Berichten van 19 juni 2013 tot 20 juni 2013

De Indische schrijver Vikram Seth werd geboren op 20 juni 1952 in Kolkata. Zie ook alle tags voor Vikram Seth op dit blog.

 

Uit: A Suitable Boy

 

“Lata reflected that of the four brothers and sisters, the only one who hadn't complained of the match had been the sweet-tempered, fair-complexioned, beautiful Savita herself.

'He is a little thin, Ma,' said Lata a bit thoughtlessly. This was putting it mildly. Pran Kapoor, soon to be her brother-in-law, was lank, dark, gangly, and asthmatic.

'Thin? What is thin? Everyone is trying to become thin these days. Even I have had to fast the whole day and it is not good for my diabetes. And if Savita is not complaining, everyone should be happy with him. Arun and Varun are always complaining: why didn't they choose a boy for their sister then? Pran is a good, decent, cultured khatri boy.'

There was no denying that Pran, at thirty, was a good boy, a decent boy, and belonged to the right caste. And, indeed, Lata did like Pran. Oddly enough, she knew him better than her sister did--or, at least, had seen him for longer than her sister had. Lata was studying English at Brahmpur University, and Pran Kapoor was a popular lecturer there. Lata had attended his class on the Elizabethans, while Savita, the bride, had met him for only an hour, and that too in her mother's company.

'And Savita will fatten him up,' added Mrs Rupa Mehra. 'Why are you trying to annoy me when I am so happy? And Pran and Savita will be happy, you will see. They will be happy,' she continued emphatically. 'Thank you, thank you,' she now beamed at those who were coming up to greet her. 'It is so wonderful--the boy of my dreams, and such a good family. The Minister Sahib has been very kind to us. And Savita is so happy. Please eat something, please eat: they have made such delicious gulabjamuns, but owing to my diabetes I cannot eat them even after the ceremonies. I am not even allowed gajak, which is so difficult to resist in winter. But please eat, please eat. I must go in to check what is happening: the time that the pandits have given is coming up, and there is no sign of either bride or groom!' She looked at Lata, frowning. Her younger daughter was going to prove more difficult than her elder, she decided.

'Don't forget what I told you,' she said in an admonitory voice.

'Hmm,' said Lata. 'Ma, your handkerchief's sticking out of your blouse.'

'Oh!' said Mrs Rupa Mehra, worriedly tucking it in. 'And tell Arun to please take his duties seriously. He is just standing there in a corner talking to that Meenakshi and his silly friend from Calcutta. He should see that everyone is drinking and eating properly and having a gala time.'

 

 

 

Vikram Seth (Kolkata, 20 juni 1952)

 

 

 

 

 

De Ierse dichter en schrijver Paul Muldoon werd geboren in Portadown, County Armagh, in Noord-Ierland op 20 juni 1951, Zie ook alle tags voor Paul Muldoon op dit blog.

 

 

Hedgehog

 

The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret

With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.

We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.

The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.

We forget the god
under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
will a god trust in the world.

 

 

 

 

A Dent

In memory of Michael Allen

The height of one stall at odds with the next in your grandfather's byre
where cattle allowed themselves to speak only at Yule
gave but little sense of why you taught us to admire
the capacity of a three-legged stool

to take pretty much everything in its stride,
even the card-carrying Crow who let out a war-whoop
now your red pencil was poised above my calf-hide
manuscript like a graip above a groop.

The depth of a dent in the flank of your grandfather's cow
from his having leaned his brow
against it morning and night

for twenty years of milking by hand
gave but little sense of how distant is the land
on which you had us set our sights.

 

 

 

 

Paul Muldoon (Portadown, 20 juni 1951)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver, dichter en kunstenaar Kurt Schwitters werd geboren op 20 juni 1887 in Hannover. Zie ook alle tags voor Kurt Schwitters op dit blog.

 

Uit: Ursonate (Fragment)

 

Fümms bö wö tää zää Uu,

                                         pögiff,

                                                     kwii Ee.        

Oooooooooooooooooooooooo,  

dll rrrrr beeeee bö

dll rrrrr beeeee bö fümms bö,                                      

     rrrrr beeeee bö fümms bö wö,

             beeeee bö fümms bö wö tää,

                        bö fümms bö wö tää zää,

                             fümms bö wö tää zää Uu:    

           

primera parte:   

tema 1:

Fümms bö wö tää zää Uu,

                                        pögiff,

                                                 Kwii Ee.         

tema 2:

Dedesnn nn rrrrr,

                           Ii Ee,

                                     mpiff tillff too,

                                                              tillll,

                                                                      Jüü Kaa?

 

 

 

 

Kurt Schwitters (20 juni 1887 – 8 januari 1948)

9 Portretten, Londen, 1944

 

De Franse schrijver Jean-Claude Izzo werd geboren op 20 juni 1945 in Marseille. Zie ook alle tags voor Jean-Claude Izzo op dit blog.

 

Uit: Chouma

 

“Au milieu de la rue Sainte-Françoise, devant le Treize-Coins, un certain José était en train de laver sa voiture, une R 21 aux couleurs de l’O.M. Bleu en bas, blanc en haut. Avec fanion assorti, accroché au rétroviseur, et écharpe des supporters sur la plage arrière. Musique à fond. Les Gipsy Kings, Bamboleo, Djobi Djoba, Amor, Amor… Le Best of.
Sicard, le cantonnier, lui avait ouvert la prise d’eau du caniveau. José avait pour lui, à volonté, toute la flotte de la ville. De temps en temps, il venait jusqu’à la table de Sicard, et s’asseyait pour boire le pastis sans quitter des yeux sa bagnole. Comme si c’était une pièce de collection. Mais peut-être rêvait-il à la pin-up qu’il allait embarquer dedans pour une virée à Cassis. En tout cas, vu le sourire content qu’il affichait, il ne pensait certainement pas à son percepteur. Et il prenait son temps, José.
Ici, au quartier, cela se passait toujours ainsi, quand on voulait laver sa voiture. Les années passaient, et il y avait toujours un Sicard qui offrait l’eau si vous payiez le pastis. Fallait vraiment être un cake de Saint-Giniez pour aller au Lavomatic.
Là, si une autre bagnole arrivait, il lui faudrait attendre que José ait fini. Y compris de passer, lentement, une peut de chamois sur la carrosserie. En espérant qu’un pigeon ne vienne pas chier dessus, juste à cet instant.
Si le conducteur était du Panier, il se prendrait tranquillement l’apéro avec José et Sicard, en parlant du championnat de foot, ironisant, bien sûr, sur les mauvais scores du PSG. Et ils ne pouvaient être que mauvais, même si les Parisiens caracolaient en tête du classement. Si c’était un "touriste", et après quelques coups de klaxon intempestifs, ils pourraient en venir aux mains. Mais c’était rare. Quand on n’est pas du Panier, on ne vient y faire d’engaste. On s’écrase et on prend son mal en patience. Mais aucune voiture ne se présenta et, Loubet et moi, on put manger tranquilles. Personnellement, je n’avais rien contre les Gipsy Kings.”

 

 

 

Jean-Claude Izzo (20 juni 1945 – 26 januari 2000)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en kunsthistorica Silke Andrea Schuemmer werd geboren op 20 juni 1973 in Aken. Zie ook alle tags voor Silke Andrea Schuemmer op dit blog.

 

 

Wind

 

II

 

Beim Fingerzeig des Schornsteins
der Antenne und des Walmdachgrats
spukt ein Rauschen um das Haus
Die Verstorbenen der Wetterhahn
die breite Mundart auch
teilen sich die erste Wolkenschicht
Drin schweben selbst die Sagen
die Gerüchte und Versprechungen
die manchmal von den Dächern falln
wie Schindeln oder Mörtelrest
Vor allem aber der Geruch
von Frischgebackenem und Tang
rutscht übers Dach
Es hängt was in der Luft
das als blasser Schatten vor den Leuten geht
Ganze Koffer voll
Einmachgläser und Münder selbst Lungen
tragen die Touristen nach Haus

 

 

 

Silke Andrea Schuemmer (Aken, 20 juni 1973)
Aken, het raadhuis aan de Katschhof

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 20e juni ook mijn blog van 20 juni 2011.

De Indisch-Britse schrijver en essayist Salman Rushdie werd geboren in Bombay op 19 juni 1947. Zie ook alle tags voor Salman Rushdie op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Satanic Verses

 

“When Baal proceeded to lay out the plan for the madam, she responded: "It is very dangerous, but it could be damn good for business." While I do not wholly subscribe to the theory that authors tend to write self-fulfilling novels, it seems quite clear to me that "they" did hear and that they are indeed mad enough to "boil his balls in butter." The Ayyatollah Khomeni, who issued the fatwa for Rushdie's death, in fact stated that what Rushdie wrote about the Prophet literally made his blood boil (quoted in Appignanesi and Maitland 1990:73). The whole thing has been very dangerous, and there is little doubt but that the controversy has been "damn good for business."

The question that remains for me is why Rushdie -- being brought up as a Muslim, even a backsliding one -- did not realize what the reaction of his fellow Muslims would be (Baal was certainly not naive about how Mahound would respond to knowing whores were pretending to be his wives), or why Rushdie realized it but went ahead and did it anyway. To a certain extent Rushdie's public presentation of his private doubt came at the wrong time -- it was a convenient lightning rod at a time when anger against the West -- understandable anger at that -- needed to go somewhere.

But the key I think is found in the same passage (p. 380), where Rushdie comments: "Where there is no belief, there is no blasphemy." In an interview ironically broadcast the same day in 1989 as Khomeini's death warrant, Rushdie added: "Doubt, it seems to me, is the central condition of a human being in the 20th century" (quoted in Appignanesi and Maitland 1990:24). Here I think is the crux of the problem. We can readily identify with Rushdie on doubt as the norm in the secular as well as much of the sacred thinking of our West. We can read The Satanic Verses as an exercise in dealing with that doubt, one that Rushdie as an immigrant author in our backyard vigorously defends as viable even though it may be seen as blatant unbelief by his critics. But the problem is that Rushdie, at least up until a recent interview with

David Frost, has never claimed not to have belief. He has simply admitted to doubt.”

 

 

 

Salman Rushdie (Bombay, 19 juni 1947)

 

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Sybren Polet (pseudoniem van Sybe Minnema) werd geboren in Kampen op 19 juni 1924. Zie ook alle tags voor Sybren Polet op dit blog.

 

 

 

Trampolinepoëzie

 

Mensbeeld als wensbeeld van generatieve foetussen.

Beweeglijke gevoelshorizonten en hun zelfadaptaties.

In ons lichaam om de 120 dagen geheel nieuw bloed
waarin nog visvormen zwemmen.

Nog maar 70.000 jaar geleden waren we bijna uitgestorven.

De ramp als natuurlijk experiment.

Net als bij gifslangen niet sterven aan je eigen vergif.

Vreedzaam samenleven met je 100 biljoen bacteriën.

Resistent zijn tegen de realiteit,
realiteit
als een onlokaliseerbare bom, die
nooit ontploffend
altijd en overal zijn werking uitoefent.

 

 

 

 

Diapsalmata

 

Je loopt met de dood als een hond achter je aan.
De hond draagt een bril met drie glazen.
Je kijkt strak voor je uit. Draait je om en blikt
in het derde oog als in een duistere rede.

Je zweet geschiedenis uit. Zweert van leven.
Losse tranen lopen als kleine homunculi* voor je uit.
Met vochtige contactlenzen beschouw je het leven.
Je kunt niet zonder je leven. Dus leef je.

In lichaamsvormige luchtgraven houd je je schuil
tot de volgende holle minuut. Je zweet geschiedenis uit.

Je blikt met een voorhoofdsoog in een duistere rede.
En weer zie je álles
niet, of alleen dat
wat vaag aan de gekartelde einder opdoemt.

Je loopt met de dood als een dode hond achter je aan
en je blaft en je blaft tot je in de lucht op bent gegaan.

 

 

 

 

Sybren Polet (Kampen, 19 juni 1924)

 

 

 

 

 

De Tsjechische schrijver Josef Nesvadba werd geboren op 19 juni 1926 in Praag. Zie ook alle tags voor Josef Nesvadba op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Half-wit of Xeenemuende

 

“The old teacher was glad to accept Mrs. Habicht's offer. He earned a bit by coaching, because his pension was too small to allow him to buy anything on the black market, even potatoes. They didn't tell him the boy was a half-wit, though. He didn't find it out until the first day they spent together. Bruno was fifteen, with the face of a six-year-old and some of the habits of a toddler. During his first lesson he made a dive for a fly and swallowed it without turning a hair; he pushed his fountain pen up his nose and poured the ersatz coffee his mother had made for the teacher over the poor man's trousers. The latter of course got up and wanted to leave the house at once. The desperate mother spent a long time persuading him to stay; she raised his salary and offered to give him a warm supper every evening if only he would take her son on. And as if he wanted to ingratiate himself with the teacher all of a sudden, Bruno stood to attention and recited in a loud voice the multiplication table, division table, and square roots.

"He's got a wonderful head for figures," said Mrs. Habicht. "He can remember anything. He knows the Xeenemuende telephone directory off by heart." And Bruno promptly recited the first sixty names and addresses and telephone numbers. But he had no head for grammar, he was hopeless at history, and he couldn't read the simplest sentence. And he was fifteen, if you please.”

 

 

 

Josef Nesvadba (19 juni 1926 – 26 april 2005)

 

 

 

 

De Japanse schrijver Osamu Dazai (eig.Shūji Tsushima) werd geboren op 19 juni 1909 in Tsugaru. Zie ook alle tags voor Osamu Dazai op dit blog.

 

Uit: The setting sun (Vertaald door Donald Keene)

 

“My brother Naoji says that we are no match for Mother, and I have at times felt something akin to despair at the difficulty of imitating her. Once, in the back garden of our house in Nishikata Street — it was a beautiful moonlight evening in the beginning of autumn — Mother and I were sitting in the summer-house by the edge of the pond admiring the moon, when she got up and went into a nearby clump of flowering shrubs. She called to me from among the white blossoms with a little laugh, "Kazuko, guess what Mother is doing now."

"Picking flowers."

She raised her little voice in a laugh. "Wee-wee!"

I felt there was something truly adorable in her which I could not possibly have imitated.

This has been quite a digression from this morning's soup, but I recently learned from a book I was reading how in the days of the French monarchy the court ladies thought nothing of relieving themselves in the palace gardens or in a corner of the corridors.  Such innocence really charms me, and I wondered if Mother might not be one of the last of that kind of lady.

At any rate, this morning she let out a little cry — ah — as she sipped the soup, and I asked if it were a hair, only to be informed that it was not.

"Perhaps it was too salty."

The soup this morning was green pea, from an American can I got on the ration and made into a kind of potage. I haven't any confidence in my abilities as a cook, though it is one of the few confidences a girl should have, and couldn't help worrying about the soup, even after Mother said that nothing was wrong.

"You made it very well," Mother said in a serious tone. After she had finished the soup, she ate some rice-balls wrapped in seaweed.”

 

 

 

Osamu Dazai (19 juni 1909 – 13 juni 1948)

 

 

 

 

 

De Filippijnse schrijver José Rizal (eig. José Protacio Rizal Mercado y Alonso Realonda) werd geboren op 19 juni 1861. Zie ook alle tags voor José Rizal op dit blog.

 

 

A Tribute to My Town

 

When I remember the days
that saw my early childhood
spent on the green shores
of a murmurous lagoon;
when I remember the coolness,
delicious and refreshing,
that on my face I felt
as I heard Favonius croon;

when I behold the white lily
swell to the wind’s impulsion,
and that tempestuous element
meekly asleep on the sand;
when I inhale the dear
intoxicating essence
the flowers exude when dawn
is smiling on the land;

sadly, sadly I recall
your visage, precious childhood,
which an affectionate mother
made beautiful and bright;
I recall a simple town,
my comfort, joy and cradle,
beside a balmy lake,
the seat of my delight.

Ah, yes, my awkward foot
explored your sombre woodlands,
and on the banks of your rivers
in frolic I took part.
I prayed in your rustic temple,
a child, with a child’s devotion;
and your unsullied breeze
exhilarated my heart.

The Creator I saw in the grandeur
of your age-old forests;
upon your bosom, sorrows
were ever unknown to me;
while at your azure skies
I gazed, neither love nor tenderness
failed me, for in nature
lay my felicity.

Tender childhood, beautiful town,
rich fountain of rejoicing
and of harmonious music
that drove away all pain:
return to this heart of mine,
return my gracious hours,
return as the birds return
when flowers spring again!

But O goodbye! May the Spirit
of Good, a loving gift-giver,
keep watch eternally over
your peace, your joy, your sleep!
For you, my fervent pryers;
for you, my constant desire
to learn; and I pray heaven
your innocence to keep!

 

 

 

 

José Rizal (19 juni 1861 - 30 december 1896)

Op 18-jarige leeftijd

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Friedrich Huch werd geboren op 19 juni 1873 in Braunschweig. Zie ook alle tags voor Friedrich Huch op dit blog.

 

Uit: Enzo

 

„Ob der Junge ihm wohl selber ähnlich werden würde? Dann konnte er sich nur freuen. – Er verschob etwas den grünen Lichtschirm und trat zum Spiegel. Das war ihm ein gewohnter Gang. Er galt als einer der schönsten Männer in der Stadt und liebte es, sich dieses manchmal vor sich selber zu bestätigen.

Die Stirn war ohne Zweifel fest, stark, schön gebaut, bedeutend; sie paßte gut zu dem eben geformten, großen Mund und zu seiner untersetzten, breiten Gestalt. Auch die Nase gefiel ihm ausnehmend gut: Sie sah geradezu edel aus und bog auch nicht um die kleinste Linie nach links oder nach rechts ab. Dann begegnete er seinen Augen: Groß, schön und sanft . . . Leider etwas zu verschwommen! murmelte er wieder und seufzte leise.

Unwillkürlich sah er zum Flügel hin, auf dem seine letzte Komposition stand. Er war längst in den Reifejahren und sein Name ragte kaum über die Grenzen seines Orts hinaus. Sollte er sich mit den verkannten Genies trösten, oder war es wirklich so, wie er in heimlichen Momenten dachte: daß er zwar ein ganz guter Kapellmeister, aber kein guter Tondichter sei?

Mit halbem Widerwillen trat er zum Flügel, blätterte hie und da in dem beschriebenen Heft, und alle die ihm bis zum Überdruß bekannten, halb wirklich erfundenen, halb ausgedachten Motive starrten ihn so entsetzlich breitspurig und anspruchsvoll an! Er las weiter und immer weiter, stets im Wunsche, abzubrechen, ohne den Zeitpunkt zu finden, denn all dies Zeug hing doch innerlich zusammen, und wenn einmal ein Abschluß kam, so folgte wieder etwas Neues, das dem Vorangegangenen erst die richtige Beleuchtung gab.“

 

 

 

Friedrich Huch (19 juni 1873 – 12 mei 1913)

Braunschweig,  Altstadtmarkt

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver en pastor Gustav Schwab werd geboren op 19 juni 1792 in Stuttgart. Zie ook alle tags voor Gustav Schwab op dit blog.

 

 

Das Gewitter

 

Urahne, Großmutter, Mutter und Kind
In dumpfer Stube beisammen sind;
Es spielet das Kind, die Mutter sich schmückt,
Großmutter spinnet, Urahne gebückt
Sitzt hinter dem Ofen im Pfühl –
Wie wehen die Lüfte so schwül!

 

Das Kind spricht: »Morgen ist’s Feiertag!
Wie will ich spielen im grünen Hag,
Wie will ich springen durch Tal und Höhn,
Wie will ich pflücken viel Blumen schön;
Dem Anger, dem bin ich hold!« –
Hört ihr’s, wie der Donner grollt?

 

Die Mutter spricht: »Morgen ist’s Feiertag!
Da halten wir alle fröhlich Gelag‘,
Ich selber, ich rüste mein Feierkleid;
Das Leben, es hat auch Lust nach Leid,
Dann scheint die Sonne wie Gold!« –
Hört ihr’s, wie der Donner grollt?

 

Großmutter spricht: »Morgen ist’s Feiertag!
Großmutter hat keinen Feiertag.
Sie kochet das Mahl, sie spinnet das Kleid,
Das Leben ist Sorg‘ und viel Arbeit;
Wohl dem, der tat, was er sollt‘!«
Hört ihr’s, wie der Donner grollt?

 

Urahne spricht: »Morgen ist’s Feiertag!
Am liebsten morgen ich sterben mag:
Ich kann nicht singen und scherzen mehr,
Ich kann nicht sorgen und schaffen schwer,
Was tu‘ ich noch auf der Welt?« –
Seht ihr, wie der Blitz dort fällt?

 

Sie hören’s nicht, sie sehen’s nicht,
Es flammet die Stube wie lauter Licht:
Urahne, Großmutter, Mutter und Kind
Vom Strahl miteinander getroffen sind,
Vier Leben endet ein Schlag
Und morgen ist’s Feiertag.

 

 

 

 

Gustav Schwab (19 juni 1792 – 4 november 1850)