De Spaanse dichter en toneelschrijver Federico Garcia Lorca werd geboren op 5 juni 1898 in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Federico Garcia Lorca op dit blog.

Dans

Carmen is aan het dansen
door de straten van Sevilla.
Met haren wit
en fonkelende ogen.

Meisjes,
doe de gordijnen dicht!

Op haar hoofd kronkelt
een gele slang,
en ze droomt dat ze danst
met vroegere vrijers.

Meisjes,
doe de gordijnen dicht!

De straten liggen verlaten,
en in de verte verloren
zoeken Andalusische harten
oude doornen.

Meisjes,
doe de gordijnen dicht!

De zes snaren

De gitaar
laat dromen huilen.
Het snikken van de verdoolde
zielen
ontsnapt uit haar ronde
mond.
En zoals de tarantula
weeft ze een grote ster
om te jagen op zuchten
die drijven op haar zwarte
houten waterput.


Vertaald door Bart Vonck

Night of Insomniac Love

Night approached us, with a full moon.

I began to cry, and you to laugh.

Your contempt was a god, and my whinings

a chain of doves and minutes.

Night left us. Crystal of pain

you wept for distant depths.

My sadness was a cluster of agonies,

over your fragile heart of sand.

Morning joined us on the bed,

our mouths placed over the frozen jet

of a blood ,without end, that was shed.

And the sun shone through the closed balcony,

and the coral of life opened its branch,

over my shrouded heart.

Vertaald door A. S. Kline

Federico García Lorca (5 juni 1898 – 19 augustus 1936)

Javier Beltran als Federico García Lorca in de film 'Little Ashes’ uit 2009.

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Adriaan Morriën werd geboren op 5 juni 1912 in Amsterdam. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Adriaan Morriën op dit blog.

Maan

De maan als een uit mij gevallen oog,

een iris die te groot was voor mijn kassen.

Het heeft nooit in mijn voorhoofd willen passen.

Ik kon er niets door zien, het leek te hoog.

Nu kijk ik achter sterren en moerassen.

Alles wordt klein en zeeën stromen droog

tot op een traan, om engelen te verrassen,

verdwalend in 't gezichtsveld van mijn oog.

Ik staar door tijd en ruimte als door glas.

Ik zie mijzelf als kind, ik zie mijn vader

toen ik nog in zijn ingewanden was.

Toekomst en ver verleden schuiven nader.

Ik speel bij mijn beide dochters op schoot.

Mijn moeder heft haar beide handen uit de dood.

Ouder huis

Van de taal werd spaarzaam gebruik gemaakt:

liefkozingen moesten worden ontvreemd.

Als mijn moeder mij streelde schaamde zij zich

en ik schaamde mij - onze schaamte was nog

gescheiden.

Ik hield van de schaar waarmee zij knipte,

haar vingerhoed, de draad die zij bevochtigde,

het gesnor van de naaimachine

en de stilte wanneer de machine zweeg.

Zij sliep in een weergaloos bed

en als mijn vader opstond voor zijn werk

nam ik zijn plaats in in haar warmte.

Ik raakte haar aan zoals een ander kind

de muur aanraakt waartegen het slaapt

met levensgrote vingertoppen

en zonder dat de muur het merkt.

Adriaan Morriën (5 juni 1912 – 7 juni 2002)

De Engelse schrijver Ken Follett werd geboren op 5 juni 1949 in Cardiff, Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Ken Follett op dit blog.

Uit: Night Over Water

“It was the most romantic plane ever made.

Standing on the dock at Southampton, at half-past twelve on the day war was declared, Tom Luther peered into the sky, waiting for the plane with a heart full of eagerness and dread. Under his breath he hummed a few bars of Beethoven over and over again: the first movement of the ‘Emperor’ concerto, a stirring tune, appropriately warlike.

There was a crowd of sightseers around him: aircraft enthusiasts with binoculars, small boys and curiosity seekers. Luther reckoned this must be the ninth time the Pan American Clipper had landed on Southampton Water, but the novelty had not worn off. The plane was so fascinating, so enchanting, that people flocked to look at it even on the day their country went to war. Beside the same dock were two magnificent ocean liners, towering over people’s heads, but the floating hotels had lost their magic: everyone was looking at the sky.

However, while they waited they were all talking about the war in their English accents. The children were excited by the prospect; the men spoke knowingly in low tones about tanks and artillery; the women just looked grim. Luther was an American, and he hoped his country would stay out of the war: it was none of their business. Besides, one thing you could say for the Nazis, they were tough on Communism.“

Ken Follett (Cardiff, 5 juni 1949)

Naast zijn look-alike bij de Catedral Santa María in Vitoria, Spanje, 2008

De Australische schrijfster Margo Lanagan werd geboren op 5 juni 1960 in Waratah, New South Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: Red Spikes

„"Well, at least it's a fine night," said Mum.
She looked enormous, but that was mostly the bedding she'd gathered as she hurried out of the hut. Her hair, coming undone from its nighttime tail, was a shock of silver on her shoulders.
"Though how we'll sleep with this moon I don't know. It's like the floodlights at the Cricket Ground. We need to find a place in the shade. Not under these gums, though-if they drop a branch, we're dead. Down by the creek there, among the casuarinas-"
A bellow interrupted her. Everyone looked up at the hut. Mum walked away down the hill, trailing a corner of the quilt across the moon-white grass. "And a good distance from that. That could go on for hours. Days. Come on, everyone, let's get settled."
Dylan followed her slowly. She wasn't acting right. Anything to do with babies and births, Mum usually took over. She became queenly herself, moving differently, spreading a radiant
peacefulness all around. She paused the world so the baby could land on it safely. Yet here she was, walking away from a woman in labor.
"I think we should get the police," grumbled Ella, lumbering down the slope. She was pregnant, too; she was what Mum described as about ready to drop. "It's outrageous. Whoever heard of it? Where did those people escape from-some kind of costume party?" Todd gave an enormous yawn. "Dunno what you're moaning about-you weren't asleep anyway. You never sleep, remember? 'S what you're always saying."
"I do never sleep," said Ella. "Not these days. Or nights." The family moved down the slope ahead, in among the darker trees. They weren't nearly alarmed enough; that must be part of the magic. Dylan was panting, as if his body were trying to pump out the strong, wet-grass smell of bear and replace it with the proper bush smells of eucalypt and pine.”

Margo Lanagan (Waratah, 5 juni 1960)

De Engelse schrijfster Margaret Drabble werd geboren op 5 juni 1939 in Sheffield, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: The Red Queen

„This hard school served me well in my hard life. My mother, too, endured hardship in her early years. I used to wonder, childishly, whether it was my longing for red silk that brought all these disasters upon me and my house. For my desire was fulfilled, but no good came of it, and it brought me no happiness.
I was still a child when I received a red silk skirt of my own. It was brought to me from the palace, with other precious garments made for me at the queen's command. I was presented with a long formal dress jacket of an opaque leaf-green brocade, and a blouse in buttercup-yellow silk with a grape pattern, and another blouse of a rich pale foxglove silk. I had been measured for these robes by the matron of the court, and they were lifted out and displayed to me by a court official, with much ambiguous and bewildering deference. I think my response to these rich and splendid artefacts was lacking in spontaneous delight and gratitude, though I did do my best to conceal my fear.
The red silk skirt was not a gift from the palace, although it was included in the fine royal display of gifts. I was to learn later that it had been made for me by my mother, as a reward and as a compensation for my elevation. She had made it secretly, at night, hanging curtains over her windows to hide the lights in her chamber as she worked. This is how she performed many of her household tasks - discreetly, quietly, modestly. My mother liked to hide her thrift and industry, and she avoided compliments on her domestic labours. At this time, I knew nothing of this special undertaking on my behalf. I stared at the red silk skirt in ungracious silence.
My mother reminded me that I had once expressed a wish for such things, and she watched my face for smiles of gratitude. I did not remember having expressed this wish, but I confess that she was right to have divined it in me. But now I was too sad and too oppressed to raise my eyes to look at my new finery. My illustrious future hung heavily upon me. I was nine years old, and I was afraid.“

Margaret Drabble (Sheffield, 5 juni 1939)

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Kristin Carlson Gore werd geboren op 5 juni 1977 in  Carthage, Tennessee. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009.en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: Sammy's House

„I looked quickly around for help, but most people seemed frozen, capable only of staring with wide-open mouths. The stereo system played on, its background hum now transformed into a striptease soundtrack. Someone needed to shut it off. Someone needed to shut her off. I searched for the Secret Service agents posted throughout the boat. Would they get involved only if they deemed the stripper a security threat? By now, she'd reached a point where concealed weapons seemed an impossibility. Upon closer examination, the dragon tatooed on her shoulder appeared to be wearing a tufted pink tutu. I pondered its significance. Perhaps this unknown woman, who until a minute ago everyone had taken for an inhibited waitress offering shrimp dip and taquitos, belonged to a hard-livin', rough-and-tumble gang of rebel ballerinas. She was certainly nimble, judging by the ease with which she was now pirouetting out of her panties.

I was blinking from the flashes, both photographic and pornographic, and had just noticed the tattoo of a tap-dancing minotaur on the stripper's upper thigh when Harry Danson, the president's chief of staff, suddenly pushed through the crowd and covered her with his jacket. She tried to shrug it off, but Harry was very firm. It's in his job description.“

Kristin Gore (Carthage, 5 juni 1977)

05-06-2011 om 20:56 geschreven door Romenu  

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Thomas Kling werd geboren op 5 juni 1957 in Bingen. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Thomas Kling op dit blog.

Berliner Totentanz 2

herr doktor – meister der arznei

ich habs euch dreimal schon gesagt:

meint wohl ihr könnt noch länger leben

und wollt euch nicht zu GOtt begeben

stellt ab die probe – verabschiedet euch man

und seht wie gut ich euch vortanzen kann

arzt:

ach gott hier gibts kaum einen rat

der urin sieht schlecht aus in der tat –

die farbe ist schwarz und grün und rot:

ich sehe darin den bitteren tod

in der apotheke gibts nicht ein kraut womit man

gegen den tod was ausrichten kann

Actaeon 3

hirschgulasch. den schuß, widerhallend, gezisch vom lärchenhang,

konnten wir gerade noch hören. wir? bei tisch. der dampfende berg,

gegenüber, gleich drüben, in flußnähe, wo Actaeon zu boden ging.

fetzen. gebeugt in den dampf da, hirschbrocken vom teller. dampf

steigt vom durchwühlten boden auf, staub an der nüster, schweiß.

körper und nadeln. der ganze staub aus der ferne und das dampf-

ende tellergericht, der fluß; motorengeschepper in etwa, von drüben,

so was wie: röhren, plattmachen, turbogeknurr. jetzt wird der luftröhre

ein schnitt gemacht, durchtrennte fährten. Echo erscheint. das frische

mark wird rausgesaugt wie nichts! wir knien so überm hirsch, wir

ziehen uns den rein, wir klärn das mit den toten: ein bildverdampfen

findet statt. den hirsch besäbeln. ächzend. zunge, sehnen. zähne.

Thomas Kling (5 juni 1957 - 1 april 2005)

De Nederlandse literair criticus Carel Peeters werd geboren in Nijmegen op 5 juni 1944. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: Waarin het geheim van Harry Mulisch te vinden is in de diepte van zijn oppervlakkigheid

“Om te weten waar de allesdoordringende drijfveer vandaan kwam waarmee Harry Mulisch schreef zal men de eerste pagina’s van het hoofdstuk ‘Zelfportret met tulband’ in Voer voor psychologen (1962) moeten lezen. Daar is de ‘oerscène’ te vinden waar alles op terug te voeren is: op de dag dat hij voor zijn vader, na aanvankelijke aarzeling omdat hij nog maar vier jaar was, sigaretten mocht halen. ‘Een opdracht! Ik! Ik!’ Het wordt de opdracht van zijn leven, voor het eerst een zelfstandige daad, helemaal alleen: ‘Ik ben in de wereld, alleen, en van een opdracht voorzien: Lucky Strike! Het licht en het geluid van het asfalt stormen om mij heen, eindeloos zijn naar alle kanten de wegen en dingen, en daar doorheen weet ik mijn weg. Aan mij zal het niet liggen!’.
Wanneer hij met de sigaretten thuiskomt is zijn vader al naar zijn werk vertrokken. Dat valt hem wel op, maar hij staat er niet lang bij stil, overrompeld als hij is door de sensatie van de eerste zelfstandige daad. Dat was inderdaad een ‘lucky strike’. Hij brengt de sigaretten naar zijn moeder en met de tekkel Balda in zijn armen holt hij door het huis, roepend dat hij sigaretten heeft gehaald. ‘Met bonkend hart’ belandt hij tussen zijn speelgoeddieren op de grond van zijn kamer.“

Carel Peeters (Nijmegen, 5 juni 1944)

De Franse feministische schrijfster, dichteres, professor, filosoof, literair criticus en historica Hélène Cixous werd geboren in Oran, Algerije, op 5 juni 1937. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: The Laugh of Medusa

„...I write this as a woman, towards women. When I say 'woman,' I'm speaking of woman in her inevitable struggle against conventional man; and of a universal woman subject who must bring women to their senses and to their meaning in history. But first it must be said that in spite of the enormity of the repression that has kept them in the the "dark" --that dark which people have been trying to make them accept as their attribute-- there is, at this time, no general woman, no one typical woman. What they have in common I will say. But what strikes me is the infinite richness of their individual constitutions: you can't talk about a female sexuality, uniform, homogeneous, classifiable into codes --any more than you can talk about one unconscious resembling another. Women's imaginary is inexhaustible, like music, painting, writing: their stream of phantasms is incredible.

I have been amazed more than once by a description a woman gave me of a world all their own which she had been secretly haunting since early childhood. A world of searching, the elaboration of knowledge, on the basis of systematic experimentation with the bodily functions, a passionate and precise interrogation of her erotogeneity. This practice, extraordinarily rich and inventive, in particular as concerns masturbation, is prolonged or accompanied by a production of forms, a veritable aesthetic activity, each stage of rapture inscribing a resononant vision, a composition, something beautiful. Beauty will no longer be forbidden.“

Hélène Cixous (Oran, 5 juni 1937)

Hier met de filosoof Jacques Derrida

De Amerikaanse schrijver en acteur Spalding Gray werd geboren op 5 juni 1941 in Barrington, Rhode Island. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: Over “Sex and Death to the Age 14” (Interview met Karry Kammer)

“I was very naive when I first started doing the book, Sex and Death to the Age 14. I really thought I was going to be able to keep everyone’s actual name as I had in the monologue. Actual names are very important to me really, under the belief that a rose by any other name will smell quite differently. So much is tied up in language and the way we use language. I sent out a form letter to my friends saying, “Dear So-and-So, This is to ask you permission. May I please use your name? I’m writing a personal history about all of us and in no way am I malicious and it’s a kind of record of our lives together. I’m going up to Barrington, Rhode Island.” I got back briefings from their lawyers. Not just polite notes or impolite notes saying, “No, Spuddy, dear, but I’m afraid I’d rather not be a part of your history.” Lawyers sending in two page briefings saying they were going to bring me to court. I was in Australia performing when I got those letters. And I can remember spending hours on the telephone with the Random House lawyer redoing, not only the names, but the situations because you couldn’t have a particular house next to my house because I was naming the town, which most writers don’t do. They call it Winesburg, Ohio, whatever. But since I was keeping my name and the name of the town, it got to be very incriminating. And we went though these enormous, paranoid, convoluted, ridiculous changes to turn it into fiction. And I see that they’ve written fiction on the book. And when I go into bookstores I see it in the fiction section. And I think, “Well, that’s what it’s become because of the changes in the names.” Why it discourages me to change the names is that I am a Cagian, I relate to John Cage, in the sense that I feel there is a certain larger puzzle, larger synchronicity. And I don’t mean this in a schizophrenic paranoid way. But I mean it in the sense that all of culture, all of our culture is an artifact. Nature is the raw and different thing we have chosen to overlay with a sense of order. We make the order. I’m an existentialist to that degree. And because we’re making the order, there are stories constantly created around us, constant puzzles that are coming at us. And I like to be a conduit to those stories.”

Spalding Gray (5 juni 1941 – 10 januari 2004)

De Ierse dichter, schrijver en schilder Christy Brown werd geboren op 5 juni 1932 in Dublin. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

In Memory of Melba Our Cat

You did not long enjoy

the unexplored wonders of this other Eden

you of the purring yellow-eyed persuasion

skipping in and so abruptly out of our lives

running rashly off into feline eternity

under the bouncing wheels of a country trailer.

No more than a kitten yourself, girl.

and we who had fumed at your early courting

are thankful now that you gave us as parting gift

three carbon copies of yourself as souvenirs

to help heal the wound of your passing

in a purring concourse of caring.

No more will you wake me from futile dreaming

your velvet presence padding over my face

meowing me back into bleary-eyed reality

wanting not my meagre comfort

but to share your warmth with me

out of the sleek largesse of your nature

The sea will be melancholy for a while

with you not there to distract me

from the due contemplation of beauty

by insisting that I look first upon your own

and for the first time in many weeks

the morning ashes will be undisturbed in the grate

The new home that you had just begun to rule

will be loud now with your sudden absence

until the three gentle reminders you bequeathed us

begin slowly to fill the furry void.

Christy Brown (5 juni 1932 – 6 september 1981)

De Britse schrijver, dramaturg en regisseur David Hare werd geboren op 5 juni 1947 in Sussex. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: Wall: A Monologue

„ll right. Let’s be serious, let’s think about this.

Please, please: consider the state of affairs, consider the desperation, consider the depth of the despair. A country has reached a point at which 84 percent of its people are in favor of building a wall along its borders.

Have you ever known anything of which 84 percent of people were in favor? And yet there it is, over four fifths of a nation—can you imagine that figure?—saying something completely bizarre. The Berlin Wall was built to keep people in. This one, they say, is being built to keep people out.

You might call this an extraordinary state of affairs. Hardly a normal state of affairs. And that’s the word you hear all the time in the Middle East. “Normal.” The Palestinians ask, “When will we have a normal life?” And so do the Israelis. Indeed, the Israeli state was founded in 1948 with the principal ambition of being normal, of being a normal place like any other. The Palestinians call the foundation of the Israeli state the nakbeh: the disaster. And now sixty years later Israel believes itself, in the frequently expressed view of the majority, in need of a wall.

Except, of course, they don’t call it a wall. They call it a fence.“

David Hare (Sussex, 5 juni 1947)

De Egyptische schrijfster Alifa Rifaat werd op 5 juni 1930 in Caïro geboren. Zie voor onderstaande schrijfster ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2010

Uit: My World of the Unknown

"I felt her as she slipped between the covers, then her two tiny fangs, like two pearls, began to caress my body; arriving at my thighs, the golden tongue, like an arak twig, inserted its pronged tip between them and began sipping and exhaling; sipping the poisons of my desire and exhaling the nectar of my ecstasy, till my hwole body tingled and started to shake in sharp, painful, rapurous spasms - and all the while the tenderest of words were whispered to me as I confided to her all my longings. ."

Alifa Rifaat (5 juni 1930 - ? 1996)

Caïro

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 5 juni 2009.

De Zwitserse schrijver en uitgever Otto Friedrich Walter werd geboren op 5 juni 1928 in Rickenbach.

De Engelse schrijfster Ivy Compton-Burnett werd geboren op 5 juni 1884.

05-06-2011 om 20:49 geschreven door Romenu