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De Nieuw-Zeelandse schrijfster Katherine Mansfield werd geboren op 14 oktober 1888 in Wellington. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Young Girl
In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time--pinned up to be out of the way for her flight--Mrs. Raddick's daughter might have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it, too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased--why should she?--to have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored--bored as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns to play with.
"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't?
There's the car, and you'll have tea and we'll be back here on this step-- right here--in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She's not been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her."
"Oh, shut up, mother," said she wearily. "Come along. Don't talk so much. And your bag's open; you'll be losing all your money again."
"I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs. Raddick.
"Oh, do come in! I want to make money," said the impatient voice. "It's all jolly well for you--but I'm broke!"
"Here--take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile.
"I say," he cried, "there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there?"
"No, they're not."
"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. They frighten people so, and they're never fierce with their--the people they belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?"
Katherine Mansfield (14 oktober 1888 9 januari 1923)
De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en filosofe Margarete Susman werd geboren op 14 oktober 1872 in Hamburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2009.
Uit: Davids Tod
(Ein großes dunkles Gewölbe; links schwach erhellt auf prunkvollen Bett der sterbende König mit geschlossenen Augen.
Sonst ist nichts im Zimmer zu erkennen. Im Hintergrund recht zusammengekauert Abisag von Sunem)
David:
Schatten des Todes riesengroß
Umschwirren mein Haupt.
Was sind wir? Rinnender Sand,
Verwehen, Verstieben,
Hinsinkendes Nichts
Und die uns binden, die uralten Engel des Lichts
Und sammeln die Häufchen rinnenden Sandes
Zum Anschaun des ewigen Landes
Wer begriff ihr heiliges Band
In solcher Stunde?
Wer wer vermag aus des Abgrunds Grunde
Zu lieben?
Wo ist sie, die leichte blühende Flamme
In tausend Gestalten,
In der ich mich fand?
Hier ist düsteres Land.
Irrend und schwirrend, gestaltlos wogend,
Flackernd gleitet es um mich her.
Will es sich bilden? will es mich bilden?
Ich weiß seinen Namen nicht mehr.
Es hat mich zu tief in sich selbst gezogen,
Es hat mir zu viele Gestalten von mir gelogen.
Wer bin ich? Was hält mich die diesem Gefilden?
Wo ist sie, die stumme verhüllte Gestalt
In mir, die mich trüge?
Des Meinen klare Gewalt?
Wo bist Du mein Bruder? Ich sehe Dich nicht.
Du verrinnst mir in Dunkel und Licht
Wo sind sie wo sind Deine heilig geliebten Züge?
Weh mir ich finde nur Schatten,
Ich finde nur Geister,
Wo ist, der sie schafft?
Wo ist er, ihr einig weisender Führer,
Der Schatten lebenspendender Berührer,
Daß ich zu seinen Füßen sinke,
Seine Klarheit trinke
In lebendigem reinem Ermatten?
Wehe dichter und dichter
Umdrängt mich der Schatten
Atembeklemmende Todesgewalt
(Er erblicht Abisag, die in den Lichtkreis tritt)
Gestalt! Gestalt!
Welch ewiger Strahl
Von göttlicher Reine zerreißt die Nacht!
Ein Strom lebendiger Tränen
Entstürzt dem geblendeten Aug
Und ich sehe.
Ich sehe Dich, o Schwester
Aus ewiger Wogen Nacht
Rannst Du zusammen
Vor meiner lebendigen Seele.
Und um Dich ordnet sich sanft die Welt,
Die Welt mit unendlicher Bilder
Ruhiger Wonne.
Ich sehe die Sonne,
Der Sterne klare Gestalten
In reinem Kreise Dein Haupt umwalten
Ich seh Deinen Fuß die Erde treten,
Ich sehe Dein Auge glänzen und beten,
Und es blickt mich an:
Mich und ich bin,
Ich lebe.
Margarete Susman (14 oktober 1872 - 16 januari 1966)
De Poolse schrijver Stefan Żeromski werd geboren op 14 oktober 1864 in Strawczyn in de buurt van Kielce. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006.
Uit: Foreboding: Two Sketches (Vertaald door Else Benecke en Marie Busch)
In the darkest corner of the ward, in the bed marked number twenty-four, a farm labourer of about thirty years of age had been lying for several months. A black wooden tablet, bearing the words Caries tuberculosa hung at the head of the bed, and shook at each movement of the patient. The poor fellows leg had had to be amputated above the knee, the result of a tubercular decay of the bone. He was a peasant, a potato-grower, and his forefathers had grown potatoes before him. He was now on his own, after having been in two situations; had been married for three years and had a baby son with a tuft of flaxen hair. Then suddenly, from no cause that he could tell, his knee had pained him, and small ulcers had formed. He had afforded himself a carriage to the town, and there he had been handed over to the hospital at the expense of the parish.
He remembered distinctly how on that autumn afternoon he had driven in the splendid, cushioned carriage with his young wife, how they had both wept with fright and grief, and when they had finished crying had eaten hard-boiled eggs: but what had happened after that had all become blurredindescribably misty. Yet only partially so.
Of the days in the hospital with their routine and monotony, creating an incomprehensible break in his life, his memory retained nothing; but the unchanging grief, weighing like a slab of stone on a grave, was ever present in his soul with inexorable and brutal force during these many months. He only half recalled the strange wonders that had been worked on him: bathing, feeding, probing into the wound, and later the operation. He had been carried into a room full of gentlemen wearing aprons spotted with blood; he was conscious also of the mysterious, intrepid courage which, like a merciful hand, had supported him from that hour.
Stefan Żeromski (14 oktober 1864 - 20 november 1925)
Portret door Eligiusz Niewiadomski, 1900
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