08-05-17

Roddy Doyle, Thomas Pynchon, Pat Barker, Gary Snyder, Gertrud Fussenegger, Edmund Wilson, Romain Gary, Alain-René Lesage, Sophus Schandorph

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Zie ook alle tags voor Roddy Doyle op dit blog.

Uit:Brilliant

“Gloria Kelly lay in bed. She was wide awake. She knew her brother, Raymond, was too. She could tell by the way he was breathing. It was awake breath. He was lying there, thinking and listening. Sleep breath was different. It was longer and lighter, less in and out.
‘Rayzer?’ she whispered,
Raymond didn’t answer. But she didn’t care.
She liked sharing the bedroom. Although she knew Raymond didn’t. She didn’t care about that either. She could like it in secret. She didn’t have to tell him.
She’d been moved into Raymond’s room when their Uncle Ben had come to live with them. For a while. That was what her mam and dad had said. Uncle Ben would be staying ‘for a while’. At first her mother had called it ‘a little while’. But the ‘little’ had disappeared when Uncle Ben kept staying, and Gloria began to think that her bedroom wasn’t hers any more. And Raymond, she supposed, began to think the same thing. His room had become their room.
She looked into her room sometimes, when her Uncle Ben wasn’t in there. He hadn’t done anything to it. He hadn’t touched her pictures or her other stuff. It was still pink, nearly everything in it. The only really new thing in the room was her Uncle Ben’s smell. It was kind of an adult smell. A mixture of soap and sweatiness. There were none of his clothes lying around, and just one book that wasn’t hers. She’d looked at the cover but it had looked boring, about a war or something. Except for the fact that she didn’t sleep or play in there any more, it was still Gloria’s room. So maybe her Uncle Ben really was only staying for a while – but the while was a bit longer than they’d expected.
Maybe.
‘Rayzer?’
He still wouldn’t answer.
She didn’t like her bed. It wasn’t a real bed. It was just a mattress on the floor. She’d liked it at first. It had been fun, nearly like camping. But not now. Her face was sometimes right against the wall, low down, at the skirting board, nearly where it joined the floor. It was cold there. Always – even when the rest of the room was warm. And she could hear things sometimes – she thought she could. Behind the skirting board.”

 

 
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

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08-05-16

Romain Gary, Peter Benchley, Alain-René Lesage, J. Meade Falkner, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook alle tags voor Romain Gary op dit blog.

Uit: La promesse de l’aube

«l me fallut quarante-huit heures pour arriver à Nice, par le train des permissionnaires. Le moral de ce train bleu horizon était au plus bas. C'était l'Angleterre qui nous avait entraînés là-dedans, on allait se faire mettre jusqu'au trognon, Hitler était un type pas si mal que ça qu'on avait pas compris et avec qui on aurait dû causer, mais il y avait tout de même un point clair dans le ciel: on avait inventé un nouveau médicament qui guérissait la blemorragie en quelques jours.
Cependant, j'étais loin d'être désespéré. Je ne le suis même pas devenu aujourd'hui. Je me donne seulement des airs. Le plus grand effort de ma vie a toujours été de parvenir à désespérer complètement. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il y a toujours en moi quelque chose qui continue à sourire.
J'arrivai à Nice au petit matin et me précipitai au Mermonts. Je montai au septième et frappai à la porte. Ma mère occupait la plus petite chambre de l'hôtel: elle avait les intérêts du patron à cœur. J'entrai. La chambre minuscule, triangulaire, avait un air bien fait et inhabité qui me terrifia complètement. Je me précipitai en bas, réveillai la concierge et appris que ma mère avait été transportée à la clinique Saint-Antoine. Je sautai dans un taxi.
Les infirmières me dirent plus tard qu'en me voyant entrer elles avaient cru à une attaque à main armée.
La tête de ma mère était enfoncée dans l'oreiller, son visage était creusé, inquiet, et désemparé. Je l'embrassai et m'assis sur le lit. J'avais toujours mon cuir sur le dos, et ma casquette sur l'œil: j'avais besoin de cette carapace. Il m'arriva pendant cette permission de garder un mégot de cigare serré pendant plusieurs heures entre mes lèvres: j'avais besoin de me ramasser autour de quelque chose. Sur la table de chevet, bien en évidence dans son écrin violet, il y avait la médaille d'argent gravée à mon nom que j'avais gagnée au championnat de ping-pong, en 1932."

 

 
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

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08-05-11

Alain-René Lesage, J. Meade Falkner, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane

 

Blas de Santillane, mon père, après avoir longtemps porté les armes pour le service de la monarchie espagnole, se retira dans la ville où il avait pris naissance. Il y épousa une petite bourgeoise qui n'était plus de sa première jeunesse, et je vins au monde dix mois après leur mariage. Ils allèrent ensuite demeurer à Oviédo, où ma mère se mit femme de chambre, et mon père écuyer. Comme ils n'avaient pour tout bien que leurs gages, j'aurais couru risque d'être assez mal élevé, si je n'eusse pas eu dans la ville un oncle chanoine. Il se nommait Gil Perez. Il était frère aîné de ma mère et mon parrain. Représentez-vous un petit homme haut de trois pieds et demi, extraordinairement gros, avec une tête enfoncée entre les deux épaules : voilà mon oncle. Au reste, c'était un ecclésiastique qui ne songeait qu'à bien vivre, c'est-à-dire qu'à faire bonne chère ; et sa prébende, qui n'était pas mauvaise, lui en fournissait les moyens.
Il me prit chez lui dès mon enfance, et se chargea de mon éducation. Je lui parus si éveillé, qu'il résolut de cultiver mon esprit. Il m'acheta un alphabet, et entreprit de m'apprendre lui-même à lire ; ce qui ne lui fut pas moins utile qu'à moi ; car, en me faisant connaître mes lettres, il se remit à la lecture, qu'il avait toujours fort négligée, et, à force de s'y appliquer, il parvint à lire couramment son bréviaire, ce qu'il n'avait jamais fait auparavant.“

 

 

 

Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

Borstbeeld in Vannes

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08-05-10

Sloan Wilson, J. Meade Falkner, Alain-René Lesage, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Otto Zierer


De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: A Summer Place

 

“The most junior officer was usually given the graveyard watch, as it was called, lasting from midnight to four in the morning. In March of 1943, on only the third night that he had stood his own watch, a heavy gale was blowing. The convoy consisted of a dozen naval tankers taking gasoline to bases in Britain. Heavy-laden, they were smothered in foam by the Arctic combers, and the convoy speed had to be reduced to four knots. There were no moon and stars that night, and Bart’s ship had not yet been given radar. Depending on eyesight and echo sounding devices alone, Bart’s destroyer and three others tried to keep close to the unlighted vessels without running into them. It was bitter cold, with the spray freezing on deck and on the portholes of the pilothouse…It was eighteen minutes after two in the morning when a star shell suddenly burst over the convoy, turning the raging sea white. A wolf pack of five black submarines, almost invisible in the night, came charging arrogantly in on the surface with their deck guns stabbing the fat-bellied tankers. It hadn’t been necessary for the submarines to send up another star shell, for in the few seconds that the first one hung blazing in the sky, a gas tanker exploded, sending a column of fire a thousand feet into the air.”

 

 

 

 

wilson
Sloan Wilson
(8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Meade Falkner werd geboren op 8 mei 1858 in Manningford Bruce, Wiltshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: The Nebuly Coat

 

The Hand of God stood on the highest point in all the borough, and Mr. Westray's apartments were in the third story. From the window of his sitting-room he could look out over the houses on to Cullerne Flat, the great tract of salt-meadows that separated the town from the sea. In the foreground was a broad expanse of red-tiled roofs; in the middle distance St. Sepulchre's Church, with its tower and soaring ridges, stood out so enormous that it seemed as if every house in the place could have been packed within its walls ; in the background was the blue sea. In summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, and through the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silver windings of the Cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-white flocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of a pleasure-boat. But in autumn, as Westray saw it for the first time, the rank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows is seamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high- tide show out like crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle to little gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescent water in the bottom. It is in the autumn that the moles heap up meanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam ; and in the turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat. Once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there could have been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timber vessels in the Baltic trade, of tea- clippers, and Indiamen, and emigrant ships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned by Cullerae adventurers.“

 

 

 

Falkner

J. Meade Falkner (8 mei 1858 – 22 juli 1932)

Falkner in 1883

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Le diable boiteux

 

Le dramaturge prétentieux : « Tous mes ouvrages, a-t-il continué sans façon, sont marqués au bon coin : aussi, quand je les lis, il faut voir comme on les applaudit ; je marrête à chaque vers pour recevoir des louanges. »
Le barbaresque esclavagiste : « Aby Ali me dit en langue castillane : Modérez votre affliction : consolez-vous dêtre tombée dans lesclavage ; ce malheur était inévitable pour vous ; mais que dis-je, ce malheur ? cest un avantage dont vous devez vous applaudir. Vous êtes trop belle pour vous borner aux hommages des chrétiens. Le ciel ne vous a point fait naître pour ces misérables mortels ; vous méritez les tous premiers hommes du monde : les seuls musulmans sont dignes de vous posséder. »

(...)

 

« Les femmes ne saiment point. Jen suppose deux parfaitement unies ; je veux même quelles ne disent pas le moindre mal lune de lautre en leur absence, tant elles sont amies ; vous les voyez toutes deux ; vous penchez dun côté, la rage se met de lautre ; ce nest pas que lenragée vous aime ; mais elle voulait la préférence. Tel est le caractère des femmes : elles sont trop jalouses les unes des autres pour être capables damitié. »

 

 

 

Lesage
Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann von Besser werd geboren op 8 mei 1654 in Frauenburg (tegenwoordig Saldus in Letland). Zie en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

 

An die auff Doris brust verwelckte rose.

Wie hastu rose / voller pracht /
Auff Doris brust zu sterben wissen?
Hat dich ihr schnee beschämt gemacht /
Daß du davor erbleichen müssen?
Ja freylich blumen-königin /
Dein purpur weichet dem jeßmin /
Den dieser schöne kreiß läst spüren.
Doch sorge nicht ob dem verlust /
Du stirbst auff meiner Doris brust /
Du solst dadurch gar nichts verlieren,
Ich werde nun dein welckes blat /
In meynung Doris brust zu küssen /
An meinen mund zu drücken wissen /
Und wünschen / daß an deiner statt
Ich für dich hätte sterben müssen.

 

 

 

 

Johann_von_Besser02
Johann von Besser (8 mei 1654 – 10 februari 1729)

 

 

 

 

De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Stina Becomes a Farmer's Wife  (vertaald door Sally Ryan)

 

„She never stopped or quickened her steps, but kept an even pace with unchanging calmness, walking along with her feet apart, like a sturdy, broadgaged wagon, while the thick, heavy soles of her leather shoes made goodly tracks on the ground. Drops of perspiration trickled from her white forehead down her ruddy, freckled nose, but this was the only movement in her big, sun-burned face. She did not even blink in the sun. Her mouth was slightly open, displaying a remarkably strong and beautiful row of upper teeth. From time~ to time she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, without, however, changing their position.

Stina had need to arm herself with patience; she had already walked two miles from the town where she was in service, and had fully four miles more to go before reaching the village of her destination. Her mistress, the widow of the late dean, had given her a whole day's leave. This occurred twice a year, once at Shrovetide, and once after the summer holidays, when the two sons of the house had returned to their studies at the University in Copenhagen.

Stina always took advantage of these two free days to visit her eight-year-old daughter. With some help from the parish, this child–unfortunately born out of wedlock–had been placed in the care of a cottager and his wife in Stina's native village. The father had worked on the same farm with Stina when she was twenty-two years old, but, upon learning that she was "in trouble," he had hastily left for America.

Stina's progress along the dusty road was very slow, just barely noticeable. One or two vehicles passed her. The first was a light cabriolet, on the back seat of which a fat country gentleman was sprawling, pulling at his cigar. On the front seat the coachman cracked his whip as the carriage whizzed by. Stina came near being struck by the tip of the lash. She even blinked a little at the threatening possibility. The dust stirred up by the wheels whirled around her like the steam from an engine and made her sneeze. Although there was plenty of room in the carriage, it would never occur to a "gentleman farmer" to give a peasant girl a lift, nor would she ever ask him to do so.“

 

 

 

Sophus_Schandorph
Sophus Schandorph (8 mei 1836 - 1 januari 1901)

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

De Duitse schrijver Otto Zierer werd geboren op 8 mei 1909 in Bamberg.

08-05-09

Thomas Pynchon, Roddy Doyle, Gertrud Fussenegger, Pat Barker, Gary Snyder, Romain Gary, Edmund Wilson, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer, J. Meade Falkner, Alain-René Lesage, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph


De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Pynchon werd op 8 mei 1937 geboren in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Inherent Vice

 

“She came along the alley and up the back steps the way she always used to. Doc hadn’t seen her for over a year. Nobody had. Back then it was always sandals, bottom half of a flower-print bikini, faded Country Joe and the Fish T-shirt. Tonight she was all in flatland gear, hair a lot shorter than he remembered, looking just like she swore she’d never look.

“That you, Shasta? The packaging fooled me there for a minute.”

“Need your help, Doc.”

They stood in the streetlight through the kitchen window there’d never been much point putting curtains over and listened to the thumping of the surf from down the hill. Some nights, when the wind was right, you could hear the surf all over town.

Nobody was saying much. What was this? “So! You know I have an office now? Just like a day job and everything?”

“I looked in the phone book, almost went over there. But then I thought, better for everybody if this looks like a secret rendezvous.”

OK, nothing romantic tonight. Bummer. But it might be a paying gig. “Somebody’s keeping a close eye?”

“Just spent an hour on surface streets trying to make it look good.”

“How about a beer?” He went to the fridge, pulled two cans out of the case he kept inside, handed one to Shasta.

“There’s this guy,” she was saying.

There would be. No point getting emotional. And if he had a nickel for every time he’d heard a client start off this way, he would be over in Hawaii now, loaded day and night, digging the waves at Waimea, or better yet hiring somebody to dig them for him. . . . “Gentleman of the straight-world persuasion,” he beamed.”

 

 

 

 

pynchon
Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937)

Buttons van de cameraschuwe Pynchon

 

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Paula Spencer

 

“She copes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. She copes. And sometimes she doesn’t. Cope. At all.

This is one of the bad days.

She could feel it coming. From the minute she woke up. One of those days. It hasn’t let her down.

She’ll be forty-eight in a few weeks. She doesn’t care about that. Not really.

It’s more than four months since she had a drink. Four months and five days. One of those months was February. That’s why she started measuring the time in months. She could jump three days. But it’s a leap year; she had to give one back. Four months, five days. A third of a year. Half a pregnancy, nearly.

A long time.

The drink is only one thing.

She’s on her way home from work. She’s walking from the station. There’s no energy in her. Nothing in her legs. Just pain. Ache. The thing the drink gets down to.

But the drink is only part of it. She’s coped well with the drink. She wants a drink. She doesn’t want a drink. She doesn’t want a drink. She fights it. She wins. She’s proud of that. She’s pleased. She’ll keep going. She knows she will.

But sometimes she wakes up, knowing the one thing. She’s alone.

She still has Jack. Paula wakes him every morning. He’s a great sleeper. It’s a long time now since he was up before her. She’s proud of that too. She sits on his bed. She ruffles his hair. Ruffles — that’s the word. A head made for ruffling. Jack will break hearts.

And she still has Leanne. Mad Leanne. Mad, funny. Mad, good. Mad, brainy. Mad, lovely — and frightening.

They’re not small any more, not kids. Leanne is twenty-two. Jack is nearly sixteen. Leanne has boyfriends. Paula hasn’t met any of them. Jack, she doesn’t know about. He tells her nothing. He’s been taller than her since he was twelve. She checks his clothes for girl-smells but all she can smell is Jack.”

 

 

 

 

doyle_2
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Gertrud Fussenegger werd geboren op 8 mei 1912 in Pilsen. Gertrud Fussenegger overleed op 19 maart van dit jaar op 96-jarige leeftijd. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Goethe und wir Katholiken

 

Katholiken haben es mit Goethe nie ganz leicht gehabt. Nicht, das wir etwa seine Größe bestritten hatten; aber die meisten von uns - vor allem der älteren Generation - verhielten sich gegen ihn wie die Katze zum heißen Brei: mit Vorsicht und Vorbehalten. Er galt uns als Heide, Pantheist, gar Atheist - und als unerlaubt leidenschaftlicher, allzu leicht entflammbarer und flatterhafter Liebhaber desweiblichen Geschlechts. Der jüngeren Generation wurde er überdies als Konservativer, als Fiirstenknecht und verstaubter Klassiker madig gemacht.Das Jubeljahr 1999 fordert auch uns Katholiken zu einer Art Revision auf. Zweifellos: Goethes Äußerungen über unsere Kirche waren oft nicht sehr schmeichelhaft, und sein getrübtes Verhältnis zur Romantik erschwerte von Anfang an seine Rezeption durch jene, die die Religion auch in und von der Dichtung bestätigt sehen wollten. Um so lieber nahmen sich die Kirchenfernen seiner an. In unzähligen Anthologien und selektiven Ausgaben wurde, was er je an Religionskritischem von sich gegeben, gründlichst zitiert und immer wieder hervorgehoben. So hat man ihn weithin als unerbittlichen Freigeist suggeriert und sein Bild verkürzt und verzerrt.

Nun gewiß: In den Frankfurter Bürgersohn war schon beizeiten das alte Mißtrauen gesät worden, das noch aus den Religionskriegen stammte und das er selbst später die ,,Protestantische Erbsünde" nannte: der Argwohn gegen die Kirche als Macht, der Argwohn auch gegen ihre Duldung des Menschlichen, gegen ihre nicht immer leicht durchschaubaren Formen.“

 

 

 

 

gertrud_fussenegger
Gertrud Fussenegger (8 mei 1912 – 19 maart 2009)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijfster Pat Barker werd geboren in Thornaby-on-Tees op 8 mei 1943. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Regeneration

 

“He woke to find Orme standing immediately inside the door. He wasn't surprised, he assumed Orme had come to rouse him for his watch. What did surprise him, a little, was that he seemed to be in bed. Orme was wearing that very pale coat of his. Once, in ‘C' company mess, the CO had said, ‘Correct me if I'm wrong, Orme, but I have always assumed that the colour of the British Army uniform is khaki. Not…beige.' ‘Beige' was said in such Lady Bracknellish* tones that Sassoon had wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh now, but his chest muscles didn't seem to work. After a while he remembered that Orme was dead.”

(…)

"Your watch is brought back by a runner, having been synchronized at headquarters." A long pause. "You wait, you try to calm down anybody who’s obviously shitting himself or on the verge of throwing up. You hope you won’t do either of those things yourself. Then you start the count down : ten, nine, eight… so on. You blow the whistle. You climb the ladder. Then you double through a gap in the wire, lie flat, wait for somebody else to get out - and then you stand up. And you start walking. Not at the double. Normal walking speed." Prior started to smile. "In a straight line. Across open country. In broad daylight. Towards a line of machine-guns."

 

 

 

 

Pat_Barker
Pat Barker (Thornaby-on-Tees, op 8 mei 1943)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gary Snyder werd geboren op 8 mei 1930 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

 

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout

 

Down valley a smoke haze

Three days heat, after five days rain

Pitch glows on the fir-cones

Across rocks and meadows

Swarms of new flies.

 

I cannot remember things I once read

A few friends, but they are in cities.

Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup

Looking down for miles

Through high still air.

 

 

 

 

 

Civilization

 

Those are the people who do complicated things.

 

     they'll grab us by the thousands

     and put us to work.

 

World's going to hell, with all these

     villages and trails.

Wild duck flocks aren't

     what they used to be.

Aurochs grow rare.

 

Fetch me my feathers and amber

 

         *

 

A small cricket

on the typescript page of

"Kyoto born in spring song"

grooms himself

in time with The Well-Tempered Clavier.

I quit typing and watch him through a glass.

How well articulated! How neat!

 

Nobody understands the ANIMAL KINGDOM.

 

         *

 

When creeks are full

The poems flow

When creeks are down

We heap stones.

 

 

 

 

 

Snyder
Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)

 

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Pour Sganarelle

 

"J'arrive ainsi à trois conceptions du roman que je voudrais tenter de combiner dans un roman total: un, le roman où l'imagination picaresque s'exerce vers l'aventure intérieure, vers les péripéties intérieures du psychisme, où le romancier imagine l'introspection : deux, le roman où l'imagination est plus libérée vers l'extérieur, dans les rapports de l'histoire de l'individu avec l'Histoire, dans un infini de formes et de péripéties, de personnages et d'identités; trois, le roman de la littérature, où le langage est exploré par l'imagination comme un monde en soi, ce qui aboutit aujourd'hui - l'étape flaubertienne du mot "juste" et de la perfection de la phrase rationelle étant dépassée - à l'étape du roman post-mallarméen où le sens est entièrement porté par le blanc, par ce qui n'est pas exprimé, et où ne règne qu'une sorte d'écho de la dernière syllabe du Mot-clé, qui retentit dans ce qui n'est pas dit dans la phrase comme une musique de l'inexprimable."

 

 

 

 

romain_gary
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en criticus Edmund Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1895 in Red Bank, New Jersey. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: The Sixties: The Last Journal, 1960-1972

 

As a character in one of Chekhov's plays says he's "a man of the 80's," so I find that I am a man of the 20's. I still expect something exciting: drinks, animated conversation, gaiety: an uninhibited exchange of ideas. Scott Fitzgerald's idea that somewhere things were "glimmering." I am managing to discipline myself now so that I shan't be silly in this way. New York, Winter 1962

 

Had dinner with Wystan Auden before Elena [ Wilson's wife ] arrived. He was pleased at having what he described as an honor on the part of the Establishment. He has been made an honorary fellow (I think that is the phrase) of Christ Church [ College, Oxford ] . I gather that he can retire and live there for nothing. He thinks that "Down There on a Visit" is Isherwood's best book -- I was just in the middle of reading it. He says the disintegrating homo on his horrible island in Greece was a real person whom he knew and the only person he knew who would drink the spirits out of lamps when there was nothing else to be had. He thought that "Paul" was the best of the stories. I agreed with him when I came to read it; but the whole book is rather disgusting. I am getting sick of this subject. The attitude in these books toward homosexuality involves of course a revolt against society. See the diatribe of the man on the island about putting the heterosexuals in ghettos. Paul is made by Isherwood into a hero. But Genet is the best of these writers. He is the most in revolt, the most genuinely an outlaw. Cambridge, Spring 1962“

 

 

 

 

Edmund_Wilson
Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit


” By the time they had lived seven years in the little house on Greentree Avenue in Westport, Connecticut, they both detested it. There were many reasons, none of them logical, but all of them compelling. For one thing, the house had a kind o fevil genius for displaying proof of their weaknesses and wiping out all traces of their strengths. The ragged lawn and weed-filled garden proclaimed topassers-by and the neighbors that Thomas R. Rathand his family disliked "working around the place" and couldn't afford to pay someone else to do it. The interior of the house was even more vengeful. In the living room there was a big dent in the plaster near the floor, with a huge crack curving up from it in the shape of a question mark. That wall was damaged in the fall of 1952,when, after struggling for months to pay up the back bills, Tom came home one night to find that Betsy had bought a cut-glass vase for forty dollars. Such an extravagant gesture was utterly unlike her, at least since the war. Betsy was a conscientious household manager, and usually when she did something Tom didn't like, they talked the matter over with careful reasonableness. But on that particular night, Tom was tired and worried because he himself had just spent seventy dollars on a new suit he felt he needed to dress properly for his business, and at the climax of a heated argument, he picked up the vase and heaved it against the wall. The heavy glass shattered, the plaster cracked, and two of the laths behind it broke. The next morning, Tom and Betsy worked together on their knees to patch the plaster, and they repainted the wholes-wall, but when thepaint dried, the big dent near the floor with the crack curving up from it almost to the ceiling in theThe crack remained as a perpetual reminder of Betsy's moment of extravagance, Tom's moment of violence, and their inability either to fix walls properly or to pay to have them fixed. shape of a question mark was still clearly visible. The fact that the crack was in the shape of a questionmark did not seem symbolic to Tom and Betsy, noreven amusing—it was just annoying.”

 

 


Sloan_Wilson
Sloan Wilson (8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Otto Zierer werd geboren op 8 mei 1909 in Bamberg. Hij schreef meer dan honderd boeken, waaronder enige romans en een beschrijving van zijn oorlogservaringen in Rot schien die Sonne. Zijn voorkeur ging echter uit naar de geschiedenis van de mensheid vanaf de vroegste tijd die hij voor een breed publiek toegankelijk maakte.

 

Uit: München - Eine Stadt und ihre Geschichten aus 850 Jahren

 

»Leut«, sagt Max Joseph, »aufs Geld kommt’s nicht an! Wer mir die Frau und den Buben herausholt, der erhält eine schöne Belohnung!« Persönlich steigt der hohe Herr in das Gewirr der übereinanderliegenden Dachsparren und schief hängenden Zimmerdecken, die Zimmerleute, Maurer und andere Nachbarn folgen ihm, beginnen die Böden abzuklopfen und in die Tiefe zu horchen.

Der Palier Fruhholz sägt aus einem Boden ein Brett heraus und legt sich vor die so geschaffene Öffnung. »Da unt is oana!«, verkündet er. »I glaab, dass ’s der Lehrbua is!« Und tatsächlich erscheint nach einiger Zeit ein dünner Knabenarm in dem Loch. Es sieht fast so aus, als winke einer aus dem Grabe. »Ja, der Bua lebt no!«, freut sich der Spiegelmacher. »Joseph Fraunhofer hoaßt er, vierzehn Jahr is er alt und stammt aus Straubing. « Nun bemühen sich die Arbeiter um die Befreiung des Knaben. Der Kurfürst steht mitten unter ihnen und lässt sich nicht durch die besorgten Reden seiner Hofherren abhalten, selbst Hand anzulegen. Nach ein paar Stunden eifriger Bemühung wird Joseph Fraunhofer unverletzt aus der Höhle gezogen, die ihn bewahrt hat. Zu seinem Glück hatten sich einige Balken quer über seinen Kopf gelegt und so das nachstürzende Ziegelwerk abgehalten. Die Frau des Spiegelmachers freilich wird später als Leiche geborgen.

Kurfürst Max Joseph lässt den geretteten Buben in die Residenz kommen, nimmt ihn in der Kutsche mit nach Nymphenburg hinaus und stellt ihn seiner Familie vor.

 

 

 

Nymphenburg
Otto Zierer (8 mei 1909 – 5 maart 1983)

Slot Nymphenburg, München (Geen portret beschikbaar)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Meade Falkner werd geboren op 8 mei 1858 in Manningford Bruce, Wiltshire en groeide op in Dorchester en Weymouth. Hij studeerde rechten in Oxford en werd een geslaagd zakenman in de wapenindustrie, maar bleef daarnaast evenveel interesse houden voor literatuur, architectuur en heraldiek. Zijn bekendste boek is de roman Moonfleet uit 1898.

 

Uit: Moonfleet

 

My name is John Trenchard, and I was fifteen years of age when this story begins. My father and mother had both been dead for years, and I boarded with my aunt, Miss Arnold, who was kind to me in her own fashion, but too strict and precise ever to make me love her.

I shall first speak of one evening in the fall of the year 1757. It must have been late in October, though I have forgotten the exact date, and I sat in the little front parlour reading after tea. My aunt had few books; a Bible, a Common Prayer, and some volumes of sermons are all that I can recollect now; but the Reverend Mr Glennie, who taught us village children, had lent me a story-hook, full of interest and adventure, called the Arabian Nights Entertainment. At last the light began to fail, and I was nothing loth to leave off reading for several reasons; as, first the parlour was a chilly room with horse-hair chairs and sofa, and only a coloured-paper screen in the grate, for my aunt did not allow a fire till the first of November; second, there was a rank smell of molten tallow in the house, for my aunt was dipping winter candles on frames in the back kitchen; third, I had reached a part in the Arabian Nights which tightened my breath and made me wish to leave off reading for very anxiousness of expectation. It was that point in the story of the "Wonderful Lamp", where the false uncle lets fall a stone that seals the mouth of the underground chamber; and immures the boy, Aladdin, in the darkness, because he would not give up the lamp till he stood safe on the surface again. This scene reminded me of one of those dreadful nightmares, where we dream we are shut in a line room, the walls of which are closing in upon us, and so impressed me that the memory of it served as a warning in an adventure that befell me later on.“

 

 

 

 

J_Meade_Falkner
J. Meade Falkner (8 mei 1858 – 22 juli 1932)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Hij geldt als de eerste schrijver in de Franse literatuur die van zijn pen kon leven. Hij studeerde rechten in Parijs. Zijn schrijvers loopbaan begon moeizaam met vertalingen van Spaanse stukken. In 1707 kwam de doorbraak met de komedie Crispin, rival de son maître.

 

Uit: Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane

 

„Nous passâmes auprès de Pontferrada, et nous allâmes nous mettre en embuscade dans un petit bois qui bordait le grand chemin de Léon. Là, nous attendions que la fortune nous offrît quelque bon coup à faire, quand nous aperçûmes un religieux de l’ordre de Saint-Dominique, monté, contre l’ordinaire de ces bons pères, sur une mauvaise mule. Dieu soit loué, s’écria le capitaine en riant, voici le chef-d’œuvre de Gil Blas. Il faut qu’il aille détrousser ce moine. Voyons comment il s’y prendra. Tous les voleurs jugèrent qu’effectivement cette commission me convenait, et ils m’exhortèrent à m’en bien acquitter. Messieurs, leur dis-je, vous serez contents. Je vais mettre ce père nu comme la main, et vous amener ici sa mule. Non, non, dit Rolando, elle n’en vaut pas la peine. Apporte-nous seulement la bourse de Sa Révérence. C’est tout ce que nous exigeons de toi. Là-dessus je sortis du bois, et poussai vers le religieux, en priant le ciel de me pardonner l’action que j’allais faire. J’aurais bien voulu m’échapper dès ce moment-là. Mais la plupart des voleurs étaient encore mieux montés que moi : s’ils m’eussent vu fuir, ils se seraient mis à mes trousses, et m’auraient bientôt rattrapé, ou peut-être auraient-ils fait sur moi une décharge de leurs carabines, dont je me serais fort mal trouvé. Je n’osai donc hasarder une démarche si délicate. Je joignis le père, et lui demandai la bourse, en lui présentant le bout d’un pistolet. Il s’arrêta tout court pour me considérer ; et, sans paraître fort effrayé : Mon enfant, me dit-il, vous êtes bien jeune.“

 

 

 

Lesage
Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann von Besser werd geboren op 8 mei 1654 in Frauenburg (tegenwoordig Saldus in Letland). Hij studeerde theologie in Königsberg en rechten in Leipzig. Koning Frederik I van Pruisen benoemde hem in 1690 tot hofdichter. In 1717 werd hij geheim raadsheer en ceremoniemeester aan het hof van August de Sterke in Dresden.

 

 

Liebe will was eignes haben

 

1.

Wer liebet solchen mund

Dem alle küsse schmecken

Und jederman mag lecken

Und machen ungescheut die heisse flammen kund

Der heut mit diesem scherzet

Und morgen jenen herzet

Ja der mit tausenden macht einen liebes-bund?

Wer liebet solchen mund?

 

 

2.

Da sitzt die biene nicht

Wo wilde hummeln sitzen:

Sie sucht die süssen ritzen

Da noch das wespen-heer nicht honig draus gekriegt.

Auch wo vergiffte spinnen

Den geiffer lassen rinnen

Und wo die raupe schon ihr nest hat eingericht

Da sitzt die biene nicht.

 

 

 

 

Johann_von_Besser
Johann von Besser (8 mei 1654 – 10 februari 1729)

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.


De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt.