Kazuo Ishiguro, Joshua Ferris, Alice Notley, Herbert Hindringer, Elfriede Brüning, Margaret Mitchell, Detlef Opitz, Bram Stoker, Peter Weiss


De Japanse schrijver Kazuo Ishiguro werd op 8 november 1954 geboren in Nagasaki. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 8 november 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Kazuo Ishiguro op dit blog.

Uit: Never Let Me Go

“Sometimes he'd make me say things over and over; things I'd told him only the day before, he'd ask about like I'd never told him. 'Did you have a sports pavilion?' Which guardian was your special favourite?' At first I thought this was just the drugs, but then I realised his mind was clear enough. What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham, just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to com-pleting and so that's what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they'd really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his. That was when I first understood, really understood, just how lucky we'd been — Tommy, Ruth, me, all the rest of us.
Driving around the country now, I still see things that will remind me of Hailsham. I might pass the corner of a misty field, or see part of a large house in the distance as I come down the side of a valley, even a particular arrangement of poplar trees up on a hillside, and I'll think: 'Maybe that's it! I've found it! This actually is Hailsham!' Then I see it's impossible and I go on driv- ing, my thoughts drifting on elsewhere. In particular, there are those pavilions. I spot them all over the country, standing on the far side of playing fields, little white prefab buildings with a row of windows unnaturally high up, tucked almost under the eaves. I think they built a whole lot like that in the fifties and sixties, which is probably when ours was put up. If I drive past one I keep looking over to it for as long as possible, and one day I'll crash the car like that, but I keep doing it. Not long ago I was driving through an empty stretch of Worcestershire and saw one beside a cricket ground so like ours at Hailsham I actually turned the car and went back for a second look. We loved our sports pavilion, maybe because it reminded us of those sweet little cottages people always had in picture books when we were young. I can remember us back in the Juniors, pleading with guardians to hold the next lesson in the pavilion instead of the usual room. Then by the time we were in Senior 2 —when we were twelve, going on thirteen — the pavilion had become the place to hide out with your best friends when you wanted to get away from the rest of Hailsham. The pavilion was big enough to take two separate groups without them bothering each other — in the summer, a third group could hang about out on the veranda. But ideally you and your friends wanted the place just to yourselves, so there was often jockeying and arguing.“


Kazuo Ishiguro (Nagasaki, 8 november 1954)

Lees meer...


Alice Notley


De Amerikaanse dichteres Alice Notley werd geboren op 8 november 1945 in Bisbee, Arizona, en groeide op in Needles, Californië. Ze behaalde in 1967 een bA aan Barnard College en een MFA van de Writers Workshop aan de Universiteit van Iowa in 1969. Ze verhuisde regelmatig in haar jeugd (San Francisco, Bolinas, Londen, Essex, Chicago) en trouwde uiteindelijk met de dichter Ted Berrigan in 1972, met wie ze twee zonen had. In het begin van de jaren zeventig vestigde Notley zich in de Lower East Side van New York, waar zij al enkele decennia zeer betrokken was bij de lokale literatuurscene. In 1979 ontving ze een fellowship van de National Endowment for the Arts. Na Berrigan's dood in 1983 trouwde ze met de Britse dichter Douglas Oliver. Hoewel zij vaak wordt gezien als een prominent lid van de eclectische tweede generatie van de New York School, toont haar poëzie ook een voortdurende fascinatie met de woestijn en zijn bewoners. Tot Notley’s dichtbundels behoren “Certain Magical Acts” (2016); Songs and Stories of the Ghouls (2011); Grave of Light: New and Selected Poems 1970-2005 (2006), waarvoor zij de Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets for the best book of the year;kreeg; “Disobedience” (2001), winnaar van de 2002 International Griffin Poetry Award; “Mysteries of Small Houses” (1998); “Selected Poems of Alice Notley” (1993); “Margaret and Dusty” (1985); en “Sorrento (1984). Haar werk omvat verder collages, aquarellen en schetsen. Notley heeft de Los Angeles Times Book Award for Poetry ontvangen en was finalist voor de Pulitzer-prijs. In 2001 kreeg ze zowel een Academy Award in Literature van de American Academy of Arts and Letters en de Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Award. In 2015 ontving zij de Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize. Momenteel woont zij in Parijs.


Poem 3

Why do I want to tell it
it was the afternoon of November
15th last fall and I was waiting
for it whatever it would be like
it was afternoon & raining but it
was late afternoon so dark outside my
apartment and I was special in that
I saw everything through a heightened
tear, things seemed dewy, shiny
and so I knew there was a cave
it was more or less nearby as in my
apartment it was blue inside it
dark blue like an azure twilight and the
gods lived in the cave they who
care for you take care of at death and
they had cared for Ted and were there for me
too and in life even now



The Anthology

No tone of voice being sufficient to the occasion
Flash that’s all, that we’re here. Are you ever
sarcastic and unlikeable       Mentally we are the
cast of one epic thought: You. How many
of you sweep through me, as I ride the métro
leading you, because I have to and not be poignant
oh who’s written anything poignant since . . .  

An old woman of indeterminate race, in white hat
and scarf, no teeth staring back at me.
He sounded brittle and superior last night, do the
dead do that; Grandma had a plethora of tones of voice
compared to anyone in this anthology. Our

anthology, he says, being mental is complex
as hell. How do you keep track of your poems? Any-
one remembers what they like, but you have constantly
to emit them . . . Everyone’s at me, Drown it
out, thinking of an icon emerald-throated.

I see the alley house at night dark I’m trying
to be pure again, but I want all the tones.
When you’re dead you can have them . . .  thick
marine dark from the fencelike oleanders and a moon
calling to white boards. Enter. Lie down in
your own bed, in the room where Momma found a scorpion.


Alice Notley (Bisbee, 8 november 1945)

18:00 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: alice notley, romenu |  Facebook |