De Amerikaanse schrijver Richard Preston werd geboren op 5 augustus 1954 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Richard Preston op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Hot Zone

 

„The doctors thought he should go to Nairobi Hospital, which is the best private hospital in East Africa. The telephone system hardly worked, and it did not seem worth the effort to call any doctors to tell them that he was coming. He could still walk, and he seemed able to travel by himself. He had money; he understood he had to get to Nairobi. They put him in a taxi to the airport, and he boarded a Kenya Airways flight.

A hot virus from the rain forest lives within a twenty-four hour plane flight from every city on earth. All of the earth’s cities are connected by a web of airline routes. The web is a network. Once a virus hits the net, it can shoot anywhere in a day æParis, Tokyo, New York, Los Angeles, wherever planes fly. Charles Monet and the life form inside him had entered the net.

The plane was a Fokker Friendship with propellers, a commuter aircraft that seats thirty-five people. It started its engines and took off over Lake Victoria, blue and sparkling, dotted with the dugout canoes of fishermen. The Friendship turned and banked eastward, climbing over green hills quilted with tea plantations and small farms. The commuter flights that drone across Africa are often jammed with people, and this flight was probably full. The plane climbed over belts of forest and clusters of round huts and villages with tin roofs. The land suddenly dropped away, going down in shelves and ravines, and changed in color from green to brown. The plane was crossing the Eastern rift valley. The passengers looked out the windows at the place where the human species was born. They say specks of huts clustered inside circles of thornbush, with cattle trails radiating from the huts. The propellers moaned, and the friendship passed through cloud streets, lines of puffy rift clouds, and began to bounce and sway. Monet became airsick.“

 

 

 

Richard Preston (Cambridge, 5 augustus 1954)

 

 

 

 

De Nicaraguaanse schrijver en politicus Sergio Ramírez Mercado werd geboren in Masatepe op 5 augustus 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Sergio Ramirez op dit blog.

 

Uit: A Thousand Deaths Plus One (Vertaald door Leland H. Chambers)

 

„The naked body, which in the contrast of the dimly illuminated snapshot looks as white as if it were a leper’s cadaver, barely fits on the work bench where it lies exposed, just as in that other one, fully dressed, it scarcely fits on the bed. And the feet jut out in the foreground of this one too, freed of those seven-league-boots and looking as though they belong to the old Slavic king placidly asleep after a wild night of feverish love, his beard and hair in disarray, his legs still firm, his broad chest covered with a light snow-colored down, the two dark nipples like eyes still alert, and the abdomen flat without a hint of that senile obscenity that is a flaccid belly, swollen with fat. The Slavic monarch seems to be enjoying the majesty of his repose, unaware of his nakedness, and Pauline could be taken for the servant girl who doesn’t dare to wake him, her protuberant eyes fixed on his sex that rises from the furry mat of his pubic region like the pestle belonging to a pharmacist’s mortar.
But all this serene harmony is shattered by the clumsy seam that is marked by long stitches from sternum to stomach. After performing a radical evisceration, necessary because a long journey by train all the way to St. Petersburg awaits the body, the embalmer has injected two liters of formol into his veins and has filled with tow the cavities that used to hold his soft organs before concluding by sewing up the lengthy incision with horse hair.
Flaubert’s hypocritical rule asserts that one should not become involved, Du Camp says again after Primoli separates himself from Castellón, raising his arms as if asking for peace. Thirsty for new experiences, you can go off to Upper Egypt to observe the hunting expeditions for blacks and elephants, but only as an observer whose emotions cannot deflect you from your mission to see. The blacks, the elephants are simply motifs, pretexts of a nature that is rich in varieties of cruelty and the marvelous, destined for the eye.“

 

 

 

Sergio Ramírez (Masatepe, 5 augustus 1942)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en dichter Conrad Potter Aiken werd geboren in Savannah, Georgia op 5 augustus 1889. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Conrad Aitken op dit blog.

 

 

DISCORDANTS

 

VERMILIONED mouth, tired with many kisses,

Eyes, that have lighted for so many eyes,--

Are you not weary yet with countless lovers,

Desirous now to take even me for prize?

 

Draw not my glance, nor set my sick heart beating,--

Body so stripped, for all your silks and lace.

Do not reach out pale hands to me, seductive,

Nor slant sly eyes, O subtly smiling face.

 

For I am drawn to you, like wind I follow,

Like a warm amorous wind ... though I desire

Even in dream to keep one face before me,

One face like fire, and holier than fire.

 

* * *

 

I walk beneath these trees, and in this darkness

Muse beyond seas of her from whom I came,

While you, with catlike step, steal close beside me,

Spreading your perfume round me like soft flame.

 

Ah! should I once stoop face and forehead to you,

Into and through your sweetness, a night like this,

In the lime-blossomed darkness feel your bosom,

Warm and so soft, and find your lips to kiss.

 

And tear at your strange flesh with crazy fingers,

And drink with mouth gone mad your eyes' wild wine,

And cleave to you, body with breathless body,

Till bestial were exalted to divine,--

 

Would I again, O lamia silked and scented,

Out of the slumberous magic of your eyes,

And your narcotic perfume, soft and febrile,

Have the romantic hardihood to rise,

 

And set my heart across great seas of distance

With love unsullied for her from whom I came?--

With catlike step you steal beside me, past me,

Leaving your perfume round me like soft flame.

 

 

Conrad Aiken (5 augustus 1889 – 17 augustus 1973)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver, essayist en criticus Wendell Berry werd geboren op 5 augustus 1934 in Henry County, Kentucky. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Wendell Berry op dit blog.

 

 

A Warning To My Readers

 

Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.

 

 

The Hidden Singer

 

The gods are less for their love of praise.
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
It has made all things by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come together --
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
the lover and the loved.
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.

 

 

 

Wendell Berry (Henry County, 5 augustus 1934)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Guy de Maupassant werd geboren op 5 augustus 1850 in kasteel Miromesnil bij Dieppe. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Guy de Maupassant op dit blog.

 

Uit: Madame Parisse (Vertaald door Albert M. C. McMaster, A. E. Henderson en Mme. Quesada)

 

„I was sitting on the pier of the small port of Obernon, near the village of Salis, looking at Antibes, bathed in the setting sun. I had never before seen anything so wonderful and so beautiful.
The small town, enclosed by its massive ramparts, built by Monsieur de Vauban, extended into the open sea, in the middle of the immense Gulf of Nice. The great waves, coming in from the ocean, broke at its feet, surrounding it with a wreath of foam; and beyond the ramparts the houses climbed up the hill, one after the other, as far as the two towers, which rose up into the sky, like the peaks of an ancient helmet. And these two towers were outlined against the milky whiteness of the Alps, that enormous distant wall of snow which enclosed the entire horizon.
Between the white foam at the foot of the walls and the white snow on the sky-line the little city, dazzling against the bluish background of the nearest mountain ranges, presented to the rays of the setting sun a pyramid of red-roofed houses, whose facades were also white, but so different one from another that they seemed to be of all tints.
And the sky above the Alps was itself of a blue that was almost white, as if the snow had tinted it; some silvery clouds were floating just over the pale summits, and on the other side of the gulf Nice, lying close to the water, stretched like a white thread between the sea and the mountain. Two great sails, driven by a strong breeze, seemed to skim over the waves. I looked upon all this, astounded.

This view was one of those sweet, rare, delightful things that seem to permeate you and are unforgettable, like the memory of a great happiness. One sees, thinks, suffers, is moved and loves with the eyes. He who can feel with the eye experiences the same keen, exquisite and deep pleasure in looking at men and things as the man with the delicate and sensitive ear, whose soul music overwhelms.“

 

 

Guy de Maupassant (5 augustus 1850 – 6 juli 1893)

Cover

 

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 5^e augustus ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Rutger Kopland (eig. Rutger Hendrik van den Hoofdakker) werd geboren in Goor op 4 augustus 1934. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 augustus 2010 en ook alle tags voor Rutger Kopland op dit blog.

 

 

Jeneverbessen

 

We liepen door een landschap
met heide en jeneverbessen
een landschap zo oud
als de wereld zelf

zo moest het ooit begonnen zijn
zo moest het gebleven zijn
zo moest het zijn
zo als nu

we keken naar de jeneverbessen
ze stonden daar duister en zwijgend
zwijgend over het verdwijnen

 

 

 

Narcissen

 

We stonden aan de rand van een vijver

het was kil en om ons heen dat kille gras

met die veel te mooie narcissen

 

we keken in het water – waarom staan we hier

stond ik te denken en ik zag hoe zich

een stille voorjaarshemel voor ons uitstrekte

 

ken je het verhaal, zei ik, dat ergens

waar nu een narcis staat een jongen stierf

 

hij keek in het water en zag iemand

iemand die hem aankeek, eindeloos aankeek

en ging verlangen naar die ander daar

 

voelde de diepte van zijn onvervuldheid

tot hij daaraan stierf

 

we keken naar de narcissen om ons heen

welke van hen zou het zijn

 

 

 

De kunst van doodgaan

 

Als het zover is – zal ik dan eindelijk

weten wat dat is, doodgaan

jezelf verlaten en weten

dat je nooit terugkeert

 

soms wanneer ik het koraal hoor

Nun komm’ der Heiden Heiland

doorstroomt mij een vermoeden van

onontkoombaar verlies –

maar wat geeft het

 

bij het zien van een uitzicht over bergen

een verte die verdwijnt in zichzelf

kan ik worden bevangen door een huiver

voor de eenzaamheid die mij wacht –

maar wat geeft het

 

er is wel eens zo’n avond dat over het gras

in de tuin het mooiste licht strijkt

dat er is: dit was het dus

en het komt nooit meer terug –

maar wat geeft het

 

ik hoop dat dit het is want ik ben bang

dat het anders zal zijn.

 

 

 

 

Rutger Kopland (4 augustus 1934 – 11 juli 2012)

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse choreograaf, balletdanser en schrijver Rudi van Dantzig werd geboren in Amsterdam op 4 augustus 1933. Zie ook alle tags voor Rudi van Dantzig op dit blog.

 

Uit: De Bruid Staat Rechts Van U

“Hang jij soms weer uit dat kostschoolraam, tegenwoordig?” had Gertie hem plagerig gevraagd. Heel traag, na veel depressies, was er een verhaal gekomen. Ewout vertelt Gertie dat hij op de kostschool sex met een leraar heeft gehad en hij vond het best lekker. Gertie zegt dat dat normaal was voor leeftijd, omdat jongens dan wel vaker in de knoop zitten. “Denk je?” had Ewout geantwoord.

(...)

“ Ik moet nieuw werk gaan zoeken, ik moet het huis opruimen, ik moet aan een ander leven denken, ik moet gaan verhuizen, denk ik, als ik in bed lig.
De telefoon laat ik overgaan: Ewout.
Als ik niet kan slapen neem ik een pil, maar blijf nog wakker, meestal.
Soms hoor ik geluiden uit de tuin, het padje dat een bruid zoekt.
Jhè-kè-kè-kè. Whè-kaah?
Ik moet aan de tuin gaan werken.“

 

 

Rudi van Dantzig (4 augustus 1933 – 19 januari 2012)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter Percy Bysshe Shelley werd op 4 augustus 1792 geboren in Field Place, Sussex. Zie ook alle tags voor Percy Bysshe Shelley op dit blog.

 

 

Ode to the West Wind

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!

 

 

 

 

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (4 augustus 1792 – 8 juli 1822) 

Buste door William Ordway Partridge

 

 

 

 

De Poolse schrijver Witold Gombrowicz werd geboren in Małoszyce op 4 augustus 1904. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 augustus 2010 en ook alle tags voor Witold Gombrowicz op dit blog.

 

Uit: Diary (Vertaald door Lillian Vallee)

 

“I do not really know if I should continue these confessions. The publicist’s duty compels me to inform the public that rather too cretinous things are happening … too cretinous to be revealed and, I believe, on this all speculation relies—that an excess of cretinism does not allow these things to be revealed, that this is already too stupid to be expressed. Leaving the Café Paris, I went to the Café Rex. There an unknown gentleman who approached me and, having introduced himself as Zamszycki (maybe I heard this wrong), said that he had wanted to make my acquaintance for a long time. I said that it was my pleasure and then he thanked me, bowed, and left. Furious, I wanted to call him a cretin when, at that moment, I noticed that he was not a cretin because, after all, he had wanted to meet me and did, therefore, it was right that he should leave. Then I started to think: cretin or not? In the meantime, first one streetlight went on, then another, and when the second went on, a third lit up, then a fourth and with the fourth a fifth. Hardly had the fifth lit up when the sixth and the seventh go on, eighth, ninth, yet, at the same time, one, two, five cars go by; one, two, ten trams; people are coming, one, two, ten, fifteen; before me, one, two, three houses; the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh story and on the seventh, a balcony and on the balcony, who? Who but Henry and his wife! Beckoning to me.”

 

 

Witold Gombrowicz (4 augustus 1904 - 24 juli 1969)

Buste in Kielce

 

 

 

 

De Australische schrijver Timothy John Winton werd geboren op 4 augustus 1960 in Perth. Zie ook alle tags voor Tim Winton op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 4 augustus 2010

 

Uit: Breath

 

„The bedroom in question isn't hard to find. A little mat of vomit in the hall. Splinters of wood. I step over the broken-down door and see the mother at the bed where the boy is laid out, and as I quietly introduce myself I take it all in. The room smells of pot and urine and disinfectant and it's clear that she's cut him down and dressed him and tidied everything up.

I slip in beside her and do the business but the kid's been gone a while. He looks about seventeen. There are ligature marks on his neck and older bruises around them. Even while I'm going through the motions she strokes the boy's dark, curly hair. A nice-looking kid. She's washed him. He smells of Pears soap and freshly laundered clothes. I ask for her name and for her son's, and she tells me that she's June and the boy's name is Aaron.

I'm sorry, June, I murmur, but he's passed away.

I know that.

You found him a while ago. Before you called.

She says nothing.

June, I'm not the police.

They're already on their way.

Can I open the wardrobe? I ask as Jodie steps into the doorway.

I'd prefer that you didn't, says June.

Okay. But you know that the police will.

Do they have to? The mother looks at me properly for the first time. She's a handsome woman in her forties with short, dark hair and arty pendant earrings, and I can imagine that an hour ago, when her lipstick and her life were still intact, she'd have been erect and confident, even a little haughty.

It's their job, June.

You seem to have made some kind of ... assumption.“

 

 

 

Tim Winton (Perth, 4 augustus 1960)
Cover

 

De Tsjechische schrijver Jáchym Topol werd geboren op 4 augustus 1962 in Praag. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Jáchym Topol op dit blog.

 

Uit: A Trip to the Train Station (Vertaald door Alex Zucker)

 

„The city was changing. Above it, as dependable as in the 10th century or any other time, the moon hung in the night's dark gateway, sometimes full and puffy like the face of a drunk, at other times floating in the clouds, almost invisible, a glassy bauble that didn't burn but still drove the city mongrels to madness. Here in this glow, whenever the moon climbed to its cool intensity, lovers would drink off the last of their bottle and hurl themselves at one another, lips nibbled raw out of love supreme, the killer would sneer as he twisted his knife in the wound, and here in this light, dear mommy would suddenly do something atrocious to her little papoose, and the golden force flowed down over the tracks of trams and trains and they glistened brilliantly in the flood of light... The Lord of the Earth caught hold of the dark at its centre and turned the night inside out like a freshly-peeled skin. Then the sun would blaze up in the sky, beating down on walls and sidewalks, and only then was filth filth and decay decay and you could see it. This searing sun caused blood to move slowly and lazily, turning sweet, or the other way around, made the pumps work so frantically that the blood seemed ready to burst out of its confines. That's how it seemed to me anyways, nothing too pretty.
The city was changing. Iron grills and shutters left pulled down for years and gone to rust were given fresh coats of paint and often a sign with somebody's name on it. Dusty cellars and dirty beer joints in what used to be the Jewish quarter were cleverly converted into luxury stores. You could find steamer trunks from the last century, a book dictated by Madonna with a piece of her chain included, pineapples and fine tobacco, diaries of dead actresses and trendy wheels from old farmers' wagons, whips and dolls and travel grails with adventurer's blood in them, coins and likenesses of Kafka, shooting galleries with all the proletarian presidents as targets, rags and bones and skins, anything you could think of.“

 

 

 

Jáchym Topol (Praag, 4 augustus 1962)

 

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 4e augustus ook mijn blog van 4 augustus 2011 deel 1 en ook deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.