De Engelse dichter William Wordsworth werd geboren op 7 april 1770 in Cumberland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Evening On Calais Beach

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder -- everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

London, 1802

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

Mutability

From low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain

And is no more; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, which royally did wear

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

William Wordsworth (7 april 1770 – 23 april 1850)

Portret door Benjamin Robert Haydon, 1842. National Portrait Gallery Londen

De Argentijnse schrijjfster Victoria Ocampo werd geboren op 7 april 1890 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.

Uit: Fiona G. Parrot: Friendship, Letters and Butterflies: Victoria Ocampo and Virginia Woolf

„Much of Ocampo’s writings are peppered with commentary on Woolf’s work. In both Carta a Virginia Woolf and Virginia Woolf en su diario, she explores Woolf’s fiction, drawing comparisons with English and Argentine culture through Three Guineas: ‘The maid, Virginia observes in Three Guineas, had an important role in the life of the English upper classes (and the same was true in Argentina) until the onset of the war in 1914’ (Steiner 159). Ocampo writes directly to her audience, linking the class systems of Argentina and England. By analysing the texts and drawing comparisons to her own culture, Ocampo made Woolf’s writings more accessible to South American readers. In the same essay, she connects South America’s patriarchal fathers to A Room of One’s Own and Three Guineas, explaining how both novels ‘are the true history of the Victorian struggle between the victims of the patriarchal system and the patriarchs, between the daughters and the fathers and brothers. Virginia ended up by telling these despots: Consider, reason, reflect for a moment’ (Steiner 160). In discussing the topic of ‘the patriarchal system and the patriarchs,’ Ocampo not only enables her own culture to experience the work of Woolf but exposes it to her corresponding ideas with the hope of progressive change for all women. Because both writers’ backgrounds involved domineering fathers and patriarchal cultures, which expected them to uphold repressive social rules, Ocampo believed strongly in these issues and it was yet another connection she experienced with Woolf, a connection she cherished and wished to share with her readers.“

Victoria Ocampo (7 april 1890 – 27 januari 1979)

De Chileense dichteres en diplomate Gabriela Mistral werd geboren in Vicuña, Chili op  7 april 1889. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.

Anniversary 

And we go on and on,

Neither sleeping nor awake,

Towards the meeting, unaware

That we are already there.

That the silence is perfect,

And that the flesh is gone.

The call still is not heard

Nor does the Caller reveal his face.

But perhaps this might be

Oh, my love, the gift

Of the eternal Face without gestures

And of the kingdom without form!

Those Who Do Not Dance 

A crippled child

Said, “How shall I dance?”

Let your heart dance

We said.

Then the invalid said:

“How shall I sing?”

Let your heart sing

We said

Then spoke the poor dead thistle,

But I, how shall I dance?”

Let your heart fly to the wind

We said.

Then God spoke from above

“How shall I descend from the blue?”

Come dance for us here in the light

We said.

All the valley is dancing

Together under the sun,

And the heart of him who joins us not

Is turned to dust, to dust.

Gabriela Mistral (7 april 1889 – 10 januari 1957)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Donald Barthelme werd geboren op 7 april 1931 in Philadelphia. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008.en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.

Uit: King of Jazz

“Well I'm the king of jazz now, thought Hokie Mokie to himself as he oiled the slide on his trombone. Hasn't been a 'bone man been king of jazz for many years. But now that Spicy MacLammermoor, the old king, is dead, I guess I'm it. Maybe I better play a few notes out of this window here, to reassure myself.

"Wow!" said somebody standing on the sidewalk. "Did you hear that?"

"I did," said his companion.

"Can you distinguish our great homemade American jazz performers, each from the other?"

"Used to could."

"Then who was that playing?"

"Sounds like Hokie Mokie to me. Those few but perfectly selected notes have the real epiphanic glow."

"The what?"

"The real epiphanic glow, such as is obtained only by artists of the caliber of Hokie Mokie, who's from Pass Christian, Mississippi. He's the king of jazz, now that Spicy MacLammermoor is gone."

Hokie Mokie put his trombone in its trombone case and went to a gig. At the gig everyone fell back before him, bowing.

"Hi Bucky! Hi Zoot! Hi Freddie! Hi George! Hi Thad! Hi Roy! Hi Dexter! Hi Jo! Hi Willie! Hi Greens!"

"What we gonna play, Hokie? You the king of jazz now, you gotta decide."

"How 'bout `Smoke'?"

"Wow!" everybody said. "Did you hear that? Hokie Mokie can just knock a fella out, just the way he pronounces a word. What a intonation on that boy! God Almighty!"

"I don't want to play `Smoke,' " somebody said.

"Would you repeat that stranger?"

"I don't want to play `Smoke.' `Smoke' is dull. I don't like the changes. I refuse to play `Smoke.' "

"He refuses to play `Smoke'! But Hokie Mokie is the king of jazz and he says `Smoke'!"

Donald Barthelme (7 april 1931 – 23 juli 1989)

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Johannes Mario Simmel werd op 7 april 1924 in Wenen geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 april 2007,  mijn blog van 5 januari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 april 2010.

Uit: Liebe ist die letzte Brücke

„Irene sah zu ihm auf und lächelte, ohne ihr Spiel zu unterbrechen. Gleich darauf sah sie wieder weg. Sie trug einen Hausmantel aus schwarzem Samt, ein zarter Duft umgab sie. Fleurs de Rocaille ist das, dachte Sorel. Irene benützt dieses Parfüm, seit ich sie kenne.
Eine schöne Frau war Irene. Das Gesicht mit der reinen, sehr hellen Haut war oval, die Augen hatten stets den gleichen seltsam entrückten Ausdruck, sanft geschwungen war der Mund, der Körper schlank und wohlgeformt und für ihre achtundvierzig Jahre geradezu mädchenhaft. Auf leicht beklemmende Weise entsprach Irene Sorel genau der Einrichtung, die sie für die Villa gewählt hatte, beide waren von erdrückender Kultiviertheit. Sie hatten sich arrangiert, Irene und Philip, von Anfang an waren sich beide über die Art ihrer Beziehung im klaren gewesen.
"Wunderbar, dieser Scarlatti", sagte sie. Ihre Stimme klang wie stets beherrscht und kühl.
"Wunderbar, ja", sagte Sorel. "Wann essen wir?"
"Wie immer um acht", sagte sie, weiterspielend, "wird Henriette bereit sein zum Servieren."
"Ich gehe unter die Dusche."
"Ja, Liebster, tu das", sagte Irene. "Wir haben genügend Zeit, uns umzuziehen." Wenn sie spielte, bedeckte zarte Röte die weiße Haut ihrer Wangen. Sich plötzlich erinnernd, rief sie Sorel nach: "Oh, ein Mann hat angerufen!"
"Wer?" fragte er und blieb auf einem besonders großen handgeknüpften Karamani-Teppich stehen.
"Ein gewisser Jakob Fenner." Immer weiter spielte sie, den Blick in zweifellos wundervolle Fernen gerichtet. "Viermal seit heute mittag."