De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Pynchon werd op 8 mei 1937 geboren in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York.

 

Uit: V

 

“Christmas Eve, 1955, Benny Profane, wearing black levis, suede jacket, sneakers and big cowboy hat, happened to pass through Norfolk, Virginia. Given to sentimental impulses, he thought he'd look in on the Sailor's Grave, his old tin can's tavern on East Main Street. He got there by way of the Arcade, at the East Main end of which sat an old street singer with a guitar and an empty Sterno can for donations. Out in the street a chief yeoman was trying to urinate in the gas tank of a '54 Packard Patrician and five or six seamen apprentice were standing around giving encouragement. The old man was singing, in a fine, firm baritone:

 

Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main,
Sailors and their sweethearts all agree.
Neon signs of red and green
Shine upon the friendly scene,
Welcoming you in from off the sea.
Santa's bag is filled with all your dreams come true:
Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne,
Barmaids who all love to screw,
All of them reminding you
It's Christmas Eve on old East Main.

 

"Yay chief," yelled a seaman deuce. Profane rounded the corner. With its usual lack of warning, East Main was on him.

Since his discharge from the Navy Profane had been roadlaboring and when there wasn't work just traveling, up and down the east coast like a yo-yo; and this had been going on for maybe a year and a half. After that long of more named pavements than he'd care to count, Profane had grown a little leery of streets, especially streets likethis. They had in fact all fused into a single abstracted Street, which come the full moon he would have nightmares about. East Main, a ghetto for Drunken Sailors nobody knew what to Do With, sprang on your nerves with all the abruptness of a normal night's dream turning to nightmare. “

 

 

 

Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937)

Boekomslag "V"

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958.

 

Uit: A Star Called Henry

 

“My mother looked up at the stars. There were plenty of them up there. She lifted her hand. It swayed as she chose one. Her finger pointed.
-- There''s my little Henry up there. Look it.
I looked, her other little Henry sitting beside her on the step. I looked up and hated him. She held me but she looked up at her twinkling boy. Poor me beside her, pale and red-eyed, held together by rashes and sores. A stomach crying to be filled, bare feet aching like an old, old man''s. Me, a shocking substitute for the little Henry who''d been too good for this world, the Henry God had wanted for himself. Poor me.
And poor Mother. She sat on that step and other crumbling steps and watched her other babies joining Henry. Little Gracie, Lil, Victor, another little Victor. The ones I remember. There were others, and early others sent to Limbo; they came and went before they could be named. God took them all. He needed them all up there to light the night. He left her plenty, though. The ugly ones, the noisy ones, the ones He didn''t want -- the ones that would never stay fed.
Poor Mother. She wasn''t much more than twenty when she gazed up at little twinkling Henry but she was already old, already decomposing, ruined beyond repair, good for some more babies, then finished.
Poor Mammy. Her own mother was a leathery old witch, but was probably less than forty. She poked me, as if to prove that I was there.
-- You''re big, she said.
She was accusing me, weighing me, planning to take some of me back. Always wrapped in her black shawl, she always smelt of rotten meat and herrings -- it was a sweat on her. Always with a book under the shawl, the complete works of Shakespeare or something by Tolstoy. Nash was her name but I don''t know what she called herself before she married her dead husband.“

 

 

 

Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gary Snyder werd geboren op 8 mei 1930 in San Francisco.

 

 

 

How Poetry Comes to Me

 

It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light

 

 

 

For All

Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.

 

 

 

 

Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Gertrud Fussenegger werd geboren op 8 mei 1912 in Pilsen. Gertrud Fussenegger overleed op 19 maart van dit jaar op 96-jarige leeftijd.

 

Uit: Die Brüder von Lasawa

 

„Mit Zdenko sprach er, obwohl sie fast den ganzen Tag miteinander verbrachten, sehr wenig. Er hatte es in jener ersten Stunde, da er ihn beim Ballspiel getroffen, nicht über sich gebracht, dem Endlich-Gefundenen zu gestehen, wie lange er ihn gesucht, wie viele Wege er um seinetwillen gemacht hatte, ja, daß er nur seinetwegen, um den Bruder zu gewinnen, den Perwög-Namen ausgeschlagen, das Muttererbe fortgeworfen, die Heimat verlassen habe. Er gab auf Zdenkos Frage, wieso er hieher nach Wien gekommen sei, eine beiläufige Antwort, als hätte ihn Abenteuerei und Laune und vielleicht noch ein Auftrutzen gegen die großväterliche Herrschaft zu dieser Wanderung verführt. Auch hatte er nicht gesagt, daß er in Lasawa gewesen, und schließlich auch die Fahrt mit dem wahnsinnigen Mädchen verschwiegen. Zdenko drang auch nicht mit Fragen in ihn. Nur sein Blick ruhte oft, verstohlen forschend, auf dem jüngeren Bruder. Hie und da erkundigte er sich nach dem Handel, nach den Bräuchen der Landleute und Bürger in Tirol. Er war auf einer Fahrt einmal durch das Inntal gekommen, hatte sogar in Hall gerastet und daran gedacht, daß sein Vater hier eine zweite Frau genommen habe. "Und du bist nicht zu uns gekommen?" fragte Christof.“

 

 

 

Gertrud Fussenegger (8 mei 1912 – 19 maart 2009)



Zie voor alle bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 8e mei ook mijn twee vorige blogs van vandaag.

De Engelse schrijfster Pat Barker werd geboren in Thornaby-on-Tees op 8 mei 1943.

 

Uit: Another World

 

„Cars queue bumper to bumper, edge forward, stop, edge forward again. Resting his bare arm along the open window, Nick drums his fingers. The Bigg Market on a Friday night. Litter of chip cartons, crushed lager cans, a gang of lads with stubble heads and tattooed arms looking for trouble — and this is early, it hasn't got going yet. Two girls stroll past, one wearing a thin, almost transparent white cotton dress. At every stride her nipples show, dark circles beneath the cloth, fish rising. One of the lads calls her name: `Julie!' She turns, and the two of them fall into each other's arms.

    Nick watches, pretending not to.

 

What is love's highest aim?
Four buttocks on a stem.

 

Can't remember who said that — some poor sod made cynical by thwarted lust. Nothing wrong with the aim, as far as Nick can see — just doesn't seem much hope of achieving it any more. And neither will these two, or not yet. The boy's mates crowd round, grab him by the belt, haul him off her. `Jackie-no-balls,' the other girl jeers. The boy thrusts his pelvis forward, makes wanking movements with his fist.

    Lights still red. Oh, come on. He's going to be late, and he doesn't want to leave Miranda waiting at the station. This is the first visit to the new house. Fran wanted to put it off, but then Barbara went into hospital and that settled it. Miranda had to come, and probably for the whole summer. Well, he was pleased, anyway.

 

 

 

Pat Barker (Thornaby-on-Tees, op 8 mei 1943)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen.

 

Uit: Romain Gary, le caméléon (Biografie door Myriam Anissimov)

 

„Une partie de la famille Owczynski était établie dans la capitale polonaise et y vivait plutôt bourgeoisement. Mina avait à Varsovie son frère, Abraham Borukh, celui qui s'appelait Boleslaw, et exerçait la profession d'avocat malgré le numerus clausus. Il avait fait ses études à la faculté de Varsovie, où les étudiants juifs se faisaient rosser par leurs condisciples chrétiens et étaient parqués sur des bancs réservés. C'est lui que Gary désigne sous le prénom de Boris, au dos de la photo datée de 1949 prise quelques mois avant sa mort.

Borukh-Abraham avait épousé à vingt-deux ans sa cousine Myriam (Maria) Owczynska, la fille de solomon Owczynski, agée de dix-sept ans, originaire de Sweciany. Les jeunes gens s'étaient unis sous la khoupa le 22 avril 1912 à Wilno devant le rabbin Rubinstein qui avait déjà marié Mina et Arieh-Leïb.

(...)

 

L'avocat de Jean Seberg avait réussi à la convaincre qu'un procès aux Etats-Unis n'avait aucune chance d'aboutir car, selon le droit anglo-saxon, elle devait apporter la preuve au juge que la mort de sa fille avait été causée par deux lignes mensongères de l'article paru dans . Au contraire, en France, Me Cournot et le bâtonnier Paul Arrighi, les conseils de Gary et Seberg, pouvaient l'emporter en invoquant l'atteinte à la vie privée. Le 25 octobre, la XVIIe chambre correctionnelle, présidée par M. Bracquemond, rejeta leur demande d'affirmer que la mort de Nina était imputable à l'article de Newsweek, mais leur donna raison sur le second motif, 'le viol de la vie privée'. Le magazine américain avait accusé Romain Gary de diffamation pour son article publié dans France-Soir. Il fut acquitté eu égard aux circonstances.“

 

 

 

Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en criticus Edmund Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1895 in Red Bank, New Jersey.

 

Uit: Edmund Wilson: A Life in Literature (Biografie door Lewis M. Dabney)

 

„On a brisk afternoon in September 1922, a conservatively dressed young man with red hair sat on the upper deck of a Fifth Avenue bus in Manhattan, engrossed in a manuscript. A friend at the literary magazine The Dial had put a long poem into his hands. The Dial was interested in publishing it, and the editors hoped that the young man—Edmund Wilson—would write an essay to elucidate the poem. By the time he reached Greenwich Village, Wilson had completed a first reading of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. Decades later he would recall being “bowled over,” and his essay called the poem “simply one triumph after another.” This recognition of Eliot followed Wilson’s account, in The New Republic, of Joyce’s Ulysses as a masterpiece fusing naturalism and symbolism, re-creating the mind “straining always to perpetuate and perfect itself” and the body “always laboring and throbbing to throw up some beauty from its darkness.” He believed the general reader could absorb these works that challenged existing literary forms and commandeered in new ways the powers of language. Both Eliot and Joyce, he thought, occasionally tried one’s patience, but he was committed to making them more accessible.
Edmund Wilson was twenty-seven. He was fortunate to come on the scene as a critic when he did, but he had trained for this moment. At fifteen he had been sure of hisliterary vocation, and he absorbed all that liberal education had to offer both at the Hill School and at Princeton, where extraordinary teachers encouraged his curiosity and enthusiasm for books and about ideas. He emerged from his parents’ uncongenial marriage with emotional scars, but his confidence in his abilities was strong, and he was seasoned by a year as a hospital orderly in France during World War I. Though he hated the suffering he saw, he liked being on a footing of relative equality with Americans of diverse backgrounds, and returned to his country skeptical of institutions and of rank and social privilege. He joined Vanity Fair as an editorial assistant, immediately became its managing editor, and began publishing criticism there as well as in other magazines.“

 

 

 

Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor alle bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Peter Benchley werd geboren in New York City op 8 mei 1940.  Benchley studeerde in 1961 af aan de Harvard-universiteit, met als hoofdvak Engels. Hij is met name bekend geworden door zijn roman Jaws over een zeer gevaarlijke witte haai waar ook een eveneens bekende, gelijknamige speelfilm over is gemaakt. Later in zijn leven betreurde Benchley het dat hij witte haaien in zijn boeken als moorddadige beesten had afgeschilderd en zette hij zich in voor natuurbehoud.

 

Uit: Jaws

 

‘The boat was sinking. The stern was completely submerged, and the bow was rising.
The fish rolled off the stern and slid beneath the waves. The rope, attached to the dart Quint had stuck into the fish, followed.
Suddenly, Quint lost his footing and fell backward into the water. “The knife!” he cried, lifting his left leg above the surface, and Brody saw the rope coiled around Quint’s foot.
(….)
The fish came closer. It was only a few feet away, and Brody could see the conical snout. He screamed, an ejaculation of hopelessness, and closed his eyes, waiting for an agony he could not imagine.
Nothing happened. He opened his eyes. The fish was nearly touching him, only a foot or two away, but it had stopped. And then, as Brody watched, the steelgray body began to recede downward into the gloom. It seemed to fall away, an apparition evanescing into darkness.
Brody put his face into the water and opened his eyes. Through the stinging saltwater mist he saw the fish sink in a slow and peaceful spiral, trailing behind it the body of Quint – arms out to the sides, head thrown back, mouth open in a mute protest’

 

 

 

Peter Benchley (8 mei 1940  - 11 februari 2006)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: A Summer Place

 

“The most junior officer was usually given the graveyard watch, as it was called, lasting from midnight to four in the morning. In March of 1943, on only the third night that he had stood his own watch, a heavy gale was blowing. The convoy consisted of a dozen naval tankers taking gasoline to bases in Britain. Heavy-laden, they were smothered in foam by the Arctic combers, and the convoy speed had to be reduced to four knots. There were no moon and stars that night, and Bart’s ship had not yet been given radar. Depending on eyesight and echo sounding devices alone, Bart’s destroyer and three others tried to keep close to the unlighted vessels without running into them. It was bitter cold, with the spray freezing on deck and on the portholes of the pilothouse…It was eighteen minutes after two in the morning when a star shell suddenly burst over the convoy, turning the raging sea white. A wolf pack of five black submarines, almost invisible in the night, came charging arrogantly in on the surface with their deck guns stabbing the fat-bellied tankers. It hadn’t been necessary for the submarines to send up another star shell, for in the few seconds that the first one hung blazing in the sky, a gas tanker exploded, sending a column of fire a thousand feet into the air.”

 

 

 

 

Sloan Wilson (8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Meade Falkner werd geboren op 8 mei 1858 in Manningford Bruce, Wiltshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: The Nebuly Coat

 

„The Hand of God stood on the highest point in all the borough, and Mr. Westray's apartments were in the third story. From the window of his sitting-room he could look out over the houses on to Cullerne Flat, the great tract of salt-meadows that separated the town from the sea. In the foreground was a broad expanse of red-tiled roofs; in the middle distance St. Sepulchre's Church, with its tower and soaring ridges, stood out so enormous that it seemed as if every house in the place could have been packed within its walls ; in the background was the blue sea. In summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, and through the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silver windings of the Cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-white flocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of a pleasure-boat. But in autumn, as Westray saw it for the first time, the rank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows is seamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high- tide show out like crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle to little gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescent water in the bottom. It is in the autumn that the moles heap up meanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam ; and in the turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat. Once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there could have been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timber vessels in the Baltic trade, of tea- clippers, and Indiamen, and emigrant ships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned by Cullerae adventurers.“

 

 

 

J. Meade Falkner (8 mei 1858 – 22 juli 1932)

Falkner in 1883

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Le diable boiteux

 

„Le dramaturge prétentieux : « Tous mes ouvrages, a-t-il continué sans façon, sont marqués au bon coin : aussi, quand je les lis, il faut voir comme on les applaudit ; je marrête à chaque vers pour recevoir des louanges. »
Le barbaresque esclavagiste : « Aby Ali me dit en langue castillane : Modérez votre affliction : consolez-vous dêtre tombée dans lesclavage ; ce malheur était inévitable pour vous ; mais que dis-je, ce malheur ? cest un avantage dont vous devez vous applaudir. Vous êtes trop belle pour vous borner aux hommages des chrétiens. Le ciel ne vous a point fait naître pour ces misérables mortels ; vous méritez les tous premiers hommes du monde : les seuls musulmans sont dignes de vous posséder. »

(...)

 

« Les femmes ne saiment point. Jen suppose deux parfaitement unies ; je veux même quelles ne disent pas le moindre mal lune de lautre en leur absence, tant elles sont amies ; vous les voyez toutes deux ; vous penchez dun côté, la rage se met de lautre ; ce nest pas que lenragée vous aime ; mais elle voulait la préférence. Tel est le caractère des femmes : elles sont trop jalouses les unes des autres pour être capables damitié. »

 

 

 

Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann von Besser werd geboren op 8 mei 1654 in Frauenburg (tegenwoordig Saldus in Letland). Zie en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

 

An die auff Doris brust verwelckte rose.

Wie hastu rose / voller pracht /
Auff Doris brust zu sterben wissen?
Hat dich ihr schnee beschämt gemacht /
Daß du davor erbleichen müssen?
Ja freylich blumen-königin /
Dein purpur weichet dem jeßmin /
Den dieser schöne kreiß läst spüren.
Doch sorge nicht ob dem verlust /
Du stirbst auff meiner Doris brust /
Du solst dadurch gar nichts verlieren,
Ich werde nun dein welckes blat /
In meynung Doris brust zu küssen /
An meinen mund zu drücken wissen /
Und wünschen / daß an deiner statt
Ich für dich hätte sterben müssen.

 

 

 

 

Johann von Besser (8 mei 1654 – 10 februari 1729)

 

 

 

 

De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Stina Becomes a Farmer's Wife  (vertaald door Sally Ryan)

 

„She never stopped or quickened her steps, but kept an even pace with unchanging calmness, walking along with her feet apart, like a sturdy, broadgaged wagon, while the thick, heavy soles of her leather shoes made goodly tracks on the ground. Drops of perspiration trickled from her white forehead down her ruddy, freckled nose, but this was the only movement in her big, sun-burned face. She did not even blink in the sun. Her mouth was slightly open, displaying a remarkably strong and beautiful row of upper teeth. From time~ to time she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, without, however, changing their position.

Stina had need to arm herself with patience; she had already walked two miles from the town where she was in service, and had fully four miles more to go before reaching the village of her destination. Her mistress, the widow of the late dean, had given her a whole day's leave. This occurred twice a year, once at Shrovetide, and once after the summer holidays, when the two sons of the house had returned to their studies at the University in Copenhagen.

Stina always took advantage of these two free days to visit her eight-year-old daughter. With some help from the parish, this child–unfortunately born out of wedlock–had been placed in the care of a cottager and his wife in Stina's native village. The father had worked on the same farm with Stina when she was twenty-two years old, but, upon learning that she was "in trouble," he had hastily left for America.

Stina's progress along the dusty road was very slow, just barely noticeable. One or two vehicles passed her. The first was a light cabriolet, on the back seat of which a fat country gentleman was sprawling, pulling at his cigar. On the front seat the coachman cracked his whip as the carriage whizzed by. Stina came near being struck by the tip of the lash. She even blinked a little at the threatening possibility. The dust stirred up by the wheels whirled around her like the steam from an engine and made her sneeze. Although there was plenty of room in the carriage, it would never occur to a "gentleman farmer" to give a peasant girl a lift, nor would she ever ask him to do so.“

 

 

 

Sophus Schandorph (8 mei 1836 - 1 januari 1901)

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

De Duitse schrijver Otto Zierer werd geboren op 8 mei 1909 in Bamberg.

De Vlaamse schrijver en dichter  Willem Elsschot  werd in Antwerpen geboren op 7 mei 1882. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2008.

 

 

De Klacht van den Oude

 

Ik word aan 't oud zijn niet gewend.

De lichtelaaie die 'k heb gekend

zit nog te diep in mijne knoken

en blijft mij dag en nacht bestoken.

 

Mij beetren heb ik steeds gewild,

en menig, menig uur verspild

aan op te zien naar ginder boven,

aan bidden leeren en gelooven.

 

Helaas, ik schaam mij en beken

dat ik wel diep verdorven ben.

Want God en Ziel en andere dingen

waarvoor de menschen psalmen zingen,

 

Geweten, Vaderland in nood,

de Sterrenhemel en de Dood,

het wil, het wil tot mij niet spreken,

wat ik ook tracht het ijs te breken.

 

Maar waar ik wèl toe ben bereid,

dat is voor elke jonge meid

zooals er honderdduizend loopen,

de kleeren van mijn lijf verkoopen

 

en heel mijn huis en heel mijn vrouw.

Ik zou het doen, en geen berouw

zou in mijn oogen staan te lezen,

en 't zou nochtans een misdaad wezen.

 

Wanneer ik langs de huizen trek

loert men mij na, als ware ik gek,

alsof mijn plannen en mijn zonden

op mijnen rug te lezen stonden.

 

Ik ben een schurk, ik ben een hond,

geen rustplaats waard in heil'gen grond,

en 'k wil een hoog rantsoen betalen

voor elken bundel zonnestralen:

 

Maar laat mij doen met eigen vuur

wat ik verkies, zoolang ik duur.

En plaag ons niet: mij arme stakker,

en Satanlief, mijn laatste makker.

 

 

 

 

Willem Elsschot (7 mei 1882 – 31 mei 1960)

Standbeeld in Antwerpen 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Volker Braun werd geboren op 7 mei 1939 in Dresden. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2007.

 

 

O Chicago! O Widerspruch!

 

O CHICAGO! O WIDERSPRUCH!

Brecht, ist Ihnen die Zigarre ausgegangen?

Bei den Erdbeben, die wir hervorriefen

In den auf Sand gebauten Staaten.

Der Sozialismus geht, und Johnny Walker kommt.

Ich kann ihn nicht an den Gedanken festhalten

Die ohnehin ausfallen. Die warmen Straßen

Des Oktobers sind die kalten Wege

Der Wirtschaft, Horatio. Ich schiebe den Gum in die Backe

Es ist gekommen, das nicht Nennenswerte.

 

 

 

Das Eigentum

 

Da bin ich noch: mein Land geht in den Westen.

KRIEG DEN HÜTTEN FRIEDE DEN PALÄSTEN

Ich selber habe ihm den Tritt versetzt.

Es wirft sich weg und seine magre Zierde.

Dem Winter folgt der Sommer der Begierde.

Und ich kann bleiben wo der Pfeffer wächst.

Und unverständlich wird mein ganzer Text.

Was ich niemals besaß, wird mir entrissen.

Was ich nicht lebte, werd ich ewig missen.

Die Hoffnung lag im Weg wie eine Falle.

Mein Eigentum, jetzt habt ihrs auf der Kralle.

Wann sag ich wieder mein und meine alle.

 

 

 

 

Volker Braun (Dresden, 7 mei 1939)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver Robert Browning werd geboren op 7 mei 1812 in Londen.

 

 

The Guardian-Angel

 

A PICTURE AT FANO.

 

I.

 

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave

That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve

Shall find performed thy special ministry,

And time come for departure, thou, suspending

Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,

Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

 

II.

 

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,

From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,

---And suddenly my head is covered o'er

With those wings, white above the child who prays

Now on that tomb---and I shall feel thee guarding

Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding

Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.

 

III.

 

I would not look up thither past thy head

Because the door opes, like that child, I know,

For I should have thy gracious face instead,

Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low

Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,

And lift them up to pray, and gently tether

Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?

 

IV.

 

If this was ever granted, I would rest

My bead beneath thine, while thy healing hands

Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast,

Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,

Back to its proper size again, and smoothing

Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,

And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.

 

V.

 

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired!

I think how I should view the earth and skies

And sea, when once again my brow was bared

After thy healing, with such different eyes.

O world, as God has made it! All is beauty:

And knowing this, is love, and love is duty.

What further may be sought for or declared?

 

VI.

 

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach

(Alfred, dear friend!)---that little child to pray,

Holding the little hands up, each to each

Pressed gently,---with his own head turned away

Over the earth where so much lay before him

Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,

And he was left at Fano by the beach.

 

VII.

 

We were at Fano, and three times we went

To sit and see him in his chapel there,

And drink his beauty to our soul's content

---My angel with me too: and since I care

For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power

And glory comes this picture for a dower,

Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)---

 

VIII.

 

And since he did not work thus earnestly

At all times, and has else endured some wrong---

I took one thought his picture struck from me,

And spread it out, translating it to song.

My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?

How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?

This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

 

 

 

 

Robert Browning (7 mei 1812 – 12 december 1889)

Portret door Thomas Buchanan Read, 1853

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en politicus Archibald MacLeish werd geboren op 7 mei 1892 in Glencoe, Illinois.

 

 

Before March 

 

THE gull's image and the gull

Meet upon the water

All day I have thought of her

There is nothing left of that year

(There is sere-grass

Salt colored)

We have annulled it with

Salt

We have galled it clean to the clay with that one autumn

The hedge-rows keep the rubbish and the leaves

There is nothing left of that year in our lives but the leaves of it

As though it had not been at all

As though the love the love and the life altered

Even ourselves are as strangers in these thoughts

Why should I weep for this?

What have I brought her?

Of sorrow of sorrow of sorrow her heart full

The gull

Meets with his image on the winter water.

 

 

 

 

Broken Promise 

 

THAT was by the door

Leafy evening in the apple trees

And you would not forget this anymore

And even if you died there would be these

Touchings remembered

and you would return

From any bourne from any shore

To find the evening in these leaves

To find my arms beside this door...

I think O my not now Ophelia

There are not always (like a moon)

Rememberings afterward

(I think there are

Sometimes a few strange stars upon the sky.)

 

 

 

 

Archibald MacLeish (7 mei 1892 – 20 april 1982)

 


Zie voor de vier bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2009.

De Bengaalse dichter en schrijver Rabindranath Tagore werd op 7 mei 1861 in Calcutta (tegenwoordig: Kolkata) geboren.

 

 

 

De banden zijn weerspannig

 

De banden zijn weerspannig,

maar mijn hart doet pijn als ik hen tracht te breken.

Vrijheid is al wat ik begeer,

maar ik schaam mij naar haar uit te zien.

Ik weet zeker dat Gij onschatbare weelde hebt,

dat Gij mijn beste Vriend zijt, en toch heb ik het hart niet

de rommel weg te vagen die mijn kamer vult.

De wade die mij dekt is een wade van stof en dood;

ik haat haar en toch omklem ik haar tederlijk.

Mijn schulden zijn vele, mijn dwalingen groot,

mijn schande is heimelijk en zwaar;

en toch, als ik kom vragen om wat er goed aan mij is,

dan beef ik van vrees dat mijn bede zal worden verhoord.

 

 

 

 

Baby's World 

 

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very

own world.

I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops

down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.

Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never

could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with

trays crowded with bright toys.

I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,

and out beyond all bounds;

Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms

of kings of no history;

Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth

sets Fact free from its fetters.

 

 

 

 

Rabindranath Tagore (7 mei 1861 – 7 augustus 1941)

 

 

 

 

 

De Poolse dichter en schrijver Stanisław Przybyszewski werd geboren op 7 mei 1868 in Łojewo.

 

Uit: Totenmesse

 

„Einen von den Unbekannten, von den im Dunklen und in Vergessenheit lebenden »Certains« führe ich hier vor.

Er ist Einer von denen, die auf dem Wege hinknicken, wie kranke Blumen, – Einer von dem aristokratischen Geschlechte des neuen Geistes, die an übermäßiger Verfeinerung und allzu üppiger Gehirnentwicklung zu Grunde gehen.

Wie ich in der Serie »Zur Psychologie des Individuums« durchaus keine Kritiken schreiben wollte, sondern einzig und allein die jüngste Evolutionsphase des menschlichen Gehirnes zu untersuchen beabsichtigte, ihre feinen und feinsten Wurzelfasern zu beschreiben, ihre Zusammensetzung zu analysieren, ein Totalitätsbild dessen zu geben, was noch unklar und verschwommen, nichtsdestoweniger immer energischer in den verschiedensten Äußerungen des modernen Lebens sich kundgibt: so auch in dieser Erzählung.

Es sind zumeist nur feine Spuren, die sich bis jetzt verfolgen lassen, zumeist nur Schattenstreifen, die eine Monomanie, eine Psychose in die Zukunft wirft; aber das sind die geknickten Zweige in der finsteren Wildnis, die zur vorläufigen Orientierung genügen.

Man erschrecke nicht vor den Neurosen, die am Ende doch den Weg bezeichnen, den die fortschreitende Entwicklung des menschlichen Geistes einzuschlagen scheint. In der Medizin hat man sich schon längst abgewöhnt, beispielshalber die Neurasthenie als eine Krankheit zu betrachten; sie scheint vielmehr die neueste und absolut notwendige Evolutionsphase zu sein, in der das Gehirn leistungsfähiger und vermöge der weit größeren Empfindlichkeit viel ausgiebiger wird.

Wenn auch die Neurose vorläufig noch tief den Organismus schädigt, so ist das weiter nicht schlimm. Gegen das Gehirn ist die sonstige körperliche Entwicklung zurückgeblieben, aber es dauert nicht lange: der Körper wird sich anpassen, das wunderbare Selbststeuerungsgesetz wird in Funktion treten, und was heute neurasthenisch heißt, wird sich morgen die höchste Gesundheit nennen.“

 

 

 

Stanisław Przybyszewski (7 mei 1868 – 23 november 1927)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor de twee bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2009.

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Karl Gustav Vollmõller werd geboren op 7 mei 1878 in Stuttgart.

 

 

ZWIEGESPRÄCH (Fragment)

 

I

Ur-Nacht, die alles gebar,
Ur-Ding, das keiner erschaut,
Ur-Nichts, das blinzelnd liegt,

Hinter allem was wird und was war,
Vor dem selbst den Ewigen graut:
Ur-Dummheit, die alles besiegt.

Denkt der Mensch oder wird er gedacht –
Sind wir Stoff, der zu Geist sich versann,
Sind wir Geist, der zu Stoff sich verleibt,
Sind wir Herrn oder Sklaven der Macht,
Die uns peitscht und uns peinigt und treibt

Und uns paart und gepaart uns verlacht,
Weil, was einzeln in Schmerzen begann
Und schmerzlich in Schmerzen zerrann,
So als ewiges Erbe verbleibt,
Schmerz-Erbteil Aller verbleibt...

Ja wer ists der dies Spiel mit uns spielt,
Wo als Preis doch Vernichtung nur winkt:
Ekles Spiel um geliehene Zeit,
Niedres Würfeln um kärgliche Zeit,

Da schon Tod in die Karten uns schielt,
Da schon draußen das Henkerbeil blinkt —
Und die Karten sind alle gezinkt,
Alle Würfel sind falsch und gebleit.

 

 

 

 

Karl Gustav Vollmõller (7 mei 1878 – 18 okrober 1948)

 

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Alfred Edward Woodley Mason werd geboren op 7 mei 1865 in Londen.

 

Uit: The Four Feathers

 

„Yes," said Sutch. "She had imagination. Her thoughts could people them."

General Feversham glanced at his companion as though he hardly understood. But he asked no questions. What he did not understand he habitually let slip from his mind as not worth comprehension. He spoke at once upon a different topic.

"There will be a leaf out of our table to-night."

"Yes. Collins, Barberton, and Vaughan went this winter. Well, we are all permanently shelved upon the world's half-pay list as it is. The obituary column is just the last formality which gazettes us out of the Service altogether," and Sutch stretched out and eased his crippled leg, which fourteen years ago that day had been crushed and twisted in the fall of a scaling-ladder.

"I am glad that you came before the others," continued Feversham. "I would like to take your opinion. This day is more to me than the anniversary of our attack upon the Redan. At the very moment when we were standing under arms in the dark -- "

"To the west of the quarries, I remember," interrupted Sutch, with a deep breath. "How should one forget?"

"At that very moment Harry was born in this house. I thought, therefore, that if you did not object he might join us to-night. He happens to be at home. He will, of course, enter the service, and he might learn something, perhaps, which afterwards will be of use -- one never knows."

"By all means," said Sutch, with alacrity. For since his visits to General Feversham were limited to the occasion of these anniversary dinners, he had never yet seen Harry Feversham.

Sutch had for many years been puzzled as to the qualities in General Feversham which had attracted Muriel Graham, a woman as remarkable for the refinement of her intellect as for the beauty of her person; and he could never find an explanation. He had to be content with his knowledge that for some mysterious reason she had married this man so much older than herself, and so unlike to her in character. Personal courage and an indomitable self-confidence were the chief, indeed the only qualities which sprang to light in General Feversham. Lieutenant Sutch went back in thought over twenty years as he sat on his garden-chair to a time before he had taken part, as an officer of the Naval Brigade, in that unsuccessful onslaught on the Redan.“

 

 

 

A. E. W. Mason (7 mei 1865 – 22 november 1948)

 

 

 

Zie voor de twee bovenstaande schrijvers ook ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2009.

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver en essayist Joseph Joubert werd geboren in Montignac op 7 mei 1754. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2007 en en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Le repos dans la lumière

 

“Été 1783

«Qui m'expliquera (dit Mercier) pourquoi toutes les personnes appliquées spécialement à guérir les plaies, à soigner les maladies et qui vivent avec les êtres souffrants, ont pour les plaisirs des sens un penchant beaucoup plus vif que celui qui anime les autres hommes ?»

 

Août 1783.

On voit par le bas de leurs jambes qu'elles aimeraient à montrer tout ce qu'elles ont de beau. Et ce plaisir de montrer sa beauté est naturel surtout aux femmes dont les formes sont plus belles que le visage. Etc.

 

Une fille qui se montre nue aux yeux de son amant ne blesse pourtant en cela la pudeur publique.

 

1. Un effet infaillible du secret et du mystère est dans ce cas d'inspirer de la retenue même à l'imagination de son amant, si son amant a le coeur délicat.

 

2. Il ne se dira ni dans ce moment, ni dans les moments qui suivront : «C'est ainsi que les autres sont faites.» Ce serait, en quelque sorte, donner des témoins à des plaisirs dont la solitude augmente le prix, se distraire d'une volupté qui exige le recueillement, et trahir la confiance de sa maîtresse en la traduisant ainsi dans son esprit devant tout son sexe, etc.”

 

 

 

Joseph Joubert (7 mei 1754 - 4 mei 1824)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijfster Therese Huber werd geboren als Marie Therese Heyne op 7 mei 1764 in Göttingen. Zie en ook mijn blog van 7 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Die Familie Seldorf

 

Im Frühling des Jahres 1784. kam zu Saumür in der ehemaligen Provinz Poitou, ein ältlicher Mann an, der, nach seiner Kleidung zu urtheilen, ein Seeoffizier von ansehnlichem Rang seyn mußte. Er war von seinen Kindern begleitet: einem Sohn und einer Tochter von neun bis dreyzehn Jahren, und einer zweiten Tochter, die noch in der frühesten Kindheit war. Die Kinder trugen tiefe Trauer um ihre vor kurzem verstorbene Mutter, aber weiter konnte die Neugier der Wirthsleute in dem wenig besuchten Gasthofe anfangs nichts erfahren; denn die beiden Bedienten des Fremden, ein junger Bursche aus der Gegend von Saumür selbst, der zufällig ganz kurze Zeit vorher nach Paris gewandert war, um dort Dienste zu suchen, und eine Kinderwärterin, waren nur gerade vor der[2] Abreise des Fremden aus der Hauptstadt von ihm angenommen worden, und wußten wenig mehr von ihrem neuen Herrn, als daß er seinem Namen nach zu urtheilen – er hieß Seldorf – kein geborner Franzos seyn müßte, im amerikanischen Kriege gedient hätte, und mit einem zerschmetterten Arm zurükgekommen wäre. Er äusserte indessen bald, daß er sich einige Zeit in der Stadt aufzuhalten gedächte; und sobald er seinen Kindern, für welche er die gröste Sorgsamkeit zu haben schien, alle Bequemlichkeiten verschafft hatte, die bei der Beschaffenheit des Hauses zu erlangen waren, erkundigte er sich bei dem Wirth, ob in diesem Strich nicht irgend ein gut gelegenes Landgut, von mässigem Umfang, zu kaufen seyn sollte. Es fand sich, daß dieser durch einen kleinen Weinhandel mit mehrern Herrschaften in Verbindung stand, und Leute in der Stadt kannte, die mit Aufträgen zu dergleichen Geschäften [3] versehen waren. Seldorf nahm auf den folgenden Tag Abrede mit ihm, einige Gänge zu diesen Leuten zu thun, und kehrte hierauf zu seinen Kindern zurük.

Er fand Sara, seine Aelteste, ein sanftes Geschöpf von neun Jahren, neben der Kinderwärterin knieen, und ihr Schwesterchen, das ein heftiges Fieber zu haben schien, liebkosend trösten, indeß der Knabe an einem Fenster stand, und mit grossen ernsten Augen auf die Gruppe blikte.”

 

 

 

Therese Huber (7 mei 1764 – 15 juni 1829)

Scherenschnitt door Luise Duttenhofer