Berichten van 22 november 2011

De Franse schrijver André Gide werd geboren op 22 november 1869 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor André Gide op dit blog.

 

Uit: Les Faux-monnayeurs

 

„- Je suis heureux que vous n'ayez pas signé. Mais, ce qui vous a retenu ?
- Sans doute quelque secret instinct... Bernard réfléchit quelques instants, puis ajouta en riant : - Je crois que c'est surtout la tête des adhérents ; à commencer par celle de mon frère aîné, que j'ai reconnu dans l'assemblée. Il m'a paru que tous ces jeunes gens étaient animés par les meilleurs sentiments du monde et qu'ils faisaient fort bien d'abdiquer leur initiative, car elle ne les eût pas menés loin, leur jugeote, car elle était insuffisante, et leur dépendance d'esprit, car elle eût été vite aux abois. Je me suis dit également qu'il était bon pour le pays qu'on pût compter parmi les citoyens un grand nombre de ces bonnes volontés ancillaires(1) ; mais que ma volonté à moi ne serait jamais de celles-là. C'est alors que je me suis demandé comment établir une règle, puisque je n'acceptais pas de vivre sans règle, et que cette règle je ne l'acceptais pas d'autrui.
- La réponse me paraît simple : c'est de trouver cette règle en soi-même ; d'avoir pour but le développement de soi.
- Oui..., c'est bien là ce que je me suis dit. Mais je n'en ai pas été plus avancé pour cela. Si encore j'étais certain de préférer en moi le meilleur, je lui donnerais le pas sur le reste. Mais je ne parviens pas même à connaître ce que j'ai de meilleur en moi... J'ai débattu toute la nuit, vous dis-je. Vers le matin, j'étais si fatigué que je songeais à devancer l'appel de ma classe(2) ; à m'engager.
- Echapper à la question n'est pas la résoudre.
- C'est ce que je me suis dit, et cette question, pour être ajournée , ne se poserait à moi que plus gravement après mon service. Alors je suis venu vous trouver pour écouter votre conseil.
- Je n'ai pas à vous en donner. Vous ne pouvez trouver ce conseil qu'en vous-même, ni apprendre comment vous devez vivre, qu'en vivant.“

 

 

 

André Gide (22 november 1869 – 19 februari 1951)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijfster George Eliot werd geboren op 22 november 1819 in Nuneaton in Warwickshire. Zie ook alle tags voor George Eliot op dit blog.

 

Uit: Middlemarch

 

„Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.  Her hand and wrist were so finely formed that she could wear sleeves not less bare of style than those in which the Blessed Virgin appeared to Italian painters; and her profile as well as her stature and bearing seemed to gain the more dignity from her plain garments, which by the side of provincial fashion gave her the impressiveness of a fine quotation from the Bible,--or from one of our elder poets,--in a paragraph of to-day's newspaper.  She was usually spoken of as being remarkably clever, but with the addition that her sister Celia had more common-sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely more trimmings; and it was only to close observers that her dress differed from her sister's, and had a shade of coquetry in its arrangements; for Miss Brooke's plain dressing was due to mixed conditions, in most of which her sister shared.  The pride of being ladies had something to do with it: the Brooke connections, though not exactly aristocratic, were unquestionably "good:" if you inquired backward for a generation or two, you would not find any yard-measuring or parcel-tying forefathers--anything lower than an admiral or a clergyman; and there was even an ancestor discernible as a Puritan gentleman who served under Cromwell, but afterwards conformed, and managed to come out of all political troubles as the proprietor of a respectable family estate.  Young women of such birth, living in a quiet country-house, and attending a village church hardly larger than a parlor, naturally regarded frippery as the ambition of a huckster's daughter.  Then there was well-bred economy, which in those days made show in dress the first item to be deducted from, when any margin was required for expenses more distinctive of rank.  Such reasons would have been enough to account for plain dress, quite apart from religious feeling; but in Miss Brooke's case, religion alone would have determined it; and Celia mildly acquiesced in all her sister's sentiments, only infusing them with that common-sense which is able to accept momentous doctrines without any eccentric agitation.“

 

 

 

George Eliot (22 november 1819 – 22 december 1880)

Op 30-jarige leeftijd, portret door François D'Albert Durade

 

 

 

De Russische schrijver Viktor Pelevin werd geboren op 22 november 1962 in Moskou. Zie ook alle tags voor Viktor Pelevin op dit blog.

 

Uit: Omon Ra (Vertaald door Andrew Bromfield)

 

„When I woke up, the earth was no longer visible. All I could make out through the spy holes were the white spots of the distant and unattainable stars, blurred by the lenses. I imagined the existence of a huge, immensely hot sphere hanging entirely unsupported in the icy void, billions of kilometres from the closest stars, those tiny gleaming dots, of which all we know is that they exist, and even that’s not certain, because a star can die, while its light will carry on traveling out in all directions, so really we don’t know anything about stars, except that their life is terrible and senseless, since all their movements through space are predetermined and subject to the laws of mechanics, which leave no hope at all for any chance encounters. But then, I thought, even though we human beings always seem to be meeting each other, and laughing, and slapping each other on the shoulder, and saying goodbye, there’s still a certain special dimension into which our consciousness sometimes takes a frightened peep, a dimension in which we also hang quite motionless in a void where there’s no up or down, no yesterday or tomorrow, no hope of drawing closer to each other or even exercising our will and changing our fate; we judge what happens to others from the deceptive twinkling light that reaches us, and we spend all our lives journeying towards what we call the light, although its source may have ceased to exist long ago. And me, I thought, all my life I’ve been journeying towards the moment when I could soar up over the crowds of what the slogans called the workers and the peasants, the soldiers and the intelligentsia, and now here I am hanging in brilliant blackness on the invisible threads of fate and trajectory—and now I see that becoming a heavenly body is not much different from serving a life sentence in a prison carriage that travels round and round a circular railway line without ever stopping.“

 

 

Viktor Pelevin (Moskou, 22 november 1962)

 

 

 

 

De Brits-Indische schrijverstweeling Suresh en Jyoti Guptara werd geboren op 22 november 1988 in Frimley, Hants in het zuidoosten van Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2010.

 

Uit: Conspiracy of Calaspia

 

‘”Not – Nurgor,’ he panted.  ‘Worse.’

Galar frowned.  There wasn’t much worse in existence, not in the Visible World at any rate.  He looked uneasily around him. 

‘I can deal with whatever lives here,’ he said.

‘Os … ten,’ the man choked in a barely audible way.  His voice shook.  ‘Ostentum.’

Galar froze.

‘Yeh must be mistaken.’

‘No!’  Suddenly the man was caught in a fit of jerks and his eyes rolled madly in their sockets.  Galar gently slapped his patient’s cheek and grabbed a different, bigger flask that was tied to his belt.  He sat the man up once more as soon as the fit had subsided and supplied him with water.  The man spluttered and coughed before returning to moaning.  This time his voice was clearer.

‘Leave me!  It’s too late … save yourself!’

‘Nah, it’s you who needs the savin’,’ Galar asserted.

Before he could continue, the man grabbed his shoulder and hauled himself up.  ‘You don’t understand!  It’s a trap!  Begone, Dwarf!’  Galar moved the handle of his axe to a readily accessible point.  ‘I am bait; why do you think they didn’t kill me?  Ostentum are at the Pinnacle of Insanity, and the Master knows you will foil his plans.’

‘Who is this master?’ Galar asked sharply.

The man tried to say something, but his body was wracked by another spasm, and he fell back into the dirt, foaming at the mouth.

Galar’s wide features became a mask of worry.  The man lifted his head, neck chords straining, and uttered a final syllable.  ‘Flee!’

All at once the air bristled with noise and movement. 

‘Yer comin’ with me,’ Galar said firmly.  He was going to kneel and pick up his wounded companion before he realised how very close the enemy was.  Instead he leapt to his feet, swinging the golden axe in a swishing arc around his head before charging the foe.”

 

 

 

Suresh en Jyoti Guptara (Frimley, 22 november 1988)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 22 november ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Hongaarse dichter Endre Ady werd geboren op 22 november 1877 in het huidige Adyfalva. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2010.

 

 

Autumn Passed Through Paris

 

Autumn sliped into Paris yesterday,

came silently down Boulevard St Michel,

In sultry heat, past boughs sullen and still,

and met me on its way.

 

As I walked on to where the Seine flows by,

little twig songs burned softly in my heart,

smoky, odd, sombre, purple songs. I thought

they sighed that I shall die.

 

Autumn drew abreast and whispered to me,

Boulevard St Michel that moment shivered.

Rustling, the dusty, playful leaves quivered,

whirled forth along the way.

 

One moment: summer took no heed: whereon,

laughing, autumn sped away from Paris.

That it was here, I alone bear witness,

under the trees that moan.

 

 

 

Endre Ady (22 november 1877 – 27 januari 1919)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Kotzwinkle werd geboren op 22 november 1943 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2010.

 

Uit: The Amphora Project

 

„A voice came from the flight deck radio. ?Welcome to the Paper Lantern. Please don?t mind our little maze. It?s to discourage unwanted visitors. You?ve been cleared for landing.? The sky mines parted, al­lowing them to pass.

The moon was marked with ridges that resembled the ribs of a lantern, but, as descent continued, the ribs spaced themselves far­ther apart until the illusion of a lantern was dispelled. A carpet of lights rolled up from the night horizon, gained definition, and be­came the protective dome of a controlled environment?a pink trans­lucent shell glowing from within.

?Let?s try not to dent anything too badly,? said Jockey. The burly pirate turned the ship nose up, and the Temperance, like an inverted candle whose flame was dying, settled onto a landing pad. When the engines quieted down, he walked back to the salon to join his pas­senger. ?Your higher education continues, dear boy,? he said to Adrian Link. Link was Chief of Soil, Plant, and Insect Control of the Agri­cultural Department of Planet Immortal, a weighty position for one so young. Link?s utility robot, Upquark, sat beside him, concern in his artificial eyes. His robotic analysis of the situation was that jour­neys with Jockey were likely to put Adrian at risk; the pirate always had some ulterior motive when he invited Adrian on a trip. I have much to contend with, thought the little robot.

Lizardo stepped past them and opened the hatch. He stretched his neck, gazing suspiciously left and right. A ring of white scales around his neck gave him the look of a priest, but any confessions he heard came with his claws wrapped around someone?s throat.

The others followed him out through the hatch, and a pneu­matic bus shot them to the dome. As they entered the nightclub, Link stared up into the rosy dome and caught his breath. What at first looked like a moving tapestry proved to be the fluttering of wings. Rare butterflies were circling there.

?Did I lie?? asked Jockey.“

 

 

 

William Kotzwinkle (Scranton 22 november 1943)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijver George Robert Gissing werd geboren op 22 november 1857 in Wakefield, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2010.

 

Uit: Workers In The Dawn

 

„f we look up, we perceive that strong beams are fixed across between the fronts of the houses -- sure sign of the rottenness which everywhere prevails. Listen! That was the shrill screaming of an infant which came from one of the nearest dens. Yes, children are born here, and men and women die. Let us devoutly hope that the deaths exceed the births.

Now back into the street, for already we have become the observed of a little group of evil-looking fellows gathered round the entrance. Let us press once more through the noisy crowd, and inspect the shops and stalls. Here is exposed for sale an astounding variety of goods. Loudest in their cries, and not the least successful in attracting customers, are the butchers, who, with knife and chopper in hand, stand bellowing in stentorian tones the virtues of their meat; now inviting purchasers with their -- "Lovely, love-ly, l-ove-ly! Buy! buy buy buy -- buy!" now turning to abuse each other with a foul-mouthed virulence surpassing description. See how the foolish artisan's wife, whose face bears the evident signs of want and whose limbs shiver under her insufficient rags, lays down a little heap of shillings in return for a lump, half gristle, half bone, of questionable meat-ignorant that with half the money she might buy four times the quantity of far more healthy and sustaining food.

But now we come to luxuries. Here is a stall where lie oysters and whelks, ready stripped of their shells, offering an irresistible temptation to the miserable-looking wretches who stand around, sucking in the vinegared and peppered dainties till their stomachs are appeased, or their pockets empty. Next is a larger booth, where all manner of old linen, torn muslin, stained and faded ribbons, draggled trimming, and the like, is exposed for sale, piled up in foul and clammy heaps, which, as the slippery-tongued rogue, with a yard in his hand turns and tumbles it for the benefit of a circle of squalid and shivering women, sends forth a reek stronger than that from the basket of rotten cabbage on the next stall. How the poor wretches ogle the paltry rags, feverishly turn their money in their hands, discuss with each other in greedy whispers the cheapness or otherwise of the wares!“

 

 

 

George Robert Gissing (22 november 1857 – 28 december 1903)

 

 

 

De Nederlands dichteres en schrijfster Elisabeth Maria Post werd geboren in Utrecht op 22 november 1755. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 november 2006.en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 november 2010.

 

Uit: Het land, in brieven

 

„De weenende afscheidsgroet bij de veege sponde, is slegts voor weinige oogenblikken - en zal door eeuwen van zaligheid, in dien oord, waar volmaakte liefde en vriendschap wonen, achtervolgd worden. Daar rollen nimmer tranen. Daar scheiden geen trouwe vrienden. Daar zal de naauwste vereeniging een altijdvloeiende bron van hemelwellust wezen!

 

Daar smaak ik eerst een vriendschap zonder smetten,

En, bij 't geluk van ze eindloos voord te zetten,

Zal ik verhoogd haar recht verstaan.

'k Zal eeuwig daar haar heil geheel ervaaren,

Verheugd zijn, dat wij zoo gelukkig waaren,

Van vroom te saamen om te gaan.

 

Geeft de korte duur van eenig genoegen altijd kwelling, die het gevoel van deszelfs waarde vermindert: het verwondere u dan niet, mijne vriendin! dat ik, in de bestendigheid van een geluk, wiens kragt ik levendig gevoel, - ook mijne blijdschap zoo duurzaam als haar oorzaak zoek te maken.

En is het edel oogmerk der vriendschap - elkander gelukkiger te maken; is dat geluk gelegen in de verbetering van onzen geest; die niet geschapen is, om eenen kleinen kring van vlugtige jaren, op dit toneel der onvolmaaktheid, te schitteren; maar alleen om hier die gesteldheid te verkrijgen, die hem vatbaar maakt voor de eeuwen van geluk: o hoe groot is dan de taak, die de vriendschap ons oplegt! „

 

 

 

Elisabeth Maria Post (22 november 1755 - 3 juli 1812)