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De Nederlandse schrijver en dichter J. Bernlef werd geboren op 14 januari 1937 in Sint Pancras. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2008.
Prachtig
Beroemd maar dood vroeg hij: en
wat bleef er van mij over?
Ik wees op een losse regel
een uit zijn verband gerukt citaat
meestal toegeschreven aan een ander.
Voetafdruk op een verlaten strand
vol lege, uitgewoonde schelpen.
Prachtig is de onsterfelijkheid
maar wat doen wij in de tussentijd?
*
Tule, riet, papier, taf,
gaas, bombazijn, maar
Leonardo's vleugels vlogen niet
Engelen bestaan in gedichten
of op schilderijen waar zij
roerloos in beweging zijn.
Hij maakte de mens open
hij maakte de vogel open
vergeleek en zag dat het niet kon.
En toch; tule, riet, papier, taf,
gaas, bombazijn dat door zijn vingers glijdt
zijn vingers die een schaduw
laten vliegen op de muur.
Transparant
Hoe fragiel ons denkwerk
(hoe simpel uit te halen niet)
Tot wij volkomen in de war
de wereld ondergaan zoals zij is
voordat wij er waren.
Er zijn.
Wat anders dan
staren door mazen?
O, oogverblindend kind
dat zingend alles verbindt
met van licht trillende vingers.
J. Bernlef (Sint Pancras, 14 januari 1937)
De Japanse schrijver Yukio Mishima werd geboren op 14 januari 1925 in Tokyo. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2008.
Uit: Une histoire sur un promontoire
Pouvait-on imaginer un paysage aussi élégant qui fût à ce point chargé de mélancolie? On n'apercevait ça et là rien que des bosquets de pins et d'arbustes. D'innombrables petits reliefs transformaient cette montée en suite de lacets, et il aurait été impossible de dire le nombre de villas qu'on entrevoyait entre les bois et les rochers [...]
Ce secret d'une subtile configuration semblait conférer à ce magnifique paysage du promontoire encore plus de mystérieuse et érémitique beauté. L'habitant d'une des villas devait finir par croire qu'il n'y avait ni maison ni âme qui vive à plusieurs lieues à la ronde, jusqu'au jour où, au détour d'une promenade, il tomberait, tout près de chez lui, sur une roseraie d'un charme enchanteur, devant une petite maison, et il ne voudrait pas en croire ses yeux; s'il touchait une fleur, aussi bien le diapré de la couleur rose et moite, que l'ombre nette se découpant sur les feuilles vertes prouverait la réalité des roses, et, dans sa stupeur, il verrait des volets s'ouvrir, avec un grincement de loquet, et leurs ombres courir, puis, apparaissant à la fenêtre, l'habitant des lieux lui adresser un salut amical... la sensation d'étrangeté atteindrait alors à son comble. Sur ce promontoire, dix ou vingt minutes de promenade suffisaient pour pénétrer dans un univers de conte de fées et pour en ressortir.
Yukio Mishima (14 januari 1925 - 25 november 1970)
De Amerikaanse schrijver John Dos Passos werd geboren op 14 januari 1896 in Chicago. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 januari 2008.
Uit: Three Soldiers
The company stood at attention, each man looking straight before him at the empty parade ground, where the cinder piles showed purple with evening. On the wind that smelt of barracks and disinfectant there was a faint greasiness of food cooking.
At the other side of the wide field long lines of men shuffled slowly into the narrow wooden shanty that was the mess hall. Chins down, chests out, legs twitching and tired from the afternoons drilling, the company stood at attention. Each man stared straight in front of him, some vacantly with resignation, some trying to amuse themselves by noting minutely every object in their field of vision,the cinder piles, the long shadows of the barracks and mess halls where they could see men standing about, spitting, smoking, leaning against clapboard walls. Some of the men in line could hear their watches ticking in their pockets.
Someone moved, his feet making a crunching noise in the cinders.
The sergeants voice snarled out: You men are at attention. Quit yer wrigglin there, you!
The men nearest the offender looked at him out of the corners of their eyes.
Two officers, far out on the parade ground, were coming towards them. By their gestures and the way they walked, the men at attention could see that they were chatting about something that amused them. One of the officers laughed boyishly, turned away and walkedslowly back across the parade ground. The other, who was the lieutenant, came towards them smiling. As he approached his company, the smile left his lips and he advanced his chin, walking with heavy precise steps.
John Dos Passos (14 januari 1896 28 september 1970)
De Britse schrijver en journalist Edward St Aubyn werd geboren op 14 januari 1960 in Cornwall in een adelijke familie. Door zijn vader werd hij jarenlang mishandeld en sexueel misbruikt. Opgegroeid is hij in St Aubyn in Engeland en in het zuiden van Frankrijk. Hij bezocht de Westminster School en de universiteit van Oxford, Beroemd werd St Aubyn door de autobiografische romantrilogie Some Hope. Zijn zesde roman Mother's Milk kwam in 2006 op de shortlist van de Booker Prize.
Uit: Mother's Milk
Why had they pretended to kill him when he was born? Keeping him awake for days, banging his head again and again against a closed cervix; twisting the cord around his throat and throttling him; chomping through his mothers abdomen with cold shears; clamping his head and wrenching his neck from side to side; dragging him out of his home and hitting him; shining lights in his eyes and doing experiments; taking him away from his mother while she lay on the table, half-dead. Maybe the idea was to destroy his nostalgia for the old world. First the confinement to make him hungry for space, then pretending to kill him so that he would be grateful for the space when he got it, even this loud desert, with only the bandages of his mothers arms to wrap around him, never the whole thing again, the whole warm thing all around him, being everything. The curtains were breathing light into their hospital room. Swelling from the hot afternoon, and then flopping back against the French windows, easing the glare outside. Someone opened the door and the curtains leaped up and rippled their edges; loose paper rustled, the room whitened, and the shudder of the road works grew a little louder. Then the door clunked and the curtains sighed and the room dimmed. Oh, no, not more flowers, said his mother. He could see everything through the transparent walls of his fish tank crib. He was looked over by the sticky eye of a splayed lily. Sometimes the breeze blew the peppery smell of freesias over him and he wanted to sneeze it away. On his mothers nightgown spots of blood mingled with streaks of dark-orange pollen. Its so nice of people
she was laughing from weakness and frustration. I mean, is there any room in the bath? Not really, youve got the roses in there already and the other things. Oh, God, I cant bear it. Hundreds of flowers have been cut down and squeezed into these white vases, just to make us happy. She couldnt stop laughing. There were tears running down her face. They should have been left where they were, in a garden somewhere.
The nurse looked at the chart.
Edward St Aubyn (Cornwall, 14 januari 1960)
De Chinese schrijfster Anchee Min werd geboren in Shanghai op 14 januari 1957. In 1976 werd Anchee Min gerekruteerd om in een propagandafilm van de Shanghai Film Studio de rol van mevrouw Mao te spelen. Anchee Min woont sinds 1984 in de Verenigde Staten. Van Rode Azalea -het autobiografische relaas van haar jeugd in communistisch China- werden de rechten verkocht aan twintig landen. Daarna verschenen haar succesvolle romans Mevrouw Mao en Wilde Gember.
Uit: Becoming Madame Mao
Can't you lift a finger? the mother yells. It's my last wish, for heaven's sake!
Save me, Nah. Any day a bullet will be put into my head. Can you picture it? Don't you see that there has been a conspiracy against me? Do you remember the morning when Deng Xiao-ping came to your father's funeral and what he did? He just brushed fingers with me - didn't even bother to shake my hand. It was as if he questioned that I was Mao's widow. He was aware of the cameras - he purposely let the journalists catch the scene. And the other one, Marshal Ye Jian-ying. He walked past me wearing an expression as if I had murdered the Chairman myself!
Your father warned me about his comrades. But he didn't do anything to protect me. He could be heartless. His face had a vindictive glow when he made that prediction. He was jealous that I got to go on living. He would have liked to see me buried with him, like the old emperors did with their concubines. One should never have delusions about your father. It took me thirty-eight years to figure out that sly fox. He could never keep his hands away from deception. He couldn't survive a day without trickery. I had seen ghosts in his eyes stretching out their claws. A living god. The omniscient Mao. Full-of-mice-shit.
Anchee Min (Shanghai, 14 januari 1957)
De Amerikaanse schrijfster Mary Robison werd geboren op 14 januari 1949 in Washington D.C. Zij studeerde aan de Johns Hopkins University. Zij publiceerde al vier verhalenbundels en drie romans, waaronder Why Did I Ever waarvoor zij in 2001 de Los Angeles Times Book Prize for fiction kreeg.
Uit: Why Did I Ever?
10
The name I use is an annoying problem. Everyone wonders about it. No one doesn't ask.
My name is Money. I picked it up and kept it and now it's what I'm called.
I say I'm tired of telling how I got the name. Or that the story isn't all that great.
Still Something Missing
"I need plywood," said my son, Paulie, in his sleep. Or I heard wrong. I know it was "need" something.
That was my first day there, at his flat on St. Anne, before NYPD began hiding him.
He looked like this: in white cotton socks and frayed blue jeans, a cowhide belt and a petal-green sweater. His hands in their horrible bandage gloves must've been on his lap and I couldn't see them because he was bent over, with his plate pushed aside and his face on the dining table, and he was all-the-way asleep, with a tiny chip of emerald glinting there in the lobe of his ear.
12
Days went by and he still kept ignoring all the stuff I'd brought for him. Fine stuff, but Paulie couldn't get in the mood. And he was in something like pain when I finally set each thing out and presented it as though it were for sale. What, could've been wrong with me? Handkerchiefs! I told him about the quality. "Just wait'll you go to use one of these." He was three weeks out of the hospital. I should have ground the things up into bits and shreds in the garbage disposal.
A World of Love
I'm a script doctor, as far as I know this afternoon at three o'clock central time. And I'm due back at the studio according to Belinda who's the development producer or whatever is her job.
She has some hair shirt or other laid out for me.
Belinda is not warm. She's small-minded, mean, picky-petty.
Someday I will learn kickboxing and I will show up at Mercury Brothers and kickbox the stuffings out of her
Mary Robison (Washington, 14 januari 1949)
De Oostenrijkse dichter en schrijver, musicus en cabaretier Martin Auer werd geboren op 14 januari 1951 in Wenen. Van 1971 toto 1977 werkte hij als dramaturg, acteur en musicus aan het Theater im Künstlerhaus in Wenen. Daarna werd hij zelfstandig schrijver en songwriter. Bovendien was hij enige tiijd werkzaam als journalist en in de reclamebranche.
Ich bin eine Nixe, sagt sie
o Mann, o Mann!
Ich bin eine Nixe, sagt sie,
ich kann nicht ertrinken.
Aber immer, wenn ich Goldfische seh,
wird mir ganz furchtbar schlecht.
Und vielleicht bricht morgen der Frieden aus,
dann gehn wir ganz groß einen saufen.
Und vielleicht bricht er nicht aus,
aber das erfahrn wir dann schon.
Ich bin eine Nixe, sagt sie,
ich komm durch die Wasserleitung.
Meine Familie zog aus dem Süden
herauf in die Stadt.
Meine Familie wohnt in einem
Aufzug im achtzehnten Postbezirk.
wenn sie beim Frühstück sitzen,
tunkt immer der Zahnarzt aus dem zwölften Stock
seinen Mantel in ihren Kaffee.
Und sie sagt:
O Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
wie ich dich liebe!
Und sie sagt:
o Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
o Mann, o Mann!
Und im Stadtpark ist es so hell heut,
die Luft ist wie Silber.
Und Baby kriegt Eiskrem
und bekommt einen Erstickungsanfall.
Und eine kleine fliegende Kamera
macht Fotos von uns mit rosa Schleifchen.
Und der Brezelmann geht Pleite
vor unsern Augen.
Und sie sagt:
O Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
wie ich dich liebe!
Und sie sagt:
o Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
o Mann, o Mann!
Das sind vielleicht herrliche Zeiten, sagt sie,
für alles gibt es Gratisgutscheine.
Und gestern hab ich mich versichern lassen
gegen Todesangst und Melancholie.
Und alle haben jetzt Telefon im Auto,
eine Kreditkarte und eine Versicherungsnummer.
Und sogar die Polizisten
tragen Lebkuchenherzen im Haar.
Und sie sagt:
O Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
wie ich dich liebe!
Und sie sagt:
o Mann, o Mann, o Mann,
Martin Auer (Wenen,14 januari 1951)
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