Berichten van 28 mei 2013 tot 29 mei 2013

De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver André Brink werd geboren op 29 mei 1935 in Vrede. Zie ook alle tags voor André Brink op dit blog.

 

Uit: Philida

 

“Here come shit. Just one look, and I can see it coming. Here I walk all this way and God know that is bad enough, what with the child in the abbadoek on my back, and now there's no turning back, it's just straight on to hell and gone. This is the man I got to talk to if I want to lay a charge, they tell me, this Grootbaas who is so tall and white and thin and bony, with deep furrows in his forehead, like a badly ploughed wheat field, and a nose like a sweet potato that has grown past itself.
It's a long story. First he want to find out everything about me, and it's one question after another. Who am I? Where do I come from? What is the name of my Baas? What is the name of the farm? For how long I been working there? Did I get a pass for coming here? When did I leave and how long did I walk? Where did I sleep last night? What do I think is going to happen to me when I get home again? And every time I say something, he first write it down in his big book with those knobbly hands and his long white fingers. These people got a thing about writing everything down. Just look at the back pages of the black Bible that belong to Oubaas Cornelis Brink, that's Francois Gerhard Jacob's father.
While the Grootbaas is writing I keep watching him closely. There's something second-hand about the man, like a piece of knitting gone wrong that had to be done over, but badly, not very smoothly. I can say that because I know about knitting. On his nose sit a pair of thick glasses like a bat with open wings, but he look at me over them, not through them. His long hands keep busy all the time. Writing, and dipping the long feather in the ink, and sprinkling fine sand on the thick paper, and shifting his papers this way and that on top of the table that is really too low for him because he is so tall. He is sitting, I keep standing, that is how it's got to be.

In the beginning I feel scared, my throat is tight. But after the second or third question I start feeling better. All I can think of is: If it was me that was knitting you, you'd look a bit better, but now whoever it was that knitted you, did not cast you off right. Still, I don't say anything. In this place it's only him and me and I don't want to get on his wrong side. I got to tell him everything, and that is exactly what I mean to do today, without keeping anything back.”

 

 

 

André Brink (Vrede, 29 mei 1935)

 

 

 

 

 

De Catalaanse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Eduard Escoffet werd geboren op 29 mei 1979 in Barcelona. Zie ook alle tags voor Eduard Escoffet op dit blog.

 

 

Wenn ich dich seh

 

wenn ich dich seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh

wenn ich dich seh: jetzt; wenn ich dich nicht seh: jetzt

wenn ich dich seh: körper und körper; wenn ich dich nicht

                                                         seh: körper und körper

wenn ich dich seh: du das haus das gewicht; wenn ich dich nicht seh:

                                                                         du das haus das gewicht

wenn ich dich seh und es regnet; wenn ich dich nicht seh und es regnet

wenn ich dich seh: die dinge die du mir sagst; wenn ich dich nicht seh:

                                                                         die dinge die du mir sagst

wenn ich dich seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür; wenn ich dich

                                      nicht seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür

wenn ich dich seh und wenn ich dich nicht seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh und

                                                                                           wenn ich dich seh

wenn ich dich seh, wenn ich dich seh und sterbe wenn ich dich seh;

wenn ich dich nicht seh, wenn ich dich nicht seh und sterbe wenn ich dich

                                                                                                        nicht seh

wenn ich dich seh: tat und tat; wenn ich dich nicht seh: nichts

wenn ich dich seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht dreht sich im kreis;

wenn ich dich nicht seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht

                                                                              dreht sich im kreis

wenn ich dich seh und es schließt; wenn ich dich nicht seh

                                                                                 und es schließt die rose

 

 

 

Vertaald door Àxel Sanjosé

 

 

 

 

Eduard Escoffet (Barcelona, 29 mei 1979)

 

De Engelse letterkundige, schrijver en journalist Gilbert Keith Chesterton werd geboren in Londen op 29 mei 1874. Zie ook alle tags voor G. K. Chesterton op dit blog.

 

Uit: Father Brown. The Essential Tales (The Blue Cross)

 

“There was a short railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver "with blue stones" in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above it.”

 

 

 

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

Mark Williams als Father Brown in de nieuwe BBC - serie

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Bernard Charles Henri Clavel werd geboren op 29 mei 1923 in Lons-le-Saunier. Zie ook alle tags voor Bernard Clavel op dit blog.

 

Uit: l'Hiver

 

“Il y a chaque année, à partir du début décembre, dans la vitrine de ce magasin qu'on appelle "Le Grand Bazar", un train électrique fabuleux. Tout y est, une gare, des signaux lumineux qui fonctionnent, une énorme locomotive, au moins sept ou huit wagons, un passage à niveau avec des barrières qui se lèvent et retombent. Tout, absolument ! Il faut jouer des coudes pour approcher la devanture.
J'attends toujours le 25 décembre avec une grande impatience. Bien longtemps avant ce jour merveilleux, en m'appliquant beaucoup, j'écris au Père Noël. Puis nous portons ma lettre à la poste, maman et moi, et je m'efforce d'être sage pour mériter ce que j'ai demandé.

Une année, je devais avoir cinq ou six ans, je fis une lettre particulièrement longue (au moins dix lignes) et appliquée ; à peine une douzaine de fautes d'orthographe. J'avais apporté à l'écrire énormément de soin, car je demandais un train électrique. J'avais précisé, pour que le Père Noël ne se trompe pas : "Celui qui est dans la vitrine du Grand Bazar". Maman avait soupiré : "Tu es trop exigeant. Le Père Noël n'est pas assez riche. Si tous les enfants font comme toi, le pauvre homme sera bien embarrassé !". Mais j'avais tenu bon, et ma lettre était partie.”

 

 

 

Bernard Clavel (29 mei 1923 – 5 oktober 2010)

 

 

 

 

De Hebreeuwse dichteres, schrijfster en letterkundige Leah Goldberg werd geboren in Königsberg (Pruisen) op 29 mei 1911. Zie ook alle tags voor Leah Goldberg op dit blog.

 

 

About Myself

My seasons are etched in my verse
As a tree’s are in its rings
As my years are in furrowed skin.

 

I have no hard words—
To hamper my visions.
My images
Are as clear as a church’s window.
Through them
One can see
The changes in the light outside
How my loves
Like dead birds fall
From the sky.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Haim Watzman

 

 

 

 

Will there ever come days

To Y., with pride and gratitude.

Is it true - will there ever come days of forgiveness and mercy?
And you'll walk in the field, and it will be an innocent's walk.
And your feet on the medick's small leaves will be gently caressing,
And sweet will be stings, when you're stung by the rye's broken stalks!

And the drizzle will catch you in pounding raindrops' folly
On your shoulders, your breast and your neck, while your mind will be clean,
You will walk the wet field, and the silence will fill you -
As does light in a dark cloud's rim

And you'll breathe in the furrow in breaths calm and even,
And the pond's golden mirror will show you the Sun up above,
And once more all the things will be simple, and present, and living,
And once more you will love - yes, you will, yes, once more you will love!

You will walk. All alone. Never hurt by the blazing inferno
Of the fires on the roads fed by horrors too awful to stand,
And in your heart of hearts you'll be able to humbly surrender,
In the way of the weeds, in the way of free men.

 

 

 

 

Leah Goldberg (29 mei 1911 – 15 januari 1970)

In 1946

 

 

 

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

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Adriaan Bontebal werd als Aad van Rijn op 28 mei 1952 in Leidschendamgeboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Adriaan Bontebal op dit blog.

 

 

ONTWAKEN

Ieder ontwaken
een feest

Ik sta op
rek me uit en
krab me eens flink
aan het onderlijf

Als rijpe vruchten
vallen de eitjes
van mijn schaamluis
op het dauwvochtige
slaapkamerzeil

Iedere morgen
een feest

Zwarte koffie
zware shag en
scharreleieren
bij het ontbijt

 

 

 

 

PAULUS POTTERSTRAAT

naar De Dapperstraat van J.C.Bloem

 

De legen kom je aan de randen tegen
Waar stoffig op de schoorsteen prijkt:
‘Over mijn lijk naar de Schilderswijk’
Dat volk ervaart de rust als zegen

 

Maar zo niet ik, voor mij geen kassen
Hoewel ik van een dorpje ben
De stad niet echt van huis uit ken
Haal ‘k nu mijn lucht uit uitlaatgassen

 

Als kneuter ben ik afgemeld
Mijn teugen zijn steeds voller teugen
De stedeling hij kent geen maat

 

Tevreden heb ik vastgesteld
Ik deug niet en ik zal nooit deugen
Dom weg gelukkig in de Potterstraat

 

 

 

 

Adriaan Bontebal (28 mei 1952 – 11 februari 2012)

 

 

 

 

De Belgische schrijver Leo Pleysier werd geboren in Rijkevorsel op 28 mei 1945. Zie ook alle tags voor Leo Pleysier op dit blog.

 

 

Uit: The Yellow River Is Frozen (Vertaald door Tanis Guest.)

“The first time I saw her in the flesh was in the early fifties when she, one of the last remaining Western nuns, was expelled from the country for good on the orders of the government of the Chinese People's Republic. I was a small boy of seven or eight. And she was a tall, bony creature dressed in white with a black veil who was staying with us for a while. She looked thin and pale. I had noticed her eyes at once: they were huge, sunk deep in their sockets. I also found her disquietingly silent as she sat there at table with us. Suddenly, instead of sending a letter she had come herself. That in itself was a wonder. So she really did exist. She had a face. Maybe, under her clothes, there was even a body of flesh and blood. And on top of that she had brought someone else with her. A sort of replica of herself. But a much softer version. Applecheeked, even. It turned out she was the daughter of a fruit farmer and came originally from Montenaken, not far from Sint-Truiden. A sweetly smiling guardian angel from Limburg. Born and bred in the Haspengouw hills. Among the apples and pears.

- You can call me Sister Irma.

- Hullo, Sister Irma.

- That's a clever boy.

But actually she was a sort of watchdog they'd sent to keep an eye on Aunt Roza. Not for nothing was it called The Guardian, the mother house in Leefdaal.

Black nuns and white nuns. The black ones I was familiar with from kindergarten. The white ones, to whom Aunt Roza belonged, were new to me. And I thought her sort and her plumage were much finer. More elegant, especially. There was something of a big, slow bird about her. A seagull. A stork. A pelican who had landed unexpectedly at our house after a long journey. Had come here to rest and get its strength back.

- You've got to feed yourself up!”

Time and again I heard my father telling her that and he kept piling much too much food on her plate. She weighed barely forty kilos when she came home from China. She'd weighed as little as that once before, when she was about twenty-five, so my mother said. That time she had gone on hunger strike because Grandfather and Grandmother wouldn't let her ‘take the veil’. And it had been weeks before her parents gave in to her blackmail.”

 

 

 

Leo Pleysier (Rijkevorsel, 28 mei 1945)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Frank Schätzing werd geboren in Keulen op 28 mei 1957. Zie ook alle tags voor Frank Schätzing op dit blog.

 

Uit: Mordshunger

 

„Sie hatte ihm eine Gurke geschenkt mit dem Ratschlag,sie sich sonst wohin zu stecken, und war ausgezogen.

»Ein guter Kriminalist«, pflegte er zu sagen, »wird verlassen. Er muss verlassen werden. Würde er der Idee verfallen, hinter Wahnsinnigen und Mördern herzulaufen, wenn man ihn nicht verlassen hätte? Fähige Polizisten neigen zum Verlust der Freundin, die Genies sind allesamt geschieden. Schön, ich hab nur eine Freundin. Aber ich bin ein guter Polizist! Folglich wird sie mich verlassen, irgendwann, das ist die Tragik meiner Profession.

Ich frage mich eigentlich nur, ob ich sie vorher schnell heiraten sollte, um hinterher ein ganz besonders genialer Polizist zu sein. Verzwickt, das Ganze! Geht mir im Kopf rum, immer wieder. Im Allgemeinen gehe ich dann was essen und sage mir, langsam Cüpper. Sechsunddreißigmal kauen, jeden Bissen. Hat alles noch Zeit.«

Es hatte keine Zeit.

Sie hatte ihm eine Gurke geschenkt, weil sie wusste, dass er keine Gurken mochte, dass es nur drei Dinge gab, die er von Herzen verabscheute: Gurken, Kümmel, Kokos.

Er war um die Gurke herumspaziert, als könne sie den Lauf der Dinge biegen, während im Nebenzimmer Blusen, Röcke, Jeans, Dessous flupp flupp in den Koffer flogen. Dann kamen die Packer, und man trug die Couch und den Glastisch und die zwei CD-Regale und die komplette Stereoanlage und noch bedenklich viel mehr an ihm vorbei nach draußen und fütterte einen schier unersättlichen Möbelwagen. Währenddessen lag die Gurke lang und dunkelgrün vor ihm und begann ihn auf merkwürdige Weise zu faszinieren, bis einer der Männer sie kurzerhand auf die Fensterbank legte, um das Schränkchen wegzutragen, das ihm, wie er sich mit einem Mal entsann, auch nicht gehörte.“

 

 

 

Frank Schätzing (Keulen, 28 mei 1957)

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijfster en columniste Maeve Binchy werd geboren op 28 mei 1940 in Dalkey. Zie ook alle tags voor Maeve Binchy op dit blog.

 

Uit: Scarlet Feather

 

“On the radio show they were asking people what kind of a New Year's Eve did they really want. It was very predictable. Those who were staying at home doing nothing wanted to be out partying, those who were too busy and rushed wanted to go to bed with a cup of tea and be asleep before the festivities began.
Cathy Scarlet smiled grimly as she packed more trays of food into the van. There could hardly be anyone in Ireland who would answer the question by saying that they really and truly wanted to spend the night catering a supper party for a mother-in-law. Now that was the punishment posting tonight, feeding Hannah Mitchell's guests at Oaklands. Why was she doing it then? Partly for practice, and of course it would be a good way to meet potential customers. Jock and Hannah Mitchell knew the kind of people who could afford caterers. But mainly she was doing it because she wanted to prove to Hannah Mitchell that she could. That Cathy, daughter of poor Lizzie Scarlet, the maid who cleaned Oaklands, who had married the only son of the house, Neil, was well able to run her own business and hold her head as high as any of them.
Neil Mitchell was in his car when he heard the radio program. It annoyed him greatly. Anyone looking at him from another car would have seen his sharp, handsome face frown. People often thought they recognized him; his face was familiar from television, but he wasn't an actor. He just turned up on the screen so often, pushing the hair out of his eyes, passionate, concerned and caring, always the spokes- person for the underdog. He had the bright burning eyes of a crusader. This kind of whining and moaning on a radio show really drove him mad. People who had everything, a home, a job, a family, all telephoning a radio station to complain about the pressures of life.”

 

 

 

Maeve Binchy (28 mei 1940 – 30 juli 2012)

 

 

 

 

De Ierse dichter en songwriter Thomas Moore werd geboren op 28 mei 1779 in Dublin. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas Moore op dit blog.

 

 

Come, Send Round the Wine

 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly?
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

 

 

 

 

Thomas Moore (28 mei 1779 – 25 februari 1852)

Standbeeld in Dublin

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Ian Fleming werd geboren op 28 mei 1908 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Ian Fleming op dit blog.

 

Uit: From Russia With Love

 

“Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by the stewardess. ‘Fasten your seat-belts, please.’ As she spoke the plane dropped sickeningly and soared up again with an ugly note of strain in the scream of the jets. The sky outside was suddenly black. Rain hammered on the windows. There came a blinding flash of blue and white light and a crash as if an anti-aircraft shell had hit them, and the plane heaved and bucketed in the belly of the electric storm that had ambushed them out of the mouth of the Adriatic.
    Bond smelt the smell of danger. It is a real smell, something like the mixture of sweat and electricity you get in an amusement arcade. Again the lightning flung its hands across the windows. Crash! It felt as if they were the centre of the thunder clap. Suddenly the plane seemed incredibly small and frail. Thirteen passengers! Friday the Thirteenth! Bond thought of Loelia Ponsonby’s words and his hands on the arms of his chair felt wet. How old is this plane, he wondered? How many flying hours has it done? Had the deathwatch beetle of metal fatigue got into the wings? How much of their strength had it eaten away? Perhaps he wouldn’t get to Istanbul after all. Perhaps a plummeting crash into the Gulf of Corinth was going to be the destiny he had been scanning philosophically only an hour before.
    In the centre of Bond was a hurricane-room, the kind of citadel found in old-fashioned houses in the tropics. These rooms are small, strongly built cells in the heart of the house, in the middle of the ground floor and sometimes dug down into its foundations. To this cell the owner and his family retire if the storm threatens to destroy the house, and stay there until the danger is past. Bond went to his hurricane room only when the situation was beyond his control and no other possible action could be taken. Now he retired to this citadel, closed his mind to the hell of noise and violent movement and focused on a single stitch in the back of the seat in front of him, waiting with slackened nerves for whatever fate had decided for BEA Flight No. 130.”

 

 

 

Ian Fleming (28 mei 1908 – 12 augustus 1964)

Scene uit de film “From Russia With Love”, 1963

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 28e mei ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2 en ook deel 3.