John Galsworthy, Marie Delle Grazie, Johannes Trojan, Ernest Thayer, Carola Herbst, Sibilla Aleramo, Alice Rivaz
De Britse schrijver John Galsworthy werd geboren op 14 augustus 1867 in Kingston Hill in Surrey. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2010.
Uit:The Forsyte Saga
“Over against the piano a man of bulk and stature was wearing two waistcoats on his wide chest, two waistcoats and a ruby pin, instead of the single satin waistcoat and diamond pin of more usual occasions, and his shaven, square, old face, the colour of pale leather, with pale eyes, had its most dignified look, above his satin stock. This was Swithin Forsyte. Close to the window, where he could get more than his fair share of fresh air, the other twin, James--the fat and the lean of it, old Jolyon called these brothers--like the bulky Swithin, over six feet in height, but very lean, as though destined from his birth to strike a balance and maintain an average, brooded over the scene with his permanent stoop; his grey eyes had an air of fixed absorption in some secret worry, broken at intervals by a rapid, shifting scrutiny of surrounding facts; his cheeks, thinned by two parallel folds, and a long, clean-shaven upper lip, were framed within Dundreary whiskers. In his hands he turned and turned a piece of china. Not far off, listening to a lady in brown, his only son Soames, pale and well-shaved, dark-haired, rather bald, had poked his chin up sideways, carrying his nose with that aforesaid appearance of 'sniff,' as though despising an egg which he knew he could not digest. Behind him his cousin, the tall George, son of the fifth Forsyte, Roger, had a Quilpish look on his fleshy face, pondering one of his sardonic jests. Something inherent to the occasion had affected them all.
Seated in a row close to one another were three ladies--Aunts Ann, Hester (the two Forsyte maids), and Juley (short for Julia), who not in first youth had so far forgotten herself as to marry Septimus Small, a man of poor constitution. She had survived him for many years. With her elder and younger sister she lived now in the house of Timothy, her sixth and youngest brother, on the Bayswater Road. Each of these ladies held fans in their hands, and each with some touch of colour, some emphatic feather or brooch, testified to the solemnity of the opportunity.
In the centre of the room, under the chandelier, as became a host, stood the head of the family, old Jolyon himself. Eighty years of age, with his fine, white hair, his dome-like forehead, his little, dark grey eyes, and an immense white moustache, which drooped and spread below the level of his strong jaw, he had a patriarchal look, and in spite of lean cheeks and hollows at his temples, seemed master of perennial youth. He held himself extremely upright, and his shrewd, steady eyes had lost none of their clear shining. Thus he gave an impression of superiority to the doubts and dislikes of smaller men. Having had his own way for innumerable years, he had earned a prescriptive right to it. It would never have occurred to old Jolyon that it was necessary to wear a look of doubt or of defiance.”
John Galsworthy (14 augustus 1867 - 31 januari 1933)
De Oostenrijkse dichteres en schrijfster Marie Eugenie Delle Grazie werd geboren op 14 augustus 1864 in Bela Crkva. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2008. en ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2010.
Mit schwanken Zweigen pocht der Wind
An meine Fensterbogen:
"Heraus, heraus, Du bleiches Kind
Der Lenz ist eingezogen.
Gebrochen ist des Winters Macht,
Verscheucht sind seine Sorgen,
Die Blumen blüh'n, die Sonne lacht,
Anbricht der gold'ne Morgen.
Der Himmel strahlt so rein, so blau,
Die Lerche singt so helle,
So grün und duftig winkt die Au,
So munter schwatzt die Quelle.
O komm heraus geschwind', geschwind,
Und blick' mir nicht so bange,
Ich fächle leis, ich küsse lind
Die Thrän' von Deiner Wange!"
So flüstert er voll Lieb und Lust
Die süße Lenzeskunde;
Was soll sie mir – in meiner Brust
Brennt noch die alte Wunde.
Noch fühl' ich tief in's Herz hinein,
Daß mir kein Glück beschieden,
Daß ich so ganz, so ganz allein
Hinzieh', ohn' Ruh und Frieden!
Und wenn ich dann die Menschen all
Von Lieb' und Lust hör' singen,
Will mir das Herz vor Angst und Qual,
Vor Leid und Schmerz zerspringen.
Marie Delle Grazie (14 augustus 1864 – 19 februari 1931)
Morgens in den Garten trat
Liese, klein und niedlich
Saß ein Häslein im Salat,
Schmaust und tat sich gütlich.
Liese sprach: Du armes Tier,
Wart einmal, indes ich
Lauf ins Haus und hole dir
Zum Salat den Essig.
Kommt zurück schon mit dem Krug,
Niemals lief sie schneller-
Essig gießt sie jetzt genug
Auf den Hasenteller.
Lieselchen, ich danke dir,
Sprach der kleine Fresser,
Eigentlich doch schmeckt es mir
Ohne Essig besser.
Johannes Trojan (14 augustus 1837 – 23 november 1915)
Casey at the Bat (fragment)
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--great Casey has struck out.
Ernest Thayer (14 augustus 1863 – 21 augustus 1940)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 14 augustus 2010.