Ätherstrophen

Jetzt muß ich aus der großen Kugel fallen.
Dabei ist in Paris ein schönes Fest.
Die Menschen sammeln sich am Gare de l'Est
Und bunte Seidenfahnen wallen.
Ich aber bin nicht unter ihnen.
Ich fliege in dem großen Raum.
Ich mische mich in jeden Traum
Und lese in den tausend Mienen.
Es liegt ein kranker Mann in seinem Jammer.
Mich hypnotisiert sein letzter Blick.
Wir sehnen einen Sommertag zurück...
Ein schwarzes Kreuz erfüllt die Kammer...

'Morfin'

Wir warten auf ein letztes Abenteuer
Was kümmert uns der Sonnenschein?
Hochaufgetürmte Tage stürzen ein
Unruhige Nächte - Gebet im Fegefeuer.

Wir lesen auch nicht mehr die Tagespost
Nur manchmal lächeln wir still in die Kissen,
Weil wir alles wissen, und gerissen
Fliegen wir hin und her im Fieberfrost.

Mögen Menschen eilen und streben
Heut fällt der Regen noch trüber
Wir treiben haltlos durchs Leben
Und schlafen, verwirrt, hinüber...

De Amerikaanse schrijver Chaim Potok werd geboren in New York City op 17 februari 1929. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007.

Uit: Old Men at Midnight

“Noah was brought to our brooklyn neighborhood by his aunt and uncle, and into my life by an announcement on the bulletin board of our synagogue: sixteen-year-old boy from europe needs english tutor.

This was early in the summer of 1947, two years after the end of the Second World War. No name, just a telephone number.

I called that night. A woman answered.

"Hello, who is it?" She sounded fretful, harried. "Who is calling, please?"

I said in Yiddish, "A good week."

There was a slight pause. "Ah, a good week," she said. Her tone softened.

I said in English, "My name is Davita Dinn. I'm calling about your request for an English tutor."

In the background I heard children crying. Turning away from the phone, she shouted something in Yiddish, which I did not understand. Into the phone she said, "You have done this before, teach English?"

"Yes. But not to a European survivor."

"How old are you?"

"Nearly eighteen."

"Where do you live?"

I told her.

"We will come to you. Is it all right tomorrow at three?"

I was alone when they arrived. Answering the front door bell, I saw a stocky, plain-looking woman in her thirties, garbed in a dark-gray dress that reached to below her knees. The dress had a frilly high neck and long sleeves. Standing a little behind and to her right was a thin boy in his teens, wearing a white long-sleeved shirt, dark trousers, and a dark skullcap.

 

De Spaanse dichter Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer werd op 17 februari 1836 in Sevilla geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007

XLI

Tú eras el huracán y yo la alta
torre que desafía su poder:
¡tenías que estrellarte o que abatirme!
¡No podía ser!

Tú eras el océano y yo la enhiesta
roca que firme aguarda su vaivén:
¡tenías que romperte o que arrancarme!
¡No podía ser!

Hermosa tú, yo altivo: acostumbrados
uno a arrollar, el otro a no ceder:
la senda estrecha, inevitable el choque...
¡No podía ser!

XLI

Du bist der Hurrikan und ich der hohe
Turm, der seiner Macht misstraut:
Du musstest mich zerschmettern oder niederreissen!...
Es konnte nicht sein!

Du warst der Ozean und ich der steil aufragende
Felsen, der Deines Auf und Ab standhaft harrte,
Du musstest Dich entzweien oder auf mich losbrausen!...
Es konnte nicht sein!

Du schön, hochmütig ich; der eine daran gewöhnt,
sich fortzuwälzen, der andere daran, nicht nachzugeben,
der Pfad verengt, unvermeidbar der Schock...
Es konnte nicht sein!

Vertaling door Arne-Wigand Baganz

De Britse schrijfster Ruth Rendell werd geboren als Ruth Grasemann in Londen op 17 februari 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007

Uit: The Water's Lovely

“Weeks went by when Ismay never thought of it at all. Then something would bring it back or it would return in a dream. The dream began in the same way. She and her mother would be climbing the stairs, following Heather's lead through the bedroom to what was on the other side, not a bathroom in the dream but a chamber floored and walled in marble. In the middle of it was a glassy lake. The white thing in the water floated toward her, its face submerged, and her mother said, absurdly, "Don't look!" Because the dead thing was a man and was naked and she was a girl of fifteen. But she had looked and in the dreams she looked again, but at Guy's drowned face. She had looked at the dead face and though she would forget from time to time what she had seen, it always came back, the fear still there in the dead eyes, the nostrils dilated to inhale water, not air.

Heather showed no fear, no emotion of any kind. She stood with her arms hanging by her sides. Her dress was wet, clinging to her breasts. No one spoke then, neither in the reality nor in the dreams, neither of them said a word until their mother fell on her knees and began crying and laughing and babbling nonsense.

When she came home the house was a different place. She had known, of course, that it would be two self-contained flats, the upper one for her mother and Pamela, the lower one for her and Heather, two pairs of sisters, two generations represented. In her last term at university, four hundred miles away in Scotland, what she hadn't understood was that part of the house would disappear.”

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007

De Duitse schrijver Georg Britting werd op 17 februari 1891 geboren in Regensburg.

17-02-2008 om 20:21 geschreven door Romenu