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De Britse schrijfster Rachel
Billington werd geboren op 11 mei 1942 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog
van 11 mei 2009.
Uit: Emma & Knightley
Emma Knightley, handsome, clever and rich,
with a husband whose affection for her was only equalled by her affection for
him, had passed upward of a year of marriage in what may be described as
perfect happiness; certainly this is how she described it to herself as she sat
at her writing desk from which she had an excellent view of her father, Mr
Woodhouse, taking a turn round the shrubbery on the arm of her beloved Mr
Knightley.
Emma smiled as she watched them, smiled and repressed a sigh as she saw the
tender way in which Mr Knightley she would never bring herself to call him
George put his upright, manly self between the cool autumnal breeze and the
frail figure of her father. Since she, herself, usually performed this daily
office for her father Mr Knightley often being occu¬pied in the mornings when
her father felt the air most conducive to good health seldom did she have the
opportunity of seeing her parent as he appeared at a distance to the objective
eye.
His walking was tentative, it could not be denied, but then he had never been
quick, or never since she could remember him. It was possible Emma considered
the idea from the heights of her still new stature as a wife that his sense
of himself as an invalid had stemmed from the early death of Mrs Woodhouse,
causing him to distrust health. If that were the cause and, by his
affectionate accounts of his wife, she had possessed all the vivacity,
intellectual vigour and good health that any woman could wish for then it was
understandable that her adoring husband's tempera¬ment should receive a severe
shock at her unexpected death; that he would never be the same, but always
fearful, not just for himself, but for his daughters (Emma had an elder sister,
Isabella), their husbands, Isabella's five children (soon to be six), his
friends, acquaintances and, in short, the whole world, small as it was, that he
inhabited.
Rachel
Billington (Londen, 11 mei 1942)
De Oostenrijks-Roemeens-joods-Amerikaanse dichteres Rose Ausländer
werd geboren in Czernowitz op 11 mei 1901. Zie ook alle tags voor Rose Ausländer op dit blog.
Nichts bleibt
Tage kommen und gehen
alles bleibt wie es ist
Nichts bleibt wie es ist
es zerbricht wie Porzellan
Du bemühst dich
die Scherben zu kleben
zu einem Gefäß
und weinst
weil es nicht glückt
Glück II
Der Traum vom Glück
wehrt sich gegen mich
seit ich ihn träumen will
Ich habe viel geträumt
von dunklen Dingen
Manchmal stand ein Stern
am Himmel meines Traums
nur einen Augenblick
dann stürzte er
und fiel
weiß auf mein Haar
Rose Ausländer (11 mei 1901 - 3 januari 1988)
De Duitse dichter en schrijver Carl
Ferdinand Max Hauptmann werd geboren op 11 mei 1858 in Obersalzbrunn. Zie
ook alle tags voor
Carl Hauptmann op dit blog.
Erdgeboren
Über mir in wolkigen Lüften
Wogen Lerchen traumverloren.
Tiefi m Heidekraute lieg ich,
Fühle mich so erdgeboren;
Ganz, als ob ich aus der Scholle
Wildentwachsen wär, wie Bäume,
Leicht vom Heidewind geschaukelt,
Erde halb - und halb auch Träume.
Ganz, als ob ich aus der Scholle
Aufgeflogen wär mit Schwingen,
Hoch im Sommerwind aufsteigend,
Erde halb - und halb doch Klingen.
Carl Hauptmann (11
mei 1858 4 februari 1921)
De Engelse schrijfster, vertaalster en componiste Ethel Lilian Voynich werd geboren op 11 mei 1864 in County
Cork, Ierland. Zie ook alle tags voor Ethel
Lilian Voynich op dit blog.
Uit: The Gadfly
He broke off and sat tearing the foxglove
bells to pieces. The silence was so long and deep that he looked up, wondering
why the Padre did not speak. It was growing dark under the branches of the
magnolia, and everything seemed dim and indistinct; but there was light enough
to show the ghastly paleness of Montanellis face. He was bending his head
down, his right hand tightly clenched upon the edge of the bench. Arthur looked
away with a sense of awe-struck wonder. It was as though he had stepped
unwittingly on to holy ground.
My God! he thought; how small and selfish I
am beside him! If my trouble were his own he couldnt feel it more.
Presently Montanelli raised his head and looked
round. I wont press you to go back there; at all events, just now, he said
in his most caressing tone; but you must promise me to take a thorough rest
when your vacation begins this summer. I think you had better get a holiday
right away from the neighborhood of Leghorn. I cant have you breaking down in
health.
Where shall you go when the seminary closes,
Padre?
I shall have to take the pupils into the
hills, as usual, and see them settled there. But by the middle of August the
subdirector will be back from his holiday. I shall try to get up into the Alps
for a little change. Will you come with me? I could take you for some long
mountain rambles, and you would like to study the Alpine mosses and lichens.
But perhaps it would be rather dull for you alone with me?
Padre! Arthur clasped his hands in what Julia
called his demonstrative foreign way. I would give anything on earth to go
away with you. Only I am not sure He stopped.
You dont think Mr. Burton would allow it?
He wouldnt like it, of course, but he could
hardly interfere. I am eighteen now and can do what I choose. After all, hes
only my step-brother; I dont see that I owe him obedience. He was always
unkind to mother.
Ethel Lilian Voynich (11 mei 1864 28 juli
1960)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn
blog van 11 mei 2007.
De Spaanse dichter Leopoldo de Luis
werd geboren op 11 mei 1918 in Córdoba.
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 11 mei 2012.
De Afghaanse
dichter, schrijver en criticus Latif Nazemi werd
geboren op 11 mei 1947 in Herat. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 mei 2010.
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