De Duitse schrijfster Antje Rávic Strubel werd geboren op 12 april 1974 in Potsdam. Zie ook alle tags voor Antje Rávic Strubel op dit blog.

Uit: Gebrauchsanweisung Schweden

“Ich hatte eine Villa in Schweden, am Ufer des Fryken in Värmland. Vom Fenster und von der Veranda war der See zu sehen, der in der Sonne hell aufschien. Vogelbeerbäume säumten eine Schneise im Wald. Solange der Nachbar die Schneise nicht zuwuchern ließ, wurde sie von Rehen genutzt, um in der Dämmerung zum Trinken ans Ufer zu ziehen.

Wenn die Tannen nachts in der Spur des MondesSchatten auf die Kiesel warfen und das Gras am Schuppen grau und verwittert aussah, wenn nach einer stürmischen Nacht Kastanienhülsen, Birkenzweige und die Blätter der Akazie über die Holzplanken der Veranda trieben und das Haus im blauen Licht wirkte wie der letzte, verlassene Ort, oder wenn an einem Frühsommermorgen der Tau die verrosteten Seile des Fahnenmastes im Garten versilberte und die Luft so klar war, dass sie schmerzend scharfe Bilder aus der Landschaft trieb, war es, als hätte bis zu diesem Moment jemand anderes mein Leben gelebt. Ich aber wäre die ganze Zeit hier gewesen.

Ich war in meine Villa so verliebt wie Tania Blixen in ihre Farm in Afrika, und genauso blauäugig hatte ich sie auch gekauft. Die Abenteuer schienen mir, die ich nie in Kenia gewesen bin, vergleichbar groß. Unerschrocken unternahm ich Tagesmärsche in den nächsten Ort, um Proviant für die kommenden Wochen zu kaufen, verhandelte mit Einheimischen über die Reparatur meines Brunnens und hielt Elche für mindestens so gefährlich wie Löwen, weshalb ich wahrscheinlich nie einen sah. Glücklicherweise war ich am Ende nicht ganz so pleite wie die dänische Schriftstellerin, aber ich war am Anfang auch nicht annähernd so reich gewesen.”

Antje Rávic Strubel (Potsdam, 12 april 1974)

De Amerikaanse schrijver en jurist Scott Turow werd geboren op 12 april 1949 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Turow op dit blog.

Uit: Personal Injuries

“Robbie Feaver's troubles were more immediate. Last night three Special Agents of the Internal Revenue Service's Criminal Intelligence Division had visited him at home -- one to talk and two to listen. They were, as you would expect, rumpled men in inexpensive sport coats, grave but polite. They had handed him a grand jury subpoena for all of his law partnership's financial records and tried to ask Robbie questions about his income tax returns. Wisely, he had refused to reply.

He could suit himself, responded the one agent who spoke. But they wanted to tell him a couple things. Good news and bad. Bad first.

They knew. They knew what Robbie and his law partner, Morton Dinnerstein, had been up to. They knew that for several years the two had occasionally deposited a check they received when they won or settled one of their personal injury cases in a secret account at River National Bank, where the firm transacted no other business. They knew that out of the River National account Dinnerstein and Robbie had paid the usual shares of what they'd earned -- two thirds to the clients, one ninth to the referring attorneys, odd amounts to experts or court reporters. Everyone had received his due. Except the IRS. They knew that for years now, Feaver and his partner had been writing checks to cash to draw down the balance of the account, never paying a dime in tax.

You guys are cold-cocked, the agent added. Robbie laughed now, very briefly, repeating the words.

I didn't ask how Robbie and his partner could have ever believed a scheme so simpleminded would work. I was long accustomed to the dumb ways people get themselves in trouble. Besides, the fact was that their scam had operated smoothly for years. A checking account that paid no interest was unlikely to come to the Service's attention. It was, frankly, noteworthy that it had, a development that would inevitably be traced to freak coincidence, or, if things were spicier, betrayal.”

Scott Turow (Chicago, 12 april 1949)

De Britse blijspelauteur Alan Ayckbourn werd geboren op 12 april 1939 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Ayckbourn op dit blog.

Uit: Alan Ayckbourn's programme note for the Theatre Royal, Windsor, 1968

“My only contact with the Theatre Royal until now was a rather embarrassing one. My mother-in-law, determined to see her daughter's newly acquired, un-employed actor husband established as a second Terence Rattigan, besieged John Counsell's office with 'phone calls, letters and visits insisting they presented a play of mine. Mr. Counsell politely but firmly declined the invitation. But all that was several years and six plays ago. The fact remains though, that when we heard that Relatively Speaking was to be presented here both mother-in-law and I glowed smug with contentment.
I thought it might be worth devoting these columns to describing exactly how a play comes to be written. In particular this play, since every single one is different, and the actual process of writing it down devious and mysterious. Some write in pencil; some directly on to typewriters; some at dawn some at midnight. Some wait for inspiration, some, like me, bash on with page one and hope they reach page ninety-five without confronting a major obstacle. Plays are sometimes written back to front with the first scene the last to be completed. This play, for the record, was written in pencil over several midnights, the second scene first and the first scene last and was completed in ten days flat. I remember I had a large woolly cat for company who didn't really belong to us but seemed to like basking in the heat generated by my creative processes.”

Alan Ayckbourn (Londen, 12 april 1939)

Scene uit  “Relatively Speaking”, Nyack’s Elmwood Playhouse, 2009

De Amerikaanse schrijver Tom Clancy werd geboren op 12 april 1947 in Baltimore County, Maryland. Zie ookalle tags voor Tom Clancy op dit blog.

Uit: Red Rabbit

“The scary part, Jack decided, was going to be driving. He'd already bought a Jaguar — pronounced jag-you-ah over here, he'd have to remembe — but both times he'd walked to it at the dealership, he'd gone to the left-front door instead of the right. The dealer hadn't laughed at him, but Ryan was sure he'd wanted to. At least he hadn't climbed into the passenger seat by mistake and really made an ass of himself. He'd have to remember all that: The "right" side of the road was the left. A right turn crossed oncoming traffic, not a left turn. The left lane was the slow lane on the interstates-motorways, he corrected himself. The plugs in the wall were all cockeyed. The house didn't have central heating, despite the princely price he'd paid for it. There was no air-conditioning, though that probably wasn't necessary here. It wasn't the hottest of climates: The locals started dropping dead in the street when the mercury topped 75. Jack wondered what the D.C. climate would do to them. Evidently, the "mad dogs and Englishmen" ditty was a thing of the past.
But it could have been worse. He did have a pass to shop for food at the Army-Air Force Exchange Service — otherwise known as the PX at nearby Greenham Commons Air Base — so at least they'd have proper hot dogs, and brands that resembled the ones he bought at the Giant at home in Maryland.

So many other discordant notes. British television was different, of course, not that he really expected much chance to vegetate in front of the phosphor screen anymore, but little Sally needed her ration of cartoons. Besides, even when you were reading something important, the background chatter of some mindless show was comforting in its own way. The TV news wasn't too bad, though, and the newspapers were particularly good-better than those he normally read at home, on the whole, but he'd miss the morning Far Side. Maybe the International Tribune had it, Ryan hoped. He could buy it at the train station kiosk. He had to keep track of baseball anyway.”

Tom Clancy (Baltimore County, 12 april 1947)

De Duitse schrijfster Agnes Sapper werd geboren op 12 april 1852 in München. Zie ook alle tags voor Agnes Sapper op dit blog.

Uit: Ohne den Vater

„Im gemütlichen Wohnzimmer eines Forsthauses in Ostpreußen saß ein kleiner Familienkreis eng und traulich beisammen: der Förster Stegemann mit seiner noch ganz jungen, lieblichen Frau, die ihr Kindchen in den Armen hielt und versuchte, mit zärtlichen Worten und dem Spiel ihrer Finger dem kleinen Geschöpf das erste Lächeln zu entlocken. Neben ihr lehnte Gebhard, ein kräftiger, etwa zehnjähriger Junge; er sah nach dem Schwesterchen, das so wohlig in der Mutter Armen ruhte, und wartete gespannt, ob es noch einmal gelänge, das Lächeln hervorzuzaubern, das vorhin wie ein Sonnenstrahl über das Kindergesichtchen gehuscht war. Als es gelang, sah er die Mutter beglückt an und wandte sich lebhaft an seinen Vater: "Hast du es diesmal gesehen?"

Nein, er hatte es wieder nicht gesehen, weil ihm etwas anderes noch anziehender war, als das erste Lächeln seines Töchterchens. Er hatte auf Mutter und Sohn gesehen. Ihn freute, daß diese beiden sich so gut verstanden. Es war noch nicht lange her, daß er diese junge Frau heimgeführt hatte, nachdem seine erste Frau, Gebhards Mutter, gestorben war. Eine lange Reihe stiller Jahre hatte er mit dem Knaben verlebt, den eine treue Magd schlicht und streng erzog. Innig nah standen sich Vater

und Sohn, ernst und pflichttreu war der Förster, anspruchslos der Junge.

Kräftig wuchs er in der frischen Waldluft heran und machte von seinem sechsten Lebensjahr an täglich einen stundenlangen Weg, um auf einem benachbarten Gut an dem Unterricht mit den Knaben des Gutsbesitzers teilzunehmen. Auf diesem Weg begleitete ihn ein treuer Hund des Försters, der schon immer sein Spielkamerad gewesen und jetzt sein Beschützer auf einsamen Waldwegen war.”

Agnes Sapper (12 april 1852 – 19 maart 1929)
München, Sendlinger Tor

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 12e april ook mijn blog van 12 april 2012 deel 2.