Berichten van 18 februari 2011

80 Jaar Toni Morisson

 

De Afro-Amerikaans schrijfster Toni Morrison werd geboren op 18 februari 1931 in Lorain, Ohio. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010. Toni Morisson viert vandaag haar 80e verjaardag.

 

Uit: The Bluest Eye

 

„Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men and sober eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel. Rosemary Villanucci, our next-door friend who lives above her father's cafe, sits in a 1939 Buick eating bread and butter. She rolls down the window to tell my sister Frieda and me that we can't come in. We stare at her, wanting her bread, but more than that wanting to poke the arrogance out of her eyes and smash the pride of ownership that curls her chewing mouth. When she comes out of the car we will beat her up, make red marks on her white skin, and she will cry and ask us do we want her to pull her pants down. We will say no. We don't know what we should feel or do if she does, but whenever she asks us, we know she is offering us something precious and that our own pride must be asserted by refusing to accept.
School has started, and Frieda and I get new brown stockings and cod-liver oil. Grown-ups talk in tired, edgy voices about Zick's Coal Company and take us along in the evening to the railroad tracks where we fill burlap sacks with the tiny pieces of coal lying about. Later we walk home, glancing back to see the great carloads of slag being dumped, red hot and smoking, into the ravine that skirts the steel mill. The dying fire lights the sky with a dull orange glow. Frieda and I lag behind, staring at the patch of color surrounded by black. It is impossible not to feel a shiver when our feet leave the gravel path and sink into the dead grass in the field.
Our house is old, cold, and green. At night a kerosene lamp lights one large room. The others are braced in darkness, peopled by roaches and mice. Adults do not talk to us -- they give us directions. They issue orders without providing information. When we trip and fall down they glance at us; if we cut or bruise ourselves, they ask us are we crazy. When we catch colds, they shake their heads in disgust at our lack of consideration. How, they ask us, do you expect anybody to get anything done if you all are sick? We cannot answer them. Our illness is treated with contempt, foul Black Draught, and castor oil that blunts our minds.“

 

 

 

Toni Morrison (Lorain, 18 februari 1931)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Nick McDonell werd geboren op 18 februari 1984 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: An Expensive Education

 

„Kenya-Somalia Border, 200X

That morning a young American named Michael Teak drove North through the rolling scrub on a mission for his government, which was at that time the most powerful in the world. A kite, hunting on well-traveled winds from the Indian Ocean, floated overhead as his Land Cruiser bumped slowly over the remote track. Teak was in no hurry to reach the village under the white sun of the afternoon. Evening would be cooler and, he hoped, calm.

It was a simple mission, really. Deliver some money and a cell phone to a rebel named Hatashil, take a look around. Too good to be true had been Teak’s first thought when he finished reading the file on Hatashil. Hatashil was a freedom fighter. An autodidact orphan warrior. A humanitarian and a leader. Teak was trained to be wary of those words, as if promise too bright was never fulfilled, ultimately betrayed. Daylight on colonial brick.

But Teak had been comfortably in-country for a year-and-a-half and also thought that maybe, it didn’t have to be that way. Or at least, he didn’t have to be that way. He wasn’t sure. This was his problem and as he drove deeper into the green and brown landscape he felt disconnected from it, and then alienated too from his car, his gun. It occurred to him that finally on the right kind of mission, he might be the wrong kind of guy. He chalked this up to nerves and drove on, which was what, he understood at age twenty five, a professional did.

There were five suitcases in the back seat. Cheap luggage for poor travelers, inelegant, plastic. They were Teak’s second cover. He stopped the truck and consulted his phone, checking his position against the village coordinates. On track, on time.

As he shifted back into gear, Teak noticed movement on the horizon. Through a gap in a stand of acacias far down the track, a dust cloud. It was the first dust he had seen in over a hundred miles and he resumed his drive at a faster pace. He lost sight of the cloud, caught sight again as it rose over the trees. At best a lunatic safari, at worst — Teak briefly recalled the tortures that had come to one of his predecessors, his jellies scooped out, his abdomen cut to bits on rusty blades. Tied to a tree and left to die. No reason to waste a bullet.“

 

 

 

 

Nick McDonell (New York, 18 februari 1984)

 

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse dichter Bart FM Droog werd geboren in Emmen op 18 februari 1966. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

 

Back Home

 

Het leven raast
tussen steden
en terloopse slaapplaatsen
elke dag
een ander ontwaken

mijn huis
is waar
mijn lichaam is

in de steensteeg
van vervalstad

of in de luxe
van het dollarhotel

ben ik thuis
waar mijn lichaam
ook wezen mag.

 

 

 

Mens op planeet aarde

 

Europa, Azië, Afrika - ik verzamel
continenten werkwijs - ik wijs
toerisme af en waan me werker
in een wereld die naar rotting stinkt

ach, hoe mooi de sterren, hoe onbedorven
de planeten waar nooit mensen waren
met machines die aarde vraten, wateren
ontvisten en vergiftigen, ja voordien

'k zou me moeten schamen, 'k zou
zoveel excuses aan moeten bieden
maar aan wie o wie o wie.

 

 

 

Bart FM Droog (Emmen, 18 februari 1966)

Portret door Cornelis van der Wal

 

 

 

 

De Nederlandse dichter,vertaler en schilder Huub Beurskens is geboren in Tegelen op 18 februari 1950. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2008. en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

 

De fles olijfolie

 

De olijven oogst men in de winter.

 

Al hadden we hun kern: werden

alleen maar onze duimen uitgeperst,

vergingen we al en bevatten niets dan de pijn.

 

Zíj triomferen. Ze blijken een en al verzameling

van zomerlicht te zijn. Als de druiven

die hen voorgingen, in de wijn. Ik

 

hoor een meisje zingen, ze slaat de tamboerijn,

negen anderen dansen onafgebroken achten.

Kan het leven zo oneindig zijn? Ja. Ik

 

kijk naar buiten. Kranteproppen waaien

uit gebroken ruiten. Deuren blijven klappen

voor onbedeelden die zo hologig zitten kleumen

dat zelfs de storm niet anders kan dan

hen bespelen als zijn instrumenten.

 

En het blijft maar sneeuwen. Sterven,

daar is niets op tegen. Maar een slecht bewind...

 

In de winter, een fles olie uit Toscane,

en ik, revolutionair gezind.

 

 

 

Huub Beurskens (Tegelen, 18 februari 1950)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Elke Erb werd geboren op 18 februari 1938 in Scherbach in de Eifel. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

 

Netz

 

1

Ja freilich folgt man einem Anreiz zu springen

lieber, und sei es als ein Sack-Leck Flöhe, ins Feld

(schau die tanzenden Samen – sehr kleine Kinder),

selbst als Regen! lieber

 

als gegangenen Wege,

oder gar Brücken! über Sümpfe! Sumpfbäche! Klüfte!

Bahnen für Handel & Wandel.

 

 

2

Andererseits geradeaus, des Wegs, woher, wohin,

pfeifend! Treidler! Das Dorf lag noch im Schlaf.

 

Die bleichen Straßen der Vorstadt. Ja, wieso? Trödelbleich!

Die geblähte, schmähliche, ziellose Tüte im Gras.

 

Wind. Reise, Reise und Wind.

Hier und da Menschen, zur Frühschicht.

 

Aber dort vorn ein Plural gequirlt. Eine Reise-

Gesellschaft? Morgenlicht auf den Rucksäcken?

 

 

 

Elke Erb (Scherbach, 18 februari 1938)

 

 

 

 

De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Gaston Burssens werd geboren in Dendermonde op 18 februari 1896. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

 

Venus

 

In d'ijskoude vroege morgen
stapt een venus op 't trottoir;
't blonde kopje zonder zorgen
als een ordeloos boudoir.

Vroege werklui stappen dreunend
op het grauwe makadam;
hevig rinkelend rijdt, en kreunend
op de rails, een vroege tram.

Verder glijdt met korte stapjes
't blondje met wat moe gelaat,
en ze hoort de vuile grapjes
van de werklui in de straat.

't Venusdiertje trad voorzichtig
uit het zalig zondenest;
't wipt de tram in en doorzichtig
nu naar huis de dorst gelest.

 

 

 

Vrouwtje is dood

 

Ik spreek van u tegen mijn hond

Hij luistert met gestrekte oren

Alsof hij u door mij kan horen

Alsof hij u in mij verstond

 

Toen hij zijn poot gebroken had

En gij hem schreiend hebt verbonden

Keek hij naar u met ogen nat

Van dankbaarheid als alle honden

 

Maar deze blik die hij mij geeft

Nu ik hem spreek van ons verleden

Dat in zijn hondenleven leeft

Is zijn blik die geen ander heeft

 

Zo met ons drie’n is hij tevreden.

 

 

 

Gaston Burssens (18 februari 1896 – 29 januari 1965)

Gaston Burssens in 1917

 

 

 

 

De Griekse dichter en schrijver Níkos Kazantzákis werd geboren in Heraklion op  18 februari 1883. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: The Greek Passion or Christ Recrucified (Vertaald door Jonathan Griffin)

 

“For an instant Manolios’s heart failed him, he turned to the door - it was closed; he looked at the three lit lamps and, under them, the icons loaded with ex-votos: Christ, red-cheeked, with carefully combed hair, was smiling; the Virgin Mary, bending over the child was taking no interest in what was happening under her eyes. Saint John the Baptist was preaching in the desert. He raised his eyes toward the vault of the church and made out in the half-light the face of the Almighty, bending pitilessly over mankind. He looked at the crowd about him; it was as if in the darkness he saw the gleam of daggers. The strident voice of old Ladas squeaked once more: “Let’s kill him!” At the same moment, violent blows were struck upon the door; all fell silent and turned toward the entrance; furious voices could be heard distinctly: “Open! Open!” “That’s the voice of father Fotis!” someone cried. “Yannakos’s voice,” said another; “the Sarakini have come to take him from us!” The door was shaken violently, its hinges creaked; there could be heard a great tumult of men and women outside. “open, murderers! Have you no fear of God?” came the voice of father Fotis, distinctly. Priest Grigoris raised his hands. “In the name of Christ,” he cried, “ I take the sin upon me! Do it, Panayotaros.” Panayotaros drew the dagger and turned to father Grigoris. “With your blessing, Father!” he asked. “With my blessing, strike!”

 

 

 

Níkos Kazantzákis (18 februari 1883 - 26 oktober 1957)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 18e februari ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

75 Jaar Jean M. Auel

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jean Marie Auel werd geboren op 18 februari 1936 in Chicago. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010. Jean M. Auel viert vandaag haar 75e verjaardag.

 

Uit: The Land of Painted Caves

 

„The band of travelers walked along the path between theclear sparkling water of Grass River and theblack-streaked whitelimestone cliff, following the trail that paralleled the right bank. They went single fi le around the bend where the stone wall jutted out closerto the water’s edge. Ahead a smaller path split off at an angletowardthe crossing place, where the fl owing water spread out and becameshallower, bubbling around exposed rocks.Before they reached the fork in the trail, a young woman near thefront suddenly stopped, her eyes opening wide as she stood perfectly still, staring ahead. She pointed with her chin, not wanting to move.“Look! Over there!” she said in a hissing whisper of fear. “Lions!”Joharran, the leader, lifted his arm, signaling the band to a halt. Justbeyond the place where the trail diverged, they now saw  pale-tawny cave lions moving around in the grass. The grass was such effectivecamoufl age, however, that they might not have noticed them untilthey were much closer, if ithadn’t been for the sharp eyes of Thefona.The young woman from the Third Cave had exceptionally good vi-sion, and though she was quite young, she was noted for her ability tosee far and well. Her innate talent had been recognized early and they had begun training her when she was a small girl; she was their bestlookout.Near the back of the group, walking in front of three horses, Aylaand Jondalar looked up to see what was causing the delay.“

 

 

 

Jean M. Auel (Chicago,  18 februari 1936)

 

 

 

 

De Hongaarse schrijver en journalist Mór Jókai werd geboren op 18 februari 1825 in Komárom. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: The Baron’s Sons (Vertaald door Percy Favor Bicknell)

 

„The post-prandial orator was in the midst of his toast, the champagne-foam ran over the edge of his

glass and trickled down his fat fingers, his lungs were expanded and his vocal chords strained to the utmost in the delivery of the well-rounded period upon which he was launched, and the blood was rushing to his head in the generous enthusiasm of the moment. In that brilliant circle of guests every man held his hand in readiness on the slender stem of his glass and waited, all attention, for the toast to come to an end in a final dazzling display of oratorical pyrotechnics. The attendants hastened to fill the half-empty glasses, and the leader of the gypsy orchestra, which was stationed at the farther end of the hall, held his violin-bow in the air, ready to fall in at the right moment with a burst of melody that should drown the clinking of glasses at the close of the toast.

At this point the family physician entered noiselessly and whispered a few .words in the ear of the

hostess, who was presiding at the banquet, and who immediately rose and, with a mute gesture of apology to those of the guests who sat near her, withdrew from the room. Meanwhile the orator continued :

" May that honoured man who, like a second Atlas, bears the burden of our country on his shoulders,

whom all future ages will reverence as the type of true patriotism, who is the leader of our party's forces in their march to victory, and whom we all regard as our light-giving pharos, a tower of strength to our side and the bulwark of our cause, though at present he is unfortunately unable to be with us in person,—may he, I say, live to enjoy renewed health and strength and to bear forward the banner of his party for many, many years to come !“

 

 

 

 

Mór Jókai (18 februari 1825 – 5 mei 1904)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijfster Hedwig Courths-Mahler werd geboren in Nebra (Saksen-Anhalt) op 18 februari 1867. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: Ich lieb' in dir die ganze Welt

 

„Umso besser, wenn du dich in sie verlieben kannst, Lothar. Jedenfalls musst du alles daran setzen, sie zu bestimmen, deine Frau zu werden, und zwar so bald wie möglich.“
„Ja doch, Lilly, das ist doch ausgemachte Sache“, erwiderte der Graf. „Aber übers Knie brechen lässt sich so etwas nicht“, fügte er hinzu.
Die Komtess seufzte. „Am besten wäre es, du bist schon einig mit ihr, ehe Rüdiger wieder heimkommt. Bedenke nur, welch ein Triumph das für dich wäre, wenn du als Herr über Rottberg sein Nachbar würdest. Dann brauchtest du dich nicht mehr vor ihm zu ducken, dann wärst du mindestens so reich wie er. Und du könntest ihm den Bettel vor die Füße werfen, den er dir jetzt wie ein Gnadengeschenk zuwirft.“
Graf Lothar atmete tief durch. „Ja, Gott, das wünsche ich auch. Ich habe dieses Leben satt. Mit Zittern und Zagen denke ich an die Klemme, in der ich jetzt wieder sitze. Ich habe wieder verwünschtes Pech im Spiel gehabt und muss Rüdiger beichten, sobald er heimkommt. Das wird wieder einen schönen Sermon geben, zumal jetzt, wo er in so scheußlicher Stimmung sein wird. Ich bin nur neugierig, wie die ganze Chose in Berlin verlaufen ist. Schade, dass wir noch nichts gehört haben.“
In diesem Moment kam Annedore heran. Graf Lothar sprang auf und ging der Baroness entgegen. „Endlich geht die Sonne wieder auf!“, sagte er, ihr den Arm mit einer eleganten Verbeugung reichend.
Die Baroness errötete. „Sie irren, Graf Lothar, die Sonne wird bald untergehen.“
„Meine Sonne hoffentlich nicht“, erwiderte er schmachtend. „Ich habe Sie mit Sehnsucht erwartet.“
Sie nahmen am Teetisch Platz. Lilly füllte selbst die Tassen und reichte sie dem Bruder und Annedore.
„Ist immer noch keine Nachricht von Graf Rüdiger eingetroffen?“, fragte Annedore.
„Nein, noch immer nicht. Unser Bruder ist, wie immer, sehr rücksichtslos uns gegenüber und lässt es uns stets in kränkender Weise spüren, dass wir hier nur geduldet sind, obgleich Lindeck unser Vaterhaus ist wie das seine.“
„Oh, das ist hässlich!“, sagte Annedore entrüstet.“

 

 

 

Hedwig Courths-Mahler (18 februari 1867 - 26 november 1950)

 

 

 

 

De Noorse schrijver Alexander Lange Kielland werd geboren in Stavanger op 18 februari 1849. ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: Tales of Two Countries (Vertaald door William Archer)

 

„She had mounted the shining marble steps with without mishap, withoutlabor, sustained by her great beauty and her fine nature alone. She hadtaken her place in the salons of the rich and great without laying forher admittance with her honor or her good name. Yet no one could saywhence she came, though people whispered that it was from the depths.

As a waif of a Parisian faubourg, she had starved through her childhoodamong surroundings of vice and poverty, such as those only can conceivewho know them by experience. Those of us who get our knowledge frombooks and from hearsay have to strain our imagination in order to forman idea of the hereditary misery of a great city, and yet our mostterrible imaginings are apt to pale before the reality.

It had been only a question of time when vice should get its clutchesupon her, as a cog-wheel seizes whoever comes too near the machine. After whirling her around through a short life of shame and degradation, it would, with mechanical punctuality, have cast her 17off into somecorner, there to drag out to the end, in sordid obscurity, hercaricature of an existence.

But it happened, as it does sometimes happen, that she was "discovered"by a man of wealth and position, one day when, a child of fourteen, shehappened to cross one of the better streets. She was on her way to adark back room in the Rue des Quatre Vents, where she worked with awoman who made artificial flowers.

It was not only her extraordinary beauty that attracted her patron;her movements, her whole bearing, and the expression of her half-formedfeatures, all seemed to him to show that here was an originally finenature struggling against incipient corruption. Moved by one of theincalculable whims of the very wealthy, he determined to try to rescuethe unhappy child.“

 

Alexander Kielland (18 februari 1849 - 6 april 1906)

Standbeeld in Stavanger

 

 

 

 

De Afro-Amerikaanse schrijfster, dichteres en lesbisch-feministische, anti-racistische activiste Audre Geraldine Lorde werd geboren op 18 februari 1934 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

 

Making Love To Concrete

 

An upright abutment in the mouth

of the Willis Avenue bridge

a beige Honda leaps the divider

like a steel gazelle inescapable

sleek leather boots on the pavement

rat-a-tat-tat best intentions

going down for the third time

stuck in the particular

 

You cannot make love to concrete

if you care about being

non-essential wrong or worn thin

if you fear ever becoming

diamonds or lard

you cannot make love to concrete

if you cannot pretend

concrete needs your loving

 

To make love to concrete

you need an indelible feather

white dresses before you are ten

a confirmation lace veil milk-large bones

and air raid drills in your nightmares

no stars till you go to the country

and one summer when you are twelve

Con Edison pulls the plug

on the street-corner moons Walpurgisnacht

and there are sudden new lights in the sky

stone chips that forget you need

to become a light rope a hammer

a repeatable bridge

garden-fresh broccoli two dozen dropped eggs

and a hint of you

caught up between my fingers

the lesson of a wooden beam

propped up on barrels

across a mined terrain

 

between forgiving too easily

and never giving at all.

 

 

 

 

Audre Lorde (18 februari 1934 – 17 november 1992)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Wallace Stegner werd geboren op 18 februari 1909 in Lake Mills, Iowa. Zie ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 18 februari 2010.

 

Uit: Crossing to Safety

 

„Floating upward through a confusion of dreams and memory, curving like a trout through the rings of previous risings, I surface. My eyes open. I am awake.

Cataract sufferers must see like this when the bandages are removed after the operation: every detail as sharp as if seen for the first time, yet familiar too, known from before the time of blindness, the remembered and the seen coalescing as in a stereoscope.

It is obviously very early. The light is no more than dusk that leaks past the edges of the blinds. But I see, or remember, or both, the uncurtained windows, the bare rafters, the board walls with nothing on them except a calendar that I think was here the last time we were, eight years ago.

What used to be aggressively spartan is shabby now. Nothing has been refreshed or added since Charity and Sid turned the compound over to the children. I should feel as if I were waking up in some Ma-and-Pa motel in hard-times country, but I don’t. I have spent too many good days and nights in this cottage to be depressed by it.

There is even, as my eyes make better use of the dusk and I lift my head off the pillow to look around, something marvelously reassuring about the room, a warmth even in the gloom. Associations, probably, but also color. The unfinished pine of the walls and ceilings has mellowed, over the years, to a rich honey color, as if stained by the warmth of the people who built it into a shelter for their friends. I take it as an omen; and though I remind myself why we are here, I can’t shake the sense of loved familiarity into which I just awoke.“

 

 

 

Wallace Stegner (18 februari 1909 – 13 april 1993)