De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Elizabeth Alexander werd geboren op 30 mei 1962 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

 

Fugue

 

1. Walking (1963)

after the painting by Charles Alston

 

You tell me, knees are important, you kiss

your elders’ knees in utmost reverence.

 

The knees in the painting are what send the people forward.

 

Once progress felt real and inevitable,

as sure as the taste of licorice or lemons.

The painting was made after marching

in Birmingham, walking

 

into a light both brilliant and unseen.

 

 

2. 1964

 

In a beige silk sari

my mother danced the frug

to the Peter Duchin Band.

Earlier that day

at Maison Le Pelch

the French ladies twisted

 

her magnificent hair

into a fat chignon

while mademoiselle watched,

 

drank sugared, milky tea,

and counted bobby pins

disappearing in the thickness

 

as the ladies worked

in silence, adornment

so grave, the solemn toilette,

 

and later, the bath,

and later, red lipstick,

and later, L’Air de Temps.

 

My mother without glasses.

My mother in beige silk.

My mother with a chignon.

My mother in her youth.

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth Alexander (New York, 30 mei 1962)

 

 

 

 

De Afro-Amerikaanse dichter Countee Cullen werd geboren als Countee LeRoy Porter op 30 mei 1903. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

 

Fruit of the Flower

 

My father is a quiet man

With sober, steady ways;

For simile, a folded fan;

His nights are like his days.

My mother's life is puritan,

No hint of cavalier,

A pool so calm you're sure it can

Have little depth to fear.

 

And yet my father's eyes can boast

How full his life has been;

There haunts them yet the languid ghost

Of some still sacred sin.

 

And though my mother chants of God,

And of the mystic river,

I've seen a bit of checkered sod

Set all her flesh aquiver.

 

Why should he deem it pure mischance

A son of his is fain

To do a naked tribal dance

Each time he hears the rain?

 

Why should she think it devil's art

That all my songs should be

Of love and lovers, broken heart,

And wild sweet agony?

 

Who plants a seed begets a bud,

Extract of that same root;

Why marvel at the hectic blood

That flushes this wild fruit?

 

 

 

A Brown Girl Dead 

 

With two white roses on her breasts,

White candles at head and feet,

Dark Madonna of the grave she rests;

Lord Death has found her sweet.

 

Her mother pawned her wedding ring

To lay her out in white;

She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing

to see herself tonight.

 

 

 

 

Countee Cullen (30 mei 1903 – 9 januari 1946)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter Alfred Austin werd geboren in Headingley, Leeds, op 30 mei 1835. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

 

The Haymakers’ Song

 

Here's to him that grows it,

Drink, lads, drink!

That lays it in and mows it,

Clink, jugs, clink!

To him that mows and makes it,

That scatters it and shakes it,

That turns, and teds, and rakes it,

Clink, jugs, clink!

 

Now here ’s to him that stacks it,

Drink, lads, drink!

That thrashes and that tacks it,

Clink, jugs, clink!

That cuts it out for eating,

When March-dropp’d lambs are bleating,

And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting,

Drink, lads, drink!

 

And here ’s to thane and yeoman,

Drink, lads, drink!

To horseman and to bowman,

Clink, jugs, clink!

To lofty and to low man,

Who bears a grudge to no man,

But flinches from no foeman,

Drink, lads, drink!

 

 

 

Alfred Austin (30 mei 1835 – 2 juni 1913)

 

 

 

 

De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Emmanuel Hiel werd geboren in Sint-Gillis-bij-Dendermonde op 30 mei 1834. Zie mijn blog van 30 mei 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Emmanuel Hiele op dit blog.

 

 

De liefde is nog niet henen

 

Gene wolken drijven, gene zonne schijnt,

 Slechts nevels klimmen en dalen;

 Ik zoek naar een beeld, dat gedurig verdwijnt,

 Ach, zal ik het nooit achterhalen?

 

Zo trouw heb ik aan de liefde gedacht,

 Ze is mij als de zon ééns verschenen;

 En toch verkeert mijn gemoed in de nacht,

 En nog is de liefde niet henen.

 

Want wat er ook nevelt in mijn gemoed,

 Want wat er ook nevelt rond de aarde;

 In mij blaakt de liefde in laaien gloed,

 En de zonne straalt eeuwig om de aarde.

 

 

 

Emmanuel Hiel (30 mei 1834 - 27 augustus 1899)



Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 30e mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Russische schrijver en anarchist Michail Alexandrowitsj Bakoenin werd geboren in Prjamuchino op 30 mei 1814. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Statism and Anarchy

 

„The Russian people possess to a great extent two qualities which are in our opinion indispensable preconditions for the Social Revolution ... Their sufferings are infinite, but they do not patiently resign themselves to their misery and they react with an intense savage despair which twice in history produced such popular explosions as the revolts of Stenka Razin and Pugachev, and which even today expresses itself in continuous peasant outbreaks.

What then prevents them from making a successful revolution? It is the absence of a conscious common ideal capable of inspiring a genuine popular revolution... . [Fortunately,] there is no need for a profound analysis of the historic conscience of our people in order to define the fundamental traits which characterize the ideal of our people.

The first of these traits is the conviction, held by all the people, that the land rightfully belongs to them. The second trait is the belief that the right to benefit from the soil belongs not to an individual but to the rural community as a whole, to the Mir which assigns the temporary use of the land to the members of the community. The third trait is that even the minimal limitations placed by the State on the Mir’s autonomy arouse hostility on the part of the latter toward the State.“

 

 

 

Michail Bakoenin (30 mei 1814 – 13 juni 1876)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Georg Schaumberg werd geboren op 30 mei 1855 in Ansbach. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

 

Frou Frou

 

Ihre schlanken weißen Glieder

Meiner Augen süße Weide

Hüllt mein Lied in duft´ge Seide...

Wnn für flüchtige Sekunden

Enggepreßt im dunklen Wagen

Unsre Lippen sich gefunden...

Wenn die Pulse fiebernd jagen...

Und die Hände zitternd gleiten...

Hei, wie da die Seide knistert,

Wie sie rauscht und heimlich flüstert

Von verborg´nen Seligkeiten...

Ihre Schlanken weißen Glieder

Meiner Augen süße Weide

Hüllt mein Lied in duft´ge Seide.

 

 

Georg Schaumberg (30 mei 1855 – 2 maart 1931)

Gumbertskirche Ansbach

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Randolph Bourne werd geboren op 30 mei 1886 in Bloomfield, New Jersey. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Trans-national America

 

„We are all foreign-born or the descendants of foreign-born, and if distinctions are to be made between us they should rightly be on some other ground than indigenousness. The early colonists came over with motives no less colonial than the later. They did not come to be assimilated in an American melting-pot. They did not come to adopt the culture of the American Indian. They had not the smallest intention of ‘giving themselves without reservation’ to the new country. They came to get freedom to live as they wanted to. They came to escape from the stifling air and chaos of the old world; they came to make their fortune in a new land. They invented no new social framework. Rather they brought over bodily the old ways to which they had been accustomed. Tightly concentrated on a hostile frontier, they were conservative beyond belief. Their pioneer daring was reserved for the objective conquest of material resources. In their folkways, in their social and political institutions, they were, like every colonial people, slavishly imitative of the mother-country. So that, in spite of the ‘Revolution,’ our whole legal and political system remained more English than the English, petrified and unchanging, while in England law developed to meet the needs of the changing times.“

 

 

Randolph Bourne (30 mei 1886 – 22 december 1918)

 

 

 

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:

 

De Vlaamse dichter Jan Geerts werd geboren in Hoogstraten in 1972. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010.

 

 

Zeldzaamheid

 

Het heeft geregend tussen ons.

 Dit donker is de dag vandaag.

 

We lopen in het park, hand uit hand.

 De bladeren onder ons kleuren voorbij

 

en bouwen met de kou in hun vlees

 een langzaam huis voor later. De grond

 

trekt muren op van water. De seizoenen

 zijn ons lichaam. Hij kijkt om. Wie aarzelt,

 

moet hard zijn. We zoeken naar de woorden

 waar geen wereld meer voor is, de stilte

 

die de stilte op onze lippen legt. Dat

 twee mensen zo zeldzaam kunnen zijn.

 

 

 

Jan Geerts (Hoogstraten, 1972)

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2010 deel 1 en ook  mijn blog van 30 mei 2010 deel 2.

 

De Surinaamse schrijver Henri François Rikken werd geboren in Paramaribo op 30 mei 1863. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009.

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Robert Eduard Prutz werd geboren op 30 mei 1816 in Stettin. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009.

 

De Franse dichter, schrijver en fotograaf Félix Arnaudin werd geboren op 30 mei 1844 in Labouheyre in het departement Les Landes.

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2009.

 

De Mexicaanse dichteres Pita Amor (pseudoniem van Guadalupe Teresa Amor Schmidtlein) werd geboren op 30 mei 1918 in Mexico-Stad. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2007.

 

De Surinaamse jurist, schrijver en politicus Eduard Johan (Eddy) Bruma werd in Paramaribo geboren op 30 mei 1925. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 mei 2008.

De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver André Brink werd geboren op 29 mei 1935 in Vrede. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2008.en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: A dry white season

 

„It all really began, as far as Ben was concerned, with the death of Gordon Ngubene. But from the notes he made subsequently, and from newspaper cuttings, it is obvious that the matter went back much further. At least as far as the death of Gordon's son Jonathan at the height of the youth riots in Soweto. And even beyond that, to the day, two years earlier -- represented in Ben's papers by a receipt with a brief note scribbled on it when he'd started contributing to the schooling of the then fifteen year old Jonathan.

Gordon was the black cleaner in the school where Ben taught History and Geography to the senior classes. In the older journals there are occasional references to "Gordon N." or just "Gordon"; and from time to time one finds, in Ben's fastidious financial statements, entries like "Gordon -- R5.oo"; or "Received from Gordon (repayment) -- R5.00", etc. Sometimes Ben gave him special instructions about notes on his blackboard; on other occasions he approached him for small personal jobs. Once, when some money disappeared from the classrooms and one or two of the teachers immediately blamed Gordon for it, it was Ben who took the cleaner under his wing and instituted inquiries which revealed a group of matric boys to be the culprits. From that day Gordon took it upon himself to wash Ben's car once a week. And when, after Linda's difficult birth, Susan was out ofaction for some time, it was Gordon's wife Emily who helped them out with housework.

As they came to know each other better Ben discovered more about Gordon's background. As a young boy he had arrived from the Transkei with his parents when his father had found employment in the City Deep Mine. And since he showed interest in reading and writing from an early age he was sent to school -- no cheap or easy undertaking for a man in his father's position. Gordon made steady progress until he'd passed Standard Two, but then his father died in a rockfall in the mine and Gordon had to leave school and start working to supplement his mother's meagre income as a domestic servant.“

 

 

 

André Brink (Vrede, 29 mei 1935)

 

 

 

 

De Catalaanse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Eduard Escoffet werd geboren op 29 mei 1979 in Barcelona in 1979. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

there is the woman

 

there is the woman that listens to you and there is the other.
there is the woman that, with the night, dulls the moon and you find her, and there is the other.
there is the woman that you see
and the other. and the one you would like to see... and the other.
there is the woman, you seem to remember, that made you lose
sight of the world and there is the other. then too
there is the woman that makes you forget her and the other, she does too.
there is the woman and the wind, at leisure, that are speech
and are words and a dream that walks. and flies. and the other.
there is the woman that you would like to know and the other.
there is the other and the woman you do not remember.
there is the woman and the other that you would like
to forget. there is the woman without eyes, that are
the barrels of wine in the dark of a sailboat that
has done with the sea and has told you that mermaids
she has not seen. the other neither. and there is the woman
that will cry that she has not touched the fire,
that has her eyes covered and there is the other,
whose eyes you have covered, and you too have
your eyes pulled from their sockets between the mirror
and the light of the sun. there is the woman that mutters
and there is the other. there is the woman that hangs out the washing
or arranges the fragility of the world and there is the other.
there is the woman, made flesh, that is in the light and is in the dark
and there is the other, in the dark and in the light.
there is the woman and the sex. the sex, too. and the other.

 

 

Vertaald door Graham Thomson

 

 

 

Eduard Escoffet (Barcelona, 29 mei 1979)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse letterkundige, schrijver en journalist Gilbert Keith Chesterton werd geboren in Londen op 29 mei 1874. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Father Brown. The Essential Tales

 

„It is due to him to say that his fantastic physical strength was generally employed in such bloodless though undignified scenes; his real crimes were chiefly those of ingenious and wholesale robbery. But each of his thefts was almost a new sin, and would make a story by itself. It was he who ran the great Tyrolean Dairy Company in London, with no dairies, no cows, no carts, no milk, but with some thousand subscribers. These he served by the simple operation of moving the little milk cans outside people’s doors to the doors of his own customers. It was he who had kept up an unaccountable and close correspondence with a young lady whose whole letter-bag was intercepted, by the ex- traordinary trick of photographing his messages infinitesimally small upon the slides of a microscope. A sweeping simplicity, however, marked many of his experiments. It is said that he once repainted all the numbers in a street in the dead of night merely to divert one traveller into a trap. It is quite certain that he invented a portable pillar-box, which he put up at corners in quiet suburbs on the chance of strangers dropping postal orders into it. Lastly, he was known to be a startling acrobat; despite his huge figure, he could leap like a grasshopper and melt into the tree-tops like a monkey. Hence the great Valentin, when he set out to find Flambeau, was perfectly aware that his adventures would not end when he had found him.
But how was he to find him? On this the great Valentin’s ideas were still in process of settlement.
There was one thing which Flambeau, with all his dexterity of disguise, could not cover, and that was his singular height. If Valentin’s quick eye had caught a tall apple-woman, a tall grenadier, or even a tolerably tall duchess, he might have arrested them on the spot. But all along his train there was nobody that could be a disguised Flambeau, any more than a cat could be a disguised giraffe. About the people on the boat he had already satisfied himself; and the people picked up at Harwich or on the journey limited themselves with certainty to six.“

 

 

G. K. Chesterton (29 mei 1874 - 14 juli 1936)

Portret door Drew Hewitt

 

 

 

 

De Hebreeuwse dichteres, schrijfster en letterkundige Leah Goldberg werd geboren in Königsberg (Pruisen) op 29 mei 1911. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

 

Uit: PRAYERS OF ATONEMENT

 

You came to me to open my eyes,

your body a glance a window a mirror,

you arrived as night comes to the owl

to show him in darkness all necessary things.

 

 

And I learned: a name for every eyelash and nail

for every hair on flesh uncovered, made light,

and the fragrance of childhood, of resin and pine,

was the sweet fragrance of our bodies' night.

 

 

If there were torments – then they voyaged toward you

my white sail on course toward your dark night.

Now, allow me to leave, let me go, let me go

to bow on the shores of forgiveness.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Rachel Tzvia Back

 

 

 

Der morgige Tag

 

Heute ist das Grün sehr grün.
Und das Grau sehr grau.
Ein wenig Schwarz, und kein Weiß in der Stadt.
Heute ist der Verstörte sehr verstört.
Heute ist die Vergangenheit sehr vergangen.
Ein wenig Zukunft. Und keine Gegenwart in der Luft.

 

Und noch ist es nicht leicht zu atmen, und noch ist es nicht leicht
Gegen den durchtriebenen Wind zu denken.
Und es fällt gar nicht leicht zu warten.
Und der Sturm berührt die Augenwimpern,
und in tausend Stücke zerbricht jeder Augenblick.
Aber heute ist das Grün sehr grün.

 

 

Vertaald door Elad Klein

 

 

 

 

Leah Goldberg (29 mei 1911 –  15 januari 1970)

Getekend door Yarival

 

 

 

 

De Iraanse filmregisseur en schrijver Mohsen Makhmalbāf werd geboren op 29 mei 1957 in Teheran. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Houra (nymph, script)

 

„Airport, daytime:
A plane lands. Teenage dark-skinned porters holding their carts, wait to rush towards passengers stepping out of the plane. Among them, a weary old woman called Houra comes down the stairs. A flight attendant holds her arm, helping her down. Shanbeh, one of the teenage porters, spots Houra and goes toward her.

On the streets, daytime:
Houra sits on Shanbeh’s cart, wearing a ring of thread on each finger. Each thread acts as a reminder to buy something. Houra asks Shanbeh to take her to the bazaar, so she can buy herself the furniture she needs. Shanbeh asks her what she wants to buy. After consulting the threads on her hand, the old woman says, “A refrigerator”. Shanbeh turns the cart around and says, “Then, we should go in the other direction.”. Houra adds that she needs a washing machine as well. Shanbeh changes direction one more time and explains that they need to go to different places for each item she intends to buy. He asks to know what else Houra wants to buy, and after a thorough examination of the threads on her finger, Houra replies “A bed, a dressing table, …”, but then tells Shanbeh how she’d prefer to have a cup of tea first. She takes out a teapot from her things, hands it over to Shanbeh telling him what a good time they’d have were he to light a fire so they could have some tea. Shanbeh makes a small pile of wood, fills the teapot with water, and puts on the fire he makes. He asks the old woman who all that furniture is for, and she tells him that it’s for herself. Shanbeh asks her why she wants all that stuff at this stage in her life, while she might not have long left. Houra recounts how she always wished to buy them buy never had the money, and in answer to Shanbeh’s question of “Where she got it from” tells him of the inheritance she received. She then remembers she has forgot to leave food and water for her rooster at home and that the rooster could well die were she not to hurry back home. She suggests leaving the tea to later and going after the furniture before it’s late.“

 

 

 

Mohsen Makhmalbāf (Teheran, 29 mei 1957)

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver en theatercriticus Hans Weigel werd geboren op 29 mei 1908 in Wenen. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

 

Gebundene Hände

 

Jedes Mal, jedes Mal, schwört man sich zu,
das ist das letzte Rendezvous.
Doch man weiß, jedes Mal, dass man ’s nicht tut,
hat man denn das Herz dazu.

 

 

 

Zarah Leander

Gebundene Hände, das ist das Ende,
jeder verliebten Passion.
Es spricht noch der Blick,
von Liebe und Glück,
und doch, weiß das Herz nichts mehr davon.

Man sagt gern: verzeih,
so geben wir uns frei,
du fühlst doch auch wie ich,
es ist vorbei.

Und doch, ohne Ende,
tragen die Hände,
Fesseln; der Liebe Sklaverei.

 

 

 

Hans Weigel (29 mei 1908 – 12 augustus 1991)



Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e mei ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Franse schrijver Bernard Charles Henri Clavel werd geboren op 29 mei 1923 in Lons-le-Saunier. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Le seigneur du fleuve

 

„Tandis qu’il bourrait le tabac, le vieux eut un ricanement.

- Toi aussi, tu as les mains qui tremblent, remarqua-t-il, mais ça n’est pas à cause de l’âge. C’est parce que tu es furieux... Et je vais te dire, parce que je te connais bien, c’est après toi que tu es furieux.

- Ecoutez, père...

- Non, laisse-moi dire. Tu es furieux. Et je te connais bien parce que j’ai été exactement comme tu es. L’âge m’a fait passer tout ça. Sinon, en entrant ici, je te calottais comme tu as calotté ce pauvre Adrien. Il ne pouvait rien faire parce que tu es plus fort que lui ! toi, tu ne pouvais rien faire parce que je suis ton père.

- Mais enfin, père...

Philibert essayait d’interrompre le vieux, et pourtant, si le vieux l’avait laissé parler, il n’aurait probablement rien dit de censé.

- Je te connais tellement bien que je vais dire ce que tu penses en ce moment. Tu penses : J’ai foutu le camp parce que tout le monde me mettait mal à l’aise. Après ce que j’avais fait, j’ai préféré foutre le camp. Mais j’ai fait une connerie de plus. Les autres me respectent. Ils m’auraient regardé de travers, mais ils m’auraient foutu la paix. Le vieux, c’est pas pareil. Il va m’emmerder pendant une heure d’horloge... Voilà ce que tu penses. En ce moment. Maintenant. Là. En bourrant ta pipe et en me reluquant par-dessous comme un sournois. Voilà ce que tu penses !... Je le sais. Et je sais que tu n’oseras pas prétendre le contraire... Allons, dis... dis si je me trompe ?

A mesure que le père parlait, sa voix avait changé . De la colère mal contenue, il avait viré sur la moquerie, et, en finissant, il donnait l’idée d’un homme qui a envie de rigoler un bon coup.“

 

 

 

 

Bernard Clavel (29 mei 1923 – 5 oktober 2010)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijver Terence Hanbury White werd geboren op 29 mei 1906 in Bombay (Mombai). Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

 

TO MY SELF, FORTY YEARS AGO

 

Little child

Who was me once,

My pity on you —

And reverence.

 

Terence, if I

Could return

My drear tideway

To your bright burn,

 

If we could meet

Where I once strayed,

The betrayer

And the betrayed.

 

If we could win back

In Time's defiance,

Would you be afeared of me,

Ten-year-old Terence?

 

No, you would not fear.

You would love, trust,

Cherish, admire

This tedious dust.

 

For oh! we were all brimming once

With the sun-sparkled dew.

One heart could have loved this hulk —

The ignorant heart of you.

 

 

 

T. H. White (29 mei 1906 – 17 januari 1964)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Max Brand (eig. Frederick Schiller Faust) werd geboren op 29 mei 1892 in Seattle. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Black Jack

 

„It was characteristic of the two that when the uproar broke out Vance Cornish raised his eyes, but went on lighting his pipe. Then his sister Elizabeth ran to the window with a swish of skirts around her long legs. After the first shot there was a lull. The little cattle town was as peaceful as ever with its storm-shaken houses staggering away down the street.
A boy was stirring up the dust of the street, enjoying its heat with his bare toes, and the same old man was bunched in his chair in front of the store. During the two days Elizabeth had been in town on her cattle- buying trip, she had never see him alter his position. But she was accustomed to the West, and this advent of sleep in the town did not satisfy her. A drowsy town, like a drowsy-looking cow-puncher, might be capable of unexpected things.
"Vance," she said, "there's trouble starting."
"Somebody shooting at a target," he answered.
As if to mock him, he had no sooner spoken than a dozen voices yelled down the street in a wailing chorus cut short by the rapid chattering of revolvers. Vance ran to the window. Just below the hotel the street made an elbow-turn for no particular reason except that the original cattle-trail had made exactly the same turn before Garrison City was built.
Toward the corner ran the hubbub at the pace of a running horse. Shouts, shrill, trailing curses, and the muffled beat of hoofs in the dust. A rider plunged into view now, his horse leaning far in to take the sharp angle, and the dust skidding out and away from his sliding hoofs. The rider gave easily and gracefully to the wrench of his mount.“

 

 Max Brand (29 mei 1892 – 12 mei 1944)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijfster Anne Marie Louise d'Orléans, hertogin van Montpensier, werd geboren op 29 mei 1627 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Memoires de Mademoiselle de Montpensier

 

„La disgrâce de la reine, ma grand'mère, fit naître beaucoup de divisions à la cour. Monsieur  fut un des mécontents ; il se brouilla avec le roi, et sortit de France peu après elle. Son éloignement me toucha bien plus que celui de la reine, et j'eus en cette occasion-là une conduite qui ne répondoit point à mon âge ; je ne voulois me divertir à quoi que ce fût, et l'on ne pouvoit même me faire aller aux assemblées du Louvre ; ma tristesse augmentoit quand je savois que Monsieur étoit à l'armée, par la crainte que me donnait le péril que couroit sa personne. L'état où Monsieur étoit à la cour n'empêchoit pas que l'on n'eût tous les soins possibles de moi : le roi et la reine me traitoient avec des bontés non pareilles et me donnoient toutes sortes de témoignages d'amitié. Quand ils venoient à Paris, ils commendoient qu'on me menât souvent les voir ; et jamais cela n'arrivoit que je ne parlasse au roi de Monsieur. Son absence l'obligea d'établir des commissaires pour l'administration de mon bien : l'on choisit les sieurs Favie et d'Irval, conseillers d'État, et un conseiller au parlement, nommé Grasteau, tous gens de mérite et de probité, qui eurent grand soin que rien ne me manquât de ce que je pouvois désirer ; et leur conduite fut si belle dans leur commission, qu'ils donnèrent à monsieur, à son retour de Flandre, une somme considérable qu'ils avoient ménagée.“

 

 

 

Anne d'Orléans de Montpensier (29 mei 1627 – 5 april 1693)

 

 

 

 

De Argentijnse dichteres Alfonsina Storni werd geboren in Sala Capriasca, Zwitserland op 29 mei 1892. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2007 en ook mijn mijn blog van 22 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2010.

 

 

Sweet Torture

 

My melancholy was gold dust in your hands;

On your long hands I scattered my life;

My sweetnesses remained clutched in your hands;

Now I am a vial of perfume, emptied

 

How much sweet torture quietly suffered,

When, my soul wrested with shadowy sadness,

She who knows the tricks, I passed the days

kissing the two hands that stifled my life.

 

 

 

Parasites

 

I never thought that God had any form.

 Absoute the life; and absolute the norm.

 Never eyes: God sees with the stars.

 Never hands: God touches with the seas.

 Never tongue: God speaks with sparkles.

 I will tell you, don't be startled;

 I know that God has parasites: things and men.

 

 

 

Alfonsina Storni (29 mei 1892 – 25 oktober 1938)

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse dichter, schrijver en uitgever Till Mairhofer werd geboren op 29 mei 1958 in Steyr. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 mei 2009.

 

 

all a head

 

kamen

um kommend

zu gehen

 

beim namen

gerufen

zu sehen

 

den toten

winkel

im auge

 

 

 

 

Till Mairhofer (Steyr, 29 mei 1958)