De Franse schrijver Patrick Modiano werd geboren in Boulogne-Billancourt op 30 juli 1945. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Mondiano op dit blog.

 

Uit: Unfall in der Nacht (Vertaald door Elisabeth Edl)  

 

“Vielleicht hatte ich mich bei meinem Sturz am Schädel verletzt. Ich habe mich zu der Frau gedreht. Es überraschte mich, daß sie einen Pelzmantel trug. Mir ist wieder eingefallen, daß Winter war. Außerdem trug der Mann uns gegenüber auch einen Mantel und ich eine von diesen alten Lammfelljacken, wie man sie auf Flohmärkten fand. Ihren Pelzmantel hatte sie bestimmt nicht auf dem Flohmarkt gekauft. Nerz? Zobel? Sie hatte ein sehr gepflegtes Äußeres, was nicht zu den Verletzungen in ihrem Gesicht paßte. Auf meiner Jacke, etwas oberhalb der Taschen, sah ich Blutflecken. Ich hatte eine lange Schramme im linken Handteller, und die Blutflecken auf dem Stoff,

die kamen sicher daher. Sie hielt sich sehr gerade, aber mit geneigtem Kopf, als starre sie auf etwas am Boden. Vielleicht auf meinen schuhlosen Fuß. Die Haare trug sie halblang, und im Licht des Foyers war sie mir blond vorgekommen. Das Polizeiauto war an der Ampel stehengeblieben, auf dem Quai, bei Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. Der Mann beobachtete uns immer noch, mal sie und mal mich,

schweigend, mit seinem kalten Blick. Ich fühlte mich langsam an irgend etwas schuldig. Die Ampel wurde nicht grün. Es brannte noch Licht in dem Café an der Ecke Quai/Place Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, wo mein Vater sich oft mit mir verabredet hatte. Das war der Augenblick, um zu fliehen. Vielleicht brauchten wir auch nur diesen Typen auf der Bank zu bitten, daß er uns gehen ließ. Aber ich fühlte mich außerstande, das kleinste Wort hervorzubringen. Er hat gehustet, ein schleimiges Raucherhusten, und ich war überrascht, einen Ton zu hören. Seit dem Unfall herrschte tiefe Stille um mich, als hätte ich das Gehör verloren. Wir fuhren den Quai hinunter. Als das Polizeiauto auf die Brücke einbog, spürte ich, wie ihre Finger mein Handgelenk umfaßten. Sie lächelte mich an, wie um mich zu beruhigen, aber ich hatte überhaupt keine Angst. Mir schien sogar, als wären wir, sie und ich, uns schon bei anderer Gelegenheit begegnet und als habe sie immer dieses Lächeln. Wo hatte ich sie schon gesehen?”

 

 

 

Patrick Modiano (Boulogne-Billancourt, 30 juli 1945)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Cherie Priest werd geboren in Tampa op 30 juli 1975. Zie ook alle tags voor Cherie Priest op dit blog.

 

Uit: Hellbent

 

“It sounded like a good idea at the time, which is probably going to be on my tombstone—along with a catty footnote about poor impulse control. But when Horace Bishop called me, practically breathless with delight and greed, telling me he was in Portland so we should get together and have a drink or something, I said okay, even though I probably should’ve said “I’d sooner wear plaid.”

I don’t wear plaid. Ever.

I don’t wear orange, either—not that there’s anything inherently wrong with it. Really, it’s more of a

coloring thing. I’m a solid winter— blue- black hair and so fair I’m practically translucent; it comes with

being undead. Orange always makes me look like I’m having liver problems, so I skip it—just like deep

down I suspected I ought to skip that date with Horace, but what was I going to do? He already knew where I lived (roughly), and he already knew my price scale (more or less), and he was practically my agent. Or my pimp.

Anyway, Horace was vibrating—talking so fast I could hardly understand him. And what was he doing on the West Coast? He promised to tell me in person, and since he was flying back to New York from the Seattle- Tacoma airport, it wasn’t terribly far out of his way to bounce into town for a conspiratorial adult beverage. I waited for him at a bar on Capitol Hill. I don’t live in that neighborhood anymore, but that’s the point. He knows I live in Seattle, but the less specific his knowledge is, the happier I am.

The truth is, I kind of trust him. I mean, if I were wounded and bloody and practically dying in New York City and I had no place else to go, I could probably fling myself onto his couch and generally assume that he wouldn’t stake me in my sleep. After all, I’ve earned him a metric assload of money over the years. And money has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

 

 

Cherie Priest (Tampa, 30 juli 1975)

De Mexicaanse dichter, schrijver, vertaler, televisiepresentator en ondernemer Salvador Novo werd geboren op 30 juli 1904 in Mexico City. Zie ook alle tags voor Salvador Novo op dit blog.

 

Uit: Pillar Of Salt (Vertaald door Marguerite Feitlowitz)

 

„A few months before, I had begun a casual friendship with a boy in the class ahead of me: the third and fourth years were sharing classrooms off the large patio. I don’t remember how we began seeing each other. Given his inquisitive spirit, it must have been he who approached me, having learned that I had poems published in the school magazine, Policromías, where his first verses had also appeared.

We did not have classes together, but found times to chat; upon learning that he lived at 95 calle Mina, and I on calle Guerrero, I started calling for him at his house whence we would to walk to Preparatoria, which wasn’t far and took us along quiet, little-used streets.

Xavier [Villaurrutia] had a large family: brothers and sisters. They lived on the lower floors of a stone house shaped like a “7,” with patio and corridor bordered by iron railings, a living room with two balconies giving onto the street, a parallel dining room, and then the numerous bedrooms. Once he invited me home to eat, so I met his mother, Doña Julia González, and a few of his brothers and sisters. They all played tennis, and the girls were champions. Their brothers had a sort of small bank or financial firm on Avenida Cinco de Mayo, and a few times I accompanied Xavier when he went there to receive his monthly allowance. Little by little I learned that the family also included writers, artists, and relatives who were very wealthy.. They possessed original Ruelas, which Xavier showed me with pride. I also learned—for he confided, reticently and swearing me to secrecy—that the family had also had conjugal tragedies and pathetic nervous illnesses.

The predilection that Don Ezequiel showed toward me must have induced him to introduce the “distinguished student” to the young secretary of the Preparatoria, a poet, Xavier informed me, who taught literature classes in another school—Advanced Studies—near our own. Between classes, I began visiting Jaime Torres Bodet. In his office he introduced me to another young poet and friend of his, who seemed always to be there: Bernardo Ortiz de Montellano.“

 

Salvador Novo (30 juli 1904 – 13 januari 1974)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichteres en schrijfster Emily Brontë werd geboren in Thornton in Yorkshire op 30 juli 1818. Zie ook alle tags voor Emily Brontë op dit blog.

 

Uit: Wuthering Heights

 

„But Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of living. He is a dark- skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire: rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence, because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose. Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to showy displays of feeling - to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I'm running on too fast: I bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself perfectly unworthy of one.

While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I 'never told my love' vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked a return - the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I confess it with shame - shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp. By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.“

 

 

 

Emily Brontë (30 juli 1818 - 19 december 1848)

Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon in de film “Wuthering Heights” uit 1939

 

 

 

 

 

De Schotse schrijver Alexander Trocchi werd geboren op 30 juli 1925 in Glasgow. Zie ook alle tags voor Alexander Trocchi op dit blog.

 

Uit: Young Adam

 

„I seldom talked to Ella. She appeared to dislike me and gave the impression that she only put up with me because of her husband.

And then I noticed Ella hanging out some clothes at the stern.

I had often seen her do it before, but it had never struck me in the same way. I had always thought of her as Les's wife--she was always screaming at him about something or calling him Mr. High-and-Mighty in a thick sarcastic voice. I never saw her as a woman who could attract another man. That had never occurred to me--until now.

But there she was, trying very hard not to look round, pretending she wasn't interested in what was going on, and I found myself looking at her in a new way.

She was one of those heavy women, not more than thirty-five, with strong buttocks and big thighs. She was wearing a tight green cotton dress that pulled up above the backs of her knees as she stretched up to put the clothes on the line. I could see the flesh of her pink ankles growing over the rim at the back of her shoes. She was heavy all right, but her waist was small and her legs were not bad. I could imagine being between them, belly to belly, wrapped securely in the oval of their embrace.

I watched her, and I could see her walk through a park at night, her heels clacking, just a little bit hurriedly, and her heavy white calves were moving just ahead of me. Even in the dark I was able to see them. And I imagined the soft sound of her thighs as their surfaces grazed, as whatever she wore beneath her dress was wedged softly in their damp and tremulous moving. As she reached up, her buttocks tightened, the cotton dress fitting itself to their thrust, and then she alighted on her heels, bent down, and shook out the next garment.

My manhood stirred at the sight. The rest of the world slipped away and my mind filled with the thought of her. I longed to possess her and put her body to the test. Inspired by the back view I had now, I thought of raising that thin membrane of material as she bent, forcing her forward and belly down and mounting her from behind.“

 

 

 

Alexander Trocchi (30 juli 1925 – 15 april 1984)

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse schrijfster Pauline van der Lans werd geboren op 30 juli 1963 in Den Haag. Zie ook alle tags voor Pauline van der Lans op dit blog.

 

Uit: Cadeauverpakking 

 

“Ik open het raam en snuif de avondlucht door beide neusgaten naar binnen. Het is donker en het ruikt naar rook en houtsnippers. Morris, onze tuinman heeft een vuurtje aangelegd om gesnoeide takken te verbranden. Met een lange stok pookt hij het vuur op. Het knettert en knispert. Als hij me in het raam ziet staan, zwaait hij naar me.
Ik heb geen idee hoe laat het is. Tegen achten denk ik. De verlichting in en om het huis floept automatisch aan als het begint te schemeren. Ik sluit het raam en ga voor de spiegel zitten. God, wat zie ik eruit. Ben ik het wel? Ja, ik ben het wel. Het zijn mijn rimpeltjes op mijn bovenlip, het zijn mijn kraaienpootjes, mijn uitgroei bij de haargrens. Het zijn mijn oneffenheden die door Michel zo mooi weggewerkt zijn. Op een schilderij kan alles. God, het schilderij. Ik hoef me niet om te draaien om het te zien. De cadeauverpakking zit er nog om. Het was een goed idee toch? Ik vind het nog steeds een wereldidee. Je man wordt tenslotte niet ieder jaar vijftig. Wat zit ik nou te doen? Ik ga gewoon door met poederen en smeren alsof er niets aan de hand is. Alsof hier niet vanaf twee uur vanmiddag twee politieagenten op de rand van mijn chaise longue hebben gezeten.
‘Mevrouw Helène de Vos?’
Ik knikte.
‘Klopt.’
‘Geboren 12 juni 1953?’
‘Tut tut, heren, zoiets vraagt men niet aan een dame.’
‘Gehuwd met Herbert Johan de Vos.’
Ik knikte.
Ze rommelden met allerlei papieren die twee kerels, de een was nog Surinaams ook. Ik kon hen niet goed verstaan, er zat geraas in mijn oren. Het geraas van de branding in zo’n grote toeristische zeeschelp.“

 

 

Pauline van der Lans (Den Haag, 30 juli 1963)

Den Haag

 

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 30^e juli ook mijn blog van 30 juli 2011 deel 2.

De Nederlandse schrijver Harry Mulisch werd geboren op 29 juli 1927 in Haarlem. Zie ook alle tags voor Harry Mulisch op dit blog.

 

Uit; The Procedure (Vertaald door Paul Vincent)

 

„FIRST DOCUMENT

MAN

yes, of course I can come straight to the point and start with a sentence like: The telephone rang. Who's ringing whom? Why? It must be something important, otherwise the file wouldn't open with it. Suspense! Action! But I can't do it that way this time. On the contrary. Before anything can come to life here, we must both prepare ourselves through introspection and prayer. Anyone who wants to be swept along immediately, in order to kill time, would do better to close this book at once, put the television on, and sink back on the settee as one does in a hot foam bath. So before writing and reading any further we're going to fast for a day, and then bathe in cool, pure water, after which we will shroud ourselves in robes of the finest white linen.

I've switched the telephone and the front doorbell off and turned the clock on my desk away from me; everything in my study is waiting for the events to come. The first luminous words have appeared in the ultramarine of the computer screen, while outside the dazzling, setting autumn sun shines over the square. From the blazing western sky tram rails stream like molten gold from a blast furnace; between the black trees cars appear from the chaos, disappear into it, people walk at the tips of shadows that are yards long. From the position of the sun in my room I can see what time it is: the light is falling diagonally, it's six o'clock, rush hour, for most people the day's work is over.

The origin of man was a complicated affair. Much of it is still obscure, not only in biological, but also in theological circles. In the Bible, indeed, this creature is actually created twice, and to a certain extent three times. Genesis 1:27 tells us that on the sixth and last day of creation the following happened: "So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them." So there were two of them; immediately afterward God says: "Be fruitful, and multiply." So the man was Adam, but the woman wasn't Eve, because the primeval mother of us all saw the light of day only later, when the week of creation was long since over; she wasn't created separately, but came forth from a rib of Adam's.“

 

 

 

Harry Mulisch (29 juli 1927 – 30 oktober 2010)

 

 

 

 

De Koreaans-Amerikaanse schrijver Chang-Rae Lee werd geboren op 29 juli 1965 in Seoel. Zie ook alle tags voor Chang-Rae Lee op dit blog.

 

Uit: A Gesture Life

 

„In my first years in Bedley Run, things were a bit different. Even the town had another name, Bedleyville (this my attribution), which was changed sometime in the early 1970s because the town board decided it wasn't affluent-sounding enough. The town in fact wasn't affluent at the time, being just a shabby tan brick train station and the few stores that served it, some older village homes, several new housing developments, and the surrounding dairy cow pastures and wooded meadows, nothing fancy at all, which was how I was able to afford to move here and open a business. There were perhaps a few thousand residents, mostly shopkeepers and service people, and the small bedroom community who were their patronage.

    I'd read about the town in the paper, a brief slice-of-life article with a picture of a meadow that had been completely cleared for new suburban-style homes, just white stakes in the frozen ground to mark where the streets would be. It looked sterile and desolate, like fresh blast ground, not in the least hopeful, and yet I felt strangely drawn to the town, in part because of the peaceful pace of life that the article noted, the simple tranquillity of the older, village section that made me think of the small city where I lived my youth, on the southwestern coast of Japan. I had already driven through the more established suburbs nearer to the city and found them distinctly cold, as well as too expensive. I'd ask for directions at a garage, or buy some gum at a candy store, and an awkward quiet would arise, that certain clippedness, and though I never heard any comments, I could tell I wasn't being welcomed to remain too long.“

 

 

 

Chang-Rae Lee (Seoel, 29 juli 1965)
Hier links

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Wolfgang Bittner werd geboren op 29 juli 1941 in Gleiwitz, Oberschlesien (tegenwoordig Gliwice, Polen). Zie ook alle tags voor Wolfgang Bittner op dit blog.

 

 

Gedichte

 

Was aber finden wir vor,

verurteilt und fremd,

und wonach suchen wir,

trauernd,

in unseren Hoffnungsgedichten,

den empfindsamen Spielen,

Ablichtungen.

So mauern wir Bunker,

zu überleben,

und schreiben uns

frierend

über den Winter.

Gedichte

wie Leuchtfeuer an Land,

wie Botschaften einer anderen Kultur,

Pflugschar,

brechend den Boden,

Gedichte wie Furchen,

in denen Saat aufgeht.

 

 

Dem Vollmond entgegen ...

Ließen mich einst den Neumond gebären
Nun laß ich ihn einfach gewähren
Wenn er sich mutwillens  voll - säuft
Wie ein lüsterner Hund
Trunken  sich selbst überläuft
Verliert er ganz ohne mein Tun
Das so ersehnte vollmundige Rund
Kehrt betrübt – doch mehr klug als zuvor
Zurück zu dem lichtlosen Anbeginn
Den ich ihm einst verlieh'n
Vielleicht kommt's ihm dann in den Sinn
Endlich vor mir zu k n i e n
Dann wäre ich wahrlich aufgeschmissen
Aus meiner Selbstherrlichkeit rausgerissen
Und müßte bekennen:
Ich war es nicht
Der Dich formloses Mondgesicht
Einst aus düsterem Dunkel gebar
Du bist das Geschöpf einer namlosen Kraft
Die mir bis heute nicht offenbar

Doch bis dies zur Wirklichkeit wird
Mag ruhig weiter die Mode sein:
In der Regel schlafen die Frauen allein

 

 

 

Wolfgang Bittner (Gliwice, 29 juli 1941)

Gleiwitz (Gliwice), der Schlesische Hof

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en vertaler Stanley Jasspon Kunitz werd geboren in Worcester, Massachusetts, op 29 juli 1905. Zie ook alle tags voor Stanley Kunitz op dit blog.

 

The Testing-Tree

             

1

 

On my way home from school

   up tribal Providence Hill

      past the Academy ballpark

where I could never hope to play

   I scuffed in the drainage ditch

      among the sodden seethe of leaves

hunting for perfect stones

   rolled out of glacial time

      into my pitcher's hand;

then sprinted lickety-

   split on my magic Keds

      from a crouching start,

scarcely touching the ground

   with my flying skin

      as I poured it on

for the prize of the mastery

   over that stretch of road,

      with no one no where to deny

when I flung myself down

   that on the given course

      I was the world's fastest human.

 

 

2

 

Around the bend

   that tried to loop me home

      dawdling came natural

across a nettled field

   riddled with rabbit-life

      where the bees sank sugar-wells

in the trunks of the maples

   and a stringy old lilac

      more than two stories tall

blazing with mildew

   remembered a door in the

      long teeth of the woods.

All of it happened slow:

   brushing the stickseed off,

      wading through jewelweed

strangled by angel's hair,

   spotting the print of the deer

      and the red fox's scats.

Once I owned the key

   to an umbrageous trail

      thickened with mosses

where flickering presences

   gave me right of passage

      as I followed in the steps

of straight-backed Massassoit

   soundlessly heel-and-toe

      practicing my Indian walk.

 

 

 

Stanley Kunitz (29 juli 1905 – 14 mei 2006)

Cover

 

 

 

De Nederlandse schrijfster Marja Brouwers werd geboren op 29 juli 1948 in Bergen op Zoom. Zie ook alle tags voor Marka Brouwers op dit blog.

 

Uit: Joost Zwagerman: Tegen de literaire quarantaine (fragment over “ Casino” van Brouwers)

 

“Net als Mystiek lichaam en De buitenvrouw beeldt ook Casino allerlei conflicten uit, in dit geval onder andere het conflict tussen de 'oude' intellectuele adel en de 'nieuwe' pragmatische rijken tussen de jaren zestig en de jaren negentig; tussen engagementsdenken en rendementsdenken. Marja Brouwers vervlecht die conflicten met een algemeen menselijke tragiek, en juist in die vervlechting schuilt de grote literaire kracht van Casino. Die kracht toont zich onder meer in de opzettelijk hoekige en losse vorm: verhalende fragmenten worden afgewisseld met essayistische passages, en die afwisseling is ruw, grillig en ongepolijst - en weerspiegelt zo de betrekkelijke ruwheid van de inhoud van de roman. 
Michaël Zeeman introduceerde in zijn artikel Casino als volgt: 'In haar roman Casino leidt Marja Brouwers ons binnen in de wereld van de veelverdieners, die in het afgelopen decennium zo spraakmakend en zichtbaar zijn geworden, de mannen van de "exorbitante zelfverrijking" over wie toenmalig minister-president Wim Kok met zoveel afschuw sprak. (..) De geest die Brouwers beschrijft en de zeden waartoe die geest (..) hebben geleid zijn springlevend. Zelfs wie maar sporadisch een krant leest, weet meteen waarover zij het heeft.' 
Hee, is dat niet diezelfde krant waaruit de schrijver nu juist volgens diezelfde Zeeman niét mocht putten? Raar is dat. Wie vraagt naar de moord op Van Gogh als mogelijk materiaal voor een roman, krijgt van Zeeman het dogma over het verbod op 'het dagelijks nieuws' om de oren; wie zich in een roman concentreert op het traject van idealisme van de jaren zestig naar verloedering in de jaren negentig wordt door diezelfde Zeeman bewierookt en toegejuicht. Dat zal wel een bedrijfsfoutje zijn.” 

 

Marja Brouwers (Bergen op Zoom, 29 juli 1948)
Cover

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e juli ook mijn blog van 29 juli 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.