Jeffrey Archer (Londen, 15 april 1940)
De Britse schrijver Jeffrey (Howard) Archer, Baron Archer of Weston-super-Mare, werd geboren op 15 april 1940 in Londen. Archer bezocht de Wellington School in Somerset en het Brasenose College in Oxford. In 1969 zat hij als lid van de conservatioeve partij in het House of Commons. Zijn eerste verhaal Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less verscheen in 1974 en was meteen een succes. Vervolgens verschenen de thriller Shall We Tell the President?, de bestseller Kane and Abel, en het vervolg erop The Prodigal Daughter. Tijdens de verkiezingen voor het burgemeesterschap van Londen werd hij begin 2000 wegens meineed aangeklaagd en tot enkele jaren gevangenisstraf veroordeeld. Tegenwoordig woont Archer in Lambeth (Londen) en in Grantchester bij Cambridge, in een huis, The Old Vicarage, dat beroemd werd door een gedicht van Rupert Brook.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: A Prisoner of Birth
Yes, said Beth.
She tried to look surprised, but wasnt all that convincing as she had already decided that they were going to be married when they were at secondary school. However, she was amazed when Danny fell on one knee in the middle of the crowded restaurant.
Yes, Beth repeated, hoping hed stand up before everyone in the room stopped eating and turned to stare at them. But he didnt budge. Danny remained on one knee, and like a conjurer, produced a tiny box from nowhere. He opened it to reveal a simple gold band boasting a single diamond that was far larger than Beth had expectedalthough her brother had already told her that Danny had spent two months wages on the ring.
When Danny finally got off his knee, he took her by surprise again. He immediately began to tap a number on his mobile. Beth knew only too well who would be on the other end of the line.
She said yes! Danny announced triumphantly. Beth smiled as she held the diamond under the light and took a closer look. Why dont you join us? Danny added before she could stop him. Great, lets meet at that wine bar off the Fulham Roadthe one we went to after the Chelsea game last year. See you there, mate.
Beth didnt protest; after all, Bernie was not only her brother, but Dannys oldest friend, and hed probably already asked him to be his best man.
Danny turned off his phone and asked a passing waiter for the bill. The maître d bustled across.
Its on the house, he said, giving them a warm smile.
It was to be a night of surprises.
When Beth and Danny strolled into the Dunlop Arms, they found Bernie seated at a corner table with a bottle of champagne and three glasses by his side.
Fantastic news, he said even before they had sat down.
Thanks, mate, said Danny, shaking hands with his friend.
Ive already phoned Mum and Dad, said Bernie as he popped the cork and filled the three champagne glasses. They didnt seem all that surprised, but then it was the worst-kept secret in Bow.
Dont tell me theyll be joining us as well, said Beth.
Not a chance, said Bernie raising his glass. Youve only got me this time. To long life and West Ham winning the cup.
Well, at least one of those is possible, said Danny.
De Duitse dichter en tekenaar Wilhelm Busch werd geboren in Wiedensahl op 15 april 1832. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 april 2007.
Schein und Sein
Mein Kind, es sind allhier die Dinge,
Gleichwohl, ob große, ob geringe,
Im wesentlichen so verpackt,
Daß man sie nicht wie Nüsse knackt.
Wie wolltest du dich unterwinden,
Kurzweg die Menschen zu ergründen.
Du kennst sie nur von außenwärts.
Du siehst die Weste, nicht das Herz.
Doppelte Freude
Ein Herr warf einem Bettelmann
Fünf Groschen in den Felber.
Das tat dem andern wohl, und dann
Tat es auch wohl ihm selber.
Der eine, weil er gar so gut,
Kann sich von Herzen loben;
Der andre trinkt sich frischen Mut
Und fühlt sich auch gehoben.
Zwei Jungfern
Zwei Jungfern gibt es in Dorf und Stadt,
Sie leben beständig im Kriege,
Die Wahrheit, die niemand gerne hat,
Und die scharmante Lüge.
Vor jener, weil sie stolz und prüd
Und voll moralischer Nücken,
Sucht jeder, der sie nur kommen sieht,
Sich schleunigst wegzudrücken.
Die andre, obwohl ihr nicht zu traun,
Wird täglich beliebter und kecker,
Und wenn wir sie von hinten beschaun,
So hat sie einen Höcker.
De Amerikaanse schrijver Henry James werd geboren in New York op 15 april 1843. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 april 2007.
Uit: Washington Square
During a portion of the first half of the present century, and more particularly during the latter part of it, there flourished and practiced in the city of New York a physician who enjoyed perhaps an exceptional share of the consideration which, in the United States, has always been bestowed upon distinguished members of the medical profession. This profession in America has constantly been held in honor, and more successfully than elsewhere has put forward a claim to the epithet of 'liberal.' In a country in which, to play a social part, you must either earn your income or make believe that you earn it, the healing art has appeared in a high degree to combine two recognized sources of credit. It belongs to the realm of the practical, which in the United States is a great recommendation; and it is touched by the light of science--a merit appreciated in a community in which the love of knowledge has not always been accompanied by leisure and opportunity.
It was an element in Doctor Sloper's reputation that his learning and his skill were very evenly balanced; he was what you might call a scholarly doctor, and yet there was nothing abstract in his remedies--he always ordered you to take something. Though he was felt to be extremely thorough, he was not uncomfortably theoretic; and if he sometimes explained matters rather more minutely than might seem of use to the patient, he never went so far (like some practitioners one had heard of) as to trust to the explanation alone, but always left behind him an inscrutable prescription. There were some doctors that left the prescription without offering any explanation at all; and he did not belong to that class either, which was after all the most vulgar. It will be seen that I am describing a clever man; and this is really the reason why Doctor Sloper had become a local celebrity.
De Nederlandse schrijfster Ina Boudier-Bakker werd geboren in Amsterdam op 15 april 1875. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 april 2007.
Uit: De straat
Onder de grauwe wijde hemel lag in de stille najaarsdag de Straat - de hoofdstraat van het kleine vergeten stadje, in zijn vereenzaming achter de uiterwaarden van de grote rivier. De brede lege straat, met z'n deftige herenhuizen gerijd van poort tot poort.
Vele malen, in vroeger eeuwen, hadden wilde horden vreemd krijgsvolk de nauwe donkere poort bestormd, en de sterke verschansing van grijze wallen rondom. Strijd was er geweest en fel leven, en altijd een geest van verweer had de harten beroerd, bedacht op overval en verraad.
Daarna was gekomen het verval, de rust, de verlatenheid. In de grote herenhuizen met hier en daar een winkeltje, een werkplaats ertussen, woonden de notabelen; en achter de vensters zagen stille gezichten toe op al het dagelijks gebeurende, wéérkerende. De Straat was hun wereld, die alles beheerste, waar alles zich afspeelde. Over de Straat laaiden van achter de gesloten vensters de gedachten, die geen daden ooit werden, uit stille ogen en zwijgende monden; over de Straat sponnen zich de gedachten uit de strakke besloten huizingen voort tot elkaar, vonden elkaar en braken - klemden elkaar als worstelende vijanden, om zich dan weer plots verloren te vinden in een mist van vergetelheid en onmacht; voortgedreven, zwervende, doelloos heen en weer. Een web van onzichtbare draden tussen de huizen van de Straat, waar aan beide einden, van de poort, en van de oude gotische kerk, de klokken de tijd afbeierden - de tijd, die wegwiste de seizoenen, de jaren, in de nevel van nauw bewuste herinnering.
Eénmaal in het jaar gebeurde er iets vreemds in de straat. In de herfst, als koel en hoog de hemel spande over de groene uiterwaarden en de blauwe glinsterende rivier, kwamen grote wagens met kermistuig de houten schipbrug overzeulen, met moeite de dijk op, en de enge donkere poort onderdoor.
De Canadese dichter Bliss Carman werd geboren in Fredericton, in de provicincie New Brunswick op 15 april 1861. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 april 2007.
Rivers of Canada
O all the little rivers that run to Hudson's Bay,
They call me and call me to follow them away.
Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current--where they run
Dancing and sparkling I see them in the sun.
I hear the brawling rapid, the thunder of the fall,
And when I think upon them I cannot stay at all.
At the far end of the carry, where the wilderness begins,
Set me down with my canoe-load--and forgiveness of my sins.
O all the mighty rivers beneath the Polar Star,
They call me and call me to follow them afar.
Peace and Athabasca and Coppermine and Slave,
And Yukon and Mackenzie--the highroads of the brave.
Saskatchewan, Assiniboine, the Bow and the Qu'Appelle,
And many a prairie river whose name is like a spell.
They rumor through the twilight at the edge of the unknown,
"There's a message waiting for you, and a kingdom all your own.
"The wilderness shall feed you, her gleam shall be your guide.
Come out from desolations, our path of hope is wide."
O all the headlong rivers that hurry to the West,
They call me and lure me with the joy of their unrest.
Columbia and Fraser and Bear and Kootenay,
I love their fearless reaches where winds untarnished play--
The rush of glacial water across the pebbly bar
To polished pools of azure where the hidden boulders are.
Just there, with heaven smiling, any morning I would be,
Where all the silver rivers go racing to the sea.
O well remembered rivers that sing of long ago,
Ajourneying through summer or dreaming under snow.
Among their meadow islands through placid days they glide,
And where the peaceful orchards are diked against the tide.
Tobique and Madawaska and shining Gaspereaux,
St. Croix and Nashwaak and St. John whose haunts I used to know.
And all the pleasant rivers that seek the Fundy foam,
They call me and call me to follow them home.
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 15 april 2007.
De Vlaamse schrijver Staf Weyts werd geboren op 15 april 1909 in Mechelen
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