06-09-17

Christopher Brookmyre, Jennifer Egan, Aart G. Broek, Amelie Fried, Jessica Durlacher, Alice Sebold, Julien Green, Willem Brandt, Carmen Laforet

 

De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.

Uit: Be My Enemy

“`Bin Laden? A fucking charlatan.' 'Be serious for a minute,' Williams told him. 'I am being serious. That's my point. Everybody's so reverent about this guy. Strip away all the mythologising and hocus-pocus and what have you got? Patty Hearst with a beard. Bored rich kid playing at soldiers. He's in the huff with his family, for Christ's sake — the psychology's pitifully mundane. If he'd been born into a semi in Surbiton he'd have painted his bedroom black, got himself a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt and hung around swingparks drinking cider from plastic bottles.' Fotheringham's rant was attracting admonitory glances, more in disapproval of the growing volume and vehemence than the content, which wouldn't have been clearly discernible above the whipping wind. Raised voices were not decorous at a funeral; they suggested that your thoughts were not respectfully concentrated upon the memory of the departed, even if, in Williams's case, that was not strictly true. Nothing was more prominent in his mind than the man they had just buried or the consequences of his loss, not least the fact that Williams now had his job. Fotheringham gestured apologetic acknowledgement and Williams led him in the opposite direction to the dispersing mourners. `Bin Laden's about a lot more than thrill kills and power trips,' Williams chided, measuring his condescension precisely. 'And there's three thousand dead people in New York of the opinion that you should be taking him more seriously.' 'I'm taking him entirely seriously, sir. I just don't think it will help us if we buy into the hype and start thinking of him as some kind of formidable genius. Look at the Black Spirit, if you need a primer. Remember what a bogeyman he was? Turned out to be a fucking oil-biz wage slave from Aberdeen.' `Quite. Something, I should remind you, that we only learned after the fact. Didn't make him any easier to catch, did it? And besides, I don't think there's much ground for comparison. For all his theatrics, the Black Spirit was essentially just a mercenary, prepared to do horrific things on other people's behalf if they paid him enough. Bin Laden represents the possibility of ten thousand Black Spirits, all of them prepared to do horrific things merely because it's Allah's bidding. We've never had to face this kind of fanaticism before: there's no fifth column to cultivate, no disaffected factions to encourage, no waverers, not even anyone we can bribe and corrupt. Just total, unquestioning, homicidal, suicidal commitment to the cause.' `With respect, sir, that's what I mean by believing the hype. For one thing, there is no cause. Bin Laden's too smart to marry himself to anything as cumbersome as a coherent or even consistent political ideology, because such a thing could be debated, held up to scrutiny, and, worst of all, alienate potential followers. "The cause of Islam" is expediently nebulous.”

 

 
Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

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06-09-16

Christopher Brookmyre, Jennifer Egan, Aart G. Broek, Alice Sebold, Anne Fried, Julien Green, Willem Brandt

 

De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.

Uit: Country of the Blind

“A speculative early spin on the story was that their loathing of the wealthy must have become intensified during their embittered prison terms, and that - whether entirely for their own motives or willingly assisting someone else's - they had meted out terrible revenge upon their perceived oppressors murdering Voss, an international icon of arrogant, even decadent - and some would say thuggish - tycoonery. This seemed to be borne out the police's revelation that while the bodyguards had been shot (once each, middle of the forehead - very quick, very clean, very efficient), Voss and his wife had been tied up and their throats cut. It hadn't taken a pathologist to work out that Helene had been murdered in front of Voss before they dispatched him too.
It had been a particularly cruel and vicious crime, undoubtedly evidencing a heartless brutality borne of violent, furious hatred. And there had been something sickeningly demonstrative about it, thrusting its depravity before the public and forcing them to look at it. It seemed to crave their disgust, to solicit their repulsion, while at the same time its very publicness sought to rob Voss of his aura the posthumous humiliation of such a sordid and conspicuous death. Death often built legends, lent greater stature to mere men and granted them the immortality of public mythology. But murder could be insult through injury, a faultless disgrace in an irredeemable theft of dignity, which burnt the oil portrait of a proud man and replaced it in the public eye with a grainy police b/w of a withered corpse, helpless and bested no worthy foe, but some - and extension any - rogue whelp.
Nicole couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu as she remembered Robert Maxwell's watery demise, the unreality, the impropriety of death paying a visit to one of the untouchable Three Rs: Rupert, Robert and Roland. Maxwell had seemed a figure so proverbially larger-than-life, a looming presence in and behind the media, and a figure she had, young in years, grown used to assuming would always be there. Someone the everyday realities of life wouldn't touch, whose very irritatingness seemed to guarantee he would be around forever so you'd better get used to it, like the common cold or washing powder ads.
She remembered how the radio bulletin had sounded like a joke. Rich tycoons don't fall off boats; if they do, they turn up later, safe and sound, then write a book about it and bore us all on chat shows, telling the world how the publicity - sorry - their lives flashed before them. Even while he was missing, those uncertain hours of anxious speculation and dismal journalism, she had assumed Maxwell would be found boomingly alive, having spent the whole time enjoying the amorous advances of a short-sighted minke whale. But no, the only whale they found was the dead one floating off the Tenerife coastline, and the colossus had indeed been felled.”

 

 
Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

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06-09-15

Christopher Brookmyre, Jennifer Egan, Aart G. Broek, Alice Sebold, Julien Green

 

De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.

Uit: Quite Ugly One Morning

“The postman had noticed that the door was ajar and had knocked on it, then pushed it further open, leaning in to see whether the occupant was all right. Upon seeing what was within he had simultaneously thrown up and wet himself, the upper and lower halves of his body depositing their damning comments on the situation either side of the aperture.
‘Postman must be built like the fuckin' Tardis,’ McGregor muttered to himself, leaving vomity footprints on the floorboards as he trudged reluctantly down the hall. ‘How could a skinny wee smout like that hold so much liquid?’
He had a quick look at the lumpy puddle behind him. Onion, rice, the odd cardamom pod. Curry, doubtless preceded by a minimum six pints of heavy. Not quite so appetising second time around.
He turned again to face into the flat, took a couple of short paces, then heard a splash and felt something splat against his calves.
‘Sorry, sir. Long jump never was my speciality. Guess I'll be for the high jump now, eh? Ha ha ha.’
Ah yes, thought McGregor. Only now was it complete. Deep down he had suspected that it wasn't quite cataclysmically hellish enough yet, but now Skinner was here, and the final piece was in place. What this situation had needed, what it had been audibly crying out for, was a glaikit, baw-faced, irritating, clumsy, thick, ginger-heided bastard to turn up and start cracking duff jokes, and here was PC Gavin Skinner to answer the call.
He was not going to lose his temper. He felt that on a morning like this, it was only a short distance between snapping at Skinner and waking up in a soft room in Gogarburn, wearing a jumper with sleeves that fitted twice round the waist. He breathed in and out, closing his eyes for a short, beautiful second.
‘Gavin, you're on spew-guarding duty,’ he said calmly. ‘Stay there. Guard the spew.’
‘Do you want me to take down its details, sir?’ Skinner asked loudly in his inimitable jiggle-headed way. ‘Read it its rights maybe?’
‘Yes, Gavin,’ McGregor said wearily. ‘All these things.’
Dear Lord, he thought, don't make me kill him today when I won't enjoy it.“

 

 
Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

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06-09-14

Christopher Brookmyre, Jennifer Egan, Aart G. Broek, Alice Sebold, Julien Green

 

De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.

Uit: Not the End of the World

'All the organisers need to hear is that we're maintaining a high profile, so the visitors ain't too scared of bein' mugged, shot, gang-raped or ritually cannibalised to walk around town. That means more uniformed beat officers in the pedestrian areas, plenty of patrol cars on Ocean Boulevard and along the beach, all that shit. Ironic, really. Our purpose is to reassure them that none of their movies will come true - well, not to them at least.'
Bannon sat back on the edge of his desk. 'Think you can handle that, big guy?' he asked.
'Guess so.'
'You don't look so sure. Would you rather be out with Zabriski today, maybe? Let's see ...' He thumbed through some notes on his desk. 'Railway worker, laid off last Friday, walks into the AmTrak offices on Third at eight thirty this morning and deposits a black polythene sack in the lobby. It's one of these atrium deals, you know, with like three or four floors looking down on to the concourse. Telephones bomb warning eight thirty-five, detonates at eight forty-two. Sack contained a small but significant amount of explosive, probably basic demolition stuff. Not enough to cause any fatalities, but enough to distribute the contents of the sack approximately sixty feet in every direction, including up. Guy was, how'd they put it? a "sanitation engineer". Some of that stuff must have come all the way from Frisco before he syphoned it out the train. Four floors, Larry.'
'I'll just be getting down to the Pacific Vista, Captain. Got someone to talk to about this American Feature Film Market thing.'
'Attaboy.'
It wasn't paranoia, Larry knew. It was plain old insecurity. He'd have been suspicious of being given this AFFM 'liaison' gig anyway, simply because he was still very much the new guy, and it might well be the sort of shit detail everyone else knew to steer clear of. He knew the scene, could see the station house, smell the coffee:
'So who's gonna handle the annual fiasco at the Pacific Vista this year, then? Zabriski? Rankin? Torres? What's that? You already volunteered to escort a Klan rally through Watts? Shit. Oh, wait a minute. The new guy'll have started by then. Let's give it to him.'

 

 
Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

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06-09-13

Christopher Brookmyre, Jennifer Egan, Aart G. Broek, Alice Sebold, Julien Green, Jessica Durlacher

 

De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.

 

Uit: Bedlam

 

This is not the end of the world, Ross told himself.

He closed his eyes as a low hum began to sound around him, heralding the commencement of the scan. The effect was more white-out than black-out, the reflective tiles filling the room with greater light than the fine membranes of his eyelids could possibly block.

He should look upon all of it as a new start; several new starts, in fact. Yes: multiple, simultaneous, unforeseen, unwanted and utterly unappealing new beginnings. Welcome to your future.

As he lay on the slab he conducted a quick audit of all the things that had gone wrong in the couple of hours since he’d stepped off his morning bus into a squall of Scottish rain and a lungful of diesel fumes on his way to work. He concluded that it wasn’t a brain scan he needed: it was a brain transplant. Nonetheless, as the scan-heads zipped and buzzed above him, for the briefest moment he enjoyed a sense of his mind being completely empty, an awareness of a fleeting disconnection from his thoughts, as though they were a vinyl record from which the needle had been temporarily raised.

‘Hey Solderburn, are we clear?’ he asked, keeping his eyes closed just in case.

There was no reply. Then he recalled the capricious ruler of the Research and Development Lab telling him to bang on the door if there was a problem, so he deduced there was no internal monitoring.

He opened his eyes and sat up. It was only a moment after he had done so that he realised the tracks and scan-heads were no longer there. He did a double-take, wondering if the whole framework had been automatically withdrawn into some hidden wall-recess: it was the kind of pointless feature Solderburn was known to spend weeks implementing, even though it was of no intrinsic value.”

 

 

 

Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

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06-09-12

Aart G. Broek

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Aart G. Broek werd op 6 september 1954 geboren in Maasland. Zie ook alle tags voor Aart G. Broek op dit blog.

 

 

Het onsterfelijke rif

 

1
En de golven, woest van onmacht, vraten de stranden
uit de gekartelde kust en kotsten het zielloze zand
over het wiegende koraal, dat stikkend stierf, verschoot
tot vale schijn van diepten die slechts het verlangen
naar het tijdloos strelen van het zilte zonlicht
uit onbereikbare hoogten koesterden. Versteend
de lust door de kolkende geseling die ooit ook leven
schonk, maar vrat en vretend verstikte wat waaide
in kleurig nijgen: een tintelend kussen zonder lippen.

 

 

 

 

Aart G. Broek (Maasland, 6 september 1954)

17:55 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: aart g. broek, romenu |  Facebook |

28-04-11

Ğabdulla Tuqay, Charles Cotton, Bruno Apitz, Aart G. Broek

 

De Tataarse dichter Ğabdulla Tuqay werd geboren op 28 april 1886 in Qoşlawıç in Kazan, Rusland (tegenwoordig Tatarstan). Zie ook mijn blog van 28 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 28 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 april 2009 en ook mijn blog van 28 april 2010.

 

 

God the Great

 

Oh worthy, oh precious, oh young child without sin!

HIS compassion is very deep, rely always on God!

Oh God! Show me in this world a bright path;

HE is merciful, has more compassion than your father or mother!

Your soul is still pure; no impure thought has entered it,

Your pure tongue has never used unfitting words.

Both your soul and your body are clean, all your body is clean!

You are the crumb of an angel; your face is pure white!

Pray, free of all ties kneel towards Kibla[8],

Know that from a pure soul there is a straight path to the Throne of God!

Oh worthy, oh precious, oh young child without sin!

HIS compassion is very deep, rely always on God!

 

 

 

 

The Twentieth Century

 

This has been the century of science and capability,
This has been the century of ascending humanity,
But the events demonstrate that, indeed,
This has been the century of evil and depravity.

 

 

 

 

Ğabdulla Tuqay (28 april 1886 – 15 april 1913)

Mozaïek in het metrostation van Kazan

 

 

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