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De Engelse dichter en essayist Henry Austin Dobson werd geboren op 18 januari 1840 in Plymouth. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 januari 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
On the Future of Poetry
Bards of the Future! you that come
With striding march, and roll of drum,
What will your newest challenge be
To our prose-bound community?
What magic will you find to stir
The limp and languid listener?
Will it be daring and dramatic?
Will it be frankly democratic?
Will Pegasus return again
In guise of modern aeroplane,
Descending from a cloudless blue
To drop on us a bomb or two?
I know not. Far be it from me
To darken dark futurity;
Still less to render more perplexed
The last vagary, or the next.
Leave Pindus Hill to those who list,
Iconoclast or anarchist --
So be it. "They that break shall pay."
I stand upon the ancient way.
I hold it for a certain thing,
That, blank or rhyming, song must sing;
And more, that what is good for verse,
Need not, by dint of rhyme, grow worse.
I hold that they who deal in rhyme
Must take the standpoint of the time --
But not to catch the public ear,
As mountebank or pulpiteer;
That the old notes are still the new,
If the musician's touch be true --
Nor can the hand that knows its trade
Achieve the trite and ready-made;
That your first theme is Human Life,
Its hopes and fears, its love and strife --
A theme no custom can efface,
Common, but never commonplace;
For this, beyond all doubt, is plain:
The Truth that pleased will please again,
And move men as in bygone years
When Hector's wife smiled through her tears.
Henry Austin Dobson (18 januari 1840 2 september 1921)
Portret door Frank Brooks
De Britse schrijver Alan Alexander Milne werd geboren op 18 januari 1882 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 januari 2009.
Uit: The Red House Mystery
In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds; making ease the sweeter in that it is taken while others are working.
It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper's room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid, re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett's bachelor home.
"For Joe?" said Mrs. Stevens placidly, her eye on the hat. Audrey nodded. She took a pin from her mouth, found a place in the hat for it, and said, "He likes a bit of pink."
"I don't say I mind a bit of pink myself," said her aunt. "Joe Turner isn't the only one."
"It isn't everybody's colour," said Audrey, holding the hat out at arm's length, and regarding it thoughtfully. "Stylish, isn't it?"
"Oh, it'll suit you all right, and it would have suited me at your age. A bit too dressy for me now, though wearing better than some other people, I daresay. I was never the one to pretend to be what I wasn't. If I'm fifty-five, I'm fifty-five--that's what I say."
"Fifty-eight, isn't it, auntie?"
"I was just giving that as an example," said Mrs. Stevens with great dignity.
Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out and looked at her nails critically for a moment, and then began to sew.
"Funny thing that about Mr. Mark's brother. Fancy not seeing your brother forfifteen years." She gave a self-conscious laugh and went on, "Wonder what I should do if I didn't see Joe for fifteen years."
"As I told you all this morning," said her aunt, "I've been here five years, and never heard of a brother. I could say that before everybody if I was going to die to-morrow. There's been no brother here while I've been here."
"You could have knocked me down with a feather when he spoke about him at breakfast this morning. I didn't hear what went before, naturally, but they was all talking about the brother when I went in--now what was it I went in for--hot milk, was it, or toast?--well, they was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns to me, and says--you know his way--'Stevens,' he says, 'my brother is coming to see me this afternoon; I'm expecting him about three,' he says. 'Show him into the office,' he says, just like that. 'Yes, sir,' I says quite quietly, but I was never so surprised in my life, not knowing he had a brother. 'My brother from Australia,' he says--there, I'd forgotten that. From Australia."
Alan Alexander Milne (18 januari 1882 - 31 januari 1956)
De Roemeense schrijver en journalist Ioan Slavici werd geboren op 18 januari 1848 in Siria. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 januari 2009.
Uit: Popa Tanda (Vertaald door Lucy Byng)
God have mercy on the soul of Schoolmaster Pintilie! He was a good man, and a well known chorister. He was very fond of salad with vinegar. Whenever he was hoarse, he would drink the yolk of an egg with it; when he raised his voice, the windows rattled while he sang, "Oh, Lord, preserve Thy people." He was schoolmaster in Butucani, a fine, large town containing men of position and sound sense, and given to almsgiving and hospitality. Now Schoolmaster Pintilie had only two children: a daughter married to Petrea Tzapu, and Trandafir, Father Trandafir, priest in Saraceni.
God keep Father Trandafir! He was a good man, he had studied many books, and he sang even better than his dead father, God have mercy on his soul! He always spoke correctly and carefully as though he were reading out of a book. Father Trandafir was an industrious, careful man. He gathered from many sources, and made something out of nothing. He saved, he mended, he collected to get enough for himself and for others.
Father Trandafir went through a great deal in his youth. One does not achieve big results in a minute or two. The poor man has to go without a great deal more than he ever gets. He worked harder with his brain than with a spade and fork. But what he did was not work thrown away. Young Trandafir became priest in his native town, in Butucani, a fine large town containing men of position and good sense, but Trandafir did not enjoy the almsgiving and hospitality.
Ioan Slavici (18 januari 1848 17 augustus 1925)
De Franse schrijver en filosoof Louis-Claude de Saint-Martin werd geboren op 18 januari 1743 te Amboise (Indre-et-Loire). Zie ook mijn blog van 18 januari 2009.
Uit: Extraits sur lâme
Âme humaine, tu avais oublié cette loi supérieure, lorsque, dans ton état de splendeur, tu te laissas égarer par un faux attrait ; mais cette loi inextinguible ta poursuivie jusque dans ton abîme terrestre, parce que le principe des choses ne peut rien produire sans imprimer partout les éloquents caractères de sa langue divine. Le Ministère
: De lHomme.
Âme humaine, ne perds pas un instant pour ranimer en toi toutes ces mesures, si tu les as laissé saltérer. Fais que toutes ces puissances, chacune dans sa classe, procèdent toujours en avant de soi, sans regarder ni à droite, ni à gauche ; car cest là ce que lon appelle la voie de la justice. Le Ministère
: De la Parole.
Louis-Claude de Saint-Martin (18 januari 1743 13 oktober 1803)
De Franse schrijfster Madame de Lafayette werd geboren op 18 januari 1634 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 januari 2009.
Uit: La princesse de Clèves
Il se mit à repasser toutes les actions de madame de Clèves depuis qu'il en était amoureux ; quelle rigueur honnête et modeste elle avait toujours eue pour lui, quoiqu'elle l'aimât. "Car, enfin, elle m'aime, disait-il ; elle m'aime, je n'en saurais douter ; les plus grands engagements et les plus grandes faveurs ne sont pas des marques si assurées que celles que j'en ai eues. Cependant je suis traité avec la même rigueur que si j'étais haï ; j'ai espéré au temps, je n'en dois plus rien attendre ; je la vois toujours se défendre également contre moi et contre elle-même. Si je n'étais point aimé, je songerais à plaire ; mais je plais, on m'aime, et on me le cache. Que puis-je donc espérer, et quel changement dois-je attendre dans ma destinée ? Quoi ! je serai aimé de la plus aimable personne du monde, et je n'aurai cet excès d'amour que donnent les premières certitudes d'être aimé, que pour mieux sentir la douleur d'être maltraité ! Laissez-moi voir que vous m'aimez, belle princesse, s'écria-t-il, laissez-moi voir vos sentiments ; pourvu que je les connaisse par vous une fois en ma vie, je consens que vous repreniez pour toujours ces rigueurs dont vous m'accablez. Regardez-moi du moins avec ces mêmes yeux dont je vous ai vue cette nuit regarder mon portrait ; pouvez-vous l'avoir regardé avec tant de douceur, et m'avoir fui moi-même si cruellement ? Que craignez-vous ? Pourquoi mon amour vous est-il si redoutable ? Vous m'aimez, vous me le cachez inutilement ; vous-même m'en avez donné des marques involontaires. Je sais mon bonheur ; laissez-m'en jouir, et cessez de me rendre malheureux.
Madame de Lafayette (18 januari 1634 26 juni 1893)
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