George Orwell, Yann Martel, Rob van Essen, Michel Tremblay, Nicholas Mosley, Ingeborg Bachmann, Arseny Tarkovsky


De Britse schrijver George Orwell (pseudoniem van Eric Arthur Blair) werd op 25 juni 1903 geboren in Motihari, India. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor George Orwell op dit blog.

Uit: 1984

“On occasion he had even been entrusted with the rectification of The Times leading articles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran:
times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling
In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered:
The reporting of Big Brother's Order for the Day in The Times of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing.
Winston read through the offending article. Big Brother's Order for the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an organization known as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class.
Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might not even be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another.”


George Orwell (25 juni 1903 – 21 januari 1950)

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Larry Kramer, Claude Seignolle, Ariel Gore, Heinrich Seidel, Hans Marchwitza, Georges Courteline, Friederike Kempner


De Amerikaanse schrijver, columnist en homoactivist  Larry Kramer werd geboren in Bridgeport, Connecticut op 25 juni 1935. Zie ook alle tags voor Larry Kramer op dit blog.

Uit: Faggots

“Winnie, or more correctly, Dunnie, as he was then called, didn't know what a fairy was, such being the insularity of Main Line education even then. So calmly, that same night, with that quest for curiosity, that vigor for knowledge which deserted him at some point between Hill and U. Va., he asked one of his classmates, a cute Jewish scholarship student from Shreveport named Sammy Rosen, whom Dunnie had been spending a lot of time with because Sammy was well-versed and hence helpful in time of test and trial, and as luck would have it, Sammy knew, as Dunnie knew he would. Sammy also shivered as he dispensed the knowledge, so both of them realized, at precisely this moment in time, that they were about to learn even more comprehensively what a fairy was. "Want to come to my room and have some of my Mama's brownies?" Sammy began haltingly. It was as simple as that. "What will you do when you finish college?" Sammy asked, trying to keep the conversation light, even though he'd been wet dreaming for several months about such an opportunity as was obviously now creeping up on both of them, as they sat on his bed munching away at Mrs. Rosen's brown squares and waiting for whatever was going to happen to happen. "I think I'm very handsome," Dunnie said quite matter-offactly, in response to the question. Was this not a Future Great Model in embryo even then? "Don't you?" "... Yes ...," Sammy replied, wondering what one thing had to do with another. "I wish to do something that will allow the world to appreciate my handsomeness." "Oh. Like be a movie star?" "Heavens, no. I don't want to have to talk. I just want to be seen." And to illustrate his point, he cast a long look at himself in Sammy's bureau mirror, which was tilted just his way. "And, of course, to be talked about. And worshipped and adored." "Oh." "I guess that means I have to be a famous model, though even that's less than perfect. I really don't want to be associated with any product. But I guess that can't be helped. But I'll see to it that my picture is large and no one will pay any attention to whatever it is I'm selling." This news hung in the air for moments as the two boys—like cute animals in Walt Disney cartoons, which, when confronted with anything intractable, simply engorge it whole—stuffed huge brownies into their mouths. Dunnie was pleased that his future was clear and Sammy was impressed with such direction. Then Dunnie prophesied again: "I'll tell you something else. I don't want to get married. Ever." "How do you know that?" "I know it. My parents are married, so I just know it." "I ... I know it, too."


Larry Kramer (Bridgeport, 25 juni 1935)

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Wilfred Smit, Ernesto Sabato, Yves Bonnefoy, Scott Oden, John Ciardi, Matthijs Kleyn


De Nederlandse dichter Wilfred Smit werd geboren in Soerabaja (Java, Nederlands Indië) op 24 juni 1933. Zie ook alle tags voor Wilfred Smit op dit blog.



Het grotestadskind schrijvend
aan haar grootvader, zegt niet:

men noemt mij mager,
een klein kreng waar straks
madelieven in een kring
omheen zullen staan -, maar:

't is erger met mijn pop
sinds u daarbuiten woont.

ach, nu is zij moegeschreven
aan grootvader - de enveloppe
omsluit haar liefderijk,
een pop onder een lila deken.




Gracielijk en licht sterven,
een kleine zucht in de paniers
en 't is niet meer.

dien avond heeft men ons
gekleed te bed gelegd,
als in een rose medaillon
voor iedereen te kijk -

en o bepoederde horreur,
het clavecimbel speelt door.


Wilfred Smit (24 juni 1933 -13 augustus 1972)
Soerabaja, Rode Brug

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Madelon Székely-Lulofs, Johannes van het Kruis, Kurt Kusenberg, Ambrose Bierce, Jean-Baptiste Boyer d'Argens, Josse Kok


De Nederlandse schrijfster en journaliste Magdalena Hermina Székely-Lulofs werd geboren in Soerabaja op 24 juni 1899. Zie ook alle tags voor Madelon Székely-Lulofs op dit blog.

Uit: Rubber

“De chauffeur kroop weer achter het stuur. Het Fordje begon te reutelen en te puffen en langzaam reed de wagen de pont op.
Het water stond laag in de rivier; het had zes weken niet geregend. Er was haast geen stroom en de pont ging bijna onmerkbaar over. De veerman staarde in het water.... Wat kon het hém schelen of het lang duurde! Hij had immers toch niets te doen! En wat maakte het uit.... of je nu in een half uur over was of in tien minuten!
Uit verveling begon John een praatje met Pâ Karmo, die op de leuning van de pont zat.
‘Weinig water, Pâ Karmo.’
Pâ Karmo keek even over de rivier alsof hij haar vandaag nog niet gezien had. Dan knikte hij.
‘Weinig water, toewan.’
Een paar naakte inlandsche jongetjes baadden aan den oever.
‘Hoe staat het met de krokodillen.... zijn er véél?’
Pâ Karmo keek weer even over de rivier en knikte weer.
‘Veel krokodillen, toewan.... Als het zulk laag water is, zijn er altijd veel.’
‘En zijn die kinderen niet bang?’
Pâ Karmo hief zijn hoofd, keek even naar de badende jongens.
‘Nee, ze zijn niet bang,’ zei hij toen. En na een korte pauze liet hij er op volgen:
‘Ze zijn het al gewend om daar te baden.’
‘En gebeurt er nooit een ongeluk?’
‘Saja, toewan.... eergister is Si Pintjang van kampong Baroe meegetrokken door en krokodil.’
John ging wat rechter op zitten. Hij kende Si Pintjang.... een kleine, kreupel geboren maleische jongen, die wel eens water voor hem haalde om den motor bij te vullen.
‘En.... is hij dóód?’


Madelon Székely-Lulofs (24 juni 1899 – 22 mei 1958)
Cover Tsjechische vertaling

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David Leavitt, Jo Govaerts, Rafik Shami, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken


De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit:While England Sleeps

“To start with, at that time I'd gone to bed with probably three dozen boys, all of them either German or English; never with a woman. Nonetheless -- and incredible thought it may seem -- I still assumed that a day would come when I would fall in love with some lovely, intelligent girl, whom I would marry and who would bear me children. And what of my attraction to men? To tell the truth, I didn't worry much about it. I pretended my homosexuality was a function of my youth, that when I "grew up" it would fall away, like baby teeth, to be replaced by something more mature and permanent. I, after all, was no pansy; the boy in Croydon who hanged himself after his father caught him in makeup and garters, he was a pansy, as was Oscar Wilde, my first-form Latin tutor, Channing's friend Peter Lovesey's brother. Pansies farted differently, and went to pubs where the barstools didn't have seats, and had very little in common with my crowd, by which I meant Higel and Horst and our other homosexual friends, all of whom were aggressively, unreservedly masculine, reveled in all things male, and held no truck with sissies and fairies, the overrefined Rupert Halliwells of the world. To the untrained eye nothing distinguished us from "normal" men.
Though I must confess that by 1936 the majority of my friends had stopped deluding themselves into believing their homosexuality was merely a phase. They claimed, rather, to have sworn off women, by choice. For them, homosexuality was an act of rebellion, a way of flouting the rigid mores of Edwardian England, but they were also fundamentally misogynists who would have much preferred living in a world devoid of things feminine, where men bred parthenogenically. Women, according to these friends, were the “class enemy” in a sexual revolution. Infuriated by our indifference to them (and to the natural order), they schemed to trap and convert us*, thus foiling the challenge we presented to the invincible heterosexual bond.
Such thinking excited me - anything smacking of rebellion did - but it also frightened me. It seemed to me then that my friends’ misogyny blinded them to the fact that heterosexual men, not women, had been up until now, and would probably always be, their most relentless enemies. My friends didn’t like women, however, and therefore couldn’t acknowledge that women might be truer comrades to us than the John Northrops whose approval we so desperately craved. So I refused to make the same choice they did, although, crucially, I still believed it was a choice.”


David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)

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Sommer (Ilse Kleberger), Nescio, Juliën Holtrigter, Jaap Robben


Dolce far niente


Phoenix Summer Heat door Joan Therien, 2010




Weißt du, wie der Sommer riecht?
Nach Birnen und nach Nelken,
nach Äpfeln und Vergißmeinnicht,
die in der Sonne welken,
nach heißem Sand und kühler See
und nassen Badehosen,
nach Wasserball und Sonnenkrem,
nach Straßenstaub und Rosen.

Weißt du, wie der Sommer schmeckt?
Nach gelben Aprikosen
und Walderdbeeren, halb versteckt
zwischen Gras und Moosen,
nach Himbeereis, Vanilleeis
und Eis aus Schokolade,
nach Sauerklee vom Wiesenrand
und Brauselimonade.

Weißt du, wie der Sommer klingt?
Nach einer Flötenweise,
die durch die Mittagsstille dringt:
Ein Vogel zwitschert leise,
dumpf fällt ein Apfel in das Gras,
der Wind rauscht in den Bäumen.
Ein Kind lacht hell, dann schweigt es schnell
und möchte lieber träumen.


Ilse Kleberger (22 maart 1921 - 2 januari 2012)
Potsdam, Brandenburger Tor en Luisenplatz. Ilse Kleberger werd in Potsdam geboren.

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Summer Solstice (Stacie Cassarino), Ed Leeflang, Thomas Blondeau, Adam Zagajewski


Dolce far niente


Soleil couchant door Pierre Bonnard, 1913



Summer Solstice

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.


Stacie Cassarino (Hartford, 15 februari 1975)

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Georg-Buchner-Preis 2017 voor Jan Wagner


Georg-Buchner-Preis 2017 voor Jan Wagner

Aan de duitse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Jan Wagner is de Georg-Büchner-Preis 2017 toegekend, de belangrijkste literaire prijs in Duitsland. Jan Wagner werd geboren op 18 oktober 1971 in Hamburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Jan Wagner op dit blog.



wir trafen sie im wald auf einer lichtung:
zwei expeditionen durch die dämmerung
die sich stumm betrachteten. zwischen uns nervös
das telegraphensummen des stechmückenschwarms.

meine großmutter war berühmt für ihr rezept
der champignons farcis. sie schloß es in
ihr grab. alles was gut ist, sagte sie,
füllt man mit wenig mehr als mit sich selbst.

später in der küche hielten wir
die pilze ans ohr und drehten an den stielen -
wartend auf das leise knacken im innern,
suchend nach der richtigen kombination.



botanischer garten

dabei, die worte an dich abzuwägen -
die paare schweigend auf geharkten wegen,
die beete laubbedeckt, die bäume kahl,
der zäune blüten schmiedeeisern kühl,
das licht aristokratisch fahl wie wachs -
sah ich am hügel gläsern das gewächs-
haus, seine weißen rippen, fin de siècle,
und dachte prompt an jene walskelette,
für die man sich als kind den hals verdrehte
in den museen, an unsichtbaren drähten,
daß sie zu schweben schienen, aufgehängt,
an jene ungetüme, zugeschwemmt
aus urzeittiefen einem küstenstrich,
erstickt an ihrem eigenen gewicht.



gaststuben in der provinz

hinter dem tresen gegenüber der tür
das eingerahmte foto der fußballmannschaft:
lächelnde helden, die sich die rostenden nägel
im rücken ihrer trikots nicht anmerken lassen.


Jan Wagner (Hamburg, 18 oktober 1971)


Sommer (Detlev von Liliencron), Vikram Seth, Paul Muldoon


Dolce far niente


Sommerliche Flusslandschaft door Hans-Richard von Volkmann, 1897




Zwischen Roggenfeld und Hecken
Führt ein schmaler Gang;
Süßes, seliges Verstecken
Einen Sommer lang.

Wenn wir uns von ferne sehen,
Zögert sie den Schritt,
Rupft ein Hälmchen sich im Gehen,
Nimmt ein Blättchen mit.

Hat mit Ähren sich das Mieder
Unschuldig geschmückt,
Sich den Hut verlegen nieder
In die Stirn gedrückt.

Finster kommt sie langsam näher,
Färbt sich rot wie Mohn;
Doch ich bin ein feiner Späher,
Kenn die Schelmin schon.

Noch ein Blick in Weg und Weite,
Ruhig liegt die Welt,
Und es hat an ihre Seite
Mich der Sturm gestellt.

Zwischen Roggenfeld und Hecken
Führt ein schmaler Gang;
Süßes, seliges Verstecken
Einen Sommer lang.


Detlev von Liliencron (3 juni 1875 – 22 juli 1909)
Kiel, Bootshafen. Detlev von Liliencron werd in Kiel geboren.

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By A Swimming Pool Outside Syracusa, (Billy Collins), Salman Rushdie, Sybren Polet


Dolce far niente


The Ambassador Hotel Swimming Pool door Joseph Kleitsch, jaren 1920



By A Swimming Pool Outside Syracusa

All afternoon I have been struggling
to communicate in Italian
with Roberto and Giuseppe, who have begun
to resemble the two male characters
in my Italian for Beginners,
the ones who are always shopping
or inquiring about the times of trains,
and now I can hardly speak or write English.

I have made important pronouncements
in this remote limestone valley
with its trickle of a river,
stating that it seems hotter
today even than it was yesterday
and that swimming is very good for you,
very beneficial, you might say.
I also posed burning questions
about the hours of the archaeological museum
and the location of the local necropolis.

But now I am alone in the evening light
which has softened the white cliffs,
and I have had a little gin in a glass with ice
which has softened my mood or—
how would you say in English—
has allowed my thoughts to traverse my brain
with greater gentleness, shall we say,

or, to put it less literally,
this drink has extended permission
to my mind to feel—what's the word?—
a friendship with the vast sky
which is very—give me a minute—very blue
but with much great paleness
at this special time of day, or as we say in America, now.


Billy Collins (New York, 22 maart 1941)
New York, Astoria Park Pool. Billy Collins werd geboren in New York

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