Alan Bennett (Armley, 9 mei 1934)
De Britse schrijver en acteur Alan Bennett werd geboren op 9 mei 1934 in Armley in Leeds, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Clothes They Stood Up In
The Ransomes had been burgled. "Robbed," Mrs. Ransome said. "Burgled," Mr. Ransome corrected. Premises were burgled; persons were robbed. Mr. Ransome was a solicitor by profession and thought words mattered. Though "burgled" was the wrong word too. Burglars select; they pick; they remove one item and ignore others. There is a limit to what burglars can take: they seldom take easy chairs, for example, and even more seldom settees. These burglars did. They took everything.
The Ransomes had been to the opera, to Così fan tutte (or Così as Mrs. Ransome had learned to call it). Mozart played an important part in their marriage. They had no children and but for Mozart would probably have split up years ago. Mr. Ransome always took a bath when he came home from work and then he had his supper. After supper he took another bath, this time in Mozart. He wallowed in Mozart; he luxuriated in him; he let the little Viennese soak away all the dirt and disgustingness he had had to sit through in his office all day. On this particular evening he had been to the public baths, Covent Garden, where their seats were immediately behind the Home Secretary. He too was taking a bath and washing away the cares of his day, cares, if only in the form of a statistic, that were about to include the Ransomes.
On a normal evening, though, Mr. Ransome shared his bath with no one, Mozart coming personalized via his headphones and a stack of complex and finely balanced stereo equipment that Mrs. Ransome was never allowed to touch. She blamed the stereo for the burglary as that was what the robbers were probably after in the first place. The theft of stereos is common; the theft of fitted carpets is not.
De Oostenrijkse dichter, schrijver en diplomaat Leopold Andrian werd op 9 mei 1875 in Berlijn geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
Uit: Le Jardin de la connaissance (Der Garten der Erkenntnis, vertaald door Jean-Yves Masson)
Quand Erwin vint à Vienne, il avait dix-sept ans ; peu de temps après son arrivée, il retourna au collège religieux. À cette occasion, de nombreux anciens camarades lui promirent de venir lui rendre visite à Noël. Il se réjouissait de cette perspective, et particulièrement de lidée de revoir Lato, mais il attendait en même temps avec impatience la visite dun nouveau venu au collège, dont il venait seulement de faire la connaissance ; cétait un garçon fort laid, avec de grands yeux, qui travaillait mal, et qui, parce quil nétait pas riche, voulait devenir officier afin de parvenir au service dun archiduc.
Erwin rendit souvent visite à ses anciens camarades pendant les premiers mois, mais, peu à peu, il les oublia et naima plus que Vienne. Il aimait les grands palais baroques dans les ruelles étroites, et les inscriptions tonitruantes gravées au fronton de nos monuments, et le pas des chevaux quand ils vont à lespagnole, et les uniformes des gardes, et la cour de la résidence impériale, les jours dhiver, quand une musique de parade bruyante passe au travers de la foule et réchauffe et détend les corps engourdis des badauds ; et il aimait aussi les grandes fêtes que tout le monde célèbre, en particulier la Fête-Dieu, le jour où le corps glorifié de Notre Seigneur et Sauveur Jésus-Christ vient à nous, nimbé dun éclat et porté par une allégresse qui nont rien à envier aux jours solennels de jadis où lempereur Charles VI, revenu dune tournée sur ses terres dEspagne, faisait son entrée dans Vienne, sa résidence et la capitale de son empire.
À Erwin plaisaient aussi les étalages des magasins, le drap dune seule couleur destiné à couvrir les voitures, la batiste sombre des mouchoirs au milieu des étoffes de soie de couleurs vives ; lui plaisaient aussi les quadriges de chevaux au pelage noir comme le jais, quand ils passaient au milieu des massifs de roses du Prater ; il aimait que les cochers fussent élégants ; et il aimait que ses amis fussent élégants, et ce qui lui plaisait dans lélégance de ses amis, cétait que leur vie fût comme une ligne négligemment tracée, mais plus encore, quils fussent parfois capables daller danser toute la nuit dans un bal de village, quun mot suffît à les rendre joyeux, à moins que ce ne fût la simple pensée quils étaient Viennois et quà Vienne, même les orgues de barbarie dans les rues jouaient juste. Il lui semblait que lart de vivre viennois avait le charme gracieux et toujours plus attirant dune lampe dont on doute si elle émet deux couleurs qui se mêlent continuellement, ou sil ne sagit que du chatoiement dune seule et même couleur qui se déploie selon toutes ses nuances. »
De Russische schrijver, dichter en zanger Bulat Shalvovich Okudzhava werd geboren in Moskou op 9 mei 1924. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
A WORD OF ADVICE TO MY FRIENDS
Let's exclaim, admire each other.
We don't have to fear high-flown words.
Let's compliment each other-
surely these are the happy moments of love.
Let's grieve and cry openly
now together, now separately, now in turn.
We don't have to pay attention to gossip-
since sadness always goes along with love.
Lets' catch each others's meaning at once,
so that having made one mistake, we won't make any more.
Let's live, indulging each other in everything-
especially since life is so short.
TIME PASSES
Time passes, whether you joke or don't joke,
like an ocean wave - it will sweep us away.
But wait, that's all in the future,
let me breathe Moscow in for a while.
Do you see that house with all the lights on,
my friends want me there alive and well.
Don't hurry, Time, where would they be without me -
how could one not think of this?
Let me quench my thirst with blue water,
for now hold back weariness and tears.
Be patient, I'll settle accounts with you, -
I won't be your debtor forever.
De Roemeense dichter, schrijver en filosoof Lucian Blaga werd geboren op 9 mei 1895 in Lancrăm, bij Alba Iulia. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
Psalm
Always grief to me have been your concealed solitude
But God, what was I to do?
I played with you as a child and
Let imagination take you to pieces like a toy.
Then the untamed grew stronger within,
my songs died away,
and without ever having felt you close
I lost you for ever
in dust, in fire, in air, and on waters.
From sunrise to sunset
I am all clay and suffering.
You have confined yourself in the sky as in a coffin.
Oh, weren't you a closer kin to death
than you are to life,
you would speak to me. Right from where you are,
within the earth or within the tale- you would speak to me.
Show yourself among the thorns here, God,
so that I should know what you want of me.
Shall I catch in the air the poisoned spear
thrown by the other from the depths to wound you beneath your wings?
Or there is nothing that you want of me?
You are the mute, still identity
(a round itself is a),
and you ask for nothing. Not even for my prayers.
Look, the stars are coming into the world
along with my questioning sorrows.
Look, it is night with no windows outside.
What am I going to do from now on, God?
In you I take off my mortal flesh. I take it off
as if it were a coat left on the way.
Vertaald door Liliana Mihalachi
De Duitse schrijver Jan Drees werd geboren op 9 mei 1979 in Haan. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
Uit: Enduring Freedom
Ich glaube nicht mehr an uns. Es geht mir (jetzt, bloß) darum, ein Leben zu bekommen, irgendeines. Ich will vergessen und wünsche mir, dass alles ein bisschen wie früher wird, dass alles wie früher werden kann:
Wie damals, als es anfing, mit Jörn, der mich jeden Tag nach den Uni-Seminaren in den Arm nahm und leidenschaftlich auf den Mund küsste. Im April, Mai, Juni.
In diesem Sommer verbrachten wir späte Abende an einem Baggersee, badeten nackt in dem sich leicht abkühlenden Wasser und blieben am schmalen Stadtstrand liegen, bis es nicht mehr kühler werden konnte. Es sind immer noch dreiundzwanzig Grad,
rief ich begeistert zu Jörn hinauf, der im Nacht dämmernden Schatten lag und mich beschützte. Meine Erinnerung darüber ist an Picknicks und späte Mücken, die sich auf unsere rostbraune Haut setzten, kleine Feuerpunkte hinterließen.
Wir tranken Kühlmanschetten gekühlten Discount Prosecco zu Erdbeeren, in die man greifen konnte, um klebrig zu werden, tauchten unter Mondlicht beschienenen Flusenalgen und fanden ein Wind, Sicht und Brennnessel geschütztes Dunkelwaldfleckchen, auf dem mit Süßwasser perlender Haut gemeinsam kitschige
Plejadennebel betrachten war. Manchmal gab es Glühwürmchen auf dem Heimweg zwischen Ginster.
Beim Türken kauften wir Melonenviertel oder in verschiedenen schattig-kühlen Buchgeschäften Südfruchtprosa, die wie Kandis schmeckte. Die beim Lesen schmolz als wäre sie Himbeereis: Es begann, mir zu gefallen. Es fing an, dass ich genauso schreiben wollte, als dufte das Papier wie eine Kinopopcorn-Tüte.
Wir waren jung und flüsterten nachts auf Jörns Balkon über Zitronenkerzen hinweg. Oder beobachteten irritiert glücklich: sirrende Fledermäuse, die aus Altbaufirsten in den Laubenhof kreisten und duschten später um viertel nach drei oder lagen erschöpft, verschwitzt im Moskitonetz gefälschten Himmelsbett. Über uns funkelten angeklebte Plastiksterne mit Phosphorschimmer.
De Amerikaanse dichteres Mona Van Duyn werd geboren op 9 mei 1921 in Waterloo, Iowa. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
Three Valentines to the Wide World
I
The child disturbs our view. Tow-head bent, she
stands on one leg and folds up the other. She is listening
to the sound of her fingernail on a scab on her knee.
If I were her mother I would think right now of the chastening
that ridiculous arrangement of bones and bumps must go through,
and that big ear too, till they learn what to do and hear.
People don't perch like something seen in a zoo
or in tropical sections of Florida. They'll have to buy her
a cheap violin if she wants to make scraping noises.
She is eight years old. What in the world could she wear
that would cover her hinges and disproportions? Her face is
pointed and blank, the brows as light as the hair.
"Mother, is love God's hobby?" At eight you don't even
look up from your scab when you ask it. A kid's squeak,
is that a fit instrument for such a question?
Eight times the seasons turned and cold snow tricked
the earth to death, and still she hasn't noticed.
Her friend has a mean Dad, a milkman always kicks
at the dog, but by some childish hocus-pocus
she blinks them away. She counts ten and sucks in her cheeks
and the globe moves under the green thumb of an Amateur,
the morning yelp, the crying at recess are gone.
In the freeness of time He gardens, and to His leisure
old stems entrust new leaves all winter long.
Hating is hard work, and the uncaring thought is hard;
but loving is easy, love is that lovely play
that makes us and keeps us? No one answers you. Such absurd
charity of the imagination has shamed us, Emily.
I remember now. Legs shoved you up, you couldn't tell
where the next tooth would fall out or grow in, or what
your own nose would look like next year. Anything was possible.
Then it slowed down, and you had to keep what you got.
When this child's body stretches to the grace of her notion,
and she's tamed and curled, may she be free enough to bring
mind and heart to that serious recreation
where anything is still possible--or almost anything.
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 9 mei 2007.
De Engelse schrijver Richard Adams werd geboren in Newbury op 9 mei 1920.
De Schotse schrijver James Barrie werd op 9 mei 1860 in Kirriemuir nabij Dundee geboren.
De Italiaanse schrijver Pitigrilli (pseudoniem voor Dino Serge) werd geboren te Turijn op 9 mei 1893.
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