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De Britse dichter en schrijver James Graham Ballard werd geboren in Shanghai op 15 november 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 november 2008.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Crash (Fragment)
All the while I stared at those parts of Gabrielle's body
Reflected in this nightmare technology of cripple controls.
I watched her thighs shifting against each other
The jut of her left breast under the strap of her spinal harness
The angular bowl of her pelvis
The hard pressure of her hand on my arm
She gazed back at me through the windshield
Playing with the chromium clutch treadle
As if hoping that something obscene might happen
It was I who first made love to her
In the rear seat of her small car
Surrounded by the bizarre geometry of the invalid controls
As I explored her body
Feeling my way among the braces and straps of her underwear
The unfamiliar planes of her legs and hips
Steered me into unique cul de sacs
Strange declensions of skin and musculature
Each of her deformities became a potent metaphor
For the excitements of a new violence
Her body with its angular contours
Its unexpected junctions of mucus membrane and hairline
Detrusor muscle and erectile tissue
Was a ripening anthology of perverse possibilies
As I sat with her by the airport fence in her darkened car
Her white breast in my hand lit by the ascending airliners
The shape and tenderness of her nipple seemed to rape my fingers
Her sexual acts were exploratory ordeals
J. G. Ballard (15 november 1930 - 19 april 2009)
De Duitse schrijfster Liane Dirks werd geboren op 15 november 1965 in Hamburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 15 november 2008.
Uit: Der Koch der Königin
Das Mädchen allerdings brauchte er auch aus einem anderen Grund. Lange hatte er suchen müssen, viel hatte er erleben müssen, und noch meh rhatte er anderen angetan, bis er es fand. Es war etwas sehr Schlichtes, dem er in tausend Trug- und Zerrbildern nachgelaufen war. Hier erst hatte er es entdeckt, hier erst hatte er begriffen, hier, in diesem Land.
Es konnte eine Mango sein, oder eine sich rot öffnende Bananenblüte, es konnte ein schillernder, frisch aus dem Meer gezogener Snapper sein, der kraftvoll auf den Tisch schlug und in der LUft nach Wasser schnappte. Es konnte das Meer selber sein oder eine Handvoll Sand, der Anblick des Vulkans vor dem Abendhimmel oder das Gesicht eines Bettlers, der keineswegs blind war, sondern Sterne trug, wo andere ihre Augen haben.
Andres hatte nichts Geringeres als die Schönheit entdeckt, den Kern der Schönheit, die Essenz. Sie war es, nach der er sich sein Leben lang gesehnt hatte.
Das Mangel hatte ihn süchtig gemacht, die Fülle riss ihm zu sehr am Herzen. Es war das Maß, auf das es ankam, endlich hatte er es verstanden. Und das Mädchen hatte es. Es hatte genau das richtige Maß.
Liane Dirks (Hamburg, 15 november 1965)
De Poolse dichter en schrijver Antoni Słonimski werd geboren op 15 november 1895 in Warschau. Hij groeide op als kind uit een joodse familie maar trad later toe tot de katholieke kerk. In 1919 richtte hij samen met Julian Tuwim en Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz de Skamander groep op, een groep van experimentele dichters. In 1939 ging hij in ballingschap, in 1940 vluchtte hij naar Londen. In 1951 keerde hij naar Polen terug en engageerde hij zich tegen het stalinisme en voor politieke liberalisering. Behalve gedichten schreef Słonimski ook theaterkritieken, feullietons en absurde verhalen.
Lyrics
I know, I'll go on foot from the, station,
Even if it happened on a dark evening,
Can't lose the way: along the track
Then left from the two acacia trees.
Tobacco flower fragrant in the darkness,
A sweetish scent of the horse manure
And somewhere a distant locomotive whistle
Long, melancholic, dolefully waning.
As it sometimes has been in my dreams,
I'll recognize your voice when you ask: "Who's there?"
And it will painfully grab me by the throat
The fear, the despair and the bliss of return.
"Who's there?" - you will ask. I'll say: "It's me - Antoni
I am here." One more step, one half - step.
And a trembling hand I'll feel on my temple
And will hear the heart beat in the darkness.
"Did not think I'll frighten you so!
Do not turn the lights on, let's stay in the darkness,
Why look in the eyes, eyes no longer ours
When the hearts like in our youth are pounding?"
"Why you came back? It's not good here."
"I knew, but there was no solace for me,
I left here everything I possessed:
The common dreams of our young years."
Vertaald door Stefan Golston
Antoni Słonimski (15 november 1895 4 juli 1976)
De Italiaanse schrijver Carlo Emilio Gadda werd geboren op 15 november 1893 in Milaan. Zie ook mijn blog van 15 november 2008.
Uit: That Awful Mess on the via Merulana (Vertaald door William Weaver)
When they reached Via Merulana: the crowd. Outside the entrance, the black of the crowd, with its wreath of bicycle wheels. "Make way there. Police." Everybody stood aside. The door was closed. A policeman was on guard: with two traffic cops and two carabinieri. The women were questioning them: the cops were saying to the women: "Stand aside." The women wanted to know. Three or four, already, could be heard talking of the lottery numbers: they agreed on 17, all right, but they were having a spat over 13.
The two men went up to the Balducci home, the hospitable home that Ingravallo knew, you might say, in his heart. On the stairway, a parleying of shadows, the whispers of the women of the building. A baby cried. In the entrance hall . . . nothing especially noticeable (the usual odor of wax, the usual neatness) except for two policemen, silent, awaiting instructions. On a chair, a young man with his lead in his hands. He stood up. It was Doctor Valdarena. Then the concierge appeared, emerging, grim and pudgy, from the shadow of the hall. Nothing remarkable, you would have said: but as soon as they had entered the dining room, on the parquet floor, between the table and the little sideboard, on the floor . . . that horrible thing.
The body of the poor signora was lying in an infamous position, supine, the gray wool skirt and a white petticoat thrown back, almost to her breast: as if someone had wanted to uncover the fascinating whiteness of that dessous, or inquire into its state of cleanliness. She was wearing white underpants, of elegant jersey, very fine, which ended halfway down the thighs with a delicate edging. Between the edging and the stockings, which were a light-shaded silk, the extreme whiteness of the flesh lay naked, of a chlorotic pallor: those two thighs, slightly parted, on which the garters-a lilac hue-seemed to confer a distinction of rank, had lost their tepid sense, were already becoming used to the chill: to the chill of the sarcophagus and of man's taciturn, final abode. The precise work of the knitting, to the eyes of those men used to frequenting maidservants, shaped uselessly the weary proposals of a voluptuousness whose ardor, whose shudder, seemed to have barely been exhaled from the gentle softness of that hill, from that central line, the carnal mark of the mystery ... the one that Michelangelo (Don Ciccio mentally saw again his great work, at San Lorenzo) had thought it wisest to omit. Details! Skip it!
Carlo Emilio Gadda (15 november 1893 21 mei 1973)
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