln der Hefte zu helfen. Er berührte ihre Hand und streifte ihr Knie, und als sie sich beide nach dem letzten Heft streckten, stießen sie mit dem Kopf zusammen.
»Vielen Dank«, sagte er, als sie sich gegenüberstanden. Er deutete auf ihren Kopf. »Tut es sehr weh?«
Abwesend, mit gesenktem Blick, schüttelte sie den Kopf. Der Regen prasselte auf ihr Haar und lief ihr übers Gesicht.
»Kann ich ein paar Schritte mit Ihnen gehen?«
»Äh ... ja, sicher«, stotterte Gregorius.
Schweigend gingen sie zusammen bis zum Ende der Brücke und weiter in Richtung Schule. Das Zeitgefühl sagte Gregorius, daß es nach acht war und die erste Stunde bereits begonnen hatte. Wie weit war »ein paar Schritte«? Die Frau hatte sich seinem Gang angepaßt und trottete neben ihm her, als ginge es den ganzen Tag so weiter. Sie hatte den breiten Kragen des Mantels so weit aufgestellt, daß Gregorius von der Seite nur ihre Stirn sah.
»Ich muß dort hinein, ins Gymnasium«, sagte er und blieb stehen. »Ich bin Lehrer.«
»Kann ich mitkommen?« fragte sie leise.”

Pascal Mercier (Bern, 23 juni 1944)

De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit: Lost Language of Cranes

“Early on a rainy Sunday afternoon in November a man was hurrying down Third Avenue, past closed and barred florist shops and newsstand, his hands stuffed into his pocket and his head bent against the wind. The avenue was deserted except for an occasional cab, which parted the gray water puddled in the potholes and sent it streaming. Behind the lighted windows of apartment buildings people stretched, divided the Sunday Times, poured coffee into glazed mugs, but in the street it was a different scene: A bum covered by soggy shopping bags huddled in a closed storefront; a woman in a brown coat held a paper over her head and ran; a pair of cops whose walkie-talkies blared distorted voices listened to an old woman weep in front of a pink enamelled building. What, the man wondered, was he, a decent and respectable man, with a well-heated apartment, good books to read, a coffee maker, doing out among these people, out in the street on a cold Sunday afternoon?”

(…)

” It was horrible, really, what I was feeling, the sense I had that I was running a terrible risk every minute of my life—risking my family, my career—but not being able to help it; somehow just not being able to help it. I was thinking every day how I had to change my life, how I couldn’t go on this way; but I knew the more I thought that, the farther I was getting from where I thought I should have been. ”

David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)

De Franse (toneel)schrijver Jean Anouilh werd geboren in Bordeaux op 23 juni 1910. Zie ook alle tags voor Jean Anouilh op dit blog.

Uit: Eurydice. Legend of Lovers (Vertaald door Kitty Black)

“The refreshment room of a provincial station. Overdecorated, worn, and dirty. Marble-topped tables, mirrors, benches covered with threadbare red velvet. Seated at a too high desk, like a Buddha on an altar, is the CASHIER, with a large bun and enormous breasts. Aged WAITERS, bald and dignified, spittoons, and sawdust. Before the rise of the curtain we hear an accordion. It is ORPHEUS playing quietly in the corner, beside his FATHER, absorbed in his miserable accounts in front of two empty glasses. In the background a single customer, a YOUNG MAN with his hat pulled down over his eyes, wearing a mackintosh, apparently lost in thought. Music for a moment, then the FATHER stops his additions and looks at ORPHEUS.

FATHER: My boy?

ORPHEUS (still playing): Father?

FATHER: You don‟t expect your poor old father to go round with the hat in a station restaurant?

ORPHEUS: I‟m playing for my own pleasure.

FATHER (continuing): A station restaurant with only one customer, who‟s pretending not to notice anyway. I know their little ways. They pretend not to be listening, and not to see the plate when you hold it out. But I pretend not to see they‟re pretending. (Pause, while ORPHEUS continues to play.) D‟you enjoy playing as much as that? I can‟t imagine how you, a musician, can still manage to like music. When I‟ve been twanging away for a bunch of idiots playing cards in a cafe, there‟s only one thing I want to do...

ORPHEUS (without stopping): Go and play cards in another cafe.”

Jean Anouilh (23 juni 1910 – 3 oktober 1987)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Richard Bach werd geboren in Oak Park, Illinois op 23 juni 1936. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Bach op dit blog.

Uit: The Bridge Across Forever

"Or you can quit. I thought if being a moviestar is so wonderful, why are there so many drunks and addicts and divorces and suicides in Celebrityville?" She looked at me, unguarded, unprotected. "I decided it wasn't worth it. I've mostly quit."
I wanted to pick her up and hug her for being so honest with me.
"You're the Famous Author," she said. "Does it feel that way to you: does this make sense to you?"
"A lot of sense. There's so much I need to know about this stuff. In the newspapers, have they done this to you? Print things you've never said?"
She laughed, "Things you've not only never said, but never thought, never believed, wouldn't think of doing. A story published about you, with quotes, word for word, made-up. Fiction. You've never seen the reporter . . . not even a phone call, and there you are in print! You pray readers won't believe what they see in some of those papers."
"I'm new at this, but I have a theory."
"What's your theory?" she said.
I told her about celebrities being examples that the rest of us watch while the world puts tests to them. It didn't sound as clear as what she had said.
She tilted her head up to me and smiled. When the sun went down, I noticed, her eyes changed color, to sea-and-moon-light.
"That's a nice theory, examples," she said. "But everybody's an example, aren't they? Isn't everybody a picture of what they think, of all the decisions they've made so far?"
"True. I don't know everybody, though: they don't matter to me unless I've met them in person or read about them or seen them on some screen. There was a thing on television a while ago, a scientist researching what it is that makes a violin sound the way it does, I thought what does the world need with that? Millions of people starving, who needs violin research?“

Richard Bach (Oak Park, 23 juni 1936)

De Russische dichteres Anna Achmatova werd geboren in Bolshoi Fontan bij Odessa, 23 juni 1889. Zie ook alle tags voor Anna Achmatova op dit blog.

Crucifix

Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave.

I
This greatest hour was hallowed and thandered
By angel's choirs; fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned...?"
And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry..."

II
Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Peter sank into the stone trance...
Only there, where Mother stood alone,
None has dared cast a single glance.

A widow in black

A widow in black -- the crying fall
Covers all hearts with a depressing cloud...
While her man's words are clearly recalled,
She will not stop her lamentations loud.
It will be so, until the snow puff
Will give a mercy to the pined and tired.
Forgetfulness of suffering and love --
Though paid by life -- what more could be desired?

And you, my friends who have been called away

And you, my friends who have been called away,
I have been spared to mourn for you and weep,
Not as a frozen willow over your memory,
But to cry to the world the names of those who sleep.
What names are those!
I slam shut the calendar,
Down on your knees, all!
Blood of my heart,
The people of Leningrad march out in even rows,
The living, the dead : fame can't tell them apart.

Anna Achmatova (23 juni 1889 - 5 maart 1966)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 23^e juni ook mijn blog van 23 juni 2011 deel 2.