Berichten van 24 mei 2016 tot 25 mei 2016

De Oostenrijkse schrijver en essayist Egyd Gstättner werd geboren op 25 mei 1962 in Klagenfurt. Zie ook alle tags voor Egyd Gstättner op dit blog.

Uit:Das Geisterschiff

“Ich möchte nicht in der Zukunft leben miissen. Die Zukunft ist brutal, ordinär und billig. Die Zeit, die ich erleben durfte, war eine bessere. Das sollen gemäß der Überlieferung die letzten Worte des Meisters gewesen sein, gesprochen vier Jahre vor seinem Tod.
Als Josef Maria Auchentaller starb, herrschte in den Redaktionen der meisten Zeitungen in kürzester Zeit helle Aufregung. Denn die Sonntagsausgaben waren fast schon in Druck, als das gerade hereingeschneite Gerücht von seinem Tod bestätigt wurde. Eigentlich sollte die am ersten Jänner in Kraft getretene Kraftfahrzeugs-Benutzungsverordnung als Hauptthema herhalten, die der Wirtschaftsrat erlassen hatte, durch die Ausflugs- und Vergnügungsfahrten verboten waren. Nun aber stoppte man die Produktion im letzten Augenblick, warf den öden Wirtschaftsrat mitsamt seiner Kraftfahrzeugs-Benutzungsverordnung sowie die eine oder andere verzichtbare Glosse aus der Nummer und fiigte an deren Stelle in höchster Eile einen notdürftig zusammengeschusterten Artikel ein, in dem Auchentaller »Gigant« oder »Pionier« genannt und mit seinen zwei endgültigen Jahreszahlen versehen wurde.
Ja, ein Gigant war er, auch wenn das zu seinen Lebzeiten, also die letzten vierundachtzig Jahre bis vor einer knappen halben Stunde, kaum jemand so gesagt hatte. Ein Pionier war Auchentaller weniger. Auchentaller hatte - darin waren sich die Zeitungen einig - in den letzten Jahren »total zurückgezogen in seiner Villa Fortino gelebt«, über den Tod seiner Tochter und vor allem über den Tod seiner geliebten Frau Emma sei er nie hinweggekommen. Das Wort Lebensekel« konnte man allerdings nirgendwo lesen, das passte nicht mehr in die Zeit, und es passt wohl auch nicht in Nachrufe. Einer der Leitartikler meinte, Auchentallers Ära habe lange vor seinem Tod geendet, seine Epoche sei schon lange vor ihm gestorben, früher als er selbst es bemerkt haben mochte.“

 

 
Egyd Gstättner (Klagenfurt, 25 mei 1962)

 

 

De Franse schrijfster Claire Castillon werd geboren op 25 mei 1975 in Neuilly-sur-Seine. Zie ook alle tags voor Claire Castillon op dit blog.

Uit: Giftspritzen: Rabenschwarze Erzählungen über Mütter und Töchter (Vertaald door Gaby Wurster)

„Mein Mann hat mir ein schönes Leben versprochen, als ich ihn kennenlernte. Wir reisten sehr gern. Übrigens trafen wir uns im Iran, ich kaufte gerade einen Teppich. Ein harmloser Scherz über einen fliegenden Teppich, und mein Mann konnte sich später vor seinen Freunden damit brüsten, dass er mich mit seinem Humor verführt hätte. Wir heirateten bei meinen Eltern, die in der Touraine ein Anwesen besitzen, dann zogen wir in ein Haus mit Garten, von dem man sagte, es sehe aus wie ein englisches Cottage. Wenn wir abends beim Essen saßen und Wein tranken, erzählte ich meinem Mann von meinen Ängsten: dass ein Maskierter durch die Terrassentür in mein Schlafzimmer eindringt. Mein Mann versprach mir dann beim Zubettgehen immer, Fensterläden anbringen zu lassen, aber am nächsten Morgen war natürlich alles wieder vergessen. Normalerweise bin ich nicht besonders ängstlich. Im Übrigen haben die Männer meine Gelassenheit immer geschätzt. Man kann mich überallhin mitnehmen, ich gewöhne mich an das Klima und an die Leute, ich finde immer den richtigen Ton, den richtigen Takt - ein wahres Chamäleon. Wir haben auch im Ausland gelebt, je nachdem, wohin mein Mann versetzt wurde, und ich habe mir immer mit Vergnügen ein Heim eingerichtet. Eine neue Umgebung, neue Bekanntschaften, neue Aktivitäten raubten mir nie den Mut, im Gegenteil, ich bin ein optimistischer Mensch, ich lasse mich nicht verdrießen|; mein Credo ist, aus meinem Leben etwas zu machen. Auch nach unserer Rückkehr nach Frankreich ziehen wir nun weiter durch die Weltgeschichte, denn mein Mann darf die Gattin bei Geschäftsreisen mitnehmen. Um ganz für ihn da zu sein, gehe ich keiner bezahlten Arbeit nach und habe auch keinen Hund. Außerdem - ich weiß nicht, was Sie von all dem halten, aber ich habe da meine Vorstellungen von den Dingen, die ein alleinreisender Mann so treibt. Vier Tage allein, und schon wird Madame betrogen. Ach, nicht den Kopf hängen lassen! Haben Sie diese Erfahrung etwa schon gemacht?“
 

 
Claire Castillon (Neuilly-sur-Seine, 25 mei 1975)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster en feminste Eve Ensler werd op 25 mei 1953 in New York geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Eve Ensler op dit blog.

Uit: Insecure at Last

“I never dreamed of growing up and getting married and having children because I never dreamed of growing up, living that long. I could never imagine life past thirty, and I came close to making sure I didn’t get there. I never dreamed of having children, as I was so scared of repeating what had been done to me. I was so scared that I had my father in me. And in fact, I did. I held his rage, his impatience, and his judgments for many years.
It is not surprising that I have grown up to become nomadic. I was unable to have a dining room table until my early fifties, as it was the set piece of so much humiliation and violence. Until my late thirties I kept my bedroom out in the open in my living room so no one could get me. My dreams were limited, simple. All I wanted was to grow up and not be hit or molested. I lived as a survivor. Happy every day not to be screamed at, ridiculed, beaten, terrorized, or thrown out. I did not care about a career. I did not think what kind of a person might be right for me. It was all about what was not happening, all about the pain stopping, all about safety, security. I wanted a man or a woman who would not hit me. This, as you can well imagine, is not the greatest prerequisite for a relationship. Not a very high standard. And it’s broad. And, to be honest, until you have gone back and retraced and experienced and purged and transformed that initial violation, it is impossible not to keep being attracted to what you are trying to escape
I think you have several options when you experience enormous terror and violence as a child. You can shut down completely, you can pretend it didn’t happen, you can become violent yourself, or you can create situations that mirror your initial situation in an attempt to understand and master it. I have, at some point, embraced all of these. My life has been a journey to find a way to make sense of violence and terror and make peace with insecurity."

 

 
Eve Ensler (New York, 25 mei 1953)

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Friedrich Dieckmann werd geboren op 25 mei 1937 in Landsberg an der Warthe. Zie ook alle tags voor Friedrich Dieckmann op dit blog.

Uit: Freiheit ist nur in dem Reich der Träume (Schillers Jahrhundertwende)

„Waren jemals solche Verse auf dieser Bhne gesprochen worden? In seinem »Faust« hatte der andere es vorgemacht, aber den enthielt er dem Theater immer noch vor; noch war kein Stück aus den vielen Szenen geworden, sosehr er drängte, mahnte, auf die Sprünge half. Ein Stck in Knittelversen – er hatte gemeint, die Neuerung begründen zu sollen, man sollte ihm nicht vorwerfen, diesen schrecklichen Krieg, dem der Wallenstein ein Ende machen wollte, ins Harmlos-Heitere hinberzuspielen. Den Krieg selbst konnte man nicht darstellen, allenfalls die, welche ihn austrugen, wie sie im Lager zechten, zankten, prahlten, aufbrausten, sich wieder versöhnten, ein wilder Haufen, den ein einziger zusammenhielt, der Zauderer mit dem Marschallstab.
Man solle – nein, nicht dem Autor, der Muse solle man danken, daß sie mit Reimes Hilfe alles dies in das heitre Reich der Kuns hin überspiele; so ähnlich hatte er es ausgedrückt in dem Prolog.
Aber Goethe hatte das gestrichen und das folgende auch, die Verse, in denen er den Unterschied zwischen dem Theater und der Vorspiel Wirklichkeit auf die Spitze getrieben hatte. Wollte der Intendant sein Publikum schonen? Den letzten Vers hatte er ihm in den Konjunktiv versetzt. »Ernst ist das Leben, heiter ist die Kunst« – daraus war ». . . sei die Kunst« geworden, mit einem Ausrufezeichen hintendran, ein Vorsatz, ein Imperativ statt einer Feststellung. Das war eine Schwchung, aber er hatte es hingenommen, über die Druckfassung verfügte er schließlich allein. Gegenüber Regisseuren und Intendanten war er immer duldsam gewesen.“

 

 
Friedrich Dieckmann (Landsberg an der Warthe, 25 mei 1937)
Friedrich Schiller: standbeeld in het Schiller-Nationalmuseum in Marbach

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Raymond Carver werd geboren op 25 mei 1938 in Port Angeles. Zie ook alle tags voor Raymond Carver op dit blog.

 

A Tall Order

This old woman who kept house for them.
She’d seen and heard the most amazing things.
Sights like plates and bottles flying.
An ashtray travelling like a missile
that hit the dog in the head.
Once she let herself in and found a huge
salad in the middle of the dining room table.
It was sprinkled with moldy croutons.
The table was set for six, but nobody
had eaten. Dust filmed the cups and silver.
Upstairs a man pleaded
not to have his hair pulled by the roots again.
Please, please, please he cried.

Her job was to set the house in order.
At least make it like she’d left it last time.
That was all. Nobody asked her opinion,
and she didn’t give it. She put on her apron.
Turned the hot water on full, drowning out
that other sound. Her arms went into the suds
to her elbows. She leaned on the counter.
And stared into the backyard where they kept
the rusty swing set and Jungle-Gym bars.
If she kept watching, she was sure to see
the elephant step out of the trees and trumpet
as it did every Monday at this house, at this hour.

 

 

The River

l waded, deepening, into the dark water.
Evening, and the push
and swirl of the river as it closed
around my legs and held on.
Young grisle broke water.
Parr darted one way, smolt another.
Gravel turned under my boots as I edged out.
Watched by the furious eyes of king salmon.
Their immense heads turned slowly,
eyes burning with fury, as they hung
in the deep current.
They were there. I felt them there,
and my skin prickled. But
there was something else.
I braced with the wind on my neck.
Felt the hair rise
as something touched my boot.
Grew afraid at what I couldn’t see.
Then of everything that filled my eyes-
that other shore hung with heavy branches,
the dark mountain range behind.
And this river that had suddenly
grown black and swift.
I drew breath and cast anyway.
Prayed nothing would strike.

 

 
Raymond Carver (25 mei 1938 – 2 augustus 1988)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jamaica Kincaid (eig.Elaine Cynthia Potter Richardson) werd geboren in Saint John's, Antigua en Barbuda, op 25 mei 1949. Zie ook alle tags voor Jamaica Kincaid op dit blog.

Uit: Girl

“Wash the white clothes on Monday and put them on the stone heap; wash the color clothes on Tuesday and put them on the clothesline to dry; don’t walk bare-head in the hot sun; cook pumpkin fritters in very hot sweet oil; soak your little cloths right after you take them off; when buying cotton to make yourself a nice blouse, be sure that it doesn’t have gum in it, because that way it won’t hold up well after a wash; soak salt fish overnight before you cook it; is it true that you sing benna in Sunday school?; always eat your food in such a way that it won’t turn someone else’s stomach; on Sundays try to walk like a lady and not like the slut you are so bent on becoming; don’t sing benna in Sunday school; you mustn’t speak to wharf-rat boys, not even to give directions; don’t eat fruits on the street—flies will follow you; but I don’t sing benna on Sundays at all and never in Sunday school; this is how to sew on a button; this is how to make a buttonhole for the button you have just sewed on; this is how to hem a dress when you see the hem coming down and so to prevent yourself from looking like the slut I know you are so bent on becoming; this is how you iron your father’s khaki shirt so that it doesn’t have a crease; this is how you iron your father’s khaki pants so that they don’t have a crease; this is how you grow okra—far from the house, because okra tree harbors red ants; when you are growing dasheen, make sure it gets plenty of water or else it makes your throat itch when you are eating it; this is how you sweep a corner; this is how you sweep a whole house; this is how you sweep a yard; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like too much; this is how you smile to someone you don’t like at all; this is how you smile to someone you like completely; this is how you set a table for tea; this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast;…”

 

 
Jamaica Kincaid (Saint John's, 25 mei 1949)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Robert Ludlum werd geboren in New York op 25 mei 1927. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Ludlum op dit blog.

Uit: The Bourne Sanction

“Perhaps this last was what Bourne liked best about her. In that, though in no other way, she was like Marie. He had never pried into her relationship with Martin, but he assumed it had been romantic, since Martin had given Bourne standing orders to send her a dozen red roses should he ever die. This Bourne had done, with a sadness whose depth surprised even him.
Settled in her chair, one long, shapely leg crossed over her knee, she looked the model of a European businesswoman. She had told him that she was half French, half English, but her genes still carried the imprint of ancient Venetian and Turkish ancestors. She was proud of the fire in her mixed blood, the result of wars, invasions, fierce love.
"Go on." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "I want to hear what you have to say."
She nodded. "All right. As I've told you, NextGen Energy Solutions has completed our new liquid natural gas terminal in Long Beach. Our first shipment is due in two weeks. I had this idea, which now seems utterly crazy, but here goes. I'd like you to head up the security procedures. My bosses are worried the terminal would make an awfully tempting target for any terrorist group, and I agree. Frankly, I can't think of anyone who'd make it more secure than you."
"I'm flattered, Moira. But I have obligations here. As you know, Professor Specter has installed me as the head of the Comparative Linguistics Department. I don't want to disappoint him."
"I like Dominic Specter, Jason, really I do. You've made it clear that he's your mentor. Actually, he's David Webb's mentor, right? But it's Jason Bourne I first met, it feels like it's Jason Bourne I've been coming to know these last few months. Who is Jason Bourne's mentor?"
Bourne's face darkened, as it had at the mention of Marie. "Alex Conklin's dead."

 

 
Robert Ludlum (25 mei 1927 – 12 maart 2001)
Matt Damon als Jason Bourne in de film « Jason Bourne », uit 2016

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 25^e mei ook mijn blog van 25 mei 2015 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

De Russisch-Amerikaanse dichter Joseph Brodsky werd op 24 mei 1940 in Leningrad (het huidige St.Petersburg) geboren als Iosif Brodski. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Joseph Brodsky op dit blog.

 

A List Of Some Observation...

A list of some observation. In a corner, it's warm.
A glance leaves an imprint on anything it's dwelt on.
Water is glass's most public form.
Man is more frightening than its skeleton.
A nowhere winter evening with wine. A black
porch resists an osier's stiff assaults.
Fixed on an elbow, the body bulks
like a glacier's debris, a moraine of sorts.
A millennium hence, they'll no doubt expose
a fossil bivalve propped behind this gauze
cloth, with the print of lips under the print of fringe,
mumbling "Good night" to a window hinge

 

 

A Polar Explorer

All the huskies are eaten. There is no space
left in the diary, And the beads of quick
words scatter over his spouse's sepia-shaded face
adding the date in question like a mole to her lovely cheek.
Next, the snapshot of his sister. He doesn't spare his kin:
what's been reached is the highest possible latitude!
And, like the silk stocking of a burlesque half-nude
queen, it climbs up his thigh: gangrene.

 

 

Galatea Encore

As though the mercury's under its tongue, it won't
talk. As though with the mercury in its sphincter,
immobile, by a leaf-coated pond
a statue stands white like a blight of winter.
After such snow, there is nothing indeed: the ins
and outs of centuries, pestered heather.
That's what coming full circle means -
when your countenance starts to resemble weather,
when Pygmalion's vanished. And you are free
to cloud your folds, to bare the navel.
Future at last! That is, bleached debris
of a glacier amid the five-lettered "never."
Hence the routine of a goddess, nee
alabaster, that lets roving pupils gorge on
the heart of color and the temperature of the knee.
That's what it looks like inside a virgin.

 

 
Joseph Brodsky (24 mei 1940 – 28 januari 1996) 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Michael Chabon werd geboren op 24 mei 1963 in Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Michael Chabon op dit blog.

Uit:Telegraph Avenue

“Friends of yours?” he said.
It was a reasonable inference, given the fact that, in her bowling shirt, she stood out from the other women in attendance, most of them done up in cocktail attire. She was also one of a strikingly few women of color in the room. She nodded again, more stiffly, no longer playing along with the bass, stare going glassy. Feeling big, he supposed, underdressed, and trapped behind a cactus by a celebrated black man in a fancy house full of white folks. He went further out a limb.
“My man on bass?”
The pregnant woman looked sidelong at him, a droll look, and seemed to recover from her initial bout of self¬-consciousness. “Well, that’s the question, now,” she said with an asperity that took him aback. “Isn’t it?”
“That is quite a suit,” Obama said. “Takes a special kind of man to go around wearing a suit like that.”
“You know, he isn’t even aware of that?” the pregnant woman said. “Man doesn’t feel self¬-conscious, not one little bit embarrassed, walking around in that thing.” Scorn and admiration in her tone in about equal measure. “The outside of him matches perfectly with the inside. It’s like, I can’t even tell you. Not stubborn, I mean, yes, he can be stub¬born as hell, stubborn and full of pride, but to walk around looking like that, I mean, a purple suit, even a pimp might have doubts about it, and saddle shoes … you have to have—”
“Dignity.”
At the sound of the word, the pregnant woman looked at him. A strange expression passed over her face, as if, he thought, she might be experiencing a contraction.
“He just had a loss,” she said.
“I gathered that, something about a man named Jones.”
“Yeah, yes, he was supposed to be here, he played the organ. It’s Cochise Jones.”

 

 
Michael Chabon (Washington, 24 mei 1963)

 

 

De Amerikaanse zanger, songwriter en dichter Bob Dylan werd geboren als Robert Allen Zimmerman op 24 mei 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Zie ook alle tags voor Bob Dylan op dit blog. Bob Dylan viert vandaag zijn 75e verjaardag.

 

Highway 61 Revisited

Oh God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”
Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”
God say, “No.” Abe say, “What?”
God say, “You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin’ you better run”
Well Abe says, “Where do you want this killin’ done?”
God says, “Out on Highway 61”

Well Georgia Sam he had a bloody nose
Welfare Department they wouldn’t give him no clothes
He asked poor Howard where can I go
Howard said there’s only one place I know
Sam said tell me quick man I got to run
Ol’ Howard just pointed with his gun
And said that way down on Highway 61

Well Mack the Finger said to Louie the King
I got forty red, white and blue shoestrings
And a thousand telephones that don’t ring
Do you know where I can get rid of these things
And Louie the King said let me think for a minute son
And he said yes I think it can be easily done
Just take everything down to Highway 61

Now the fifth daughter on the twelfth night
Told the first father that things weren’t right
My complexion she said is much too white
He said come here and step into the light, he says hmm you’re right
Let me tell the second mother this has been done
But the second mother was with the seventh son
And they were both out on Highway 61

Now the rovin’ gambler he was very bored
He was tryin’ to create a next world war
He found a promoter who nearly fell off the floor
He said I never engaged in this kind of thing before
But yes I think it can be very easily done
We’ll just put some bleachers out in the sun
And have it on Highway 61

 

 
Bob Dylan (Duluth, 24 mei 1941)

 

 

De Franse schrijver, dichter  en schilder Henri Michaux werd geboren op 24 mei 1899 in Namur in België. Zie ook alle tags voor Henri Michaux op dit blog.

 

Bonheur

Parfois, tout d'un coup, sans cause visible, s'étend sur moi un grand frisson de bonheur.

Venant d'un centre de moi-même si intérieur que je l'ignorais, il met, quoique roulant à une vitesse extrême, il met un temps considérable à se développer
jusqu'à mes extrémités.

Ce frisson est parfaitement pur.
Si longuement qu'il chemine en moi, jamais il ne rencontre d'organe bas, ni d'ailleurs d'aucune sorte, ni ne rencontre non plus idées ni sensations, tant est absolue son
intimité.

Et
Lui et moi sommes parfaitement seuls.

Peut-être bien, me parcourant dans toutes mes parties, demande-t-il au passage à celles-ci : «
Eh bien? ça va?
Est-ce que je peux faire quelque chose pour vous ici? »
C'est possible, et qu'il les réconforte à sa façon.
Mais je ne suis pas mis au courant.

Je voudrais aussi crier mon bonheur, mais quoi dire? cela est si strictement personnel.

Bientôt la jouissance est trop forte.
Sans que je m'en rende compte, en quelques secondes cela est devenu une souffrance atroce, un assassinat.

La paraiysie! me dis-je.

Je fais vite quelques mouvements, je m'asperge de beaucoup d'eau, ou plus simplement, je me couche sur le ventre et cela passe.

 

 
Henri Michaux (24 mei 1899 – 19 oktober 1984)

 

 

De Ierse schrijver William Trevor werd geboren op 24 mei 1928 in Mitchelstown, County Cork. Zie ook alle tags voor William Trevor op dit blog.

Uit: After Rain

“The Annunciation in the church of Santa Fabiola is by an unknown artist, perhaps of the school of Filippo Lippi, no one is certain. The angel kneels, gray wings protruding, his lily half hidden by a pillar. The floor is marble, white and green and ochre. The Virgin looks alarmed, right hand arresting her visitor’s advance… Harriet’s eye records the details: the green folds of the angel’s dress, the red beneath it, the mark in the sky that is a dove, the Virgin’s book, the stately pillars and the empty vase, the Virgin’s slipper, the bare feet of the angel. The distant landscape is soft, as if no heat had ever touched it. It isn’t alarm in the Virgin’s eyes, it’s wonderment. In another moment there’ll be serenity. A few tourists glide about the church, whispering now and again. A man in a black overall is mopping the floor of the central aisle and has roped it off at either end. An elderly woman prays before a statue of the Virgin, each bead of her rosary fingered, lips silently murmuring…
The rain has stopped when Harriet leaves the church, the air is fresher. Too slick and glib, to use her love affairs to restore her faith in love: that thought is there mysteriously. She has cheated in her love affairs: that comes from nowhere, too… He backed away, as others had, when she asked too much of love, when she tried to change the circumstances that are the past by imposing a brighter present, and constancy in the future above all else. She has been the victim of herself: with vivid clarity she knows that now and wonders why she does and why she didn’t before. Nothing tells her when she ponders the solitude of her stay in the Pensione Cesarina, and she senses that nothing ever will. She sees again the brown-and-green-striped tie of the old man who talked about being on your own, and the freckles that are blotches on his forehead. She sees herself walking in the morning heat past the graveyard and the rusted petrol pumps. She sees herself seeking the shade of the chestnut trees in the park, and crossing the piazza to the trattoria when the first raindrops fell. She hears the swish of the cleaner’s mop in the church of Santa Fabiola, she hears the tourist’s whisper. The fingers of the praying woman flutter on her beads, the candles flare. The story of Santa Fabiola is lost in the shadows that were once the people of her life, the family tomb reeks odorlessly of death. Rain has sweetened the breathless air, the angel comes mysteriously also.”

 

 
William Trevor (Mitchelstown, 24 mei 1928)

 
 

 

De Duitse schrijver en tekenaar Tobias Falberg werd geboren op 24 mei 1976 in Wittenberg. Zie ook alle tags voor Tobias Falberg op dit blog.

 

Oktett

Nähen Teilchen sich durch unsere Stirn, das Mark,
ziehen fester den Zwirn, lautlos, geruchlos, leicht,
der, durchs Nervenmeer webend,
unsre sinnliche Welt umspannt,

durch Schablonen ersetzt. Orte und Namen sind
hinter Rastern verblasst, deine Pupille, sie
formt sich jeden Tag fremder,
findet was sie sonst fand nicht vor.

 

 
Tobias Falberg (Wittenberg, 24 mei 1976)

 

 

De Britse schrijver Arnold Wesker werd geboren op 24 mei 1932 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Arnold Wesker op dit blog. Arnold Wesker is vorige maand op 83-jarige leeftijd overleden.

Uit: Roots

"JENNY BEALS is by the sink washing up. She is singing a recent pop song. She is short, fat and friendly, and wears glasses. A child's voice is heard from the bedroom crying 'Sweet, Mamma,
sweet.'
JENNY(good-naturedly). Shut you up Daphne and get you to sleep now. (Moves to get a dishcloth.)
child's voice.
DAPHY wan' sweet, sweet, sweet.
JENNY(going to cupboard to get sweet). My word child, Father  come home and find you awake he'll be after you. (Disappears to bedroom with sweet.) There — now sleep, gal, don't wan' you grumpy wi' me in mornin'.
(Enter JIMMY BEALS. Also short, chubby, blond though hardly any hair left, ruddy complexion. He is a garage mechanic. Wears blue dungarees and an army pack slung over his shoulder. He wheels his bike in and lays it by the wall. Seems to be in some sort of pain — around his back.
JENNY returns.) Waas matter wi' you then?
JIMMY. I don' know gal. There's a pain in my guts and one a'tween my shoulder blades I can hardly stand up.
JENNY Sit you down then an' I'll git you your supper on the table.
JIMMY Blust gal ! I can't eat yit. (Jimmy picks up a pillow from somewhere and lies down on
the sofa holding pillow to stomach. Jenny watches him a while.)
JENNY Don't you know what 'tis yit?
JIMMY Well, how should I" know what 'tis.
JENNY I told Mother about the pain and she says it's indigestion.
JIMMY What the hell's indigestion doin' a'tween my shoulder blades then ?
JENNY She say some people get indigestion so bad it go right through their stomach to the back."

 

 
Arnold Wesker (24 mei 1932 – 12 april 2016)

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 24e mei ook mijn blog van 24 mei 2015 deel 2.