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De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: Glue
Davie briskly shook his head. - Naw, take it while ye can get it. This is Scotland, mind, it's no gaunny last. Taking in a deep breath, Davie picked up the table, recommencing his arduous struggle towards the kitchen. It was a tricky, bugger: a smart new Formica-topped job which seemed to constantly shift its weight and spill all over the place. Like wrestling wi a fuckin crocodile, he thought, and sure enough, the beast snapped at his fingers forcing him to withdraw them quickly and suck on them as the table clattered to the floor.
- Sh ... sugar, Davie cursed. He never swore in front of women. Certain talk was awright for the pub, but no in front of a woman. He tiptoed over to the cot in the corner. The baby still slept soundly.
- Ah telt ye ah'd gie ye a hand wi that Davie, yir gaunny huv nae fingers and a broken table the wey things are gaun, Susan warned him. She shook her head slowly, looking over to the crib. - Surprised ye dinnae wake her.
Picking up her discomfort, Davie said, - Ye dinnae really like that table, dae ye?
Susan Galloway shook her head again. She looked past the new kitchen table, and saw the new three-piece suite, the new coffee table and new carpets which had mysteriously arrived the previous day when she'd been out at her work in the whisky bonds.
- What is it? Davie asked, waving his sore hand in the air. He felt her stare, open and baleful. Those big eyes of hers.
- Where did ye get this stuff, Davie?
He hated when she asked him things like that. It spoiled everything, drove a wedge between them. It was for all of them he did what he did; Susan, the baby, the wee fellay. - Ask no questions, ah'll tell ye no lies, he smiled, but he couldn't look at her, as unsatisfied himself with this retort as he knew she would be. Instead, he bent down and kissed his baby daughter on the cheek.
Looking up, he wondered aloud, - Where's Andrew? He glanced at Susan briefly.
Susan turned away sourly. He was hiding again, hiding behind the bairns.
Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)
De Amerikaanse dichteres Kay Ryan werd geboren op 27september 1945 in San Jose, California. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Kay Ryan op dit blog.
A CAT/A FUTURE
A cat can draw
the blinds
behind her eyes
whenever she
decides. Nothing
alters in the stare
itself but she's
not there. Likewise
a future can occlude:
still sitting there,
doing nothing rude.
BLANDEUR
If it please God,
let less happen.
Even out Earth's
rondure, flatten
Eiger, blanden
the Grand Canyon.
Make valleys
slightly higher,
widen fissures
to arable land,
remand your
terrible glaciers
and silence
their calving,
halving or doubling
all geographical features
toward the mean.
Unlean against our hearts.
Withdraw your grandeur
from these parts.
Kay Ryan (San Jose, 27 september 1945)
De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver, kunstenaar en huisarts Ignace Schretlen werd geboren in Tilburg op 27 september 1952. Zie eveneens alle tags voor Ignace Schretlen op dit blog.
HEYENDAAL
De strakgetrokken welpjestrui
- te vaak gewassen, te snel gegroeid
om het hijgend hart, in spurt
t pad grootvaders berg op
naar die eeuwenoude eik, die met
zijn brede rug beschutting bood
na jaren haas, hert en wolf
te zijn geweest, keer ik terug
naar dit versteende woud,
dat troost aan zieken biedt;
nu schuilt die oude eik in mij
en knelt er iets van binnenuit.
Een onvermoede bocht
Slaap, mijn kind, word water
ik blijf hier bij je waken, kijk
naar de deining van het laken
rek je uit, breek open, word vloed
verslind wat je kunt verzwelgen
en laat geen haven ongemoeid
morgen vind ik jou weer terug
in je eigen bedding aangespoeld
als mijn allerliefste drenkeling
zo begon het ooit, zo begint het
steeds opnieuw tot ergens onderweg
een onvermoede weg, waarna zee.
Ignace Schretlen (Tilburg, 27 september 1952)
De Tsjechische schrijver en uitgever Josef kvorecký werd geboren op 27 september 1924 in Náchod. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Josef kvorecký op dit blog.
Uit: The Bass Saxophone (Vertaald door Kaca Polackova-Henley).
The wallpaper was old and stained, but faded pictures of doves still showed against the beige background. I put my ear to their delicate breasts. The voice came close; it was repeating a nasty, unintelligible litany of anger and irritation, of imperious, spit-polished, boot-shod hysterics. I recognized it. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I knew who it was talking behind the gentle doves in the next, equally beige hotel room: it was Horst Hermann Kühl: it was the same voice that screeching along ahead of him had penetrated all the way up the iron staircase to the roof of the Sokol Hall, where you had to climb down another iron staircase to reach the projection booth of the movie house (I wasn't there at the time, but Mack, who operated the projector, told me about it). A pair of black boots had appeared on the iron rungs, the voice lashing in ahead of them. "What is this supposed to mean?" he had rasped like a poisonous firecracker. "This is a provocation!" Such was the terrific power of that dark voice (not the voice of Horst Hermann Kühl, but the black singer's - they even said it was Ella Fitzgerald, I didn't know, they were old records, Brunswick, before the era of stars, and the label said nothing but "Chick Webb and his Orchestra with Vocal Chorus"; there was a short sobbing saxophone solo - they said that was Coleman Hawkins - and they said the other was Ella Fitzgerald, that voice) it had forced Horst Hermann Kühl, omnipotent within the wartime world of Kostelec, to leave the seat in which he was enjoying the intermission between the newsreel and the film starring Christine Söderbaum or maybe it was Heidemarie Hathayer; when he heard black Ella ("I've got a guy. He don't dress me in sable, He looks nothing like Gable, But he's mine") he flew out of his comfortable seat and squealing like a rutting male mouse (it all took on the dimensions of the microworld of Kostelec) he tore down the aisle between the seats to the lobby and up the steps and up the iron staircase to the roof and down the iron ladder (more ladder than staircase) to the projection booth and, still squealing, confiscated the record and took it away with him. Mack told on me; yes, he did; what was he supposed to do? He could have said he didn't know where the Chick Webb record came from, he could have played stupid, that tried and tested Czech prescription; sometimes they fell for it; they almost loved stupid Schweiks - in contrast, they themselves glowed with vociferous wisdom. But it didn't occur to Mack, so he told on me.
Josef kvorecký (Náchod, 27 september 1924)
De Nederlandse schrijfster Esther Verhoef-Verhallen werd geboren in s-Hertogenbosch op 27 september 1968. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Esther Verhoef op dit blog.
Uit: Hingabe (Vertaald door Stefanie Schäfer)
Dass wir uns so gut kannten, machte die Sache einfacher. Dadurch arbeitete sie ohne ihr Wissen mit, und es wurde intim, beinahe liebevoll.
Drei Monate lang hatte ich mich darauf vorbereitet. Zuerst habe ich den Plan von allen Seiten beleuchtet. Versucht, ihn vor meinem inneren Auge zu visualisieren. Als ich mir sicher war, dass es möglich sein musste, war es kein Hirngespinst mehr, sondern wurde zu einem Teil meiner selbst. Es war herrlich, sich damit zu beschäftigen. Schon allein die Vorbereitungen, die aus Gesprächen mit ihr sowie mit Freunden und Bekannten bestanden, bis hin zur Anschaffung des nötigen Zubehörs.
Zugegeben, viel brauchte ich nicht. Sie selbst brachte mich auf die Idee.
Edith konnte schlaflose Nächte nicht gut ertragen, weil ihre Augen am nächsten Morgen rot und geschwollen waren. Und obwohl sie viel mehr zu bieten hatte als nur ihre Schönheit, war es für sie das Aller wichtigste, gut auszusehen. Ich fand sie einfach immer schön, ob sie nun in voller Pracht auf einem Empfang erschien und allen anderen die Schau stahl oder ob sie gerade aus dem Bett kam und, unter Ent schuldigungen für ihr ungepflegtes Aussehen, im Bademantel Tee für mich aufbrühte. Ein Schlafmittel war für sie die einzige Möglichkeit, nicht jede Nacht durch irgendeinen Lärm geweckt zu werden.
Ich freute mich darauf, fühlte mich wie ein Kind, das in der Schlange vor der Achterbahn wartet. Immer wieder ein Schrittchen nach vorn, immer näher heran. Die Aufregung wuchs und wuchs und erreichte ihren Höhepunkt an jenem Abend, als sich alles wie ein perfekt passendes Puzzle ineinan derfügte.
Esther Verhoef ('s-Hertogenbosch, 27 september 1968)
De Duitsedichter en schrijver Christian Schloyer werd geboren op 27 september 1976 in Erlangen. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christian Schloyer op dit blog.
im stadtplan notiert
wie etwas
zu etwas anderem wird · die
absperrung markiert eine indifferenz
am ufer · das knistern vom umspannwerk
schilf · -flimmern & eine herde
die man am ufer grasen lässt, last
wagen & wohn
burgen häusliche herde plötzlich
scharf gestellt am horizont · gärten
auf dächer gepflanzt & über die pflanzen dächer
gestellt · wie nach plan
Christian Schloyer (Erlangen, 27 september 1976)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e september ook mijn blog van 27 september 2011 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.
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