Tennessee Williams, Gregory Corso, Hwang Sun-won, Martin McDonagh, Robert Frost, Patrick Süskind
Uit: A Streetcar Named Desire
“STANLEY: Sure, I can see how you would be upset by this. She pulled the wool over your
eyes as much as Mitch’s!
STELLA: It’s pure invention! There’s not a word of truth in it and if I were a man and this
creature had dared to
invent such things in my presence —
BLANCHE [singing] :“Without your love, It’s a honky-tonk parade! Without your love, It’s a
melody played, In a penny arcade...”
STANLEY: Honey, I told you I thoroughly checked on these stories! Now wait till I finish. The trouble with Dame Blanche was that she couldn’t put on her act any more in Laurel! They got wised up after two or three dates with her and then they quit, and she goes on to another, the same old line, same old act, same old hooey! But the town was too small for this to go on forever! And as time went by she became a town character. Regarded as not just different but downright loco — nuts.
[Stella draws back.]
And for the last year or two she has been washed up like poison. That’s why she’s here this
summer, visiting royalty, putting on all this act — because she’s practically told by the mayor to get out of town! Yes, did you know there was an army camp near Laurel and your sister’s was one of the places called “Out-of-Bounds”?
BLANCHE: “It’s only a paper moon. Just as phony as it can be — But it wouldn’t be make-believe, If you believed in me!”
STANLEY: Well, so much for her being such a refined and particular type of girl. Which brings us to Lie Number Two.“
Tennessee Williams (26 maart 1911 – 25 februari 1983)
Marlon Brando als Stanley Kowalski in de film uit 1951
Dream of a Baseball Star
I dreamed Ted Williams
leaning at night
against the Eiffel Tower, weeping.
He was in uniform
and his bat lay at his feet
- knotted and twiggy.
'Randall Jarrell says you're a poet!' I cried.
'So do I! I say you're a poet!'
He picked up his bat with blown hands;
stood there astraddle as he would in the batter's box,
and laughed! flinging his schoolboy wrath
toward some invisible pitcher's mound
- waiting the pitch all the way from heaven.
It came; hundreds came! all afire!
He swung and swung and swung and connected not one
sinker curve hook or right-down-the middle.
A hundred strikes!
The umpire dressed in strange attire
thundered his judgment: YOU'RE OUT!
And the phantom crowd's horrific boo
dispersed the gargoyles from Notre Dame.
And I screamed in my dream:
God! throw thy merciful pitch!
Herald the crack of bats!
Hooray the sharp liner to left!
Yea the double, the triple!
Hosannah the home run!
Gregory Corso (26 maart 1930 – 17 januari 2001)
Uit: A Shower (Vertaald door broeder Anthony van Taizé)
"She was hiding, watching what I was doing.’ The boy started to run. He missed his step on a stone. One foot went into the water. He ran faster.
If only there was somewhere he could hide. On this side there are no reeds. Just buckwheat fields. He had the impression the perfume from the buckwheat flowers was pricking his nostrils as never before. His head was spinning. A salty fluid seeped between his lips into his mouth. His nose was bleeding.
Blocking his bleeding nose with one hand, the boy went running on. He had the impression of a voice following him, repeatedly calling out, ‘Silly boy, silly boy.’
When he reached the edge of the stream, the girl, whom he had not seen for several days, was sitting beside the stream playing with the water. He started to cross the stepping stones, pretending to ignore her. A few days previously, he had simply made a fool of himself in front of the girl, so today he crossed the stepping stones cautiously, whereas before he had walked across them as if they were a highway.
He pretended not to hear. He climbed up the bank and stopped.
‘Hey, what kind of shell is this?’
Unthinkingly, he turned round. He found himself facing the girl’s bright dark eyes. He quickly turned his gaze to the girl’s palm.
‘It’s a butterfly clam.’
‘That’s a pretty name.’
Hwang Sun-won (26 maart 1915-14 september 2000)
Uit: The Lieutenant of Inishmore
“Davey (pause) You’d probably hear a big stone too. It depends on how big and from what distance. Poor Wee Thomas. I did like him, I did. Which is more than I can say for most of the cats round here. Most of the cats round here I wouldn’t give a penny for. They’re all full of themselves. Like our Mairead’s cat. You’d give him a pat, he’d outright sneer. But Wee Thomas was a friendly cat. He would always say hello to you were you to see him sitting on a wall. (Pause.) He won’t be saying hello no more, God bless him. Not with that lump of brain gone. (Pause.) And you haven’t had him long at all, have you, Donny? Wasn’t he near brand new?
Donny He isn’t my fecking cat at all is what the point of the fecking matter is, and you know full well.
Davey I don’t know full well. What . . . ?
Donny Only fecking looking after the bastard I was the year.
Davey Who were you fecking looking after him for, Donny?
Donny Who do you think?
Davey (pause) Not . . . not . . .
Donny Not what?
Davey (with horror) Not your . . . not your . . .
Donny Why else would I be upset? I don’t get upset over cats!
Davey Not your Padraic?!
Donny Aye, my Padraic.
Davey Oh Jesus Christ, Donny! Not your Padraic in the INLA?!
Donny Do I have another fecking Padraic?
Davey Wee Thomas is his?”
Martin McDonagh (Camberwell, 26 maart 1970)
Scene uit een opvoering in het Garrick Playhouse in Altrincham, 2015
Acquainted With The Night
I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain - and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
Leaves Compared With Flowers
A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.
But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.
Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.
I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.
Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.
Robert Frost (26 maart 1874 – 29 januari 1963)
Uit: Das Parfum
„So sollte es auch heute sein, und Grenouilles Mutter, die noch eine junge Frau war, gerade Mitte zwanzig, die noch ganz hübsch aussah und noch fast alle Zähne im Munde hatte und auf dem Kopf noch etwas Haar und außer der Gicht und der Syphilis und einer leichten Schwindsucht keine ernsthafte Krankheit; die noch hoffte, lange zu leben, vielleicht fünf oder zehn Jahre lang, und vielleicht sogar einmal zu heiraten und wirkliche Kinder zu bekommen als ehrenwerte Frau eines
verwitweten Handwerkers oder so... Grenouilles Mutter wünschte, dass alles schon vorüber wäre.
Und als die Presswehen einsetzten, hockte sie sich unter ihren Schlachttisch und gebar dort,
wie schon vier Mal zuvor, und nabelte mit dem Fischmesser das neugeborene Ding ab. Dann aber, wegen der Hitze und des Gestanks, den sie als solchen nicht wahrnahm, sondern nur als etwas Unerträgliches, Betäubendes - wie ein Feld von Lilien oder wie ein enges Zimmer, in dem zuviel Narzissen stehen -, wurde sie ohnmächtig, kippte zur Seite, fiel unter dem Tisch hervor mitten auf
die Straße und blieb dort liegen, das Messer in der Hand. Geschrei, Gerenne, im Kreis steht die glotzende Menge, man holt die Polizei. Immer noch liegt die Frau mit dem Messer in der Hand auf der Straße, langsam kommt sie zu sich.
Was ihr geschehen sei?
Was sie mit dem Messer tue?
Woher das Blut an ihren Röcken komme?
»Von den Fischen.«
Sie steht auf, wirft das Messer weg und geht davon, um sich zu waschen.
Da fängt, wider Erwarten, die Geburt unter dem Schlachttisch zu schreien an.“
Patrick Süskind (Ambach, 26 maart 1949)
Ben Whishaw als Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in de film uit 2006
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e maart ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.