De Engelse dichter, essayist en criticus Wystan Hugh Auden werd geboren in York op 21 februari 1907. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 21 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 21 februari 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
If I could tell you
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Epitaph on a Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
W. H. Auden (21 februari 1907 29 september 1973)
Een zeer jonge Auden
De Franse schrijfster Laure Limongi werd geboren op 21 februari 1976 in Bastia (Corsica). Zie ook mijn blog van 21 februari 2009.
Uit: Le travail de rivière
Chaumont ressemble à une tête dépingle dans la grande tapisserie française, elle-même minuscule pièce du vaste brocart du monde. Lunivers est à portée de main quand on limagine faufilé. Chaumont est une tête dépingle verte piquée sur le cur de la France, qui nen rougit pas, et cest là que je suis née, en 1923, avec quelques dizaines de milliers dautres âmes noyées dans cet ensemble. Têtes dépingle sur tête dépingle, on nen finit pas. Océan de relativité. Ces échelles vertigineuses mont toujours tourné la tête mais je ne dois pas commencer à digresser. Pas déjà. Mest avis que je vous perdrai suffisamment tôt dans les méandres et leurs interstices. Combien finiront à la cave sans lumière de mon récit, sans en avoir visité le salon de musique ? Je reprends, donc, et je suis ma portée. Pas à pas, denjambée de sabot et délève appliquée. Je suis née à Chaumont, entre deux guerres. Cest là que mes yeux ont suivi un ruban dhistoire que jaimerais vous raconter, dune plume qui nest bien sûr pas la mienne imaginez-vous de quel lieu je pourrais vous parler ? mais la voix est assez ressemblante. À la fois lente et essoufflée. Un peu absente, un peu perdue. Incongrue. Imaginez la Callas née à Clermont-Ferrand ou Camille Claudel passant sa vie à Arras. Je ne me compare pas à leur éclat, mais à leur mélancolie. Vous me citerez Emma Calvé, née à Millau, fille de brodeuse, parcourant les mers. Vous aurez raison de me porter cette contradiction brillante, parfois même ceinte du drapeau bleu blanc rouge et rien en dessous devant des milliers de spectateurs. Emma Calvé héritant des économies de sa mère, de sa grand-mère qui filaient paisiblement au coin du feu. Sa voix est faite de leur silence. Ma voix est faite de leur silence. Imaginez un écheveau de sentiments sombres naissant à Chaumont, se dévidant à toute vitesse à Chaumont, répétant sans cesse Chaumont, Chaumont, Chaumont, sans ordre ni logique, syllabes rassurantes et écurantes, une aiguille à broder à la main, ou quasi, dès les balbutiements. Le temps se couvre, je suis fidèle aux éléments biographiques. Ou presque. »
Laure Limongi (Bastia 21, februari 1976)
De Amerikaanse schrijver David Foster Wallace werd geboren op 21 februari 1962 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 21 februari 2009.
Uit: A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again
One big girl with tattoos and a heavy-diapered infant wears a T-shirt that says WARNING: I GO FROM 0 TO HORNEY IN 2.5 BEERS
Have you ever wondered where these particular types of unfunny T-shirts come from? The ones that say things like HORNEY IN 2.5 or Impeach president Clinton
AND HER HUSBAND TOO.
As with New Yorker cartoons, theres an elusive sameness about the shirts messages. A lot serve to I.D. the wearer as part of a certain group and then congratulate that group for its sexual dynamism Coon Hunters Do It All Night and Hairdressers Tease It Till It Stands Up and Save a Horse: Ride a Cowboy. Some presume a weird kind of aggressive relation between the shirts wearer and its reader Wed Get Along Better
If You Were A BEER and Lead Me Not Into Temptation, I Know The Way MYSELF and What Part of NO Dont You Understand?
Theres something complex and compelling about the fact that these messages are not just uttered but worn, like theyre a badge or a credential. The message compliments the wearer somehow, and the wearer in turn endorses the message by spreading it across his chest, which fact is then in further turn supposed to endorse the wearer as a person of plucky or risqué wit. Its also meant to cast the wearer as an Individual, the sort of person who not only makes but wears a Personal Statement. Whats depressing is that the T-shirts statements are not only preprinted and mass-produced, but so dumbly unfunny that they serve to place the wearer squarely in that large and unfortunate group of people who think such messages not only Individual but funny. It all gets tremendously complex and depressing.
David Foster Wallace (21 februari 1962 12 september 2008)
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