Harald Hartung, Matthias Zschokke, Claire Goll, Mohsen Emadi, Zbigniew Herbert


De Duitse schrijver, dichter en literatuurwetenschapper Harald Hartung werd geboren op 29 oktober 1932 in Heme. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Harald Hartung op dit blog.



Vergessene Zeile


Gestern sehr früh fiel mir eine Zeile ein
Sie handelte vom Tod und begann Der Tod…
dann folgte etwas wie eine Behauptung


Sie schien mir gut und tröstete mich zugleich
so daß ich liegen blieb und mein Glück genoß


Dann stand ich auf Der Tod ist … probierte ich
und hatte vergessen wie es weiterging


Der Tod ist eine vergessene Zeile.




Mantegnas Sebastian


Ich zählte alle Pfeile

die er an seinem Leib trägt


die Stellen wo sie eintreten

die Stellen wo sie austreten

auch die verdeckten


und vergaß über meinem Zählen

den eigenen Schmerz


Ich trat hinaus in das Licht des Kanals

Zwischen Schmutz

und dümpelnden Plastikflaschen


trieb bäuchlings ein Teddybär

Da trat mir das Salz ins Aug




Blick in den Hof


Während es anfängt zu schneien

schaukelt das Mädchen im Hof

schaukelt sich tief

ins wachsende weiße Dunkel

Glück ist ein Sekundenschlaf

Ich schaue auf, die leere Schaukel

schwingt noch ein wenig nach




Harald Hartung (Herne, 29 oktober 1932)

Lees meer...

Dominick Dunne, Aleksandr Zinovjev, Georg Engel, Jean Giraudoux, André Chénier


De Amerikaanse schrijver Dominick Dunne werd geboren op 29 oktober 1925 in Hartford, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 29 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 29 oktober 2010


Uit: Another City, Not My Own


„Certainly, there are enough references to his obliteration in his journal in the months before he was found dead in the media room of his country house in Prud'homme, Connecticut, where he had been watching the miniseries of one of his novels, A Season in Purgatory. The book was about a rich young man who got away with murder because of the influence of his prominent and powerful father. Getting away with murder was a relentless theme of Gus Bailey's. He was pitiless in his journalistic and novelistic pursuit of those who did, as well as of those in the legal profession who created the false defenses that often set their clients free. That book, the miniseries of which he was watching, had brought Gus Bailey and the unsolved murder in Greenwich, Connecticut, which, to avoid a libel suit, he had renamed Scarborough Hill, a great deal of notoriety at the time of its publication, resulting in the reopening of the murder case by the police. Gus had fervently believed that the case remained unsolved because the police had been intimidated by the power and wealth of the killer's family, which extended all the way to the highest office in the land.
"It was exactly the same thing in the Woodward case," said Gus, who had written an earlier novel about a famous society shooting in the aristocratic Woodward family on Long Island in the fifties called The Two Mrs. Grenvilles. "The police were simply outdazzled by the grandeur of Elsie, whom I called Alice Grenville, and Ann Woodward got away with shooting her husband."
As always, when Gus's passions were involved in his writing, he ruffled feathers. Powerful families became upset with him. He created enemies.
"You seem to have annoyed a great many very important people," said Gillian Greenwood of the BBC, as a statement not a question, in the living room of Gus Bailey's New York penthouse, where she was interviewing him on camera for a documentary on his life called The Trials of Augustus Bailey“.



Dominick Dunne (29 oktober 1925 - 26 augustus 2009)

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Evelyn Waugh, JMH Berckmans, Uwe Tellkamp


De Britse schrijver Evelyn Waugh werd geboren in Londen op 28 oktober 1903. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Evelyn Waugh op dit blog.


Uit: Brideshead Revisited


„I thanked him.
"Yes, it's indulgent of me, but it all comes out of capital, you know. . . . I suppose this is the time I should give you advice. I never had any myself except once from your cousin Alfred. Do you know in the summer before I was going up, your cousin Alfred rode over to Boughton especially to give me a piece of advice? And do you know what that advice was? 'Ned,' he said, 'there's one thing I must beg of you. Always wear a tall hat on Sundays during term. It is by that, more than anything, that a man is judged.' And do you know," continued my father, snuffling deeply, "I always did? Some men did, some didn't. I never saw any difference between them or heard it commented on, but I always wore mine. It only shows what effect judicious advice can have, properly delivered at the right moment. I wish I had some for you, but I haven't."


Anthony Andrews en Jeremy Irons als Sebastian en Charles

In de tv-serie Brideshead Revisited uit 1981



My cousin Jasper made good the loss; he was the son of my father's elder brother, to whom he referred more than once, only half facetiously, as "the Head of the Family"; he was in his fourth year and, the term before, had come within appreciable distance of getting his rowing blue; he was secretary of the Canning and president of the J.C.R. - a considerable person in college. He called on me formally during my first week and stayed to tea; he ate a very heavy meal of honey-buns, anchovy toast and Fuller's walnut cake, then he lit his pipe and, lying back in the basket-chair, laid down the rules of conduct which I should follow; he covered most subjects; even to-day I could repeat much of what he said, word for word. ". . . You're reading History? A perfectly respectable school. The very worst is English Literature and the next worst is Modern Greats. You want either a first or a fourth. There is no value in anything between. Time spent on a good second is time thrown away. You should go to the best lectures - Arkwright on Demosthenes for instance - irrespective of whether they are in your school or not. . . . Clothes. Dress as you do in a country house. Never wear a tweed coat and flannel trousers - always a suit. And go to a London tailor; you get better cut and longer credit. . . . Clubs. Join the Carlton now and the Grid at the beginning of your second year. If you want to run for the Union - and it's not a bad thing to do - make your reputation outside first, at the Canning or the Chatham, and begin by speaking on the paper. . . . Keep clear of Boar's Hill . . ." The sky over the opposing gables glowed and then darkened; I put more coal on the fire and turned on the light, revealing in their respectability his London-made plus fours and his Leander tie. . . . "Don't treat dons like schoolmasters; treat them as you would the vicar at home. . . . You'll find you spend half your second year shaking off the undesirable friends you made in your first. . . . Beware of the Anglo-Catholics - they're all sodomites with unpleasant accents. In fact, steer clear of all the religious groups; they do nothing but harm. . . ."


Evelyn Waugh (28 oktober 1903 – 10 april 1966)

Portret door Henry Lamb, 1929

Lees meer...

John Hollander, Al Galidi, Johannes Daniel Falk, Karl Philipp Conz


De Amerikaanse dichter en criticus John Hollander werd geboren op 28 oktober 1929 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 28 oktober 2010



Adam's Task
"And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field. . . "
- Gen. 2:20

Thou, paw-paw-paw; thou, glurd; thou, spotted
Glurd; thou, whitestap, lurching through
The high-grown brush; thou, pliant-footed,
Implex; thou, awagabu.

Every burrower, each flier
Came for the name he had to give:
Gay, first work, ever to be prior,
Not yet sunk to primitive.

Thou, verdle; thou, McFleery's pomma;
Thou; thou; thou -- three types of grawl;
Thou, flisket, thou, kabasch; thou, comma-
Eared mashawok; thou, all; thou, all.

Were, in a fire of becoming,
Laboring to be burned away,
Then work, half-measuring, half-humming,
Would be as serious as play.

Thou, pambler; thou, rivarn; thou, greater
Wherret, and thou, lesser one;
Thou, sproal; thou, zant; thou, lily-eater.
Naming's over. Day is done.


John Hollander (New York, 28 oktober 1929)


Lees meer...


Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath, Nawal el Saadawi


De Engelse dichter Dylan Thomas werd geboren op 27 oktober 1914 in Swansea in Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Dylan Thomas op dit blog.


Being But Men


Being but men, we walked into the trees

Afraid, letting our syllables be soft

For fear of waking the rooks,

For fear of coming

Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.


If we were children we might climb,

Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,

And, after the soft ascent,

Thrust out our heads above the branches

To wonder at the unfailing stars.


Out of confusion, as the way is,

And the wonder, that man knows,

Out of the chaos would come bliss.


That, then, is loveliness, we said,

Children in wonder watching the stars,

Is the aim and the end.


Being but men, we walked into the trees.





A Saint About To Fall


A saint about to fall,

The stained flats of heaven hit and razed

To the kissed kite hems of his shawl,

On the last street wave praised

The unwinding, song by rock,

Of the woven wall

Of his father's house in the sands,

The vanishing of the musical ship-work and the chucked bells,

The wound-down cough of the blood-counting clock

Behind a face of hands,

On the angelic etna of the last whirring featherlands,

Wind-heeled foot in the hole of a fireball,

Hymned his shrivelling flock,

On the last rick's tip by spilled wine-wells

Sang heaven hungry and the quick

Cut Christbread spitting vinegar and all

The mazes of his praise and envious tongue were worked in flames and shells.


Glory cracked like a flea.

The sun-leaved holy candlewoods

Drivelled down to one singeing tree

With a stub of black buds,

The sweet, fish-gilled boats bringing blood

Lurched through a scuttled sea

With a hold of leeches and straws,

Heaven fell with his fall and one crocked bell beat the left air.

O wake in me in my house in the mud

Of the crotch of the squawking shores,

Flicked from the carbolic city puzzle in a bed of sores

The scudding base of the familiar sky,

The lofty roots of the clouds.

From an odd room in a split house stare,

Milk in your mouth, at the sour floods

That bury the sweet street slowly, see

The skull of the earth is barbed with a war of burning brains and hair.


Strike in the time-bomb town,

Raise the live rafters of the eardrum,

Throw your fear a parcel of stone

Through the dark asylum,

Lapped among herods wail

As their blade marches in

That the eyes are already murdered,

The stocked heart is forced, and agony has another mouth to feed.

O wake to see, after a noble fall,

The old mud hatch again, the horrid

Woe drip from the dishrag hands and the pressed sponge of the forehead,

The breath draw back like a bolt through white oil

And a stranger enter like iron.

Cry joy that hits witchlike midwife second

Bullies into rough seas you so gentle

And makes with a flick of the thumb and sun

A thundering bullring of your silent and girl-circled island.




Dylan Thomas (27 oktober 1914 – 9 november 1953)

Hier met zijn vrouw Caitlin

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Zadie Smith, Enid Bagnold, Albrecht Rodenbach, Fran Lebowitz, Reza Allamehzadeh, Kazimierz Brandys


De Engelse schrijfster Zadie Smith werd geboren op 27 oktober 1975 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 27 oktober 2010


Uit: Changing My Mind


„My father had few enthusiasms, but he loved comedy. He was a comedy nerd, though this is so common a condition in Britain as to be almost not worth mentioning. Like most Britons, Harvey gathered his family around the defunct hearth each night to watch the same half-hour comic situations repeatedly, in reruns and on video. We knew the "Dead Parrot" sketch by heart. We had the usual religious feeling for Monty Python's Life of Brian. If we were notable in any way, it was not in kind but in extent. In our wood-cabinet music center, comedy records outnumbered the Beatles. The Goons' "I'm Walking Backwards for Christmas" got an airing all year long. We liked to think of ourselves as particular, on guard against slapstick's easy laughs — Benny Hill was beneath our collective consideration. I suppose the more precise term is "comedy snobs."

Left unchecked, comedy snobbery can squeeze the joy out of the enterprise. You end up thinking of comedy as Hemingway thought of narrative: structured like an iceberg, with all the greater satisfactions fathoms underwater, while the surface pleasure of the joke is somehow the least of it. In my father, this tendency was especially pronounced. He objected to joke merchants. He was wary of the revue-style bonhomie of the popular TV double act Morecambe and Wise and disapproved of the cheery bawdiness of their rivals, the Two Ronnies. He was allergic to racial and sexual humor, to a far greater degree than any of the actual black people or women in his immediate family. Harvey's idea of a good time was the BBC sitcom Steptoe and Son, the grim tale of two mutually antagonistic "rag-and-bone" men who pass their days in a Beckettian pile of rubbish, tearing psychological strips off each other. Each episode ends with the son (a philosopher manque, who considers himself trapped in the filthy family business) submitting to a funk of existential despair. The sadder and more desolate the comedy, the better Harvey liked it.“



Zadie Smith (Londen, 27 oktober 1975)

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Marja Pruis


De Nederlandse schrijfster en journaliste Marja Pruis werd geboren in Amsterdam op 26 oktober 1959. Marja Pruis studeerde Nederlands en Algemene Taalwetenschap aan de Universiteit van Amsterdam. Daarna ging zij aan de slag als literatuurredactrice bij De Groene Amsterdammer, waar zij sinds 2006 deel uitmaakt van de redactie. Sinds 1999 schrijft zij romans. Haar eerste roman, Bloem (2002), was een experimentele, impressionistische novelle over lust en seks, en over de afstand tussen twee mensen in een liefdesrelatie. In 2005 verscheen haar tweede roman De Vertrouweling. Deze leverde Pruis nominaties op voor de AKO Literatuurprijs en de Anna Bijns Prijs. De meest recente roman van Pruis, Atoomgeheimen, verscheen in 2008. Atoomgeheimen kwam op de longlist van de AKO Literatuurprijs. In 2011 heeft Pruis het literatuurkritische werk Kus me, straf me uitgegeven. Kus me, straf me haalde de shortlist van AKO Literatuurprijs.


Uit: Bloem


Seks, seks, seks.
Eigenlijk denkt Bloem wat anders, maar dit staat wel zo netjes. Ze kon het spel niet anders spelen dan door zich klein te maken, dan door te denken aan het meisje dat ze eens op televisie had gezien, dat met een zwaar Gronings accent zei dat ze dat ook welns wilde probeern, vastbindn en zo. Ze liet hem met een sigaret langzaam langs de binnenkant van haar dijen omhooggaan tot ze het voelde schroeien. Ze liet zich bekijken, om en om rollen. Als ze bij de bakker stond leek alles ervoor gemaakt om bij haar naar binnen te proppen, van harde puntjes tot kaasstengels, een handjevol graag. Ze ging naar de dokter omdat ze pijn in haar buik had en was bang dat de dokter iets zou uitroepen als hij tussen haar benen zou kijken, maar die vertrok geen spier en schreef alleen het recept voor een zalfje uit dat het schrijnen minder moest maken, en een antibioticum tegen blaasontsteking. Ze voelde zich een wandelende trechter. Het was alsof een gulzig zuigende slang zich van mond tot mond in haar had genesteld en voortdurend meer wilde. Meer, meer, meer. Ze kreeg ook meer, meer, meer, waardoor ze soms met verbazing op straat, in de trein, in de supermarkt, op het schoolplein, om zich heen keek en zich afvroeg in welke dorheid die mensen zich staande moesten zien te houden. Ze wist niet hoe gauw ze zich thuis op bed moest laten vallen, op haar buik, met haar hand tussen haar benen, met haar telefoon tussen haar benen, met de hele groentela tussen haar benen, en het kratje bier niet te vergeten. Ze was vol, maar het kon altijd nog voller. De splinters zaten in haar handpalmen, opgedroogd sperma in haar hals, maar het kon nog meer.“




Marja Pruis (Amsterdam, 26 oktober 1959)

20:06 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: marja pruis, romenu |  Facebook |

Jan Wolkers, Andrew Motion, Stephen L. Carter, Karin Boye


De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver en beeldend kunstenaar Jan Wolkers werd geboren in Oegstgeest op 26 oktober 1925. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Jan Wolkers op dit blog.


Uit: Langpootmuggen


„Gek van het licht zeilen ze door het open raam naar binnen. Hun achterpoten slierten slap achter hun lichamen aan, willoos laten ze zich meevoeren. Maar hun voorpoten zwemmen begerig door de ruimte, omarmen schokkend het licht. Dan tuimelen ze verblind omlaag en blijven trillend op de grond zitten tot ze weer omhoog kunnen vliegen om in een laatste waanzin het gloeiende glas van de lamp te omhelzen. Met verbrande poten en vleugels vallen ze als een dor reepje boombast naar beneden.

- Ik moet het raam sluiten, mompelt hij.

Hij loopt naar het raam en sluit het.

Het zijn schepselen Gods, denkt hij. Ik mag ze niet willens en wetens door het executiepeloton van 150 Watt laten ombrengen. Jeltsma, ja, die vuilak. Die stak, op de verjaardag van Mies nog wel, de stekker van het elektrisch straalkacheltje in het stopkontakt. En maar op zijn dronken poten door de kamer waggelen. In de ene hand het brandende kacheltje en in de andere een stoel. En overal waar er een zat ging hij op de stoel staan en drukte het gloeiende deksel tegen het plafond. Het leek wel of er menselijk geluid uit die hete kabine kwam. Een deernis-wekkend gefluister dat overging in gesis van pijn. Ik moest ineens kotsen. Met samengeklemde kaken rende ik naar de W.C., maar terwijl ik de bril omhoog klapte zag ik dat er een motvisje in de pot liep. Ik kon niet op dat beestje kotsen en het met mijn bedorven eten doortrekken. Ik kotste naast de W.C. en met het maagzuur druipend van mijn kin zei ik tegen dat diertje:

- Ben jij zo laat nog aan de wandel, klein druppeltje kwik, voortschuivend traantje. Je kan hier niet meer uit, hè. Ik zal je helpen. Voordat die goorling komt en je boven op je kop schijt.

En ik pakte een W.C.-papiertje en liet hem er op lopen en zette hem

[p. 42]

op de grond.

- Ga maar gauw naar je moeder toe, zei ik.

Maar toen kwam Mies en die zei:

- Hoe heb ik het nou met je Johan, je zit naast de W.C. te kotsen. Je ziet alles dubbel.

Er was maar één motvisje, zei ik.

Ach, jij, je bent hartstikke teut, zei ze.

Ze trok me overeind en veegde in de keuken mijn gezicht af met een natte punt van de handdoek.

Toen ik de kamer weer binnenkwam had Jeltsma een krant op de tafel uitgespreid en daarboven keerde hij het straalkacheltje om. De krant lag vol afgebrande lucifers, kromgetrokken door de hitte.

- Willem Jeltsma, zei ik langzaam en nadrukkelijk, dat had je niet mogen doen. Je kan zelf nog geen spijker in de muur slaan, laat staan een langpootmug maken. God is duizenden jaren bezig geweest met die beesten. Ontwerpen... ontwerpen en nog eens helemaal opnieuw beginnen. Tot hij zag dat het goed was. Je kan het zien aan de vleugeltjes. Ze zijn van allemaal kleine stukjes aan elkaar gezet. Tot ze groot genoeg waren om te vliegen. En toen zei God:

Gaat heen en vermenigvuldigt u!

Maar die Jeltsma begint me straal in mijn gezicht uit te lachen.“



Jan Wolkers (26 oktober 1925 – 19 oktober 2007)

Lees meer...

Trevor Joyce, Pat Conroy, Ulrich Plenzdorf, Sorley MacLean, Andrej Bely


De Ierse dichter Trevor Joyce werd geboren op 26 oktober 1947 in Dublin. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 26 oktober 2010



Fast Rivers

for Michael Smith


right at the very

instant of delivery

the messengers

begin to fail

and are already



when we see the moment so



reckoning surely we regard

time not yet come


let not the fool delude himself

that which he foresees

will last

no longer than the bygone show

and all things thus

shall pass


our lives are fast rivers soon

delivered to the sea

of death

whereto go all dominions down

exhausted and

are quenched

there must find the slightest rill

with tributary stream

and flood

all then levelled utterly


and lord


this world is but a road to one

wherein is no abiding


he needs due bearing who would not

from that true path

fall off

the setting out is at our birth

we travel as we live


at last complete the course

and in that death

lie down




Trevor Joyce (Dublin, 26 oktober 1947)

Lees meer...


Anne Tyler, Peter Rühmkorf, Willem Wilmink, Harold Brodkey, Jakob Hein, Daniel Mark Epstein


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Anne Tyler werd geboren op 25 oktober 1941 in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Anne Tyler op dit blog.


Uit: Breathing Lessons


„Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania. Maggie’s girlhood friend had lost her husband. Deer Lick lay on a narrow country road some ninety miles north of Baltimore, and the funeral was scheduled for ten-thirty Saturday morning; so Ira figured they should start around eight. This made him grumpy. (He was not an early-morning kind of man.) Also Saturday was his busiest day at work, and he had no one to cover for him. Also their car was in the body shop. It had needed extensive repairs and Saturday morning at opening time, eight o’clock exactly, was the soonest they could get it back. Ira said maybe they’d just better not go, but Maggie said they had to. She and Serena had been friends forever. Or nearly forever: forty-two years, beginning with Miss Kimmel’s first grade.
They planned to wake up at seven, but Maggie must have set the alarm wrong and so they overslept. They had to dress in a hurry and rush through breakfast, making do with faucet coffee and cold cereal. Then Ira headed off for the store on foot to leave a note for his customers, and Maggie walked to the body shop. She was wearing her best dress—blue and white sprigged, with cape sleeves—and crisp black pumps, on account of the funeral. The pumps were only medium-heeled but slowed her down some anyway; she was more used to crepe soles. Another problem was that the crotch of her panty hose had somehow slipped to about the middle of her thighs, so she had to take shortened, unnaturally level steps like a chunky little windup toy wheeling along the sidewalk.
Luckily, the body shop was only a few blocks away. (In this part of town things were intermingled—small frame houses like theirs sitting among portrait photographers’ studios, one-woman beauty parlors, driving schools, and podiatry clinics.) And the weather was perfect—a warm, sunny day in September, with just enough breeze to cool her face. She patted down her bangs where they tended to frizz out like a forelock. She hugged her dress-up purse under her arm. She turned left at the corner and there was Harbor Body and Fender, with the peeling green garage doors already hoisted up and the cavernous interior smelling of some sharp-scented paint that made her think of nail polish.“



Anne Tyler (Minneapolis, 25 oktober 1941)

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John Berryman, Christine D'haen, Hélène Swarth, Karl Emil Franzos, Benjamin Henri Constant


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Allyn Berryman (eig. John Allyn Smith) werd geboren op 25 oktober 1914 in McAlester, Oklahoma. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 25 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 25 oktober 2010



Dream Song 6: A Capital at Wells


During the father's walking—how he look

down by now in soft boards, Henry, pass

and what he feel or no, who know?—

as during hís broad father's, all the breaks

& ill-lucks of a thriving pioneer

back to the flying boy in mountain air,


Vermont's child to go out, and while Keats sweat'

for hopeless inextricable lust, Henry's fate,

and Ethan Allen was a calling man,

all through the blind one's dream of the start,

when Day was killing Porter and had to part

lovers for ever, fancy if you can,


while the cardinals' guile to keep Aeneas out

was failing, while in some hearts Chinese doubt

inscrutably was growing, toward its end,

and a starved lion by a water-hole

clouded with gall, while Abelard was whole,

these grapes of stone were being proffered, friend.




Dream Song 7: 'The Prisoner of Shark Island' with Paul Muni


Henry is old, old; for Henry remembers

Mr Deeds' tuba, & the Cameo,

& the race in Ben Hur,—The Lost World, with sound,

& The Man from Blankey's, which he did not dig,

nor did he understand one caption of,

bewildered Henry, while the Big Ones laughed.


Now Henry is unmistakably a Big One.

Fãonnee; he don't féel so.

He just stuck around.

The German & the Russian films into

Italian & Japanese films turned, while many

were prevented from making it.


He wishing he could squirm again where Hoot

is just ahead of rustlers, where William S

forgoes some deep advantage, & moves on,

where Hashknife Hartley having the matter taped

the rats are flying. For the rats

have moved in, mostly, and this is for real.



John Berryman (25 oktober 1914 – 7 januari 1972)


Lees meer...


Zsuzsa Bánk, August Graf von Platen, Onno Kosters, Norman Rush


De Duitse schrijfster Zsuzsa Bánk werd geboren op 24 oktober 1965 in Frankfurt am Main. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2010.


Uit: Die hellen Tage


„Ich kenne Aja, seit ich denken kann. Ich habe kaum eine Erinnerung an eine Zeit vor ihr, an ein Leben, in dem es sie nicht gegeben hat, keine Vorstellung, wie sie ausgesehen haben könnten, Tage ohne Aja. Aja gefiel mir sofort. Sie sprach laut und deutlich und kannte Wörter wie Wanderzirkus und Schellenkranz. Zwischen anderen sah sie winzig aus, mit ihren kleinen Händen und Füßen, und als müsse sie dem etwas entgegensetzen, sprach sie in langen Sätzen, denen kaum jemand folgte, als wolle sie beweisen, dass sie laut reden konnte, ohne Pause und ohne Fehler. Sie zog in dem Jahr zu uns, in dem für uns Kinder nichts lustiger war, als unsere Namen rückwärts aufzusagen und uns laut Retep oder Itteb zu rufen. Aja hieß immer nur Aja.
Wir fanden uns, wie sich Kinder finden, ohne zu zögern, ohne Umstände, und sobald wir unser erstes Spiel begonnen, unsere ersten Fragen gestellt hatten, verbrachten wir unsere Tage miteinander, fädelten sie auf wie an einer endlosen Kette, und hielten jede Unterbrechung, mit der andere uns trennten, für eine Zumutung. Wenn Aja zu mir kam, öffnete sie unser Hoftor lautlos. Niemand konnte unser Tor lautlos öffnen und schließen, weil es ein großes Tor auf Rollen war, das jeden Besuch vor den letzten Schritten zur Haustür ankündigte, und dessen Geräusch wir bis unters Dach und bis in die hintersten Winkel des Gartens hören konnten. Nur Aja öffnete unser Tor so leise, dass es niemandem auffiel, auch nicht, dass sie über den Hof lief, und ich wunderte mich, wie still sie sein, wie unbemerkt sie kommen und gehen konnte.
Wir müssen uns im Sommer begegnet sein, im Sommer, der Aja umgab, als gehöre er ihr, als gehörten sein Licht, sein Staub, seine langen hellen Abende ihr, und durch den sie sich ohne Jacke und Schuhe, mit einem gelben Hut, den sie im Schrank ihrer Mutter gefunden hatte, bewegte wie durch ein großes, lichtes Haus, dessen Zimmer ohne Türen ineinanderliefen.”




Zsuzsa Bánk (Frankfurt am Main, 24 oktober 1965)


Lees meer...

Denise Levertov, Ernest Claes, Robert Greacen, Yordan Radichkov


De Engels - Amerikaanse dichteres Denise Levertov werd geboren op 24 oktober 1923 in Ilford, Essex. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2010



A Map Of The Western Part Of The County Of Essex In England


Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers

and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon,

and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a

stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps,

I am Essex-born:

Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel,

the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves,

Roding held my head above water when I thought it was

drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees

stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt,

the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there.

Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower,

Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots

sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong,

Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry,

in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves,

through its trees the ghost of a great house. In

Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the

light of flaring sundown, seven kings

in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings

the place of law

where my birth and marriage are recorded

and the death of my father. Woodford Wells

where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white

statue forlorn in its garden)

saw the meeting and parting of two sisters,

(forgotten? and further away

the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once

but many times?).

All the Ivans dreaming of their villages

all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities,

picking up fragments of New World slowly,

not knowing how to put them together nor how to join

image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map

made long before I was born shows ancient

rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire

for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages

indelibly all over the atlas, who now in a far country

remembers the first river, the first

field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building,

that new smell, and remembers

the walls of the garden, the first light.



Denise Levertov (24 oktober 1923 – 20 december 1997)


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Adrian Mitchell, Marghanita Laski, Dorothea von Schlegel, Sarah Josepha Hale, Hubert Aquin


De Engelse dichter , dramaturg en schrijver Adrian Christopher William Mitchell werd geboren in Hampstead Heath op 24 oktober 1932. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2010



There are not enough of us

How much verse is magnificent?
Point oh oh oh oh one per cent.
How much poetry is second-rate?
Around point oh oh oh oh eight.
How much verse is a botched hotch potch?
Ninety-eight per cent by my watch.
How much poetry simply bores?
None of mine and all of yours.


There are too many of us

Most poets are bad poets, the poor creatures.
Much worse than that: most teachers are bad teachers.

for mental patients

pull yourself together
that's what they always say
pull yourself together
throw your cares away
pull yourself together
but if they knew my heart
and how it kicks inside me
they'd say
pull yourself apart

all together now





Adrian Mitchell (24 oktober 1932 – 20 december 2008)

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