De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver, songwriter en vertaler Pé Hawinkels werd geboren op 29 september 1942 in Heerlen. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Pé Hawinkels op dit blog.

 

 

Back (in your love)

 

when the wind is crawlin’
at my basement floor
and the rats are runnin’ round
tryin’ to get underneath my chamber door
anything I can think of
won’t seem to be enough

 

when I smell the stench
of your sweatstained sheet
and I see this french chick lickin’ my speed
friends with your daddy & your dog
it won’t seem to be enough

 

when the snow is wettin’
my old wooden chair
and the crabs are paddin’& runnin’ around
in my pubic hair
anything I can think of
won’t seem to be enough

 

damn this cruel November
days shift into nights
I wish I could remember
how you drifted from my sight
anything I can think of
won’t seem to be enough

 

when all my old sollicitors
come around, only have needles for a pay
and all me brand-new visitors
only have spoons to give away
anything, anything
won’t seem to be enough

 

all my precious pleasures
she took away with all her charms
and all my solitary treasures
made a strainer of my arms
friends with your daddy & your dog
that won’t seem to be enough

 

when the wind is crawlin’
at my basement floor
and the rats are tryin’
to get underneath my chamber door
anything I can think of
never seems to be enough

 

 

(Tekst: Pé Hawinkels, Muziek: Herman Brood)

 

 

Pé Hawinkels (29 september 1942 – 16 augustus 1977)

Cover van een Hawinkels bundel

De Bulgaarse dichter en schrijver Hristo Smirnenski werd geboren op 29 september 1898 in Koukoush. Zie ook ook mijn blog van 29 september 2006  en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010

 

 

A youth

 

I do not know why I was born into this world,

I do not ask why I shall die.

When I was born the delicate May morn unfurled

its flowery freshness to the eye.

 

I greeted youthful Spring, I greeted vernal youth

and opened eager eyes to see

how life would come to me, beautiful and smooth,

amid a joyous rhapsody.

 

But no, I wasn't hailed by Spring with merry sounds

and showers of fragrant petals,

instead, a villain met me with a pack of hounds

to put my hands and feet in fetters.

 

Through clouds of fiendish greed and wicked spite,

a sinister shadow crept near,

a gold-armoured monster reared his height

dripping with blood and human tears.

 

In the falling gloom loomed faces pale and lea,

I heard laments in plaintive strains

and threats to repay for pain and vileness mean,

I also heard the clatter of chains.

 

I recognized my brothers who were kept enslaved

by the ungodly god of gold,

I saw the spirit of man: abased, depraved

and crucified a thousandfold.

 

I cried out in iron words and wrathful indignation:

May this be the dire day of doom!

The day of ruin and of new creation!

May fires blaze in this icy gloom!

 

May this, our earth, begin a fiery feast!

May the thunder roll and glow!

The slaves will unite to fight the monstrous beast,

and hurricanes of souls will blow!

 

I'll raise the banner of brotherhood unfurled,

and I will keep it flying high,

and then I'll know why I've come into the world,

I'll also know for what to die.

 

 

 

Hristo Smirnenski (29 september 1898 – 18 juni 1923)

Standbeeld in Yambol 

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Elizabeth Gaskell werd geboren op 29 september 1810 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Eilzabeth Gaskell op dit blog.

 

Uit: Mary Barton

 

„There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant.  In spite of these fields being flat, and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago.  Here and there an old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood.  Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the farmyards.  You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting place.  Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun.  The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads.  The porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order.“

 

 

 

Elizabeth Gaskell (29 september 1810 – 12 november 1865)

Rond 1860 

 

 

 

De Spaanse dichter en filosoof Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo werd geboren op 29 september 1864 in Bilbao. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo op dit blog.

 

Uit: Mist (Vertaald door Warner Fite)

 

“”Very well, then. The truth is, my dear Augusto,” I spoke to him the softest of tones, “you can’t kill yourself because you are not alive; and you are not alive—or dead either—because you do not exist.”
“I don’t exist! What do you mean by that?”
“No, you do not exist except as a fictitious entity, a character of fiction. My poor Augusto, you are only a product of my imagination and of the imagination of those of my readers who read this story which I have written of your fictitious adventures and misfortunes. You are nothing more than a personage in a novel, or a nivola, or whatever you choose to call it. Now, then, you know your secret.”
Upon hearing this the poor man continued to look at me for a while with one of those perforating looks that seem to pierce your own gaze and go beyond; presently he glanced for a moment at the portrait in oil which presides over my books, then his colour returned and his breathing became easier, and gradually recovering, he was again master of himself. He rested his elbows on the arm of the sofa opposite me, against which he was leaning; and then with his face in the palms of his hands he looked at me with a smile and he said slowly:
“Listen to me, Don Miguel—it can’t be that you are mistaken, and that what is happening is precisely the contrary of what you think and of what you have told me?”
“And what do you mean by the contrary?” I asked, rather alarmed to see him regaining his self-possession.
“May it not be, my dear Don Miguel,” he continued, “that it is you and not I who are the fictitious entity, the one that does not really exist, who is neither living nor dead? May it not be that you are nothing more than a pretext for bringing my history into the world?”

 

 

 

Miguel de Unamuno (29 september 1864 – 31 december 1936)

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Spaanse dichter en schrijver Miguel de Cervantes werd geboren op 29 september 1547 in Madrid. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Miguel de Cervantes op dit blog.

 

Uit: Don Quichot van La Mancha (Bewerkt door J.J.A. Goeverneur)

 

„De vreemde verwarring zijner begrippen bracht hem tot het nog vreemder voornemen, om tot vermeerdering van zijn roem en tot heil der wereld een dolend ridder te worden, in ridderlijke wapenrusting het land door te trekken en even zoo groote heldendaden te verrichten, als waarvan hij in de oude romans gelezen had. Zijne verbeelding spiegelde hem met levendige kleuren de ongehoorde avonturen en gevaren voor de oogen, door welker heldhaftig bestaan hij zich een onvergankelijken roem verzekeren moest. Door de kracht van zijn arm zag hij zich zelf reeds tot machtig keizer gekroond, en hij meende, dat het hem althans zeker gelukken moest een koningskroon te veroveren, gelijk al verschillende dolende helden dat in den ouden tijd hadden gedaan. Hij gaf zich meer en meer aan deze streelende gedachten over en achtte nu eindelijk den tijd gekomen, om zijn dolzinnig besluit ten uitvoer te brengen.

Zijn eerste werk was, dat hij aan het opknappen en schoonmaken van eene overoude, door een zijner voorzaten gedragen wapenrusting ging, welke hij uit een donkeren hoek van de rommelkamer had opgeschommeld. In ’t zweet zijns aanschijns wreef hij er met een wollen lap en puimsteen de roestvlekken af, en hij was innig voldaan, als hij na uren poetsen weer een deel van het harnas goed glad en blank had gekregen. Eerst toen hij hiermee eindelijk klaar was, bemerkte hij tot zijn niet geringe schrik, dat nog een zeer belangrijk stuk aan zijne uitrusting ontbrak: de helm namelijk.

Deze ongelukkige omstandigheid bracht hem in de grootste verlegenheid en gaf hem veel kommer en zorg. In de hoop van den ontbrekenden helm op te sporen, haalde hij in de rommelkamer alles onderstboven, doch vond niets dan een oude stormkap, die bij de overige wapenstukken volstrekt niet paste en vroeger denkelijk aan den een of anderen geringen voetknecht had toebehoord. Desniettemin was hij met die vondst niet weinig ingenomen en wist zijne scherpzinnigheid zeer spoedig middelen te vinden, om de stormkap in een behoorlijken, schoon al niet prachtigen helm te herscheppen. Hij nam bordpapier, waarvan hij met veel moeite en getob de benedenhelft van den helm knutselde, hechtte die aan de stormkap, verfde alles staalkleurig en kreeg zoo een ding, dat wel nagenoeg het fatsoen van een ridderlijk hoofddeksel had.“

 

 

 

 

Miguel de Cervantes (29 september 1547 – 23 april 1616)

Standbeeld op de Place d’Espagne, Brussel

 

 

 

 

De Duitse (detective)schrijfster Ingrid Noll werd geboren op 29 september 1935 in Shanghai. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010

 

Uit: Ehrenwort von Ingrid Noll

 

»Kopf oder Schwanz?«, fragte die Großmutter immer, wenn sie den Vanillepudding aus der Form gestürzt hatte und anschließend verteilte. Da Mizzi mit der Antwort schneller war als ihr kleiner Bruder, landete der Schwanz bei Max. Mit kindlicher Grausamkeit malte ihm seine Schwester aus, was da alles auf seinem Teller lag. Daraufhin verekelte Max ihr den Kopf: Im Maul steckte bestimmt ein Wurm, und erst die glotzenden Fischaugen! Die Eltern und die beiden Alten machten sich ungerührt über den Bauch her.

Nachdem die Großmutter gestorben war, wurde die Fischform nicht mehr gebraucht, doch sie hing immer noch in der Küche. Mittlerweile wusste Max auch, was sich dahinter verbarg: der Schlüssel für den kleinen Tresor, der in den Tiefen des Küchenbuffets angeschraubt war. Noch heute, viele Jahre später, erinnerte sich Max bei jedem Besuch an Großmutters leckeren Vanillepudding und daran, wie es nach Zimt, Äpfeln und Zitrone duftete. Heute roch es leider anders, der Witwer lüftete kaum und rauchte ständig.

Seit Max einen Führerschein besaß, war er für seinen Opa zuständig, tauschte Glühbirnen aus, mähte Rasen oder brachte einen Luftpostbrief zur Post. Auch die an Altersschwäche gestorbene Katze hatte er beerdigt. Mit der Zeit kamen weitere Aufgaben hinzu. Nach vollbrachter Tat nickte der Alte immer wohlwollend, angelte den Schlüssel aus der Fischform, öffnete sein Schatzkästchen und zog einen einzelnen Geldschein aus dem dicken Stoß heraus. Er ging nur selten zur Bank und hob dann stets eine größere Summe ab.

Meistens hatte sein Großvater einen lateinischen Spruch auf den Lippen, dessen Bedeutung Max mit der Zeit erfasste. Nicht zuletzt pecunia non olet: Auch Max fand, dass Geld nicht stank.

Max wartete immer hoffnungsvoll auf dem grünen Küchensofa, das dort stand, seit er denken konnte. Seine Großmutter hatte es jahrelang mit einer Katze geteilt, die am weichen Mohairstoff ihre Krallen schärfte, wovon er mit der Zeit wie Kunstrasen aussah. In seiner Kindheit war ein Besuch bei den Großeltern stets ein Abenteuer gewesen, inzwischen war es eher eine Pflicht oder, besser gesagt, ein lukrativer Job.“

 

 

 

Ingrid Noll (Shanghai, 29 september 1935)

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Colin Dexter werd geboren op 29 september 1935 in Stamford, Lincolnshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010

 

Uit: Death Is Now My Neighbor

 

„Dawn? That is your name?

She'd nodded.

Left-handed?

She'd nodded.

Do you know that line from Omar Khayyam? "Dreaming when Dawn's left hand was in the sky ..." Lovely, isn't it?

Yes, it was. Lovely.

She'd peeled the top off the beer mat and made him write it down for her.

Then, very quietly, he'd asked her if he could see her again. At the start of the new term, perhaps? She'd known it was silly, for there must have been at least twenty years difference in their ages. If only ... if only he'd been ten, a dozen years older ...

But people did do silly things, and hoped their silly hopes. And that very day, January 15, was the first full day of the new Hilary Term in the University of Oxford. Her Monday-Friday job, 6-10pm, at the clinic on Banbury Road (just north of St. Giles) was really quite enjoyable. Over three years of it now, and she was becoming a fixture there. Most of the consultants greeted her with a genuine smile; several of them, these days, with her Christian name.

Nice.

She'd once stayed at a four-star hotel which offered a glass of sherry to incoming guests; and although the private Harvey Clinic was unwilling (perhaps on medical grounds?) to provide such laudable hospitality, Dawn ever kept two jugs of genuine coffee piping hot for her clients, most of them soberly suited and well-heeled gentlemen. A number of whom, as she well knew, were most seriously ill.“

 

 

Colin Dexter (Stamford, 29 september 1935)

Hier (links) met John Thaw (Inspecteur Morse) 

 

 

 

 

De Afghaanse schrijver en historicus Akram Assem werd geboren op 29 september 1965 in Kabul. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010

 

Uit: Berlin: Failure or Success?

 

“The stress on the very short term comes probably from the fact that George W. Bush would like to be able to tell the American electorate how "successful" his Administration’s action in Afghanistan is and that, if they give him another mandate, he will be able to replicate the "Afghan Model" in Iraq. In the short while remaining until November, the pressure is on the US expeditionary troops in Afghanistan, Zalmay Khalilzad, Hamed Karzai and the UN’s Jean Arnault to get visible, possibly spectacular, results that would help sell the White House’s foreign policy to the American voters.
But the real question is will the agenda to hasten the Afghan reconstruction work as desired by the US Administration? The Berlin conference showed that not everyone was ready to commit beyond a certain limit. The non-amelioration and, in reality, the deterioration of the security situation in Afghanistan is certainly the key factor in the prudence manifested by donor countries. Other elements, such as the lack of qualified personal and infrastructure capable to rapidly "absorb" the aid flow, or the frightening growth of bribery practices plaguing the administration, are certainly not helping either!”

 

 

Akram Assem (Kabul, 29 september 1965)

 

 

 

 

De Italiaanse filosoof, dichter, artiest, en geweldloos activist Lanza del Vasto werd geboren in San Vito dei Normanni op 29 september 1901. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 september 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 september 2010

 

Uit: Perfume of truth. About The Message Rediscovered

 

“The conspiracy of the imbeciles, the charlatans and the sages has succeeded to perfection. The object of this conspiracy was to conceal the truth. Each one has served this great cause, each according to his means: the imbeciles by means of ignorance, the charlatans by means of lying, the sages by means of secrecy. The imbeciles do not want the truth to be discovered. They suspect, instinctively, that it would disturb them. If it were shown to them they would avert their eyes; if it were placed in their hands they would let it fall; if they were forced to confront it face-to-face they would howl in horror and run and hide below ground. The charlatans do not want the truth to be discovered, for it would ruin their artifices, impede their profit and show up their shame. The sages who possess the truth do not want it to be discovered. They have always kept it hidden for four reasons. The first is that they know that knowledge is power and they want to keep it away from the unworthy. For knowledge in the unworthy one becomes malice, power becomes public danger and plague. That is why the reserves of knowledge accumulated over millennia in the temples of Egypt remained inaccessible to him who had not passed through all the stages of purifications and tests. Later, the unknown philosophers, the noble travellers, the alchemists handed down to one another the rest of the mysterious heritage in the same way, that is, by word of mouth, or rather, by their presence and by example, in symbols and enigmas, and always under the seal of secrecy“

.

 

Lanza del Vasto (29 september 1901 – 5 januari 1981)