De Nederlandse schrijver Arnon Grunberg werd geboren in Amsterdam op 22 februari 1971. Zie ook alle tags voor Arnon Grunberg op dit blog.

 

Uit: Tirza (Vertaald door Sam Garrett)

 

„After Ibi began collecting the rent there were fewer complaints about moisture on the wallpaper, radiators that didn’t work, a window that didn’t close well. Her smile took away the complaints, her legs made the sneaking suspicion that one was paying way too much to vanish into thin air. Her eyes compensated for the leaky faucet. Ibi was more important than any defects in the furnished apartment.
And then, one autumn evening, on the first of the month—always the first of the month; when Hofmeester looked back on his life he saw an endless series of paydays—she stayed away for a long time. Hofmeester was reading the evening paper as he listened to one of Elgar’s cello concertos, but when he got to the page with ‘readers’ opinions’, for he read the newspaper from cover to cover, like a book, he became worried. She had been gone for more than half an hour. He read on, but the readers’ opinions no longer sank in. After each sentence he got stuck, and his thoughts wandered to Ibi.
Of course you couldn’t just grab the money and run, sometimes you had to stop and chat a little. He remembered that from when the unwelcome task had been his to fulfill. But half an hour was no chat anymore. That was a conversation, that was half an evening meal.
He had already walked to the door twice to see if she was coming, the way one looks for streetcars that refuse to arrive. The ridiculous assumption that looking made any difference. That a peremptory glance can summon that which apparently will never show up.
She couldn’t have been mugged, she didn’t even have to leave the yard.
It puzzled him, and it kept puzzling him. His wife had gone out to pick up Tirza, who was playing at a friend’s house. Hofmeester had no one with whom to share his anxiety. He turned off the Elgar, went into the garden to look at his apple tree and then peered up through the branches at the windows behind which the tenant was concealed, but could see nothing unusual. The curtains that always hung there and that actually needed washing. No movement. It was a lovely evening for early October. Nothing rustled in the bushes. No screams. Silence. Eternal silence.“

 

 

 

Arnon Grunberg (Amsterdam, 22 februari 1971)

 

 

 

 

De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Paul van Ostaijen werd geboren in Antwerpen op 22 februari 1896. Zie ook alle tags voor Paul van Ostaijen op dit blog.

 

  

Leven

 

Mevr. Dr jur. heeft prachtig verdedigd

de éen-kilo-brood-dief

zijn gezin

          en bedenkt 7 (zeven) arme kinderen

vader

     een korst brood

de rechters hebben gesnikt   Het was een sterk stuk

 

In de avondkoelte wandelt Mevr. Dr jur.

             Lützowplatz

en zet zich op een bank

juist tegenover de kont van de zeegod

Verdiende rust

 

0 Wonne

 

Een schoon gezicht

 

Een schoon gezicht heeft de dagblad-postiche

CREME LA NYMPHE

zij zou zeer schoon zijn indien

                      zij geen sproeten had

Hoe jammer wanneer een zo schone vrouw sproeten heeft

zomersproeten

zoals bij deze postiche het geval is

gebekt haar

de boog van de wenkbrauwen

en de lieve mond

en de volle wangen

en de kuiltjes

doch zoals gezegd

                 hoe jammer die zomersproeten

Nochtans heb je

                 CREME LA NYMPHE

hoofdapoteek     bijhuizen     overal verkrijgbaar

het jammer kan worden verwijderd

dank zij de hoofdapoteek en de bijhuizen

zijn er op de wereld geen sproeten meer

                 en u

allerschoonste met gekruld haar en verlokkelike lippen

u

 die prijkt op de laatste bladzijde

 van het laatste nieuws

          kan ik beminnen

          omdat gij  dank de nimfezalf

          voortaan zult zijn

          zonder sproeten

of zomersproeten

 

 

 

 

Paul van Ostaijen (22 februari 1896 – 18 maart 1928) 

CD Cover

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Hugo Ball werd geboren op 22 februari 1886 in Pirmasens. Zie ook alle tags voor Hugo Ball op dit blog.

 

 

Der grüne König

 

Wir, Johann, Amadeus Adelgreif,

Fürst von Saprunt und beiderlei Smeraldis,

Erzkaiser über allen Unterschleif

Und Obersäckelmeister vom Schmalkaldis

Erheben unsern grimmen Löwenschweif

Und dekretieren vor den leeren Saldis:

»Ihr Räuberhorden, eure Zeit ist reif.

Die Hahnenfeder ab, Ihr Garibaldis!

 

Man sammle alle Blätter unserer Wälder

Und stanze Gold daraus, soviel man mag.

Das ausgedehnte Land braucht neue Gelder.

 

Und eine Hungersnot liegt klar am Tag.

Sofort versehe man die Schatzbehälter

Mit Blattgold aus dem nächsten Buchenschlag.«

 

 

 

Katzen und Pfauen

 

baubo sbugi ninga gloffa

siwi faffa

sbugi faffa

olofa fafamo

faufo halja finj

 

sirgi ninga banja sbugi

halja hanja golja biddim

 

mâ mâ

piaûpa

mjâma

 

pawapa baungo sbugi

ninga

gloffalor

 

 

 

 

Hugo Ball (22 februari 1886 – 14 september 1927) 

Hermann Hesse, Emmy Ball-Hennings, Hugo Ball in 1921

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jane Bowles werd als Jane Auer geboren op 22 februari 1917 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2010 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2011.

 

Uit: Everything is nice

 

“When I reached the place where I had met Zodelia I went over to the wall and leaned on it. Although the sun had sunk behind the houses in back of me, the sky was still luminous and the color of the blue wall had deepened. I rubbed my fingers along it; the wash was fresh and a little of the powdery stuff came off; but no matter how often I walked through these streets reaching out to touch the chalky blue wash on the houses ... on the walls, I could never satisfy my longing for the town.

I remember that once I reached out to touch the beautiful and powdery face of a clown because his face had awakened some longing; it happened at a little circus but not when I was a child.”

 

 

 

Jane Bowles (22 februari 1917 – 4 mei 1973)

 

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 22^e februari ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Servische schrijver Danilo Kiš werd geboren op 22 febrari 1935 in Subotica. Zie ook alle tags voor Danilo Kiš op dit blog.

 

Uit: Garden, Ashes (Vertaald door William J. Hannaher)

 

“Late in the morning on summer days, my mother would come into the room softly, carrying that tray of hers. The tray was beginning to lose its thin nickelized glaze. Along the edges where its level surface bent upward slightly to form a raised rim, traces of its former splendor were still present in flaky patches of nickel that looked like tin foil pressed out under the fingernails. The narrow, flat rim ended in an oval trough that bent downward and was banged in and misshapen. Tiny decorative protuberances – a whole chain of little metallic grapes – had been impressed on the upper edge of the rim. Anyone holding the tray (usually my mother) was bound to feel at least three or four of these semicylindrical protuberances, like Braille letters, under the flesh of the thumb. Right there, around those grapes, ringlike layers of grease had collected, barely visible, like shadows cast by little cupolas. These small rings, the color of dirt under fingernails were the remnants of coffee grounds, cod-liver oil, honey sherbet. Thin crescents on the smooth, shiny surface of the tray showed where glasses had just been removed. Without opening my eyes, I knew from the crystal tinkling of teaspoons against glasses that my mother had set down the tray for a moment and was moving toward the window, the picture of determination, to push the dark curtain aside. Then the room would come aglow in the dazzling light of the morning, and I would shut my eyes tightly as the spectrum alternated from yellow to blue to red. On her tray, with her jar of honey and her bottle of cod-liver oil, my mother carried to us the amber hues of sunny days, thick concentrates full of intoxicating aromas.“

 

 

 

Danilo Kiš (22 februari 1935 – 15 oktober 1989)

 

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijver Sean O'Faolain werd geboren op 22 februari 1900 in Cork. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2010.

 

Uit: The Trout

 

“It was late June, the longest days of the year. The sun had sat still for a week, burning up the world. Although it was after ten o'clock it was still bright and still hot. She lay on her back under a single sheet, with her long legs spread, trying to keep cool. She could see the D of the moon through the fir-tree -- they slept on the ground floor. Before they went to bed her mummy had told Stephen the story of the trout again, and she, in her bed, had resolutely presented her back to them and read her book. But she had kept one ear cocked.

'And so, in the end, this naughty fish who would not stay at home got bigger and bigger, and the water got smaller and smaller. . . .' Passionately she had whirled and cried, 'Mummy, don't make it a horrible old moral story!' Her mummy had brought in a Fairy Godmother, then, who sent lots of rain, and filled the well, and a stream poured out and the trout floated away down to the river below. Staring at the moon she knew that there are no such things as Fairy Godmothers and that the trout, down in The Dark Walk, was panting like an engine. She heard somebody unwind a fishing-reel. Would the beasts fish him out!

She sat up. Stephen was a hot lump of sleep, lazy thing. The Dark Walk would be full of little scraps of moon. She leaped up and looked out the window, and somehow it was not so lightsome now that she saw the dim mountains far away and the black firs against the breathing land and heard a dog say, bark-bark. Quietly she lifted the ewer of water, and climbed out the window and scuttled along the cool but cruel gravel down to the maw of the tunnel. Her pyjamas were very short so that when she splashed water it wet her ankles. She peered into the tunnel. Something alive rustled inside there.

She raced in, and up and down she raced, and flurried, and cried aloud, 'Oh, Gosh, I can't find it,' and then at last she did. Kneeling down in the damp she put her hand into the slimy hole. When the body lashed they were both mad with fright. But she gripped him and shoved him into the ewer and raced, with her teeth ground, out to the other end of the tunnel and down the steep paths to the river's edge.“

 

 

 

Sean O'Faolain (22 februari 1900 – 20 april 1991)

 

 

 

 

De Afro-Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en essayist Ishmael Scott Reed werd geboren op 22 februari 1938 in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Zie ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2010 en ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2011.

 

 

I Am a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra

 

The devil must be forced to reveal any such physical evil

(potions, charms, fetishes, etc.) still outside the body

and these must be burned.' (Rituale Romanum, published

1947, endorsed by the coat-of-arms and introductory

letter from Francis cardinal Spellman)

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra,

sidewinders in the saloons of fools

bit my forehead like O

the untrustworthiness of Egyptologists

who do not know their trips. Who was that

dog-faced man? they asked, the day I rode

from town.

 

School marms with halitosis cannot see

the Nefertiti fake chipped on the run by slick

germans, the hawk behind Sonny Rollins' head or

the ritual beard of his axe; a longhorn winding

its bells thru the Field of Reeds.

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. I bedded

down with Isis, Lady of the Boogaloo, dove

deep down in her horny, stuck up her Wells-Far-ago

in daring midday getaway. 'Start grabbing the

blue,' I said from top of my double crown.

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Ezzard Charles

of the Chisholm Trail. Took up the bass but they

blew off my thumb. Alchemist in ringmanship but a

sucker for the right cross.

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Vamoosed from

the temple i bide my time. The price on the wanted

poster was a-going down, outlaw alias copped my stance

and moody greenhorns were making me dance;

while my mouth's

shooting iron got its chambers jammed.

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Boning-up in

the ol' West i bide my time. You should see

me pick off these tin cans whippersnappers. I

write the motown long plays for the comeback of

Osiris. Make them up when stars stare at sleeping

steer out here near the campfire. Women arrive

on the backs of goats and throw themselves on

my Bowie.

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. Lord of the lash,

the Loup Garou Kid. Half breed son of Pisces and

Aquarius. I hold the souls of men in my pot. I do

the dirty boogie with scorpions. I make the bulls

keep still and was the first swinger to grape the taste.

 

I am a cowboy in his boat. Pope Joan of the

Ptah Ra. C/mere a minute willya doll?

Be a good girl and

bring me my Buffalo horn of black powder

bring me my headdress of black feathers

bring me my bones of Ju-Ju snake

go get my eyelids of red paint.

Hand me my shadow

 

I'm going into town after Set

 

I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra

 

look out Set here i come Set

to get Set to sunset Set

to unseat Setto Set down Set

 

usurper of the Royal couch

imposter RAdio of Moses' bush

party pooper O hater of dance

vampire outlaw of the milky way

 

 

 

 

Ishmael Reed (Chattanooga, 22 februari 1938)

 

 Zie voor nog meer schrivers van de 22^e februari ook mijn blog van 22 februari 2011 deel 2,