Berichten van 8 december 2011 tot 9 december 2011

De Nicaraguaanse schrijfster, dichteres en ex-politica Gioconda Belli werd geboren op 9 december 1948 in Managua. Zie ook alle tags voor Gioconda Belli op dit blog.

 

 

Zandkastelen

 

Waarom zei je me niet dat je bezig was
dat zandkasteel te bouwen?

 

Het zou zo heerlijk geweest zijn
om dat kleine poortje binnen te treden,
door zijn zoute gangen te lopen
je op te wachten in kamers van schelpen,
je toe te spreken vanaf het balkon
mijn mond vol wit schuim en even transparant
als mijn woorden,
die vederlichte woorden die ik tot je sprak,
die niet zwaarder zijn dan de lucht
tussen mijn tanden

 

Het is zo heerlijk naar zee te kijken

 

En de zee zou zo mooi geweest zijn
vanaf ons zandkasteel,
de tijd likkend
met de intense en diepe tederheid
van het water,
ronddwalen d in de verhalen die men ons vertelde
toen wij, kinderen, een en al oor waren
voor de natuur

 

Het wassende water heeft je zandkasteel
nu meegenomen.
Heeft alles weggeveegd, de torens
en de grachten
het poortje waarlangs wij bij laagtij
zouden binnengetreden zijn,
als de werkelijkheid veraf was
en er op het strand
zandkastelen zijn...

 

 

Vertaald door Germain Droogenbroodt

 

 

 

 

BRIEF LESSONS IN EROTICISM

I
To sail the entire length of a body is to circle the world
To navigate the rose of the winds without a compass
Islands gulfs peninsulas breakwaters against crashing waves
It isn't easy, though it is enjoyable
Don't think you can do it in one day or night of consoling the sheets
There are enough secrets in the pores to fill many moons
II
The body is an astral chart in a coded language
Find a star and perhaps you’ll begin
To change course when suddenly a hurricane or piercing scream
Makes you tremble in fear
A dip in the hand you didn't expect
III
Go over the entire length many times
Find the lake with the white water lilies
Caress the lily's center with your anchor
Plunge deep drown yourself stretch your limbs
Don't deny yourself the smell the salt the sugar
The heavy winds cumulonimbus-lungs
The brain's dense fog
Earthquake of legs
Sleeping tidal wave of kisses

 

 

 

Vertaald door Steven F. White

 

 

 

Gioconda Belli (Managua, 9 december 1948)

Rubin Dario, Gioconda Belli en Ernesto Cardina, portret door Erin Currier

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Michael Krüger werd geboren op 9 december 1943 in Wittgendorf. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2009 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.

 

 

Auf dem See

 

I

Die Zeit schwimmt achtlos

an uns vorbei,

gegen die Wellen, die sich

hinter dem Boot wieder treffen,

ohne nachtragend zu sein,

während wir in diesem Boot

sitzen und rudern,

auf einen Punkt zu am Ufer,

der kleiner wird

bei kürzer werdendem Abstand.

 

 

II

Über uns schludrige Wolken,

von einem närrischen Föhn

über den Himmel gejagt.

Erregt und streitsüchtig das Wasser,

und späte Vögel,

die über die Wellen flitzen.

Menschen lagen am Ufer

wie träge Sommerfliegen,

als wir abstießen vom Steg

lange vor dem Gewitter.



 

 

III

Wie Gras sieht das Wasser aus,

graues Gras, an der Wurzel gepackt.

 

 

 

Michael Krüger (Wittgendorf, 9 december 1943)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver en schilder Wolfgang Hildesheimer werd geboren op 9 december 1916 in Hamburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2009 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.
 

Uit: Tynset

 

“Ich liege im Bett, in meinem Winterbett. Es ist Schlafenszeit. Aber wann wäre es das nicht? Es ist still, beinah still. Nachts weht hier meist ein Wind, und es krähen ein oder zwei Hähne. Aber jetzt weht kein Wind, und es kräht kein Hahn, noch nicht. Dafür knackt es hin und wieder im Holz der Täfelung meiner Wände, irgendwo spaltet sich eine Füllung, wirft sich und löst sich schrumpfend aus dem Rahmen, uralter Leim bröckelt in Perlen ab oder rieselt als Mehl, oder ein Riss huscht entlang einem Balken der Zimmerdecke, von einer Ecke bis tief in die andere, und darüber hinaus, durch die hölzerne Wand, weiter dem Balken entlang, in das nächste Zimmer, das leere Zimmer, wo er versickert und verklingt.”

(…)

 

Ja, ich bin im wahren Sinne des Wortes ein Nachtwandler. Nur schlafe ich beim Wandeln nicht, ich bin ein wacher Wandler, hellhörig, wie man es nur im Dunkeln ist. So gehe ich denn durch das Haus, klopfe auf die Scheiben der Barometer, hinter denen es aber ewig veränderlich bleibt, besehe mir in Schränken und Fächern und Regalen stumme Portraits oder beredte Reliquien, entdecke im Staub eine Haarlocke – aber von wem? –, in einem Gefäß den Schlüssel einer Uhr – aber von welcher Uhr? Wann ist sie stehen geblieben? – ich prüfe eine Landschaft an der Wand, und plötzlich bannt sie mich ...”

 

 

Wolfgang Hildesheimer (9 december 1916 – 21 augustus 1991)

 

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijfster Anna Gavalda werd geboren op 9 december 1970 in Boulogne-Billancourt. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2009 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.
 

Uit: Anna Gavalda, Happy Meal

 

„Cette fille, je l’aime. J’ai envie de lui faire plaisir. J’ai envie de l’inviter à déjeuner.

Une grande brasserie avec des miroirs et des nappes en tissu. M’asseoir près d’elle, regarder son profil, regarder les gens tout autour et tout laisser refroidir. Je l’aime.

« D’accord, me dit-elle, mais on va au McDonald. » Elle n’attend pas que je bougonne (brummen). « Cela fait si longtemps…ajoute-t-elle en posant 5 son livre près d’elle, si longtemps… »

Elle exagère, ça fait moins de deux mois. Je sais compter. Mais bon. Cette jeune personne aime les nuggets et la sauce barbecue, qu’y puisje ?

Si on reste ensemble assez longtemps, je lui apprendrai autre chose. Je lui apprendrai la sauce gribiche (würzige Kräutersauce) et les crêpes Suzette par exemple. Si on reste ensemble assez longtemps, je lui apprendrai que les garçons des grandes brasseries n’ont pas le droit de toucher nos serviettes, qu’ils les font glisser en soulevant la première assiette. Elle sera bien étonnée.

Il y a tellement de choses que je voudrais lui montrer… Tellement de choses. Mais je ne dis rien. Je prends mon pardessus en silence. Je sais comment sont les filles avec l’avenir : juste prometteuses. Je préfère l’emmener dans ce putain de McDo et la rendre heureuse un jour après l’autre.

Dans la rue, je la complimente sur ses chaussures. Elle s’en offusque : « Ne me dis pas que tu ne les avais jamais vues, je les ai depuis Noël ! » Je pique du nez, elle me sourit, alors je la complimente sur ses chaussettes. Elle me dit que je suis bête. Tu penses si je le savais. C’est la plus jolie fille de la rue.“

 

 

Anna Gavalda (Boulogne-Billancourt, 9 december 1970)



Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 9^e december ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Hongaars-Duitse schrijver Ödön von Horváth werd geboren op 9 december 1901 in Fiume. Zie ook alle tags voor Ödön von Horváth op dit blog.

 

Uit: Jugend ohne Gott

 

“Draussen scheint noch die Sonne, fein muss es sein im Park! Doch Beruf ist Pflicht, ich korrigiere die Hefte und schreibe in mein Büchlein hinein, wer etwas taugt oder nicht. Das von der Aufsichtsbehörde vorgeschriebene Thema der Aufsätze lautet: »Warum müssen wir Kolonien haben?

« Ja, warum? Nun, lasset uns hören!

Der erste Schüler beginnt mit einem B: er heisst Bauer, mit dem Vornamen Franz. In dieser Klasse gibts keinen, der mit A beginnt, dafür haben wir aber gleich fünf mit B. Eine Seltenheit, so viele B's bei insgesamt sechsundzwanzig Schülern! Aber zwei B's sind Zwillinge, daher das Ungewöhnliche.

Automatisch überfliege ich die Namensliste in meinem Büchlein und stelle fest, dass B nur von S fast erreicht wird – stimmt, vier beginnen mit S, drei mit M, je zwei mit E, G, L und R, je einer mit F, H, N, T, W, Z, während keiner der Buben mit A, C, D, I, O, P, Q, U, V, X, Y beginnt.

Nun, Franz Bauer, warum brauchen wir Kolonien?

»Wir brauchen die Kolonien«, schreibt er, »weil wir zahlreiche Rohstoffe benötigen, denn ohne Rohstoffe könnten wir unsere hochstehende Industrie nicht ihrem innersten Wesen und Werte nach beschäftigen, was zur unleidlichen Folge hätte, dass der heimische Arbeitsmann wieder arbeitslos werden würde.« Sehr richtig, lieber Bauer! »Es dreht sich zwar nicht um die Arbeiter« – sondern, Bauer? –, »es dreht sich vielmehr um das Volksganze, denn auch der Arbeiter gehört letzten Endes zum Volk.«

Das ist ohne Zweifel letzten Endes eine grossartige Entdeckung, geht es mir durch den Sinn und plötzlich fällt es mir wieder auf, wie häufig in unserer Zeit uralte Weisheiten als erstmalig formulierte Schlagworte serviert werden. Oder war das immer schon so?

Ich weiss es nicht.

Jetzt weiss ich nur, dass ich wiedermal sechsundzwanzig Aufsätze durchlesen muss, Aufsätze, die mit schiefen Voraussetzungen falsche Schlussfolgerungen ziehen. Wie schön wärs, wenn sich »schief« und »falsch« aufheben würden, aber sie tuns nicht. Sie wandeln Arm in Arm daher und singen hohle Phrasen.

Ich werde mich hüten als städtischer Beamter, an diesem lieblichen Gesange auch nur die leiseste Kritik zu üben! Wenns auch weh tut, was vermag der Einzelne gegen Alle? Er kann sich nur heimlich ärgern. Und ich will mich nicht mehr ärgern!

Korrigier rasch, Du willst noch ins Kino!“

 

 

Ödön von Horváth (9 december 1901 – 1 juni 1938)

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Milton werd geboren op 9 december 1608 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor John Milton op dit blog.

 

Uit: Paradise Lost (Book I)

 

„Say first, for Heav'n hides nothing from thy view

Nor the deep Tract of Hell, say first what cause

Mov'd our Grand Parents in that happy State,

Favour'd of Heav'n so highly, to fall off

From thir Creator, and transgress his Will

For one restraint, Lords of the World besides?

Who first seduc'd them to that foul revolt?

Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile

Stird up with Envy and Revenge, deceiv'd

The Mother of Mankind, what time his Pride

Had cast him out from Heav'n, with all his Host

Of Rebel Angels, by whose aid aspiring

To set himself in Glory above his Peers,

He trusted to have equal'd the most High,

If he oppos'd; and with ambitious aim

Against the Throne and Monarchy of God

Rais'd impious War in Heav'n and Battel proud

With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power

Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie

With hideous ruine and combustion down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire,

Who durst defie th' Omnipotent to Arms.

Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night

To mortal men, he with his horrid crew

Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe

Confounded though immortal: But his doom

Reserv'd him to more wrath; for now the thought

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes

That witness'd huge affliction and dismay

Mixt with obdurate pride and stedfast hate:

At once as far as Angels kenn he views

The dismal Situation waste and wilde,

A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round

As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames

No light, but rather darkness visible

Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes

That comes to all; but torture without end

Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed

With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd:

Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd

For those rebellious, here thir Prison ordain'd

In utter darkness, and thir portion set

As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n

As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole.

O how unlike the place from whence they fell!

There the companions of his fall, o'rewhelm'd

With Floods and Whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,

He soon discerns, and weltring by his side

One next himself in power, and next in crime,

Long after known in Palestine, and nam'd

Beelzebub. To whom th' Arch-Enemy,

And thence in Heav'n call'd Satan, with bold words

Breaking the horrid silence thus began.“

 

 

John Milton (9 december 1608 – 8 november 1674)

Milton dicteert zijn dochters „Paradise Lost“, Eugène Delacroix, ca 1826

 

 

 

 

 

De Tsjechische psycholoog, schrijver en dichter Jan Křesadlo (pseudoniem van Václav Jaroslav Karel Pinkava) werd geboren op 9 december 1926 in Praag. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.

 

Uit: GraveLarks (Vertaald door Václav Pinkava)

 

“It is about ten o’clock in the morning on a Friday. A red squirrel and a black one are chasing each another through the cemetary trees, a small blood-red mite runs around the stony labyrinths of the gravestones, houseleeks are starting to bud, bees are buzzing from flower to flower and so on.

The graveyard is pulsating with the joy of life and at this moment Zderad is engaged in his cover occupation.

A widow in mourning leans on her son’s arm, crying, the priest sprinkles the grave with holy water and the gravediggers have already put the straps around their shoulders.

The white handkerchiefs contrast aesthetically with the black clothing.

The last farewells are underway and the quartet intones the favourite song of the deceased:

“O’er the lake of Stachov,
Ruffled by the breeze,
O’er the lake they’re flying,:
Flocks of wild grey geese..”

In his choice of song the dead shoemaker displays unusually good taste of a clearly archetypally superindividualistic origin.

Kukula has piously arranged the beautiful, simple, mildly melancholy melody, without forgetting to make use of the “waldhornquinten” harmonies, to which the melody lends itself. The main harmonic tricks occur in the second tenor and Zderad is performing them with gusto.

It is not Lake Stachov, which he doesn’t know, that emerges in his mind’s eye, but the wide and glistening surface of Lake Posel. He contemplates the fact that he not only has enough money to take up his detective work, but also to drop in on Sylva’s birthplace, to surprise both wife and son and possibly even to establish a friendly relationship with the old ram. After all he might have conceded by now that it’s no use by his own standards, since he recognises neither illegitimate children nor divorces.“

 

 

 

Jan Křesadlo (9 december 1926 - 13 augustus 1995)

 

 

 

 

 

De Wit-Russische (Belarussische) dichter, journalist en criticus Maksim Bahdanovič werd geboren op 9 december 1891 in Minsk. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.

 

 

Uit: In The Village

 

Once upon a working day in summer-time
I passed through a village. In a dreary line
On both sides of the winding narrow lane, the houses
Stood there, grey, decayed, like old rags, dull and frowsty;
In the walls their windows staring blindly back,
And even the thatch itself was rotted black.
All was ruins, grown old; here death had come crawling.
Only here and there was something still adorning
The village dreariness. The poppy still unfurled
Bright flowers like butterflies, where many colours swirled,
Beside the path, and with them made the soul grow carefree.
Then, too, one might notice here and there a pear-tree,
Crooked, gnarled with age. . . and that, indeed, was all —
But no one to be seen, no people, none at all —
All in the fields. No trace of bright skirt for a moment,
No new bride passed with pails to bear the water homeward.
No white caps of peasants to be seen, nowhere,
No sounds of colts’ neighing echoes in the air,
No sad song was heard, floating, ringing, flying.
Then, how strange! There came the sound of infant crying.
Hearing this, I started and looked round. Alas!
I’d scared a little boy. He crawled upon the grass
Beside the path, on hands and knees, poor little baby,
Towards his nursemaid — she a girl of eight years, maybe —
And now he’d reached her, and into her lap straightway
He hid his little head, voice fearful with dismay,
And, as the tip of a small birch nods in the breezes,
The girl bent to the little boy to calm and ease him.
And wiped his tears, and started murmuring to him,
Exactly, as a mother would. And thus, within
One living form, the two mingled and merged together,
The stature of a girl, the manner of a mother.
At that moment she, childlike in form, and thin,
Seemed sudden to appear filled to the very brim
With some far-spreading native loveliness within her,
And, I recall, my soul grew finer for an instant,
But maybe in the girl it was not loveliness —
In that thin, grubby, puny lit tle girl expressed —
But something higher which great Raphael endeavoured
To show through the features of Our Lord’s own Mother.

  

 

Vertaald door Vera Rich

 

 

 

Maksim Bahdanovič (9 december 1891 – 25 mei 1917)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en sceenwriter James Dalton Trumbo werd geboren op 9 december 1905 in het plaatsje Montrose in Colorado. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 december 2010.

 

Uit: Johnny Got His Gun

 

„He froze all over stiff and rigid like a dead cat. There was something wrong about this pricking and pulling and friction heat. He could feel the things they were doing to his arm and yet he couldn't rightly feel his arm at all. It was like he felt inside his arm. It was like he felt through the end of his arm. The nearest thing he could think of to the end of his arm was the heel of his hand. But the heel of his hand the end of his arm was high high high as his shoulder.

Jesus Christ they'd cut his left arm off.

They'd cut it right off at the shoulder he could feel it plain now.

Oh my god why did they do a thing like that to him?

They couldn't do it the dirty bastards they couldn't do it. They had to have a paper signed or something. It was the law. You can't just go out and cut a man's arm off without asking him without getting permission because a man's arm is his own and he needs it. Oh Jesus I have to work with that arm why did you cut it off? Why did you cut my arm off answer me why did you cut my arm off? Why did you why did you why did you?

He went down into the water again and fought and fought and then came up with his belly jumping and his throat aching. And all the time that he was under the water fighting with only one arm to get back he was having conversation with himself about how this thing couldn't possibly happen to him only it hadSo they cut myarm off. How am I going to work now? They don't think of that. They don't think of anything but doing it their own way. Just another guy with a hole in his arm let's cut it off what do you say boys? Sure cut the guy's arm off. It takes a lot of work and a lot of money to fix up a guy's arm. This is a war and war is hell and what the hell and so to hell with it. Come on boys watch this. Pretty slick hey? He's down in bed and can't say anything and it's his tough luck and we're tired and this is a stinking war anyhow so let's cut the damn thing off and be done with it.“

 

 

 

Dalton Trumbo (9 december 1905 – 10 september 1976)

De Britse schrijver Louis de Bernières werd geboren in Londen op 8 december 1954. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2009. en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

Uit: Birds Without Wings

 

„Yusuf the Tall strode up and down the room, waving his hands, protesting and expostulating, sometimes burying his face in his hands. Kaya had not seen him so anguished and begrieved since the death of his mother three years before. He had painted the tulip on the headstone with his own hands, and had taken bread and olives so that he could eat at the graveside, imagining his mother underneath the stones, but unable to picture her as anything but living and intact.
Yusuf had passed the stage of anger. The time had gone when these patrollings of the room had been accompanied by obscenities so fearful that Kaya and her children had had to flee the house with their hands over their ears, their heads ringing with his curses against his daughter and the Christian: "Orospu çocu¢gu! Orospu çocu¢gu! Piç!"
By now, however, Yusuf the Tall was in that state of grief which foreknew in its full import the horror of what was inescapably to come. His face glistened with anticipatory tears, and when he threw his head back and opened his mouth to groan, thick saliva strung itself across his teeth.
Overtaken, finally, by weariness, Kaya had given up pleading with him, partly because she herself could see no other way to deal with what had occurred. If it had been a Muslim, perhaps they could have married her to him, or perhaps they could have repeated what had been done with Tamara Hanim. Perhaps they could have kept her concealed in the house, unmarried for ever, and perhaps the child could have been given away. Perhaps they could have left it at the gates of a monastery. Perhaps they could have sent her away in disgrace, to fend for herself and suffer whatever indignities fate and divine malice should rain upon her head. It had not been a Muslim, however, it had been an infidel.

Yusuf was an implacable and undeviating adherent to his faith. Originally from Konya, he was not like the other Muslims of this mongrel town who seemed to be neither one thing nor the other, getting converted when they married, drinking wine with Christians either overtly or in secret, begging favours in their prayers from Mary Mother of Jesus, not asking what the white meat was when they shared a meal, and being buried with a silver cross wrapped in a scrap of the Koran enfolded in their hands, just because it was wise to back both camels in salvation’s race.“

 

 

Louis de Bernières (Londen, 8 december 1954)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Mary Catherine Gordon werd geboren op 8 december 1949 in Far Rockaway, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2009. en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

Uit: The Love of My Youth

 

„“I hope it won’t be strange or awkward. I mean, what seemed strange to me, or would seem strange, is not to do it. Because in a way it is strange, isn’t it, really, the two of you in Rome at the same time, the both of you phoning me the same day?”

Irritation bubbles up in Miranda. Had Valerie always been so garrulous? So vague? Had she, Miranda, always found her so annoying — the qualifications, the emendations, laid down, thrown out like straw on a road to muffle the noise of passing carriages when there’d been a death in the house? Where did that come from? Some novel of the nineteenth century. The early twentieth. And now it is the twenty-first, the first decade nearly done for. There’s no point in thinking this way, focusing on Valerie’s habits of speech and diction. As if that were the point. The point is simply: she must decide whether or not to go.

It has been nearly forty years since she has seen him. Or to be exact — and it is one of the things she values in herself, her ability to be exact — thirty-six years and four months. She saw him last on June 23, 1971. The day had changed her.

Adam tries to remember if he had ever been genuinely fond of Valerie. What he can recall is that, of Miranda’s many friends, Valerie was the one who seemed most interested in him. The one who asked him questions and then listened to his answers, who assumed he had a life whose details might be worthy of her attention. 1966, ’67, ’68, ’69, ’70, ’71. A time when he spent his days trying to determine the perfect fingering, the ideal tempo, for a Beethoven sonata, a Bach partita. A way of spending time that Miranda’s friends considered almost criminally beside the point. The point was stopping the war. Stopping racism. Stopping poverty. Diminishing the injustice of the world.

  

 

 

Mary Gordon (Far Rockaway, 8 december 1949)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Bill Bryson werd geboren in Des Moines (Iowa) op 8 december 1951. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2009. en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010. 

Uit: A Walk In The Woods

 

“Stephen, you awake?" I whispered.
"Yup," he replied in a weary but normal voice.
"What was that?"
"How the hell should I know."
"It sounded big."
"Everything sounds big in the woods."
This was true. Once a skunk had come plodding through our camp and it had sounded like a stegosaurus. There was another heavy rustle and then the sound of lapping at the spring. It was having a drink, whatever it was.
I shuffled on my knees to the foot of the tent, cautiously unzipped the mesh and peered out, but it was pitch black. As quietly as I could, I brought in my backpack and with the light of a small flashlight searched through it for my knife. When I found it and opened the blade I was appalled at how wimpy it looked. It was a perfectly respectable appliance for, say, buttering pancakes, but patently inadequate for defending oneself against 400 pounds of ravenous fur.
Carefully, very carefully, I climbed from the tent and put on the flashlight, which cast a distressingly feeble beam. Something about fifteen or twenty feet away looked up at me. I couldn't see anything at all of its shape or size--only two shining eyes. It went silent, whatever it was, and stared back at me.
"Stephen," I whispered at his tent, "did you pack a knife?"
"No."
"Have you get anything sharp at all?"
He thought for a moment. "Nail clippers."
I made a despairing face. "Anything a little more vicious than that? Because, you see, there is definitely something out here."
"It's probably just a skunk."
"Then it's one big skunk. Its eyes are three feet off the ground."
"A deer then."
I nervously threw a stick at the animal, and it didn't move, whatever it was. A deer would have bolted. This thing just blinked once and kept staring.
I reported this to Katz.
"Probably a buck. They're not so timid. Try shouting at it."

 

 

 

Bill Bryson (Des Moines, 8 december 1951)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Delmore Schwartz werd geboren op 8 december 1913 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2009. en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

 

Faust In Old Age

 

"Poet and veteran of childhood, look!

See in me the obscene, for you have love,

 

For you have hatred, you, you must be judge,

Deliver judgement, Delmore Schwartz.

 

Well-known wishes have been to war,

The vicious mouth has chewed the vine.

 

The patient crab beneath the shirt

Has charmed such interests as Indies meant.

 

For I have walked within and seen each sea,

The fish that flies, the broken burning bird,

 

Born again, beginning again, my breast!

Purple with persons like a tragic play.

 

For I have flown the cloud and fallen down,

Plucked Venus, sneering at her moan.

 

I took the train that takes away remorse;

I cast down every king like Socrates.

 

I knocked each nut to find the meat;

A worm was there and not a mint.

 

Metaphysicians could have told me this,

But each learns for himself, as in the kiss.

 

Polonius I poked, not him

To whom aspires spire and hymn,

 

Who succors children and the very poor;

I pierced the pompous Premier, not Jesus Christ,

 

I picked Polonius and Moby Dick,

the ego bloomed into an octopus.

 

Now come I to the exhausted West at last;

I know my vanity, my nothingness,

 

now I float will-less in despair's dead sea,

Every man my enemy.

 

Spontaneous, I have too much to say,

And what I say will no one not old see:

 

 

If we could love one another, it would be well.

But as it is, I am sorry for the whole world, myself

apart. My heart is full of memory and desire, and in

its last nervousness, there is pity for those I have

touched, but only hatred and contempt for myself."

 

 

 

 

Delmore Schwartz (8 december 1913 – 11 juli 1966)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Thurber werd geboren op 8 december 1894 in Columbus, Ohio. Zie ook alle tags voor James Thurber op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Last Clock

 

“Wuld wuzzle?” the ogre wanted to know. He hiccuped, and something went spong!

“That was an area man, but the wrong area,” the ogress explained. “I’ll get a general practitioner.” And she went away and came back with a general practitioner.

“This is a waste of time,” he said. “As a general practitioner, modern style, I treat only generals. This patient is not even a private. He sounds to me like a public place — a clock tower, perhaps, or a belfry..”

“What should I do?” asked the ogress. “Send for a tower man, or a belfry man?”

“I shall not venture an opinion,” said the general practitioner. “I am a specialist in generals, one of whom has just lost command of his army and of all his faculties, and doesn’t know what time it is. Good day.” And the general practitioner went away.

The ogre cracked a small clock, as if were a large walnut, and began eating it. “Wulsy wul?” the ogre asked.

The ogress, who could now talk clocktalk fluently, even oilily, but wouldn’t, left the room to look up specialists in an enormous volume entitled “Who’s Who in Areas.” She soon became lost in a list of titles: clockmaker, clocksmith, clockwright, clockmonger, clockician, clockometrist, clockologist, and a hundred others dealing with clockness, clockism, clockship, clockdom, clockation, clockition, and clockhood.

The ogress decided to to call on an old inspirationalist who had once advised her father not to worry about a giant he was worrying about. The inspirationalist had said to the ogress’s father, “Don’t pay any attention to it, and it will go away.” And the ogress’s father had paid no attention to it, and it had gone away, taking him with it, and this had pleased the ogress. The inspirationalist was now a very old man whose inspirationalism had become a jumble of mumble. “The final experience should not be mummum,” he mumbled.

The ogress said, “But what is mummum?”

“Mummum,” said the inspirationalist, “is what the final experience should not be.” And he mumbled to a couch, lay down upon it, and fell asleep.

  

 

 

James Thurber (8 december 1894 – 2 november 1961)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Hervey Allen werd geboren op 8 december 1889 in Pittsburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2009. en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.
 

 

Beyond debate

 

Out from the wrought-iron gate
Miss Perdee drives in state;
Miss Perdee wears the thin smile
And the sleeves of 1888.
Miss Perdee's face is stifled as a sonnet;
Upon her wire-tight hair a duck-shaped bonnet
Nests, nodding with a cachepeigne  
Of violets on it.
East Bay, some tea and talk, them home by King.   
The horses have an antiquated plod;
The team is old, but not too old to balk
If driven north of Broad.   
Miss Perdee wears the sure air of a queen,
Which only queens and Perdees can achieve.
The Perdees had blue blood in Adam's veins
When Adam had the rib he gave to Eve.
Back through the wrought-iron gate
Miss Perdee drives in state.
Miss Perdee lives down on the Battery!
Beyond debate.

 

 

 

Hervey Allen (8 december 1889 – 28 december 1949)

 

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 8e december ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Franse theaterauteur Georges Feydeau werd geboren op 8 december 1862 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor George Feydeau op dit blog.

 

Uit: On purge bébé

 

„Surgissant en trombe par la porte, pan coupé. Tenue de souillon ; peignoir-éponge dont la cordelière non attachée traîne par ; petit jupon de soie sur la chemise de nuit qui dépasse par en bas : bigoudis dans, les cheveux ; bas tombant sur les savates. Elle tient un seau de toilette plein d’eau à la main.

JULIE :                     Alors, quoi ? Tu ne peux pas te déranger ? Non ?
FOLLAVOINE :       Ah! Je t’en prie, n’entre donc pas toujours comme une bombe!… Ah!
JULIE :                      Oh! Pardon!  Tu ne peux pas te déranger ? Non ?
FOLLAVOINE :       Eh bien! Et toi ? Pourquoi faut-il que ce soit moi qui me dérange plutôt que toi ?
JULIE :                      C’est juste! C’est juste! Nous sommes mariés, alors!…
FOLLAVOINE :       Quoi ? Quoi ? Quel rapport ?…
JULIE :                      Ah! Je serais seulement la femme d’un autre, il est probable que!…
FOLLAVOINE :       Ah! Laisse-moi donc tranquille! Je suis occupé, v’là tout!
JULIE :                     Occupé! Monsieur est occupé! C’est admirable!
FOLLAVOINE :       Oui, occupé! Ah!
JULIE :  Quoi ?
FOLLAVOINE :       Ah çà! Tu es folle ? Tu m’apportes ton seau de toilette ici, à présent ?
JULIE :                     Quoi, "mon seau" ? Où ça, "mon seau" ?
FOLLAVOINE :       Ça!
JULIE :                     Ah! Là! C’est rien. C’est mes eaux sales.
FOLLAVOINE :       Qu’est-ce que tu veux que j’en fasse ?
JULIE :                      Mais c’est pas pour toi! C’est pour les vider.
FOLLAVOINE :       Ici ?
JULIE :                      Mais non, pas ici! Que c’est bête ce que tu dis-là ! Je n’ai pas l’habitude de vider mes eaux dans ton cabinet de travail ; j’ai du tact.
FOLLAVOINE :       Alors, pourquoi me les apportes-tu ?
JULIE :                      Mais pour rien! Parce que j’avais le seau en main pour aller le vider quand Rose est venue me rapporter ta charmante réponse : alors, pour ne pas te faire attendre…
FOLLAVOINE :       Tu ne pouvais pas le laisser à la porte ?
JULIE :                      Ah! Et puis tu m’embêtes ! Si ça te gêne tant, tu n’avais qu’à te déranger quand je te demandais de venir ; mais Monsieur était occupé ! à quoi ? Je te le demande.“
 

 

 

Georges Feydeau (8 december 1862 - 5 juni 1921)

Opvoering van On purge bébé in de Salle polyvalente de Tonnerre, 2010

 

 

 

De Romeinse dichter en schrijver Quintus Horatius Flaccus werd geboren op 8 december 65 v. Chr. Zie ook alle tags voor Horatius op dit blog.

 

 

Ode I.22

 

Een man van onbesproken levenswandel,
die heeft geen assegaaien noodig, Fuscus,
geen koker pijlen in vergif gedrenkt,

 

al reist hij naar het Africaansche strand,
de barre toppen van den Caucasus,
de droomomsponnen oevers van den Ganges.

 

Zoo ging voor mij een wolf laatst op den loop,
terwijl ik onbezorgd en ongewapend
in het Sabijnsche woud, heel ver van huis,
mijn lieve Lalage liep te bezingen,
een beest nogwel, als zelfs het Daunisch land
niet herbergt in zijn wijde wildernissen,
noch de Sahara in haar zandwoestijnen,
de dorre voedster van den fellen leeuw.

 

Verplaatst mij naar het druilend Poolgebied,
waar zomerzon geen enklen boom verkwikt,
waar kille mist den rand der aarde dekt,
of naar den vuurgloed van het brandend Zuid,
dat voor ons menschen onbewoonbaar heet:
ik blijf den lieven lach, de lieve stem
van Lalage, zoo daar als hier, beminnen.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Dr. A. Rutgers van der Loeff

 

 

 

Horatius (8 december 65 v. Chr. - 27 november 8 v. Chr.)

Op een Italiaanse postzegel

 

 

 

 

De Spaanse schrijfster, vertaalster en journaliste  Carmen Martín Gaite werd geboren op 8 december 1925 in Salamanca. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

Uit: Los parentescos (Relaties)

 

“Mon père m'a fait un chèque pour mon anniversaire et parce que j'ai réussi, avec de bonnes notes, mon examen d'entrée à l'université. C'est pour cette raison que nous nous sommes donné rendez-vous ici. A la maison on se voit peu. [...]
- C'est mon fils, Baltasar - dit mon père a son ami, tout juste arrivé.
j'ouvre les yeux, je ne le connais pas. Je lui sourit sans envie, car il est en train de me poser les questions basiques, quel âge j'ai et qu'est-ce que je fais comme études. Moi, je me tais et la même voix qui avant me sermonnait, dit que je ferais surement de l'économie mais que je veux entreprendre trop de choses et que je ne me centre sur aucune. Et l'autre dit qu'il a le même problème avec ses enfants, enfin, à tous les jeunes, c'est le manque de stimulation, ce n'est pas non plus de leur faute, l'université espagnole est encombrée, c'est une vraie tombola, tu vois des gens qui font de l'architecture alors que ce qui les branchait c'était d'être médecin, et des licenciés en Histoire de l'Art travaillant dans un bar, le mieux c'est un Master aux Etats-Unis. J'ai entendu ce discours beaucoup trop de fois, je bois mon martini à petites gorgées, j'aime cette couleur de rubis avec les reflets de lumière; lui je ne crois pas que ce soit un ami à mon père car il vient juste de dire: "je ne savais pas que tu avais des enfants", et il ne lui a rien demandé à propos de maman.”

 

 

 

Carmen Martín Gaite (8 december 1925 – 22 juli 2000)  

 

 

 

 

 

De Griekse dichter en schrijver Nikos Gatsos werd geboren op 8 december 1911 in Kato Asea in Arcadië. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

 

Amorgos (Fragment)

 

With their country tied to their sails and their oars hung on

      the wind

The shipwrecked slept tamely like dead beasts on a bedding

      of sponges

But the eyes of seaweed are turned toward the sea

Hoping the South Wind will bring them backwith their

       lateen-sails new-painted

For one lost elephant is always worth much more than the

       quivering breasts of a girl

Only if the roofs of deserted chappels should light up with the

       caprice of the Evening Star

Only if birds should ripple amid the masts of the lemon trees

With the firm white flurry of lively footsteps

Will the winds come, the bodies of swans that remained im-

       maculate, unmoving and tender

When steamrollers rolled through shops, when hurricanes

       whirled through vegetation

When the eyes of women became coal and the hearts of the

       chestnut hawkers were broken

When the harvest was done and the hopes of crickets began.

 

And indeed this is why, my brave young men, with kisses, wine,

        and leaves on your mouth

I would like to stride naked by the rivers

To sing of the Barbary Coast like the woodsman hunting the

         mastic shrub

Like the viper slithering through gardens of barley

With the proud eyes of irritation

Like the lightning-bolt as it threshes youth.

Vertaald door Kimon Friar

 

 

 

 

Nikos Gatsos (8 december 1911 – 12 mei 1992) 

 

 

  

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 december 2010.

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Jura Soyfer werd op 8 december 1912 in Charkov, Oekraïne, geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008.

 

De Noorse dichter, schrijver, journalist en politicus Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson werd geboren op 8 december 1832 in Kvikne bij Tynset. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008.

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Joel Chandler Harris werd geboren op 8 december 1848 in Eatonton, Georgia. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2008.