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De joods-Hongaarse schrijver György Konrád werd geboren op 2 april 1933 in Berettyóújfalu (bij Debrecen). Zie ook alle tags voor György Konrád op dit blog.
Uit: Das Schweigen der Nachbarn
“Opfer Am 20. März 1944, einem Montag, ging ich wie gewöhnlich zur Schule. Die deutschen Tiger-Panzer auf dem Hauptplatz unserer kleinen Stadt und die darauf sitzenden, in grauen Uniformen steckenden, Zigaretten rauchenden Soldaten waren nicht zu übersehen.
Sie sahen sich um, langweilten sich. Auf der Hauptstraße marschierten in dichter Aufeinanderfolge deutsche Soldaten in feldgrauen Uniformen auf und ab. Die ungarischen Soldaten bewegten sich etwas lockerer. Doch auf die Schmährede von stinkenden Juden verzichteten sie in ihren Gesängen nur selten. Ein Klassenkamerad meinte: »Jetzt steht ihr im Regen.« »Wer?«, fragte ich. »Na, ihr, ihr Hunde«, sagte er lachend und lief weg. Auf die Juden hatte er angespielt und sich nicht geirrt.
Am 15. Mai wurden meine Eltern von schwarz uniformierten Offizieren der Gestapo in Begleitung ungarischer Gendarmen, die einen schwarzen Hut mit herabhängenden schwarzen Hahnenfedern trugen, verhaftet. Sie wurden nach Österreich zur Zwangsarbeit deportiert. Wir Kinder wussten nichts von ihnen.
Wir hatten gehört, dass die Juden aus der Umgebung von Berettyóújfalu, unserer kleinen Stadt, schon vielerorts in Ghettos gesperrt und in überfüllten Viehwaggons ins Ausland transportiert worden waren. Ohne Vater und Mutter, allein auf uns gestellt, auch so konnten wir Kinder leben. Doch es schien ratsam, die Kleinstadt zu verlassen und nach Budapest zu gehen. Dort hatten uns Verwandte eingeladen.
Juden allerdings war die Nutzung öffentlicher Verkehrsmittel verboten. Um dennoch fortgehen zu können, bestach ich, ein Elfjähriger, durch Vermittlung eines rechtsgerichteten Anwalts mit Hilfe des von meinen Eltern gebliebenen und versteckten Geldes im Wert eines größeren Hauses die zuständigen Behörden. Als mich mein Schuldirektor nach der Übergabe der erforderlichen Papiere aufforderte, auch weiterhin ein braver ungarischer Junge zu bleiben, nickte ich.”
György Konrád (Berettyóújfalu, 2 april 1933))
De Amerikaanse dichteres Anne Waldman werd geboren op 2 april 1945 in Millville, New Jersey. Zie ook alle tags voor Anne Waldman op dit blog.
HOLY 21st Century (Fragment)
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy!
Is the composite world holy? Holy phonemes holy neurons!
Holy the 5 senses! Holy the aggregates of being!
Holy impermanence! Holy the inter-connectedness of all beings!
Karma of atrocities holy and un-holy!
Is 21st century endless continuation of 20th century war holy?
Environmental degradation continuation
Of 20th century environmental degradation holy?
Every Woman's a holy dakini! Matriot acts holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy!
Body parts blown over the charnel ground holy!
Eyes ears nose hands mouth holy!
Manipulated Bible holy? Koran holy? Anarchist tracts holy? Fatwas holy?
Geneva Convention holy? Holy Contract with America,
come on citizens, is that holy?
Star Wars' "Rods from Hod" holy? Daisy cutters holy?
Thermobaric version of the Hellfire Missile that can turn corners
and blast into caves holy?
Allen's Ginsberg's "Mysterious rivers of tears under the sheets" holy!
Holy Kerouac's "tender reward!"
Holy Baghdad! Holy Dharamsala! Holy Columbine!
Holy Kabul! Holy Israel/Palestine! Holy Bosnia! Holy Rwanda!
Holy Manahatta Isle! Holy Trade Center! Holy East Timor!
Holy Justice! Holy forgiveness! Holy Truth! Holy Accountability!
Anne Waldman (Millville, 2 april 1945)
De Italiaanse schrijver en avonturier Giacomo Girolamo Casanova werd geboren in Venetië op 2 april 1725. Zie ook alle tags voor Giacomo Casanova op dit blog.
Uit:The memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt (Vertaald door Arthur Machen)
“Early the next morning, Bettina brought me a band for my neck, and gave me the following letter: "Spurn me, but respect my honour and the shadow of peace to which I aspire. No one from this house must confess to Father Mancia; you alone can prevent the execution of that project, and I need not suggest the way to succeed. It will prove whether you have some friendship for me."
I could not express the pity I felt for the poor girl, as I read that note. In spite of that feeling, this is what I answered: "I can well understand that, notwithstanding the inviolability of confession, your mother's proposal should cause you great anxiety; but I cannot see why, in order to prevent its execution, you should depend upon me rather than upon Cordiani who has expressed his acceptance of it. All I can promise you is that I will not be one of those who may go to Father Mancia; but I have no influence over your lover; you alone can speak to him."
She replied: "I have never addressed a word to Cordiani since the fatal night which has sealed my misery, and I never will speak to him again, even if I could by so doing recover my lost happiness. To you alone I wish to be indebted for my life and for my honour."
This girl appeared to me more wonderful than all the heroines of whom I had read in novels. It seemed to me that she was making sport of me with the most barefaced effrontery. I thought she was trying to fetter me again with her chains; and although I had no inclination for them, I made up my mind to render her the service she claimed at my hands, and which she believed I alone could compass. She felt certain of her success, but in what school had she obtained her experience of the human heart? Was it in reading novels? Most likely the reading of a certain class of novels causes the ruin of a great many young girls, but I am of opinion that from good romances they acquire graceful manners and a knowledge of society.”
Giacomo Casanova (2 april 1725 – 4 juni 1798)
Leonard Whiting als Casanova in de film “Giacomo Casanova: Childhood and Adolescence” uit 1969
De Deense schrijver en dichter Hans Christian Andersen werd geboren op 2 april 1805 in Odense. Zie ook alle tags voor Hans Christian Andersen op dit blog en ook voor H. C. Andersen.
Uit: De reisgenoot
De arme Johannes was toch zo bedroefd, want zijn vader was erg ziek en kon niet meer beter worden. Ze waren maar met zijn beidjes in hun kleine kamer; de lamp op de tafel was bijna leeggebrand; en het was laat op de avond. "Je was een beste zoon, Johannes!" zei de zieke vader. "Onze Lieve Heer zal je wel verder helpen in de wereld!" En hij keek hem met ernstige, vriendelijke ogen aan, haalde heel diep adem en stierf; het was net of hij lag te slapen.
Maar Johannes huilde, nu had hij helemaal niemand op de wereld, geen vader of moeder, geen zuster of broer. Die arme Johannes! Hij lag op zijn knieën bij het bed en kuste de hand van zijn dode vader, hij huilde vele tranen, maar ten slotte vielen zijn ogen dicht en hij sliep in met zijn hoofd op de harde beddeplank.
Toen droomde hij een wonderlijke droom; hij zag hoe de zon en de maan voor hem bogen, en hij zag zijn vader weer fris en gezond en hoorde hem lachen, zoals hij altijd lachte, wanneer hij bijzonder in zijn schik was. Een lieftallig meisje, met een gouden kroon op het lange, mooie haar, reikte Johannes de hand, en zijn vader zei: "Zie je wat voor bruid je gekregen hebt? Zij is de mooiste op de hele wereld."
Hans Christian Andersen (2 april 1805 - 4 augustus 1875)
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De Argentijnse schrijver Roberto Godofredo Arlt werd geboren op 2 april 1900 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Roberto Arlt op dit blog.
Uit: The Mad Toy (Vertaald door Michele McKay Aynesworth)
“The mother of a hideous girl, talking about one of the Irzubeta boys who had exposed himself to this damsel in a fit of lust, would say to another woman: "Listen to me, Setiora, if I ever get my hands on him, he'll be wishing a train had hit him first?' Hipolito's mother, a fat woman with an extremely white face, and always expecting, would say as she took the butcher by the arm, "Take my advice, Don Segundo, don't let them buy on credit, even for laughs. I can't begin to tell you how deep they're into us?'
"Don't worry, don't worry," the burly man would growl, bran-dishing a huge knife as he lanced his way around a lung. Ah! And were they ever jolly, those Irzubetas. If you don't think so, tell the baker who had the nerve to complain about how behind they were in their payments. It was his bad luck to be wrangling with one of the daughters at the door when the police inspector happened by and overheard. This officer, accustomed to resolve all disputes with his boot, and annoyed that the baker was trying to collect what was owed him, tossed him out on his ear. The lesson in manners was not lost, and many preferred not to collect. In short, the life of that family was more full of laughs than a vaudeville farce. The young ladies, past twenty-six and without a boyfriend in sight, amused themselves with Chateaubriand and languished in the company of Lamartine and Cheburliez.n This led them to believe they were part of an intellectual elite, and consequently they referred to poor people as "riffraff?' "Riffraff" they called the grocer who dared to demand payment for his beans; "riffraff," the shopkeeper from whom they had filched a few meters of lace edging; "riffraff," the butcher who raised Cain when he heard them mumble through dosed shutters, "We'll pay you next month for sure?' The three brothers, hairy and thin, glorious bums, took frequent sunbaths during the day, and when the sun went down, suited up and went off to conquer hearts among the loose women at the edge of town. The two old ladies, saintly and surly, would carp incessantly over trifles, or seated in a circle with the daughters in the ancient parlor, would peer through the curtains as they wove their gossip; and since they were descended from an officer who supposedly served in the of Napoleon, many times in the half-light that idealized their bloodless faces I listened to them spinning imperialist myths, evok-ing the musty splendors of nobility, while on the solitary sidewalk the lamplighter, his pole crowned by a violet flame, would light the green gas lantern.”
Roberto Arlt (2 april 1900 – 26 juli 1942)
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De Joods-Duitse schrijver Edgar Hilsenrath werd geboren in Leipzig op 2 april 1926. Zie ook alle tags voor Edgar Hilsenrath op dit blog.
Uit: Mein Freund Edgar (Interview door Marko Martin in Welt, 2007)
"Schon seltsam, was", sagt Hilsenrath und zündet sich eine neue Zigarette an. "Ausgerechnet zwei Juden aus Deutschland werden von den Armeniern dafür verehrt, dass sie den Völkermord thematisiert haben. Franz Werfel mit seinem kurz vor Hitlers Machtergreifung 1933 erschienenem Roman ,Die vierzig Tage des Musa Dagh' und meine Wenigkeit."
Und wenn es nicht seltsam wäre, sondern nur logisch, Resultat einer noch im Säkularen wirkungsmächtigen, dem Religiösen dabei eher abgewandten Erinnerungskraft, einem geradezu metaphysischem Vertrauen ins offene, skrupulöse Wort? (Und weg, ganz weit weg in diesem Moment, all die üblichen, lediglich akademischer Profilierung dienenden Besserwisser-Debatten, ob man die Schoah nun mit anderen Genoziden vergleichen dürfe oder nicht.) In seinem Schtetl-Roman "Jossel Wassermanns Heimkehr", 1993 erschienen und erneut im Unterschied zu treudeutschen Kindheitsmustern, fliehenden Bodensee-Pferden und gehäuteten Butts und Zwiebeln kein Teil hiesigen Literaturgedächtnisses, führt ein soeben von der Nazi-Wehrmacht deportierter Rebbe folgendes Gespräch mit dem Wind:
"Ja, du hast vollkommen recht. Die Gojim sind dumm. Sie plündern jetzt unsere Häuser. Und sie glauben, dass wir alles zurückgelassen haben, was wir besaßen. Und sie lachen sich ins Fäustchen. Dabei wissen sie nicht, dass wir das Beste mitgenommen haben."
"Was ist das Beste?", fragte der Wind.
Und der Rebbe antwortete: "Unsere Geschichte. Die haben wir mitgenommen."
Und der Wind sagte: "Aber Rebbe. Das kann doch nicht sein. Die Geschichte der Schtetljuden ist zurückgeblieben."
"Nein", sagte der Rebbe. "Du irrst dich. Nur die Spuren unserer Geschichte sind zurückgeblieben. Wir haben nur das Vergessen zurückgelassen, doch was wir mitgenommen haben, ist das Erinnern."
Edgar Hilsenrath (Leipzig, 2 april 1926)
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De Britse schrijver en scenarioschrijver George MacDonald Fraser werd geboren in Carlisle op 2 april 1925. Zie ook alle tags voor George Fraser op dit blog.
Uit: Flashman and the Tiger
“It was through Billy Russell, who you may know was also a Times man and an old chum from India and the Crimea, that I met this tubby prodigy at the time of the Franco-Prussian farce in '70, and we'd taken to each other straight off. At least, Blowitz had taken to me, as folk often do, God help 'em, and I didn't mind him; he was a comic little card, and amused me with his Froggy bounce (though he was a Bohemian in fact), and tall tales about how he'd scuppered the Commune uprising in Marseilles in '71 by leaping from rooftop to rooftop to telegraph some vital news or other to Paris while the Communards raged helpless below, and saved some fascinating Balkan queen and her beau-tiful daughter from shame and ruin at the hands of a vengeful monarch, and been kidnapped when he was six and fallen in love with a flashing-eyed gypsy infant with a locket round her neck—sounded deuced like The Bohemian Girl to me, but he swore it was gospel, and part of his "Destiny," which was a great bee in his bonnet. "You ask, what if I had slipped from those Marseilles roofs, and been dashed to pieces on the cruel cobbles, or torn asunder by those ensanguined terrorists?" cries he, swigging champagne and waving a pudgy finger. "What, you say, if that vengeful monarch's agents had entrapped me—moi, Blowitz? What if the gypsy kidnappers had taken another road, and so eluded pursuit? Ah, you ask yourself these things, cher 'Arree—" "I don't do anything o' the sort, you know." "But you do, of a certainty!" cries he. "I see it in your eye, the burning question! You consider, you speculate, you! What, you wonder, would have become of Blowitz? Or of France? Or the Times, by example?" He inflated, looking solemn. "Or Europe?" "Search me, old Blowhard," says I rescuing the bottle. "All I ask is whether you got to grips with that fascinating Balkan hint and her beauteous daughter, and if so, did you tackle 'em in tan-dem or one after t'other?" But he was too flown with his fat-headed philosophy to listen. "I did not slip, me—I could not! I foiled the vengeful monarch's ruffians—it was inevitable! My gypsy abductors took the road determined by Fate!"
George MacDonald Fraser (2 april 1925 - 2 januari 2008)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 2e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.
Zie voor bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 2 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 april 2008 en eveneens mijn blog van 2 april 2009.
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