De Oostenrijkse schrijver Thomas Glavinic werd geboren op 2 april 1972 in Graz. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas Glavinic op dit blog.
Uit: Das Leben der Wünsche
„Jonas spiegelte sich in seiner Sonnenbrille.
Geld? fragte Jonas.
Der Mann nahm die Brille ab, begann an einem Bügel zu nagen und sah Jonas dabei unverwandt an. Seine Augen waren wasserblau, seine Miene war ausdruckslos. Er schien zu überlegen, wie er das Gespräch eröffnen sollte. Nach einer Minute, in der er Jonas betrachtet hatte, setzte er sich mit einem Ruck zurecht und schob sich die Brille wieder auf die Nase.
Jonas, ich erfülle Ihnen drei Wünsche.
Wie wäre es damit: Sie vergessen, was Sie wissen, lassen mich gehen und erschrecken mich nie wieder?
Ich meine es ernst. Drei Wünsche.
Hören Sie auf. Was wollen Sie?
Ich will Ihnen drei Wünsche erfüllen.
Ich kann mich täuschen, aber ich glaube, im Märchen verströmt die Fee nie so einen Biergeruch.
Ich bin keine Fee, und das hier ist kein Märchen. Ich erfülle Ihnen drei Wünsche. Nennen Sie sie!
Sie meinen das wirklich ernst?
Vollkommen.
Ach du je. Lassen Sie mich mal überlegen.
Nur zu.
Der Mann sah mit ausladender Geste auf die Uhr und verschränkte die Hände im Nacken. Er wirkte teilnahmslos. Die Kinder, die auf der Wiese Frisbee spielten, schienen ihn ebenso wenig zu interessieren wie der ungeschickte Jongleur gegenüber oder die grölenden Betrunkenen an der Wurstbude am Ende des Parks. Jonas wartete, aber der Mann sagte nichts.
Im Brunnen hinter ihnen plätscherte Wasser. Die Sonne brannte Jonas auf den Rücken, sein Hemd hatte er längst durchgeschwitzt. Sollte er einfach weggehen? Was der Mann da erzählte, war verrückt. Er sah allerdings nicht wie ein Verrückter aus. Und er wusste von Marie.“
Thomas Glavinic (Graz, 2 april 1972)
De Franse schrijver Émile Zola werd geboren op 2 april 1840 te Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Émile Zola op dit blog.
Uit: The Belly of Paris (Le Ventre de Paris, vertaald door Mark Kurlansky)
“In the silence of a deserted avenue, wagons stuffed with produce made their way toward Paris, their thudding wheels rhythmically echoing off the houses sleeping behind the rows of elm trees meandering on either side of the road. At the pont de Neuilly, a cart full of cabbages and another full of peas met up with eight carts of turnips and carrots coming in from Nanterre. The horses, their heads bent low, led themselves with their lazy, steady pace, a bit slowed by the slight uphill climb. Up on the carts, lying on their stomachs in the vegetables, wrapped in their black-and-gray-striped wool coats, the drivers slept with the reins in their fists. Occasionally the light from a gas lamp would grope its way through the shadows and brighten the hobnail of a boot, the blue sleeve of a blouse, or the tip of a hat poking from the bright bloom of vegetables—red bouquets of carrots, white bouquets of turnips, or the bursting greenery of peas and cabbages.
All along the road and all the nearby routes, up ahead and farther back, the distant rumbling of carts told of other huge wagons, all pushing on through the darkness and slumber of two in the morning, the sound of passing food lulling the darkened town to stay asleep.
Madame François’s horse, Balthazar, an overweight beast, led the column. He dawdled on, half asleep, flicking his ears until, at rue de Longchamp, his legs were suddenly frozen by fear. The other animals bumped their heads into the stalled carts in front of them, and the column halted with the clanking of metal and the cursing of drivers who had been yanked from their sleep. Seated up top, Madame François, with her back against a plank that held the vegetables in place, peered out but saw nothing by the faint light of the little square lantern to her left, which barely lit one of Balthazar’s glistening flanks.”
Émile Zola (2 april 1840 - 29 september 1902)
De joods-Hongaarse schrijver György Konrád werd geboren op 2 april 1933 in Berettyóújfalu (bij Debrecen). Zie ook alle tags voor György Konrád op dit blog.
Uit: Pro Europa
“The central power of a nationalist state towers up to a point like a pyramid, but all the same it is directed inward and necessarily remains provincial, an entire world in itself. In fact, even today it resembles a royal court, with its corresponding array of many smaller organs of local power. Those who think big may hover around the court, but it is also understandable if small-town people are less than thrilled by the prospect of the more complicated relationships of a wider stage, because they find greater satisfaction in a familiar, transparent intimacy.
There is a tension between the greater European enterprise and the personal interests of its players. The safety of the nest, the preservation of the familiar, resistance to the intrusion of the outside world, even self-imposed isolation – these are passions every bit as strong as openness, discovery, and adventure. For a brief while, there was a willingness to open up the house and spread our arms wide to the world, but more common these days are the desire for security and the installation of alarm systems wired to the police department. A tolerance for the influx of the outside world and a willingness to be helpful have proven to have their limits; people prefer to cling to their peaceful existence, regarding noisy intrusion and conspicuous differences as forms of aggression. Integration is a new and experimental kind of balance between isolation and acceptance of the new.”
György Konrád (Berettyóújfalu, 2 april 1933)
De Nederlandse dichteres en schrijfster Anneke Claus werd geboren op 2 april 1979 in Doetinchem. Zie ook alle tags voor Anneke Claus op dit blog.
Saalien blues
Het was een hels kabaal toen de gletsjers
de Hondsrug omhoog duwden –
Daar lag hij: een blinde zandworm in de klei –
en toen daaruit, huis voor huis, het dorp verrees.
De veldkeien weg, onvermijdelijk de ratelwagens
motorvoertuigen, fanfares.
De natte brug weet er alles van
dat kun je horen aan hoe diep hij zwijgt.
Vanmorgen heeft een vakkenvuller me 'fossiel' genoemd.
Niet met zoveel woorden, maar wel bijna.
'Mevrouw, ik heb het idee dat u al sinds de prehistorie
in deze Super komt, klopt dat?'
Die brug en ik, denk ik
wij begrijpen elkaar.
Anneke Claus (Doetinchem, 2 april 1979)
De Amerikaanse dichteres Anne Waldman werd geboren op 2 april 1945 in Millville, New Jersey. Zie ook alle tags voor Anne Waldman op dit blog.
Fast Speaking Woman (Fragment)
woman never under your thumb, says
skull that was a head, says
bloodshot eyes, says
I’m the Kali woman the killer woman
women with salt on her tongue
fire that cleans
fire that catches
fire burns hotter as I go
woman traded her secrets never, says
woman reversed the poles, says
woman never left America to know this
but she did, says, she did leave
woman combs snakes out of her hair
woman combs demons out of her hair
woman lies down with the cobra
then meditates under cobra canopy
woman had a bone in her throat, says
was it yours? says
she admits she has a taste for you, says
she’s cannibal woman, Kali woman
woman’s tongue once split in ten directions
one: I’m a savage woman
two: I’m the rutting woman
three: I’m the fire dancer with coal-black feet
four: Im the old-time thinker
five: poseur woman
six: I’m the redacteur
seven: auteur
eight: I haunt you with my songs
nine: I was the nun
now I am bound by desire again
ten: I’m the cittipatti woman
the dancing-skull woman
mouth is moving, says
skull-mouth moving, says
says these things
says terrible things as I go
Anne Waldman (Millville, 2 april 1945)
Cover
De Italiaanse schrijver en avonturier Giacomo Girolamo Casanova werd geboren in Venetië op 2 april 1725. Zie ook alle tags voor Giacomo Casanova op dit blog.
Uit:The memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt (Vertaald door Arthur Machen)
“Sunday had come; Bettina had made a good dinner, but she had been frantic all through the day. Towards midnight her father came home, singing Tasso as usual, and so drunk that he could not stand. He went up to Bettina’s bed, and after kissing her affectionately he said to her: “Thou art not mad, my girl.”
Her answer was that he was not drunk.
“Thou art possessed of the devil, my dear child.”
“Yes, father, and you alone can cure me.”
“Well, I am ready.”
Upon this our shoemaker begins a theological discourse, expatiating upon the power of faith and upon the virtue of the paternal blessing. He throws off his cloak, takes a crucifix with one hand, places the other over the head of his daughter, and addresses the devil in such an amusing way that even his wife, always a stupid, dull, cross- grained old woman, had to laugh till the tears came down her cheeks. The two performers in the comedy alone were not laughing, and their serious countenance added to the fun of the performance. I marvelled at Bettina (who was always ready to enjoy a good laugh) having sufficient control over herself to remain calm and grave. Doctor Gozzi had also given way to merriment; but begged that the farce should come to an end, for he deemed that his father’s eccentricities were as many profanations against the sacredness of exorcism. At last the exorcist, doubtless tired out, went to bed saying that he was certain that the devil would not disturb his daughter during the night. »
Giacomo Casanova (2 april 1725 – 4 juni 1798)
Heath Ledger als Casanova in de gelijknamige film uit 2005
De Deense schrijver en dichter Hans Christian Andersen werd geboren op 2 april 1805 in Odense. Zie ook alle tags voor Hans Christian Andersen op dit blog.
Uit: De standvastige tinnen soldaat
“Er was eens een jongetje dat op zijn verjaardag tinnen soldaatjes kreeg. Niet één, niet twee, maar vierentwintig tinnen soldaatjes.
Wat zagen die soldaatjes er dapper uit! Ze droegen een prachtig uniform en hadden elk een geweertje aan de schouder.
"Ze zijn net echt!" riep het jongetje blij, toen het de soldaatjes één voor één in zijn hand nam.
Toen hij het laatste soldaatje vastpakte, zag het jongetje iets heel bijzonders. Het was een soldaatje met maar één been. Maar omdat het even flink rechtop stond als de andere soldaatjes, vond het jongetje hem het mooiste en dapperste van allemaal. Want op één been staan is veel moeilijker dan op twee.
Net zoals de andere tinnen soldaatjes, keek het soldaatje met één been steeds recht voor zich uit, zoals het hoort voor een soldaatje dat in de houding staat.”
Hans Christian Andersen (2 april 1805 - 4 augustus 1875)
Standbeeld in Odense
De Argentijnse schrijver Roberto Godofredo Arlt werd geboren op 2 april 1900 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Roberto Arlt op dit blog.
Uit: The Mad Toy (Vertaald door Michele McKay Aynesworth)
“The hot siesta hour weighed on the streets, and I was sitting on a cask of gaucho tea talking to Hipolito, who took advantage of his father's naps to build bamboo airplanes. Hipolito wanted to be a pilot, but first, he said, he needed to solve the problem of "spontaneous stability." Sometimes he would be wrestling with the thorny question of perpetual motion, and we would mull over possible solutions together.
With his elbows propped on pork-stained newspapers laid out between the cheese bin and the red poles of the cashier's box, Hipolito would be all ears as he listened to my ideas.
"Clock parts make lousy propellers. Use a little 'lectric motor and put some dry cells in the fuselage."
"Like submarines ..."
"What submarines? The only danger is the current could burn up your motor, but the plane'll fly smoother, and it'll be a while 'fore the batteries conk out."
"Hey, what if we hooked up the motor to a wireless telegraph? You should study that invention. Wouldn't it be sweet?"
At that moment Enrique came in.
"Che, Hipolito, Mama says can you spare half a kilo of sugar, pay you later."
"I can't; my old man told me till your bill is paid ..."
Enrique frowned ever so slightly. "I'm surprised at you, Hipolito!"
Hipolito continued in soothing tones, "I wouldn't have any problem, you know that.... It's my old man." And pointing at me, happy to change the subject, he said to Enrique, "Say, you don't know Silvio, do you? He's the one who made the cannon."
Roberto Arlt (2 april 1900 – 26 juli 1942)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 2e april ook mijn blog van 2 april 2012 deel 1 en ook deel 2.
Özcan Akyol
