De Belgische schrijver Leo Pleysier werd geboren in Rijkevorsel op 28 mei 1945.

 

Uit: De Latino’s

 

‘Een mooi plan, een goed plan, een stout plan, een sympathiek plan, een aantrekkelijk plan. Daar niet van. Alleen is er nog altijd niets van terechtgekomen tot nu toe. De realiteit zit dwars en de werkelijkheid wil niet mee. Hoe lang nog? Het ziet er voor Anna en Toon allemaal niet zo best uit nee. Hun lang gekoesterde ambitie, hun grote toekomstproject dreigt alleen maar een fictie te blijven. Een hersenschim. Een fantasie. Een misrekening. Een fiasco. Daar ziet het hoe langer hoe meer naar uit. Teleurstelling en ontgoocheling loeren al om de hoek.’

(...)

 

‘Het allermooiste kindje wordt vervolgens begraven op een kleine, terrasvormige met stenen ommuurde hoogte die zich boven Calistos verheft. […] Zo erg. Zo onrechtvaardig. Zo schrijnend. Zo triest. En toch. Wat had het een fraaie en bekoorlijke beelden kunnen opleveren als een buitenstaander op het idee was gekomen om met een camera achter deze begrafenisstoet aan te lopen om deze teraardebestelling op film vast te leggen. Want het is toch werkelijk prachtig: het majestueuze Andelandschap met daarin een minuscuul bergdorp vanwaar een kleurrijke stoet indianen zich langs een smal pad naar de hogerop gelegen begraafplaats begeeft.’

 

 

 

Leo Pleysier (Rijkevorsel, 28 mei 1945)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Frank Schätzing werd geboren in Keulen op 28 mei 1957.

 

Uit: Limit

 

“Jericho hatte die erste Maschine abgewürgt. Dieses Modell war neu und gegenüber dem Vorgänger stark verändert. Die Kontrollen erstrahlten auf einer Benutzeroberfläche, es gab keine mechanischen Elemente mehr. Er rutschte aus dem Sattel, sprang auf das zweite, laufende Airbike und tastete sich über den Touchscreen. Diesmal hatte er mehr Glück. Die Maschine reagierte, allerdings mit der Heftigkeit eines angestochenen Bullen, bockte und versuchte ihn abzuwerfen. Seine Hände umspannten die Griffe. Frü­her hatten sie waagerecht gestanden, jetzt bogen sie sich aufwärts und ließen sich in alle Richtungen drehen. Das Bike geriet in heftige Kreiselbewegung. Wie bei einem Spielautomaten blinkten die Anzeigen. Auf gut Glück berührte Jericho zwei davon, und die Karussellfahrt endete, dafür wurde er auf die Vorderfront der Zentrale zugetragen, verlagerte unmittelbar vor der Kollision sein Körpergewicht und flog eine ausgedehnte 180-Grad-Kurve. Sein Blick suchte die Umgebung ab.

Von Yoyo oder Zhao keine Spur.

Allmählich glaubte er den Bogen rauszuhaben. Er ließ die Maschine steigen, wobei er versäumte, die Dü­sen synchron zu schwenken, was ihn gleich wieder in die Bredouille brachte, weil sich das Bike nun raketengleich in den Himmel schraubte. Unaufhaltsam fühlte er sich aus dem Sattel rutschen, mühte sich mit fliegenden Fingern, den Fehler zu korrigieren, erlangte die Kontrolle zurück, flog eine weitere Kurve, den Hochofen im Auge.

Da waren sie!”

 

 

 

Frank Schätzing (Keulen, 28 mei 1957)

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijfster en columniste Maeve Binchy werd geboren op 28 mei 1940 in Dalkey.

 

Uit: Quentins

 

“When Maggie did so well in her Leaving Certificate her father said it was something that called for a Serious Celebration. The Nolan family were going out to have dinner in a hotel.

This had never happened before.

They had never even been in an ordinary restaurant let alone a hotel restaurant. Other people went to the Chinese or the Italian. It was the end of the Sixties, Ireland was coming on.

But not the Nolans. There was never the money to spare. There was so much to pay for.

And so many calls on their time. Mrs Nolan's Mam lived with them for one thing and Mr Nolan's Dad had to have his dinner cooked for him and brought over to his flat every day.

Maggie was the eldest of five.

Mr Nolan worked in charge of the bacon counter at one of those old-fashioned grocery stores that people said were on the way out. He was very happy and well respected there but of course if the store really were on the way out it would be hard for Mr Nolan to get another job.

Mrs Nolan worked as a cleaner in the hospital. She was very popular with the nurses and the patients, but the work was long and tiring, her veins were bad and she hoped she would be able to continue until all the children were accounted for.

Maggie was the eldest of five. The others were all boys who wanted to play for English soccer teams. They had no interest in their studies and were utterly amazed that their big sister had got enough marks in exams to make people talk seriously about her going to University. They were even more amazed that their father was going to take them to the big posh hotel where nobody they knew had even been inside the door.

But he kept saying Maggie’s marks would mean nothing unless there was a Serious Celebration.

"Will it be just the three of you – Mam, Dad and Maggie?" they wanted to know.

"A family celebration," he insisted.”

 

 

 

Maeve Binchy (Dalkey, 28 mei 1940)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor alle bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

 

 

 

De Indiaase dichter, vertaler en literatuurwetenschapper K. Satchidanandan werd geboren op 28 mei 1946 in centraal Kerala. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

The Mad

The mad have no caste

nor religion. They transcend

gender, live outside

ideologies. We do not deserve

their innocence.

 

Their language is not of dreams

but of another reality. Their love

is moonlight. It overflows

on the full moon day.

 

Looking up they see

gods we have never heard of. They are

shaking their wings when

we fancy they are

shrugging their shoulders. They hold

even flies have souls

and the green god of grasshoppers

leaps up on thin legs.

 

At times they see trees bleed, hear

lions roaring from the streets. At times

they watch Heaven gleaming

in a kitten’s eyes, just as

we do. But they alone can hear

ants sing in a chorus.

 

While patting the air

they are taming a cyclone

over the Mediterranean. With

their heavy tread, they stop

a volcano from erupting.

 

They have another measure

of time. Our century is

their second. Twenty seconds,

and they reach Christ; six more,

they are with the Buddha.

 

In a single day, they reach

the big bang at the beginning.

 

They go on walking restless for

their earth is boiling still.

 

The mad are not

mad like us.

 

Door de dichter zelf uit het Malayalam vertaald

 

 

 

 

K. Satchidanandan (Kerala, 28 mei 1946)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 28^e mei ook mijn vorige drie blogs van vandaag.

De Ierse dichter en songwriter Thomas Moore werd geboren op 28 mei 1779 in Dublin. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009. en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2008. en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2006.

 

 

 

Alone in Crowds to Wander On 

 

Alone in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone

Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved --

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and loved to see

The few bright things they thought would stay

For ever near them, die away.

 

Though fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone

Round those the fond heart calls its own,

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice -- where are they now?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

 

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,

If all her art cannot call forth

One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

No, no -- her spell in vain --

As soon could she bring back again

Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

As wake again one bliss they gave. 

 

 

 

 

Thomas Moore (28 mei 1779 – 25 februari 1852)

Portret door Martin Archer Shee, ca.1817

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Walker Percy werd geboren op 28 mei 1916 in Birmingham, Alabama. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Walker Percy: A Life (Door Patrick H. Samway, S.J.)

 

“It is said that anyone who grows up in the Mississippi Delta knows the anecdotal histories of 1,200 people, and indeed many Southerners pride themselves on their ability to trace quickly some fairly complicated family trees. Although Walker Percy rarely spoke about his family history (see the Appendix), he knew that it was both long and complicated. His sense of it was deeply embedded in his consciousness, because certain prominent last names were often repeated as first or middle names in subsequent generations of Percys--a common feature of Southern nomenclature.

Such naming guaranteed that the ghostly presence of an ancestor would haunt the person carrying it. For example, his grandfather was named Walker Percy, his great-grandfather's brother was John Walker Percy, and his great-great-grandfather's wife's brother-in-law, John Williams Walker, had a son, LeRoy Pope Walker, who was Secretary of War under Confederate President Jefferson Davis and a brigadier general in the Confederate Army. (Walker Percy once wrote his friend Shelby Foote that he took the name of John when he converted to Catholicism because he had "two Southern surnames for a name, even if one of them was that of a distinguished Confederate Sec'y of State." Foote corrected him about Secretary Walker--"he wasn't distinguished" and he was Secretary of War.) In reverse irony, LeRoy Walker's brother was Percy Walker--a name fans often misused for Walker Percy (if they were not miscalling him Perry Walters). In addition, family names seem to be constantly recycled, sometimes in a curiously asexual manner. Walker Percy's brother, Billups Phinizy ("Phin") Percy, for example, has a daughter, Melissa Phinizy Percy, who is married to a second cousin, Bolling Phinizy Spalding, and their son is named Phinizy Percy Spalding. Indicative of Walker's own awareness of his ancestry, one of his daughters, Mary Pratt Percy Lobdell, is named after her great-grandmother Mary Pratt DeBardeleben Percy, a key figure in the Percy family history. (In one draft of the novel The Thanatos Syndrome, Percy has a character named Alice Pratt, in this case a young woman from Montgomery, Alabama.) Since he spent his formative years in Birmingham (Alabama), Athens (Georgia), and Greenville (Mississippi), he willy-nilly learned his family history from Percy, Debardeleben, and Phinizy relatives.“

 

 

 

Walker Percy (28 mei 1916 – 10 mei 1990)

 

 

 

 

De Australische schrijver Patrick White werd geboren in Londen op 28 mei 1912. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Voss

 

'Sanderson was a man of a certain culture, which his passionate search for truth had rid of intellectual ostentation. In another age the landowner might have become a monk, and from there gone on to become a hermit. In the mid nineteenth century, an English gentleman and a devoted husband did not behave in such a manner, so he renounced Belgravia for New South Wales, and learned to mortify himself in other ways. Because he was rich and among the first to arrive, he had acquired a goodish slice of land. After this victory of world pride, almost unavoidable perhaps in anyone in his class, humility had set in. He did live most simply, together with his modest wife. They were seldom idle, unless the reading of books, after the candles were lit, be considered idleness. This was the one thing people held against the Sandersons, and it certainly did seem vain and peculiar. They had whole rows of books, bound in leather, and were forever devouring them. They would pick out passages for each other as if they had been tidbits of tender meat, and afterwards shine with almost physical pleasure. Beyond this, there was nothing to which a man might take exception. Sanderson tended his flocks and herds like any other Christian. If he was more prosperous than most, one did not notice it unduly, and both he and his wife would wash their servants' feet in many thoughtful and imperceptible ways.

'We are how many miles now from your property?' Voss would ask on and off.

And Sanderson would tell.

'I am most anxious to see it,' Voss said invariably.

Places yet unvisited can become an obsession, promising final peace, all goodness. So the fallible man in Voss was yearning after Rhine Towers, investing it with those graces which one hopes to find at the heart of every mirage, entering its mythical buildings, kindling a great fire in the expectant hearth Its name glittered for him, as he rode repeating it to himself.'

 

 

 

Patrick White (28 mei 1912 - 30 september 1990)

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse schrijver en dichter Sjoerd Leiker werd geboren in Drachten op 28 mei 1914. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Piet Calis. De vrienden van weleer. Schrijvers en tijdschriften tussen 1945 en 1948

 

“Tijdens de gesprekken tussen Leiker en Lubberhuizen kwam ook de gedachte op om het tijdschrift voor zowel oudere als jongere schrijvers open te stellen. Hoe dat in het vat gegoten moest worden, bleef nog vaag. Wel werd met het idee gespeeld daartoe twee zelfstandige redacties aan te stellen.

Leiker vertelde in 1983 over het tijdschrift: ‘Voor dat blad heb ik de naam Voorpost bedacht. Als oud-militair vond ik dat een geschikte naam voor een literair tijdschrift.’2 Denkbaar is overigens dat Leiker ook op dat idee gebracht werd door een blad onder de naam Voorpost dat de jonge schrijvers A. Marja en Hanno van Wagenvoorde al in 1940 hadden willen oprichten en waarbij ook Anna Blaman betrokken was geweest.

Leiker vertelde verder: ‘Geert Lubberhuizen met zijn grote liefde voor het mooi verzorgde boek vond dat Voorpost in een portefeuille moest worden uitgegeven. Dus losse rijmprenten op klein formaat en een novelle in fraai gebonden vorm. Daar is ook materiaal voor verzameld. Mijn voorstel was om helemaal geen schuilnamen meer te gebruiken, maar om die prenten en die boekjes die dan in zo'n portefeuille zouden zitten, anoniem te  publiceren. Voorpost zou dus een verzameling losse teksten en boekjes worden.’

Afgesproken werd een werkgroep te vormen, die de publicatie van het blad voorbereiden zou. Leiker ging daartoe allereerst op zoek in eigen kring.”

 

 

Sjoerd Leiker (28 mei 1914 - 15 december 1988)

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Fritz Hochwälder werd geboren op 28 mei 1911 in Wenen. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: F. Hale: Fritz Hochwälders Das Heilige Experiment

 

„Das heilige Experiment gave Hochwälder his breakthrough as a renowned playwright. He began to do serious research on the Jesuit enterprise in South America at the Central Library in Zürich, where he also read Dostoevsky’s The brothers Karamazov and The demons. In fact, however, Hochwälder’s first serious exposure to the history of the Society of Jesus had come two years before his departure from Austria when he read René Fülöp-Miller’s Macht und Geheimnis der Jesuiten.5 When interviewed after the Second World War about the etiology of Das heilige Experiment, he attributed it in part to this work, in which both the accomplishments and the darker sides of the history of the Society of Jesus are emphasised. “From then on I had a theme working inside me, but not anchored yet to any dramatic structure,” Hochwälder recalled. The National Socialist takeover of Austria and German expansion elsewhere in Europe provided that framework. Upon reading The demons, he was struck by Dostoevsky’s prediction of “the danger of a faithless socialism which in its very materialistic faithlessness will acquire a religious tinge. Suddenly I felt the play focus inside me.” This inspiration prompted Hochwälder to request a two-month leave of absence from the refugee labour camp in the canton of Ticino where he was then residing. This was granted late in 1941. Armed with a pencil and a

modest amount of paper, the young Austrian went to the balcony of a house overlooking Ascona. Hochwälder initially hoped to use this period to work out the philosophical problems inherent in the play germinating in his mind, but his creativity accelerated to a level unprecedented in his brief career. At the end of his furlough, most of the manuscript was thus complete, albeit in a rudimentary and never published form titled Die Jesuiten in Paraguay.6 This proto-text took less than three weeks to write in December 1941.“

 

 

 

Fritz Hochwälder (28 mei 1911 – 20 oktober 1986)

De Britse schrijver Ian Fleming werd geboren op 28 mei 1908 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit:  Live and Let Die

 

'You're very welcome, Mr Bond.' Halloran smiled and offered him a cigarette from a fresh pack of Luckies. 'We want to make your stay comfortable. Anything you want, just say so and it's yours. You've got some good friends in Washington. I don't myself know why you're here but it seems the authorities are keen that you should be a privileged guest of the Government. It's my job to see you get to your hotel as quickly and as comfortably as possible and then I'll hand over and be on my way. May I have your passport a moment, please.'

Bond gave it to him. Halloran opened a briefcase on the seat beside him and took out a heavy metal stamp. He turned the pages of Bond's passport until he came to the US Visa, stamped it, scribbled his signature over the dark blue circle of the Department of Justice cypher and gave it back to him. Then he took out his pocket-book and extracted a thick white envelope which he gave to Bond.

'There's a thousand dollars in there, Mr Bond.' He held up his hand as Bond started to speak. 'And it's Communist money we took in the Schmidt-Kinaski haul. We're using it back at them and you are asked to co-operate and spend this in any way you like on your present assignment. I am advised that it will be considered a very unfriendly act if you refuse. Let's please say no more about it and,' he added, as Bond continued to hold the envelope dubiously in his hand, 'I am also to say that the disposal of this money through your hands has the knowledge and approval of your own Chief.'

Bond eyed him narrowly and then grinned. He put the envelope away in his notecase.

'All right,' he said. 'And thanks. I'll try and spend it where it does most harm. I'm glad to have some working capital. It's certainly good to know it's been provided by the opposition.'

'Fine,' said Halloran; 'and now, if you'll forgive me, I'll just write up my notes for the report I'll have to put in. Have to remember to get a letter of thanks sent to Immigration and Customs and so forth for their co-operation. Routine.'

 

 

 

Ian Fleming (28 mei 1908 – 12 augustus 1964)

Fleming hier met Sean Connery (l)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver, journalist en verzamelaar Henri-Pierre Roché werd op 28 mei 1879 geboren te Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Jules et Jim

 

"-Vous avez aimé, Jim. Pour de bon, Jim. Cela se sent. Pourquoi ne l’avez-vous pas épousée?
-Cela n’est pas arrivé.
-Où est-elle ?
-En France
Comment est-elle ?
-Pure, elle aussi.
Jim sentit une pression du bras de Lucie.
-Vous l’aimez encore, et elle vous aime ?
-Oui, mais nous nous voyons peu, bien que nous soyons libres.
-Ne faites pas souffrir, Jim…
-Et puis, il y a du nouveau.
-Lequel ?
-Je vous admire, Lucie. J’ai pris gout à vous voir. Je crains d’oublier Jules.
-Il ne faut pas l’oublier, il faut le prévenir.
[…]
L’été tourna vite. Jules fit sa demande à Lucie, ajoutant que, quelle que fût sa réponse, il resterait toujours à sa merci. Lucie lui dit qu’elle était touchée, qu’elle ne pourrait probablement jamais l’épouser, et qu’elle souhaitait que leur grande amitié n’en souffrît pas.
Jules, qui s’y attendait pourtant, devint blanc, lui baisa les mains, et vint trouver Jim.
-Jim, dit-il, Lucie ne veut pas de moi. J’ai la terreur de la perdre et qu’elle sorte tout à fait de ma vie. Jim, aimez-la, épousez-la, et laissez-moi la voir. Je veux dire : si vous l’aimez, cessez de penser que je suis un obstacle. "

 

 

 

Henri-Pierre Roché (28 mei 1879 – 9 april 1959)

Scene uit de film Jules et Jim van François Truffaut

 

 

 

 

 

De Russische dichter, schrijver en schilder Maximilian Voloshin werd geboren op 28 mei 1877 in Kiev. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

 

Koktebel

 

As in the tiny shell – the Ocean

With mighty breathing hums, concealed inside,

As flesh of her is flickering and burns

With silver shimmer of the air of foggy,

And curvatures of her reiterate

Their look in movements and in curls of waves, –

So in your harbors my entire soul,

Oh Cimmerian country dark of mine,

Is captivated and transfigured truly.

 

Since being adolescent by the silent

The solemn, godforsaken shores

I woke up – my soul opened widely,

And thought was grown up and shaped, and sculptured

On folds of rocks, on curvatures of hills,

The fire of the depths and rainy moisture

With double chisel your appearance built –

Monotonous formation of the hills

And strain of Kara-Dag's intensive pathos.

 

Indented concentration of the rocks

Along with prairies and flickering expances

Gave freedom to my verse and measure to my thought.

Since then are saturated with my dreams

Heroic reveries of drowsing foothills

And stone mane of wistful Koktebel;

His wormwood's getting drunken with my pang,

My verse is singing in the surging ocean,

And on the rock, enclosing rippled harbor,

By fate and wind is sculptured my profile.

 

 

 

 

Vertaald door I. Larkov

 

 

 

Maximilian Voloshin (28 mei 1877 – 11 augustus 1932)

Buste in de studeerkamer van Voloshins huis in Koktebel

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Maria Müller-Gögler werd geboren op 28 mei 1900 in Leutkirch im Allgäu. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

 

Willkommen

 

Die Liebe hat dich hergerufen,

und Liebe gibt dir das Geleit.

Sie stützt dich auf den ersten Stufen

des schweren Weges durch die Lebenszeit,

bleibt später auch an deiner Seite,

stärkt dich noch mehr als Milch und Brot.

Auch in der ungeschützten Weite

hilft sie bestehen, was dich fremd umdroht.

 

Du bist in eine Zeit geboren,

vor deren Zeichen manchem bangt,

der seine Zuversicht verloren,

weil er im Glauben an die Liebe wankt.

Er ängstigt sich vielleicht gleich scheuen,

verfolgten Tieren in der Nacht.

Du fürchtest nichts, du darfst dich freuen,

weil deiner Eltern Liebe dich bewacht.

 

 

 

 

Maria Müller-Gögler (28 mei 1900 – 23 september 1987)

Leutkirch im Allgäu (Geen portret beschikbaar)

De Deense dichter en schrijver Bernhard Severin Ingemann werd geboren op 28 mei 1789 in Thorkildstrup op het eiland Falster. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: The Sealed Room

 

„Madame Wolff had in vain endeavored to avoid using the great hall at all, for the foolish old legend of the sealed chamber aroused a certain superstitious dread in her heart, and she rarely if ever entered the hall herself.  But merry Miss Elizabeth, her pretty young daughter, was passionately fond of dancing, and her mother had promised that she should have a ball on her wedding day.  Her betrothed, Secretary Winther, was also a good dancer, and the two young people combated the mother's prejudice against the hall and laughed at her fear of the sealed room.  They

thought it would be wiser to appear to ignore the stupid legend altogether, and thus to force the world to forget it.  In spite of secret misgivings Madame Wolff yielded to their arguments.  And for

the first time in many years the merry strains of dance music were heard in the great hall that lay next the mysterious sealed chamber.

The bridal couple, as well as the wedding guests, were in the gayest mood, and the ball was an undoubted success.  The dancing was interrupted for an hour while supper was served in an adjoining

room.  After the repast the guests returned to the hall, and it was several hours more before the last dance was called.  The season was early autumn and the weather still balmy.  The windows had been

opened to freshen the air.  But the walls retained their dampness and suddenly the dancers noticed that the old wall paper which covered the partition wall between the hall and the sealed chamber

had been loosened through the jarring of the building, and had fallen away from the sealed door with its mysterious inscription.“

 

 

 

Bernhard Severin Ingemann (28 mei 1789 – 24 februari 1862)

Portret door A. I. Koop, 1822

 

 

 

 

De Zwitserse schrijver Johann David Wyss werd geboren op 28 mei 1743 in Bern. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: The Swiss Family Robinson

 

“Amid the roar of the thundering waves I suddenly heard the cry of “Land, land!” while at the same instant the ship struck with a frightful shock, which threw everyone to the deck and seemed to threaten her immediate destruction.
Dreadful sounds betokened the breaking up of the ship, and the roaring waters poured in on all sides:
Then the voice of the captain was heard above the tumult shouting, “Lower away the boats! We are lost!”
“Lost!” I exclaimed, and the word went like a dagger to my heart; but seeing my children’s terror renewed, I composed myself, calling out cheerfully, “Take courage, my boys! We are all above water yet. There is the land not far off; let us do our best to reach it. You know God helps those that help themselves!” With that, I left them and went on deck. What was my horror when through the foam and spray I beheld the only remaining boat leave the ship, the last of the seamen spring into her and push off, regardless of my cries and entreaties that we might be allowed to share their slender chance of preserving their lives. My voice was drowned in the howling of the blast; and even had the crew wished it, the return of the boat was impossible.
Casting my eyes despairingly around, I became gradually aware that our position was by no means hopeless, inasmuch as the stern of the ship containing our cabin was jammed between two high rocks, and was partly raised from among the breakers which dashed the fore part to pieces. As the clouds of mist and rain drove past, I could make out, through rents in the vaporous curtain, a line of rocky coast, and rugged as it was, my heart bounded toward it as a sign of help in the hour of need. Yet the sense of our lonely and forsaken condition weighed heavily upon me as I returned to my family, constraining myself to say with a smile, “Courage, dear ones! Although our good ship will never sail more, she is so placed that our cabin will remain above water, and tomorrow, if the wind and waves abate, I see no reason why we should not be able to get ashore.”

 

 

 

Johann David Wyss (28 mei 1743 – 11 januari 1818)

Een van de uitgaven van The Swiss Family Robinson

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Cornelius Hermann von Ayrenhoff werd geboren op 28 mei 1733 in Wenen. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Virginia oder das abgeschaffte Decemvirat

 

„MARCUS.

Bald, Lucius, entweicht mir die Geduld.

So lange weilt kein Flamen in dem Tempel

wie dieses Mädchen.

LUCIUS.

Wahr! – Nun schließe, Freund,

von Deiner Ungeduld auf die, die jetzt

des Appius Erwartung spannt! Sein Herz

scheint ein Vulkan entflammter Leidenschaft.

Kaum war es Mitternacht, so ließ er schon

mich rufen, daß ich ja dich früh genug

zur That ermahnte, früh genug ihm dann

vom Ausschlag Nachricht brächte.

MARCUS.

Sollte denn

Verhaftung eines Weibs, noch beynah Kinds,

ein Werk von ungewissem Ausschlag seyn?

LUCIUS.

Selbst diese Furcht des Allgewaltigen

verräth die Stärke seiner Leidenschaft.

Doch Marcus – oft vernahm ich von dir selbst,

in deiner Lälia getreuen Brust

herrsch' Eifersucht mit unzähmbarer Macht:

wird sie wohl ruhig sehn, daß du das schönste

von allen Mädchen Roms nach Hause bringest?

 

 

 

 

Cornelius Hermann von Ayrenhoff (28 mei 1733 – 15 augustus 1819)

Wenen (Geen portret beschikbaar)

 

 

 

 

De Chinese dichter Xin Qiji werd geboren op 28 mei 1140 in Jinan, in de provicie Shandong. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 mei 2009.

 

 

Lines Written on a Wall of Dongliu Village

 

Wild pear blossoms start falling again,

so soon, the Qingming festival over.

The cruel eastern wind, for no reason,

interrupts a traveler’s dream.

I awake, the brocade curtain

devastatingly cold. Once,

she held the drink to me

on the winding river bank,

and we bade farewell to each other

under a weeping willow tree

with my horse tethered to it.

Now, the pavilion deserted,

there is no trace of her,

only the swallows twittering about bygones.

 

She’s been seen, people say,

east of the bustling thoroughfare,

behind the curtain, still as graceful

as the new moon. Old regrets

run like the endless spring water. New griefs

pile up like the clouds over the mountains.

If we were going to meet again,

at a banquet, to tell her all this

would be impossible

as to pluck the flower from a mirror.

She would say, perhaps,

"How white your hair has grown!"

 

 

Vertaald door Qiu Xiaolong

 

 

 

 

Xin Qiji (28 mei 1140 – 1207)