Berichten van 10 augustus 2011

De Nederlandse schrijver en cabaretier Kees van Kooten werd geboren op 10 augustus 1941 in Den Haag. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Kees van Kooten op dit blog. Kwees van Kooten viert vandaag zijn 70e verjaardag.

 

Uit: Scheren

 

‘Het is niet zoals er sommigen zijn die dit de laatste tijd overal schijnen rond te beweren (achter mijn rug en hun hand natuurlijk altijd hoor, zo doen de dames en heren wel, want kom je ze ergens gewoon tegen dan zijn ze een en al Hoe gaat het en ooh dan zie je er ineens ZO goed uit en dan vinden ze je toch ZO'N leuke broek aandragen en zo die dingen) maar ik herhaal dat het dus ABsoluut niet is dat ik het mij niet zou kunnen verOORloven, een elektries scheerapparaat.

Toevallig heb ik namelijk zojuist DUIZEND GULDEN op DE BANK gezet tegen een looptijd van achtenkwart procent over zeven jaar, dat ik dat sommetje daar rustig kan laten liggen staffelen, dus dan zou IK mij als diegene geen electries scheerapparaat kunnen behappen?! Nou al is het een electroniese digitaal-shaver met 24 koppen en ingebouwde elektret-mikrofoons - die koop ik namelijk ZO, als ik hem zou willen. Want dan wil ik diezelfde mensen die mij op deze insinuerende wijze rondstrooien wel even verklappen dat ik namelijk toevallig NOG EEN KEER DUIZEND GULDEN op een ANDERE BANK heb staan uitgroeien! En wel expres mijn bedje een beetje verspreid à zevenhalf procent over zes jaar tijds. Dus hiermee moge ik dan definitief het praatje van de wereld afdoen dat ik bepaalde zaken niet zou kunnen betalen. Ik kan ALLES betalen. Ik kan elk electries apparaat, ALS het maar bestaat, in huis halen, als ik hier behoefte voor zou voelen hebben. Wat mijn ogen zien, kunnen mijn handen neertellen. En of bepaalde mensen hier vooral goede nota van willen knopen! De enige reden dat ik geen electries scheerapparaat heb, is, dat ik geen electries scheerapparaat heb. Ik heb geen electries scheerapparaat omdat ik mij nog steeds niet electries scheer.

En wel hierom: dat ik mij nooit electries ben gaan scheren, maar altijd aan het mesje heb vastgehouden.

Aan extra haargroei blijft het bij mij bij mijn bovenlip (maar dan daarboven) en de Kin Rondom. Maar die moeten dan ook elke dag ontdaan worden. Een Baard als zodanig ontspringt mij echter niet. Met een eenvoudig Krabbertje scheer ik mijn gezicht binnen vier minuten Het Heertje. Tegen vieren 's middags, als mijn opkomende snor zijn “shadow” over mijn hoofd begint te “five o'clocken” schaaf ik de boel in een extra beurtje voor als ik ergens heenmoet wel eens opnieuw helemaal morgenschoon. Verder niks geen problemen. Wat mijn kwaliteit van Scheren aangaat draai ik ergens middenin het grote slappe mannenpeloton mijn rondjes”.

 

 

 

Kees van Kooten (Den Haag, 10 augustus 1941)

In zijn rol van het vieze mannetje 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Alfred Döblin werd op 10 augustus 1878 geboren in Stettin. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: Berlin Alexanderplatz

 

“Das weiß ich, seufzte er in sich, daß ich hier rin muß und daß ich aus dem Gefängnis entlassen bin. Sie mußten mich ja entlassen, die Strafe war um, hat seine Ordnung, der Bürokrat tut seine Pflicht. Ich geh auch rin, aber ich möchte nicht, mein Gott, ich kann nicht.

Er wanderte die Rosenthaler Straße am Warenhaus Tietz vorbei, nach rechts bog er ein in die schmale Sophienstraße. Er dachte, diese Straße ist dunkler, wo es dunkel ist, wird es besser sein. Die Gefangenen werden in Einzelhaft, Zellenhaft und Gemeinschaftshaft untergebracht. Bei Einzelhaft wird der Gefangene bei Tag und Nacht unausgesetzt von andern Gefangenen gesondert gehalten. Bei Zellenhaft wird der Gefangene in einer Zelle untergebracht, jedoch bei Bewegung im Freien, beim Unterricht, Gottesdienst mit andern zusammengebracht. Die Wagen tobten und klingelten weiter, es rann Häuserfront neben Häuserfront ohne Aufhören hin. Und Dächer waren auf den Häusern, die schwebten auf den Häusern, seine Augen irrten nach oben: wenn die Dächer nur nicht abrutschten, aber die Häuser standen grade. Wo soll ick armer Deibel hin, er latschte an der Häuserwand lang, es nahm kein Ende damit. Ich bin ein ganz großer Dussel, man wird sich hier doch noch durchschlängeln können, fünf Minuten, zehn Minuten, dann trinkt man einen Kognak und setzt sich. Auf entsprechendes Glockenzeichen ist sofort mit der Arbeit zu beginnen. Sie darf nur unterbrochen werden in der zum Essen, Spaziergang, Unterricht bestimmten Zeit. Beim Spaziergang haben die Gefangenen die Arme ausgestreckt zu halten und sie vor- und rückwärts zu bewegen.

Da war ein Haus, er nahm den Blick weg von dem Pflaster eine Haustür stieß er auf, und aus seiner Brust kam ein trauriges brummendes oh, oh. Er schlug die Arme umeinander, so mein Junge, hier frierst du nicht. Die Hoftür öffnete sich ...”

 

 

Alfred Döblin (10 augustus 1878 – 26 juni 1957)

De Alexanderplatz in 1908

 

 

 

 

De Oegandese schrijver Moses Isegawa (pseudoniem van Sey Wava) werd geboren op 10 augustus 1963 in Kawempe in Oeganda. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: Snakepit

 

“On the way to the hotel the events of the past weeks had rolled through his mind. A month ago he had completed his post-graduate degree at Cambridge University in Britain and decided to return to Uganda to seek his fortune. So much had happened during his time away. Fifty thousand Indians and 180,000 Africans from different countries had been expelled, leaving many places open in the civil service. It seemed that flag independence was giving way to economic independence, and he wanted to be part of it. He remembered the euphoria and uncertainty which had marked his arrival, the application letters to government ministries and parastatal organizations, and the encouragement from family and friends. Now he was on his way to meet the Minister of Power and Communications in the sanctity of his favourite toy, the Mirage Avenger. It looked almost too good to be true. He remembered exiting the car and walking on the red carpet to the steps, the wind in his face, all kinds of thoughts in his mind. Inside, he walked through a corridor to a comfortable compartment. The background was dominated by a huge portrait of Marshal Amin making the salute, huge fingers jutting, the medals on his chest shining. There were files on a table, a battery of golden Parker pens, a black telephone, and a general's woolen hat.
Suddenly, General Bazooka's imposing frame obstructed the light. He had emerged from another compartment and stood erect in an immaculate uniform adorned with medals, a gleaming holster at his side, a swagger stick in one hand. He measured Bat up for one long moment before stepping forward, bending a little and gripping his hand in a crushing handshake which was meant to show him who the boss was. He sat down with a grin on his face, commented on the fine weather, patted his hair, strapped himself in the seat and gave the order to take off.
"I am sure that we are going to have a very good working relationship. You can tell a man by the way he shakes hands. First, I am taking you on a tour. If at the end you are unimpressed, then I will interview somebody else. But I have never been wrong in my estimation of a man."

 

 

Moses Isegawa (Kawempe, 10 augustus 1963)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Mark Doty werd geboren op 10 augustus 1953 in Maryville, Tennessee. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

1. Faith

 

"I've been having these

awful dreams, each a little different,

though the core's the same-

 

we're walking in a field,

Wally and Arden and I, a stretch of grass

with a highway running beside it,

 

or a path in the woods that opens

onto a road. Everything's fine,

then the dog sprints ahead of us,

 

exicted; we're calling but

he's racing down a scent and doesn't hear us,

and that's when he goes

 

onto the highway. I don't want to describe it.

Sometimes it's brutal and over,

and others he's struck and takes off

 

so we don't know where he is

or how bad. This wakes me

every night, and I stay awake;

 

I'm afraid if I sleep I'll go back

into the dream. It's been six months,

almost exactly, since the doctor wrote

 

not even a real word

but an acronym, a vacant

four-letter cipher

 

that draws meanings into itself,

reconstitutes the world.

We tried to say it was just

 

a word; we tried to admit

it had power and thus to nullify it

by means of our acknowledgement.

 

I know the current wisdom:

bright hope, the power of wishing you're well.

He's just so tired, though nothing

 

shows in any tests, Nothing,

the doctor says, detectable:

the doctor doesn't hear what I de,

 

that trickling, steadily rising nothing

that makes him sleep all say,

vanish into fever's tranced afternoons,

 

and I swear sometimes

when I put my head to his chest

I can hear the virus humming

 

like a refrigerator.

Which is what makes me think

you can take your positive attitude

 

and go straight to hell.

We don't have a future,

we have a dog.

Who is he?

 

Soul without speech,

sheer, tireless faith,

he is that -which-goes-forward,

 

black muzzle, black paws

scouting what's ahead;

he is where we'll be hit first,

 

he's the part of us

that's going to get it.

I'm hardly awake on our mourning walk

 

-always just me and Arden now-

and sometimes I am still

in the thrall if the dream,

 

which is why, when he took a step onto Commercial

before I'd looked both ways,

I screamed his mane and grabbed his collar.

 

And there I was on my knees,

both arms around his nieck

and nothing coming,

 

and when I looken into that bewildered face

I realized I didn't know what it was

I was shouting at,

 

I didn't know who I was trying to protect."

 

 

 

Mark Doty (Maryville, 10 augustus 1953)

 

 

 

De Poolse schrijver Jerzy Pilch werd geboren op 10 augustus 1952 in Wisla. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: His Current Woman (Vertaald door Bill Johnston)

 

“By the by, thinks Kohoutek, I wonder how it's possible that no one ever goes into the stove room and yet everyone knows that there are three Skoczów woolen blankets on the wooden benches in there. A curious paradox. Kohoutek would like to pursue his inquiry, since he senses subconsciously that it may bring relief to his fraught nerves; but no such luck, there's no chance of relief as yet another fear pierces his body and soul like a darkling blade. What will happen tomorrow morning when at the crack of dawn everyone continues the search for the two-liter jar of beef meatballs which they had thus far failed to find? They might start looking in the old slaughterhouse, and if they don't find it in the old slaughterhouse they'll climb up to the attic of the old slaughterhouse, and then they're absolutely sure to find something, only it won't be a two-liter jar of beef meatballs, but instead they'll find my current woman. True, I did build her a shelter which the most meticulous searcher would never find; but they, the members of my family-they're bound to find it.
Kohoutek turns on his side and assumes the fetal position; and, as always when in the fetal position, his thoughts turn to crime. Best of all, he whispers to himself, seized with a sudden rage, best of all would be to kill her. I ought to get up, go out and kill her. When they find the body there'll be a row anyway, but not such a fearful one as if they'd found her alive. If they find her alive there'll be such a fearful row that they're all likely to end up killing each other. Father'll try to kill me, Grandfather will defend me so Father will kill Grandfather, Oma will kill Father, Mother will kill Oma, the Pastor will kill Mother, the Pastor's wife will kill the Pastor, then, taking advantage of the situation, since she's long hated her, Miss Wandzia's mother will kill the Pastor's wife, Miss Wandzia will kill her mother because she doesn't want to play the violin, I of course will be killed by my own wife, and the long and the short of it will be that for weeks on end everyone will be offended with everyone else to the point that no one will be speaking to anyone.”

 

 

Jerzy Pilch (Wisla, 10 augustus 1952)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 10^e augustus ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Britse schrijver Robin Pilcher werd geboren op 10 augustus 1950 in Dundee. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: The Long Way Home

 

Alloa, Scotland‚December 1988

As she left the driveway and ran down the narrow lane leading to the farm, the silence of that cold winter morning was absolute, save for the crunch of breaking ice as her Doc Martens stamped through the puddles that ran ribbon-like along the rutted track. Tears glistened on her rosy cheeks, but the broad smile on her face showed that they were due to the frigid air nipping at her brown eyes rather than from any feeling of unhappiness. In fact, Claire Barclay could not have been happier. The cold that penetrated her padded jacket and bit at her ears through the woolly hat she wore pulled over her short hennaed hair was counteracted by a tingling warmth flooding from deep within.

Because Claire Barclay was most definitely in love.

Actually, she had been in love with Jonas Fairweather, expert motor mechanic and budding champion rally driver, ever since she had first come to Scotland at the age of eleven, but even though she had spent nearly every day of the next seven years in his company, she had never told him. And he had never said anything to her. They had never even kissed.

So the question that had arisen on so many occasions in Claire's mind was when to broach this subject, and take their friendship from its present stage into one of deep and everlasting affection.

Today was the day, the time was right. She had finished with school and now had nine months to spend with Jonas before she went on to university at St. Andrews. And it was Christmas, the season of glad tidings. The previous evening, they had been together in the workshop, and they had talked and laughed while he worked on his car until well after eleven o'clock. When she left, his farewell had not been the usual muffled goodbye called out from the depths of the car engine. He had walked with her to the door and stood close, spinning a spanner in his hand, catching her eye and smiling at her. She had sensed then that something was going to happen, but he had just slipped the spanner into the pocket of his coveralls, pushed the door open and said, "See you tomorrow then."

 

 

 

Robin Pilcher (Dundee, 10 augustus 1950)

 

 

 

 

 

De Braziliaanse schrijver Jorge Amado de Faria werd op 10 augustus 1912 geboren in Ferradas, in de gemeente Itabuna. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: The War Of The Saints  (Vertaald door Gregory Rabassa)

 

"Look after her during the crossing. Pay particular attention at the mouth of the river–the currents are tricky there, and the wind blows hard. God go with you."
Aided by the vicar, the sexton, and Dona Canô, amidst the prayers and applause of a fidgety gathering of church biddies, the priest and the nun proceeded with the embarkation ceremony. During the slippery descent, however, they preferred to entrust the litter that bore the figure on its pilgrimage into the seafaring hands of Master Manuel and his wife Maria Clara, who deposited it with reverential care in the stern of the sloop. There, standing erect, the majestic effigy of the Catholic saint looked like a ship's figurehead, a votive carving for the bow, a pagan and protective entity.
The Nun and the Priest
As the late afternoon breeze filled its proud sails, the sloop sped along with the saint. At the helm, Master Manuel smiled at the reverend father and the good sister: Don't be afraid, Saint Barbara's in no danger.
Sitting alongside the litter, Maria Clara saw to the stability of the saint, prevented the lurching of the sloop from upsetting its balance. "Don't you worry," she had added to reassure them, while she examined and praised the extravagance of the lining of the litter, made with all the refinements of brocade and ribbon, trimming and lace fashioned for the occasion by the devout ladies of the sisterhood of Our Lady of the Good Death in the neighboring town of Cachoeira, pious old women, first-rate artists. Oh, if it had been up to them, the saint would have traveled all covered with gold and silver, old gold, sterling silver, but the director of the museum had peremptorily turned them down. He'd even refused the sisterhood's reliquary–nasty man!

 

 

 

Jorge Amado (10 augustus 1912 – 6 augustus 2001)

 

 

 

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver René Crevel werd geboren op 10 augustus 1900 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

 

Tu as le remords

 

Tu as le remords d'avoir tué ton père sans avoir même acquis cent années de souvenirs.
Toujours les neurasthénies comme des fleurs en mie de pain.
Si tu essayais du tric-trac.
Sautent les dés.
Homme ou femme?
Chien ou chat?
Mais il y aura le chien qui sera tout de même un chat,
encore la vieille chanson des départs qui restent
et puis ce fauteuil de bois.
Les poitrines n'ont plus qu'un sein tout en haut des corps sans sexes;
Ton enfance fut aux curés en jupes de femmes;
dans la crypte du Sacré-Coeur tu n'as pas su faire l'amour.
Un oiseau dans ton cerveau.
Cet oiseau sans voix,
cet oiseau qui n'a pas volé,
cet oiseau qui n'a pas chanté,
apte au seul frisson de l'inutilité.
Comme des frères il aimait,
les bateaux petits;
bateaux colibris,
leur essaim posé
n'a rien enseigné.
Rouille, sang de carcasses
figé dans la mort,
et puis toujours et puis encor
alentour une eau si lasse
avec le plomb des ménagères
trop souvent mères.
Tu as froid mais ne sait ni mourir ni pleurer.
Triste entre les quais méchants
que tout homme ici-bas méprise,
tu vas, fleuve des villes grises
et sans espoir d'océan

 

 

 

René Crevel (10 augustus 1900 – 18 juni 1935)

 

 

  

De Peruaanse dichteres Blanca Leonor Varela Gonzáles werd geboren in Lima op 10 augustus 1926. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

 

Distant Yet Never So Close

 

distant yet never so close
we walk a sinking earth
lying down on her or simply standing
we feel the bucking of time
 
it's not about fearful flames
nor ungovernable seas
on this earth mind and body
have the same ebb and flow
in the air that lacks weight
since nothing differs in memory
from what we have seen or imagined 

we dream as we live
waiting without certainty or science
the only thing we suspect beyond question
the last chord in this vague music
which envelops us
 
sometimes doubt
explicit as a flower
persuades us with petals and signs
to swirl on our axis
to thirst
stained with ink to drink imagined lips
from the oldest and most mortal wineskin
 
the sky would be a dark place
a space of light
in the eye that looks at itself
in the hand that closes
to clutch hold of itself
out in the immense open
 
when all's said and done like the one who closes the coffin
or a letter
a ray of sunlight
will rise up like a sword to blind us
and gradually open the darkness
like an unexpectedly wounded fruit
like a door which hides nothing
and guards nothing more

Vertaald door Gwenn MacKeith

 

 

 

Blanca Varela (10 augustus 1926 - 12 maart 2009)

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Barbara Erskine (eig. Barbara Hope-Lewis) werd geboren op 19 augustus 1944 in Nottingham. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

Uit: Lady of Hay

 

” London—1985

"Basically I like the idea,” Bet Gunning leaned across the table, her eyes, as they focused on Jo’s face, intense behind the large square lenses of her glasses.

Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism after the relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s.

Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing.

“‘Anything Ethnic,’ ‘Medieval Medicine,’ ‘Cosmic Consciousness’—my God, what’s that?—‘Meditation and Religion’—you’ll have to keep that light—” Bet was going through the list in her head. “‘Regression: Is history still alive?’ That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try to look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.”

Jo smiled. “They tried it on me once, at the university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under—and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.”

Bet gave a mock sigh. “Okay, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve got plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?”

“I want Tim Heacham.”

“You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.”

“He’ll do it for me.”

Bet raised an eyebrow. “Does he know that?”

“He will soon.”

“And what will Nick say?”

Jo’s face tightened for a moment. “Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.”

“I see. That bad?”

“That bad.”

“He’s moved out?”

“He’s moved out. With cream, please.” Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffeepot.

 

 

Barbara Erskine (Nottingham, 10 augustus 1944)

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande dichters ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2010

 

De Russische schrijver Michail Michailovitsj Zosjtsjenko werd geboren in Sint-Petersburg op 10 augustus 1895.

 

De Duitse dichter en pastor Philipp Nicolai werd geboren in Mengeringhausen op 10 augustus 1556

 

De Franse schrijver Joseph Bialot werd op 10 Augustus 1923 geboren in Warschau.

 

De Nederlandse journalist en schrijver Piet Bakker werd geboren in Rotterdam op 10 augustus 1897. Zie ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 10 augustus 2009. (deel 2)