Berichten van 11 januari 2014

De Britse schrijver en cameraman Jasper Fforde werd geboren op 11 januari 1961 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Jasper Fforde op dit blog.

Uit: Shades of Grey 

“So that’s why we’re back here, four days earlier, in the town of Vermillion, the regional hub of Red Sector West. My father and I had arrived by train the day before and overnighted at the Green Dragon. We had attended Morning Chant and were now seated for breakfast, disheartened but not surprised that the early Greys had already taken the bacon, and it remained only in exquisite odor. We had a few hours before our train and had decided to squeeze in some sightseeing.
“We could always go and see the Last Rabbit,” I suggested. “I’m told it’s unmissable.”
But Dad was not to be easily swayed by the rabbit’s uniqueness. He said we’d never see the Badly Drawn Map, the Oz Memorial, the color garden and the rabbit before our train departed. He also pointed out that not only did Vermillion’s museum have the best collection of Vimto bottles anywhere in the Collective, but on Mondays and Thursdays they demonstrated a gramophone.
“A fourteen- second clip of ‘Something Got Me Started,’ ” he said, as if something vaguely Red- related would swing it.
But I wasn’t quite ready to concede my choice.
“The rabbit’s getting pretty old,” I persisted, having read the safety briefing in the “How Best to Enjoy Your Rabbit Experience” leaflet, “and petting is no longer mandatory.”
“It’s not the petting,” said Dad with a shudder, “it’s the ears. In any event,” he continued with an air of finality, “I can have a productive and fulfilling life having never seen a rabbit.”
This was true, and so could I. It was just that I’d promised my best friend, Fenton, and five others that I would log the lonely bun’s Taxa number on their behalf and thus allow them to note it as “proxy seen” in their animal- spotter books. I’d even charged them twenty- five cents each for the privilege— then blew the lot on licorice for Constance and a new pair of synthetic red shoelaces for me.”

 

 
Jasper Fforde (Londen, 11 januari 1961)

 

 

De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Katharina Hacker werd geboren op 11 januari 1967 in Frankfurt am Main. Zie ook alle tags voor Katharina Hacker op dit blog.

Uit: Die Habenichtse

„Ein Vogel saß auf der Fensterbank, flog auf, taumelte gegen die Scheibe und verschwand unbeschadet. Andras ging ins Badezimmer, blickte in den Spiegel, der voller kleiner, weißer Flecken war, Rasierschaum, Zahnpasta, er überlegte, sich ein zweites Mal zu rasieren und betrachtete das gestreifte Hemd, dessen Streifen sich, als er die Arme hob, verschoben, rosa, hellblau, grün, dachte an diese wiedererwachte Eitelkeit, die ihn dazu brachte, Tag für Tag etwas anderes anzuziehen, eine andere Kombination von Farben auszuprobieren, Leder- oder Jeansjacke, verschiedene Schuhe, halbhohe Stiefel, der Schaft offen. Er fuhr oft in den Westen, zu dem Kinderbuchverlag in der Kantstraße, zur Galerie Alto in der Schloßstraße, Magda, die Galeristin, rief fast täglich an, brauchte Flyer, Visitenkarten, einen Katalog, da war ein junger ungarischer Künstler, den er kennenlernen sollte, sie hatte tausend Gründe, ihn anzurufen, versprach Kontakte mit anderen Galerien, dem Gropius-Bau, hielt ihr Versprechen. Am liebsten hätte sie ihn zum Partner, sagte sie im Scherz und wiederholte es. Die Galerie wurde aus dem Besitz ihres verstorbenen Mannes finanziert, drei Mietshäuser in Frankfurt, die sie selbst verwaltete, drahtig, mager fast, braungebrannt vom Arbeiten auf dem Dach, erklärte sie, zeigte Andras die Dachterrasse, große Tontöpfe mit Oleander, die Pergola, an der eine Glyzinie wuchs, darunter ein Steintisch und zwei Stühle. Sie mochte Isabelle, durchschaute kommentarlos, was Isabelle für Andras bedeutete. Auf dem Rückweg fuhr Andras in der Wartburgstraße vorbei. Er kam nicht umhin, Jakob zu mögen. Nicht einmal Eifersucht empfand er, wenn Jakob Isabelle umarmte, küßte; es war so vorgesehen, etwas, an dem Andras nie Anteil gehabt hatte, von Anfang an. Vielleicht blieb ihm nur, nach Budapest zurückzukehren, in die Wohnung neben Laszlo und seiner Schwester einzuziehen, den Nachmittag immer öfter am Kaffeetisch bei seinen Eltern zu versitzen, als könnte er, wenn er nur stillsaß, die Himmelsrichtungen in seinem Leben miteinander versöhnen, von Ost nach West nach Ost, die eben doch nicht die Koordinaten eines Menschenlebens bildeten.

 

 
Katharina Hacker (Frankfurt am Main, 11 januari 1967)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en columnist Marc Acito werd geboren op 11 januari 1966 in Bayonne, New Jersey. Zie ook alle tags voor Marc Acito op dit blog.

Uit: How I Paid for College

"What's wrong?" I ask.
She sighs and pats herself with a towel. (Always pats, never rubs. Rubbing is tough on the skin.) "Can you keep a secret?" she asks.
"Of course not," I say. "But when has that ever stopped you?"
She extends her pinky finger. "Pinky swear."
I link mine with hers. "Fine. Pinky swear. What is it?"
She looks around like she doesn't want to be overheard. "Do you remember how I told you about the night I let Dominick Ferretti take me behind the pizza oven?"
"Yeah."
"I lied."
"What? Why?"
"I didn't want you to think I was some kind of priss," she says. "You and Kelly have done practically everything."
This is an exaggeration. It's not like my girlfriend Kelly and I have gone all the way yet or even gone down on each other, but I guess compared to Paula's nunlike existence, we're something out of the Kama Sutra.
(Incidentally, I never believed that story about Dominick Ferretti.)
"You're not a priss," I say. "You're, uh . . ."
"Go ahead, say it. I'm too fat to get a boyfriend."
Let the record show: she said it, not me.
Paula flops down on a lounge chair like she's Camille taking to her sickbed. "What am I going to do? What kind of actress can I possibly hope to be if I'm still a virgin?" she says, grabbing me by the hand and yanking me down next to her. "Edward, you have to help me."
I adjust my shorts again. "Uh, listen, Sis, I'm totally flattered, but I don't think Kelly would . . ."

 

 
Marc Acito (Bayonne, 11 januari 1966)
Portret door Gwenn Seemel, 2006

 

De Griekse dichter, schrijver en zeeman Nikos Kavvadias werd geboren op 11 januari 1910 in Nikolski Ousouriski. Zie ook alle tags voor Nikos Kavvadias op dit blog..

 

A Dagger

I always carry tightly under my belt
a small african steel dagger
-- like those that blacks are used to playing with --
that I bought from an old merchant in Algiers.

I remember, as if it were now, the old shopkeeper,
who looked like an old oil painting by Goya,
standing next to long swords and tattered uniforms,
saying in a hoarse voice the following words :

"This here dagger that you want to buy
legend has surrounded with eery stories,
and everyone knows that those who owned it at some time,
each has murdered one close to him.

Don Basilio murdered Donna Julia with it,
his beautiful wife, because she was unfaithful.
Conte Antonio, one night, his wretched brother
was slyly murdering with this here dagger.

A black his young lover out of jealousy
and some Italian sailor a Greek boatswain.
From hand to hand it passed and into mine.
Many things my eyes have seen, but this one makes me quiver.

Come close and look at it, it has an anchor and a crest,
it's light, why take it, it's not even a quarter,
but I would advise you to buy something else."
-- How much? -- Seven francs only. As long as you want it, take it.

A small dagger I have tightly in my belt,
that a whim made me make it my own;
and because I hate no one in the world to kill,
I am afraid lest some day I turn it against myself ...

Vertaald door Tefkros Symeonides

 

 

 
Nikos Kavvadias (11 januari 1910 – 10 februari 1975)
Cover 

 

 

De Nederlandse (sport)journalist, schrijver en radio- en televisiepresentator Martinus Jan (Mart) Smeets werd geboren in Arnhem op 11 januari 1947. Zie ook alle tags voor Mart Smeets op dit blog.

Uit: Allround schaatsen (Column)

“Ja, wij zijn er redelijk verzot op: allround schaatsen. Een toernooi van twee dagen, vier afstanden en de beste over die vier afstanden mogen zich kampioene en kampioen noemen. Het is heroïek van de koude grond, dat geef ik toe.
Daar zijn wij, in het Koninkrijk der Nederlanden, mee opgevoed en opgegroeid, daar zijn we mee groot geworden en daar zullen we, als allerlaatsten van dat heilige geloof, mee achterblijven.
Topschaatsers zijn volgens ‘onze’ nationale wetten kinderen van Ard Schenk en Atje Keulen-Deelstra. Onze echte kampioenen kunnen de 500 meter aan en rossen de vijf (dames) en tien (heren) kilometer op zondagmiddag nog goed af.
Onze kampioenen zijn van de lange adem en een behoorlijke sprint, wij, trots schaatsvolk aan de boorden van de Noordzee, geloven in de magische kracht van de allrounders. Alleskunners; niet goed in iets speciaals, eigenlijk zoals we zijn: polderend, goed bij zelfproclamatie en kwetsbaar.
We zijn zo opgevoed, door de sportmensen zelf, door de media en door de wet dat je dan pas een goed schaatser bent als je een mooie balans hebt gevonden in het rijden van een mooie sprint en het kunnen doorbikkelen op de langste afstand.
Jaren, nee, ettelijke decennia lang hebben we kruiwagens vol aan goede allrounders afgeleverd en de buitenlanden volgden ons op afstand, deden soms mee, wonnen soms iets aardigs, maar allrounden was ‘de Nederlandse ziekte’ en zal dat voor eeuwig blijven.

 

 
Mart Smeets (Arnhem, 11 januari 1947)

 

 

De Braziliaanse schrijver Oswald de Andrade werd geboren op 11 januari 1890 in São Paulo. Zie ook alle tags voor Oswald de Andrade op dit blog.

 

Good Luck

Four hundred years ago
you landed in the Tropic of Capricorn
on the carbuncular plank
of ships
steered by dark stars
the pale beetle
of the seas
Every exile was a king
skinny, insomniac, colorless
as clay

You will create a world
from coarse laughter
from sterile glues
from coarse laughter
You will plant insurgent hatreds side by side
frustrated hatreds
You will invoke humanity, mist and frost
Among the lianas you will build a palace of termites
and from a tower circled by hills
bleating with sincere cincerre-bells
you will rise toward the moon
like hope

Space is a prison.

 

Vertaald door Flavia Vidal

 

 

 
Oswald de Andrade (11 januari 1890 – 22 oktober 1954)
Portret door Anita Malfatti, 1925

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Helmut Zenker werd geboren op 11 januari 1949 in St. Valentin. Zie ook alle tags voor Helmut Zenker op dit blog.

Uit: Schussgefahr – Kottan ermittelt

„Kottan steht zum zweiten Mal vor der gläsernen Haustür in der Hellwagstraße, auf die Glasnost in Wien???? gesprayt ist. Der Major tippt mit dem Daumen der linken Hand gegen die beschriftete Glocke.
„Ja“, meldet sich Elfriede Kahlbeck rasch.
„Kottan.“
„Haben Sie vorhin angerufen?“
„Nein“, sagt Kottan.
„Dann tut es mir leid.“
„Polizei. Ich war gestern schon bei Ihnen.“
„Hört das gar nicht mehr auf?“
Kottan betritt das unbeleuchtete Stiegenhaus, geht den langen Gang nach vorn zur Wohnungstür der Frau Kahlbeck. Die Tür ist offen. Frau Kahlbeck sitzt mit übereinander geschlagenen Beinen auf der Couch im Wohnzimmer: im anscheinend unvermeidlichen Morgen- bzw. Abendmantel.
„Was ist jetzt wieder? Stehen Sie gern?“
„Sie sind registriert“, sagt Kottan schnell, mustert den Wandverbau und bleibt stehen. Sie reagiert kaum auf sein offensichtliches Wissen.
„Ist mein Mann deswegen nicht tot?“
„Ich hab gestern nichts gemerkt.“

 

 
Helmut Zenker (11 januari 1949 – 7 januari 2003)     
Lukas Resetarits.als Kottan in een verfilming van de Kottan serie


 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 11^e januari ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

De Spaanse schrijver Eduardo Mendoza werd geboren in Barcelona op 11 januari 1943. Zie ook alle tags voor Eduardo de Mendoza op dit blog.

Uit: An Englishman in Madrid (Vertaald door Nick Caistor)

“March 4, 1936
Dear Catherine,
Shortly after crossing the border and completing the tire­some customs formalities, I fell asleep, lulled by the rattle of the train wheels. Until then I had spent a sleepless night, tormented by the weight of the problems, alarms and crises our stormy relationship has created. All I could see through the carriage window was the dark night and my own reflection in the glass: the image of a man haunted by anguish. Dawn did not offer the relief often brought by the arrival of a new day. Clouds still filled the sky, and the pale, weak sun only served to render the scenery and my own internal landscape all the more desolate. In this state, on the verge of tears, I finally fell asleep. When I next opened my eyes, everything had changed. A radiant sun was shining in an endless, deep blue sky dotted with a few small, whiter than white clouds. The train was crossing the barren high plains of Castille. Spain at last!
Oh, Catherine, my beloved Catherine, if only you could see this magnificent spectacle you would understand my state of mind as I write these lines! Because it is not simply a geograph­ical phenomenon or a change of scene, but something more, something sublime. In England and the north of France I have just travelled through, the countryside is green, the fields are fertile, the trees tall; and yet the sky is low, grey and damp, the atmosphere mournful. Here, on the other hand, the land is arid, the fields are dry and cracked and only seem to produce withered bushes, and yet the sky is boundless, the light heroic. In our country we always go around with our heads down, staring at the ground, feeling crushed; here, where the land offers nothing, people hold their heads high, and gaze at the horizon. It is a land of violence, passion, of grandiose individ­ual gestures. Not like us, constrained by our petty morality and trivial social conventions.”

 

 
Eduardo Mendoza (Barcelona, 11 januari 1943)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Diana Gabaldon werd op 11 januari 1952 geboren in Williams, Arizona. Zie ook alle tags voor Diana Gabaldon op dit blog.

Uit: Outlander

“Jamie’s face, white and shocked, loomed up on the other side of the tree. With the dim realization that what I was doing must sound unnervingly like cackling, I made a terrific effort and stopped. Panting, I stared at him for a moment.
“Yes,” I said, backing away, still heaving with gasps of unhinged laughter. “Yes, I am a witch! To you, I must be. I’ve never had smallpox, but I can walk through a room full of dying men and never catch it. I can nurse the sick and breathe their air and touch their bodies, and the sickness can’t touch me. I can’t catch cholera, either, or lockjaw, or the morbid sore throat. And you must think it’s an enchantment, because you’ve never heard of vaccine, and there’s no other way you can explain it.”
“The things I know—” I stopped backing away and stood still, breathing heavily, trying to control myself. “I know about Jonathan Randall because I was told about him. I know when he was born and when he’ll die, I know about what he’s done and what he’ll do, I know about Sandringham because … because Frank told me. He knew about Randall because he … he … oh, God!” I felt as though I might be sick, and closed my eyes to shut out the spinning stars overhead.
“And Colum … he thinks I’m a witch, because I know Hamish isn’t his own son. I know … he can’t sire children. But he thought I knew who Hamish’s father is … I thought maybe it was you, but then I knew it couldn’t be, and…” I was talking faster and faster, trying to keep the vertigo at bay with the sound of my own voice.
“Everything I’ve ever told you about myself was true,” I said, nodding madly as though to reassure myself. “Everything. I haven’t any people, I haven’t any history, because I haven’t happened yet.“

 

 
Diana Gabaldon (Williams,11 januari 1952)

 

 

De Macedonische dichter en schrijver Slavko Janevski werd geboren op 11 januari 1920 in Skopje. Zie ook alle tags voor Slavko Janevski op dit blog.

 

Threesome Dance

Let's go and dance a little,
Death, you and me.

He'll dig a well,
you, with the well's bucket
will haul up my blood.

Death will sow tranquillity,
you'll water the tranquillity,
I'll harvest the bones for you.

I'll gather them into a heap,
I'll knit them together,
and while I still have one
I'll lock up my heart in them.

Death will take a ruby from it,
place the ruby in your hands,
you will strike my head with it.

Death above the stone,
you on the stone,
I under the stone;
you and he before the altar,
I a wedding guest in finery
underneath the altar.

When we've danced our fill
we'll part again.

Each by his own mill
to be ground down tomorrow.

 

 

 
Slavko Janevski (11 januari 1920 – 20 januari 2000)
Standbeeld in Skopje

 

 

De Duitstalige, joodse, dichteres en schrijfster Ilse Weber werd geboren op 11 januari 1903 in Witkowitz, Tsjechoslowakije. Zie ook alle tags voor Ilse Weber op dit blog.

 

Brief an mein Kind (Fragment)

Mein lieber Junge, heute vor drei Jahren
bist ganz allein du in die Welt gefahren.
Noch seh ich dich am Bahnhof dort in Prag,
wie du aus dem Abteil verweint und zag
den braunen Lockenkopf neigst hin zu mir
und wie du bettelst: lass mich doch bei dir!

Dass wir dich ziehen ließen, schien dir zu hart-
Acht Jahre warst du erst und klein und zart.
Und als wir ohne dich nach Hause gingen,
da meinte ich, das Herz müsst mir zerspringen
und trotzdem bin ich froh, du bist nicht hier.

Die fremde Frau, die sich deiner angenommen,
die wird einst sicher in den Himmel kommen.
Ich segne sie mit jedem Atemzug-
wie du sie liebst ist doch nie genug.
Es ist so trüb geworden um uns her,
man nahm uns alles fort, nichts blieb uns mehr.
Das Haus, die Heimat, nicht ein Winkel blieb,
und nicht ein Stückchen, das uns wert und lieb.
Sogar die Spielzeugbahn, die dir gehört
Und deines Bruders kleines Schaukelpferd…
Nicht mal den Namen hat man uns gelassen:
Wie Vieh gezeichnet gehen wir durch die Gassen:
mit Nummern um den Hals. Das macht’ nichts aus,
wär ich mit Vater nur im gleichen Haus!
Und auch der Kleine darf nicht bei mir sein…
Im Leben war noch nie ich so allein.
Du bist noch klein, und drum verstehst du’s kaum…
So viele sind gedrängt in einem Raum.
Leib liegt an Leib, du trägst des anderen Leid
und fühlst voll Schmerz die eigene Einsamkeit.

 

 
Ilse Weber (11 januari 1903 – 6 oktober 1944)

 

 

 

De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver en politicus Alan Stewart Paton werd geboren op 11 januari 1903 in Pietermaritzburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Alan Stewart Paton op dit blog.

Uit: Cry The Beloved Country

“Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that's the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing. Nor give too much of his heart to a mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him if he gives too much.”
(…)

“ — This world is full of trouble, umfundisi.
— Who knows it better?
— Yet you believe?
Kumalo looked at him under the light of the lamp. I believe, he said, but I have learned that it is a secret. Pain and suffering, they are a secret. Kindness and love, they are a secret. But I have learned that kindness and love can pay for pain and suffering. There is my wife, and you, my friend, and these people who welcomed me, and the child who is so eager to be with us here in Ndotsheni – so in my suffering I can believe.
— I have never thought that a Christian would be free of suffering, umfundisi. For our Lord suffered. And I come to believe that he suffered, not to save us from suffering, but to teach us how to bear suffering. For he knew that there is no life without suffering.
Kumalo looked at his friend with joy. You are a preacher, he said.”

 

 
Alan Stewart Paton (11 januari 1903 – 12 april 1988)

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter, criticus, vertaler en reisschrijver Bayard Taylor werd geboren op 11 januari 1825 in Kennett Square in Chester County, Pennsylvania. Zie ook alle tags voor Bayard Taylor op dit blog.

 

Storm Song

The clouds are scudding across the moon;
A misty light is on the sea;
The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune,
And the foam is flying free.

Brothers, a night of terror and gloom
Speaks in the cloud and gathering roar;
Thank God, He has given us broad sea-room,
A thousand miles from shore.

Down with the hatches on those who sleep!
The wild and whistling deck have we;
Good watch, my brothers, to-night we'll keep,
While the tempest is on the sea!

Though the rigging shriek in his terrible grip,
And the naked spars be snapped away,
Lashed to the helm, we'll drive our ship
In the teeth of the whelming spray!

Hark! how the surges o'erleap the deck!
Hark! how the pitiless tempest raves!
Ah, daylight will look upon many a wreck
Drifting over the desert waves.

Yet, courage, brothers! we trust the wave,
With God above us, our guiding chart.
So, whether to harbor or ocean-grave,
Be it still with a cheery heart!

 

 
Bayard Taylor (11 januari 1825 – 19 december 1878)