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De Nederlandse dichter, journalist en columnist Nico Scheepmaker werd geboren in Amsterdam op 13 november 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 13 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 november 2009.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Je bent liever dan de nacht
Je bent liever dan de nacht,
en ook liever dan het afweergeschut
dat de nacht blij maakt en opgewonden.
Je bent liever dan het vuur van de zon
en de schaduw van 't zonlicht op straat.
Je bent liever dan 't water in de zee
en nog liever dan de opkomst der maan
en haar ondergang, moeilijk als ook
bij een paard, eb en vloed, als dat sterft.
Je bent liever dan bliksem en handkus,
veel liever en wijder verspreid
als een wijdvertakt meisje met liefde
als lichaamsgeur warm in een bloem.
Je bent liever dan menselijk is.
Vriendelijke gewoonte
De vriendelijke gewoonte van het leven
beveel ik u en ieder hartelijk aan.
Tegen de dood moet worden opgestaan,
want in de dood is alles om het even.
De vriendelijke gewoonte van het werken
is ook niet iets om uit de weg te gaan.
Het mooiste is het werken zonder baan,
om vrij te zijn binnen je eigen perken.
De vriendelijke gewoonte van de liefde
moet net zo alledaags zijn als het licht
dat nu al tien jaar lang als spoedbericht
het lieve leven aan ons overbriefde.
Nico Scheepmaker (13 november 1930 - 5 april 1990)
De Poolse dichter, vertaler en literatuurwetenschapper Stanisław Barańczak werd geboren op 13 november 1946 in Poznań. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 november 2009.
She cried that night, but not for him to hear
To Ania, the only one
She cried that night, but not for him to hear.
In fact her crying wasn't why he woke.
It was some other sound; that much was clear.
And this half-waking shame. No trace of tears
all day, and still at night she works to choke
the sobs; she cries, but not for him to hear.
And all those other nights: she lay so near
but he had only caught the breeze's joke,
the branch that tapped the roof. That much was clear.
The outside dark revolved in its own sphere:
no wind, no window pane, no creaking oak
had said: "She's crying, not for you to hear."
Untouchable are those tangibly dear,
so close, they're closed, too far to reach and stroke
a quaking shoulder-blade. This much is clear.
And he did not reach out--for shame, for fear
of spoiling the tears' tenderness that spoke:
"Go back to sleep. What woke you isn't here.
It was the wind outside, indifferent, clear."
Vertaald door Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
Stanisław Barańczak (Poznań, 13 november 1946)
De Bengaalse schrijver Humayun Ahmed werd geboren op 13 november 1948 in Kutubpur in het toenmalige Oost-Pakistan, nu Bangladesh. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 november 2008.
Uit: Nandita Narake (In Blissful Hell, vertaald door Mohammad Nurul Huda)
Rabeya was uttering those very words over and over again. Runus head bent downward and her chin nearly touched her breast. I saw her fair ears growing red. She started scripbbling in her geometry notebook. Then, all of a sudden, she stood up and said to me, Let me have some water. Saying so she walked out hurriedly. Runu is over twelve entering the thirteenth year. She understood Rabeyas vulgar words quite well and blushed for shame. Perhaps she would have burst into tears, for she is inclined to weep easily.
I said to Rabeya.
These are all dirty words, all rubbish. Youre now much grown up, you shold not say these at all.
Rabeya is elder to me by a year. I address her thou as a mark of frankness. Though brothers and sisters belonging to same age-group call each other with such frankness, Rabeya addresses me with a difference behaving like a true elder sister. She lent her ears to me with rapt attention. For quite some time, she had been wrapping a bed-sheet around a pillow in an attempt to make a doll. My words brought no change in her train of thought. However, she stopped making the doll and stretched herself out on the bed. With her legs swinging to and fro, she again uttered those dirty words in a raised voice. I said nothing. If opposed she would get furious, her voice would bcome louder and louder. A few inquisitive eyes, peeping through neighbouring windows, would try to discover what was going on.
Rabeya said,
Ill say it again.
Okay.Do it.
What if I do it?
Thats very shameful, Rabeya, very shameful. I tried to convince her in a persuading voice.
but that he said it to me.
who? I do understand, Rabeya heard these words somewhere outside. But I cannot think that somebody could say such vulgar words to Rabeya, who became just twenty-two last August.
Humayun Ahmed (Kutubpur, 13 november 1948)
Hier 2e van rechts
De Italiaanse schrijfster Dacia Maraini werd geboren op 13 november 1936 in Fiesole. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 november 2009.
Uit: The Silent Duchess (Vertaald door Dick en Kitto Elspeth Spottiswood)
Here they are, a father and a daughter. The father fair, handsome, smiling; the daughter awkward, freckled, fearful. He stylish and casual, his stockings ruffled, his wig askew; she imprisoned inside a crimson bodice that highlights the wax-like pallor of her complexion.
The little girl watches her father in the mirror as he bends down to adjust his white stockings over his calves. His mouth moves but the sound of his words is lost as it reaches her ears, as if the visible distance between them were only a stumbling block: they seem to be close but they are a thousand miles apart.
The child watches her father's lips as they move more and more rapidly. Although she cannot hear him, she knows what he is saying: that she must hasten to bid goodbye to her lady mother, that she must come down into the courtyard with him, that he is in a hurry to get into his carriage because as usual they are late.
Meanwhile Raffaele Cuffa, who when he is in the hunting lodge walks with silent watchful footsteps like a fox, approaches Duke Signoretto and hands him a large wicker basket on which a white cross stands out prominently. The Duke opens the lid with a flick of his wrist, which his daughter recognises as one of his most habitual gestures, a peevish movement with which he casts to one side anything that bores him. His indolent, sensual hand plunges into the well-ironed cloth inside the basket, shivers at the icy touch of a silver crucifix, squeezes the small bag full of coins, and then slips quickly away. At a sign from him, Raffaele Cuffa hastens forward to close the basket. Now it is only a question of getting the horses to gallop full speed to Palermo.
Meanwhile Marianna has rushed to her parents' bedroom, where she finds her mother the Duchess lying supine between the sheets, her dress fluffed up with lace slipping off her shoulder, the fingers of her hand closed round the enamel snuff-box. The child stops for a moment, overcome by the honey-sweet scent of the snuff mingled with all the other odours that accompany her mother's awakening: attar of roses, coagulated sweat, stale urine and lozenges flavoured with orris root.
Dacia Maraini (Fiesole, 13 november 1936)
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