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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06-09-14

Jessica Durlacher, Amelie Fried, Carmen Laforet, Cyrus Atabay

 

De Nederlandse schrijfster Jessica Durlacher werd geboren in Amsterdam op 6 september 1961. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Jessica Durlacher op dit blog.

Uit: Das Gewissen (Vertaald door Hanni Ehlers)

„Nie wurde darüber geredet. Doch in unserem Unterleben, dem Leben unter unserem Alltagsleben, will ich mal sagen, wurden wir verfolgt. So empfanden wir es zumindest. Ich wurde verfolgt, weil mein Vater VERFOLGT worden war - und ein abstrakteres Wort lässt sich wohl kaum finden, beiläufiger und vornehmer lässt sich wohl kaum umschreiben, welche schmutzigen, grausamen Verbrechen das beinhaltet.
Nach Verbrechen klang das Wort auch nicht. Eher wie eine Katastrophe von kosmischen Dimensionen, ein jedes normale Maß übersteigender Alptraum, etwas aus der Zeit, als die Welt noch eine einzige Hölle war, jener gräulichen vorbewussten Zeit der Vorgeschichte.
Und alles, was zu Hause darüber gesagt wurde, war genauso entstellend abstrakt wie das Wort selbst, so abstrakt, dass das Schaudern hinter der Sprache versteckt blieb. Und die Sprache erstickte präzise und fein säuberlich, was sich hinter ihr verbarg.
Die Abstraktionen trugen Sätze wie:" Du weißt ja, nach der Bombardierung Rotterdams sind wir nach Apeldorn gegangen..."
Die ganze Aufeinanderfolge von Geschehnissen, die mein Vater als kleiner Junge miterlebt hatte, alles, was dieser Satz suggerieren sollte, die Dramen, das Schreien, die nervliche Anspannung, die Angst: nichts davon, da war meines Vaters Stimme und diese kurze Mitteilung, die uns seiner Meinung nach alles sagte.
Seine Stimme senkte sich und wurde dann plötzlich leise und grimmig. Irgend etwas schien ihm den Atem wegzusaugen, ein Feind, der ihm die Luft nahm und ihn kurzerhand daran hinderte, laut zu sprechen. Mit Gewalt, beinahe erstickend, versuchte er Atem und Stimme wiederzuerlangen.“

 

 
Jessica Durlacher (Amsterdam, 6 september 1961)

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06-09-11

Alice Sebold, Christopher Brookmyre, Amelie Fried, Jennifer Egan

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Alice Sebold op 6 september 1962 in Madison, Wisconsin. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010.

 

Uit: Lucky

 

This is what I remember. My lips were cut. I bit down on them when he grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth. He said these words: "I'll kill you if you scream." I remained motionless. "Do you understand? If you scream you're dead." I nodded my head. My arms were pinned to my sides by his right arm wrapped around me and my mouth was covered with his left.

He released his hand from my mouth.

I screamed. Quickly. Abruptly.

The struggle began.

He covered my mouth again. He kneed me in the back of my legs so that I would fall down. "You don't get it, bitch. I'll kill you. I've got a knife. I'll kill you." He released his grip on my mouth again and I fell, screaming, on the brick path. He straddled me and kicked me in the side. I made sounds, they were nothing, they were soft footfalls. They urged him on, they made him righteous. I scrambled on the path. I was wearing soft-soled moccasins with which I tried to land wild kicks. Everything missed or merely grazed him. I had never fought before, was chosen last in gym.

Somehow, I don't remember how, I made it back on my feet. I remember biting him, pushing him, I don't know what. Then I began to run. Like a giant who is all powerful, he reached out and grabbed the end of my long brown hair. He yanked it hard and brought me down onto my knees in front of him. That was my first missed escape, the hair, the woman's long hair.

"You asked for it now," he said, and I began to beg.

He reached around to his back pocket to draw out a knife. I struggled still, my hair coming out painfully from my skull as I did my best to rip myself free of his grip. I lunged forward and grabbed his left leg with both arms, throwing him off balance and making him stagger. I would not know it until the police found it later in the grass, a few feet away from my broken glasses, but with that move, the knife fell from his hands and was lost.

Then it was fists.“

 

 

Alice Sebold (Madison, 6 september 1962)

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07-09-10

Alice Sebold, Christopher Brookmyre, Amelie Fried, Jennifer Egan, Julien Green, Carmen Laforet, Cyrus Atabay, Jessica Durlacher

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 6e september mijn blog bij seniorennet.be 

  

Christopher Brookmyre, Alice Sebold, Amelie Fried, Jennifer Egan

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 6e september ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag.  

 

Julien Green, Carmen Laforet, Cyrus Atabay, Jessica Durlacher

06-09-09

Christopher Brookmyre, Alice Sebold, Amelie Fried, Jennifer Egan


De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2008.

 

Uit: Quite Ugly One Morning

 

Jesus fuck.’

    Inspector McGregor wished there was some kind of official crime scenario checklist, just so that he could have a quick glance and confirm that he had seen it all now. He hadn't sworn at a discovery for ages, perfecting instead a resigned, fatigued expression that said, ‘Of course. How could I have possibly expected anything less?’

    The kids had both moved out now. He was at college in Bristol and she was somewhere between Bombay and Bangkok, with a backpack, a dose of the runs and some nose-ringed English poof of a boyfriend. Amidst the unaccustomed calm and quiet, himself and the wife had remembered that they once actually used to like each other, and work had changed from being somewhere to escape to, to something he hurried home from.

    He had done his bit for the force — worked hard, been dutiful, been honest, been dutifully dishonest when it was required of him; he was due his reward and very soon he would be getting it.

    Islay. Quiet wee island, quiet wee polis station. No more of the junkie undead, no more teenage jellyhead stabbings, no more pissed-up rugby fans impaling themselves on the Scott Monument, no more tweed riots in Jenners, and, best of all, no more fucking Festival. Nothing more serious to contend with than illicit stills and the odd fight over cheating with someone else's sheep.

    Bliss.

    Christ. Who was he kidding? He just had to look at what was before him to realise that the day after he arrived, Islay would declare itself the latest independentstate in the new Europe and take over Ulster's mantle as the UK's number one terrorist blackspot.

    The varied bouquet of smells was a delightful courtesy detail. From the overture of fresh vomit whiff that greeted you at the foot of the close stairs, through the mustique of barely cold urine on the landing, to the tear-gas, fist-in-face guard-dog of guff that savaged anyone entering the flat, it just told you how much fun this case would be.

    McGregor looked grimly down at his shoes and the ends of his trousers. The postman's voluminous spew had covered the wooden floor of the doorway from wall to wall, and extended too far down the hall for him to clear it with a jump. His two-footed splash had streaked his Docs, his ankles and the yellowing skirting board. Another six inches and he'd have made it, but he hadn't been able to get a run at it because of the piss, which had flooded the floor on the close side of the doorway, diked off from the tide of gastric refugees by a draught excluder.”

 

 

 

 

brookmyre
Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Alice Sebold op 6 september 1962 in Madison, Wisconsin. Na de middelbare school ging zij studeren aan de Syracuse University. Als beginnend studente werd zij in een park vlabij de universiteit overvallen, in elkaar geslagen en verkracht. Zij studeerde af en herkende later de verkrachter op een campus bij de universiteit. Deze werd gearresteerd. Sebold bezocht daarna de universiteit in Houston in Texas en leefde vervolgens 10 jaar in New Yorks Manhattan. In 1999 verscheen haar eerste boek Lucky, waarin zij haar ervaringen uit het begin van haar studententijd verwerkte. In haar roman The Lovely Bones uit 2002 beschrijft zij de jacht op een verkrachter uit het perspectief van de verkrachte en vermoorde Susie die in een rijk tussen leven en dood aangekomen is.

 

Uit: The Almost Moon

 

„When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily. Dementia, as it descends, has a way of revealing the core of the person affected by it. My mother's core was rotten like the brackish water at the bottom of a weeks-old vase of flowers. She had been beautiful when my father met her and still capable of love when I became their late-in-life child, but by the time she gazed up at me that day, none of this mattered.

If I hadn't picked up my ringing phone, Mrs. Castle, my mother's unlucky neighbor, would have continued down the list of emergency numbers posted on my mother's almond-colored fridge. But within the hour, I found myself rushing over to the house where I was born. In haar roman

It was a cool October morning. When I arrived, my mother was sitting upright in her wing chair, wrapped in a mohair shawl, and mumbling to herself. Mrs. Castle said my mother hadn't recognized her that morning when she'd brought the paper to the door.

"She tried to slam the door on me," Mrs. Castle said. "She screamed like I was scalding her. It was the most pitiful thing imaginable."

My mother sat, a totemic presence, in the flocked red-and-white wing chair in which she'd spent the more than two decades since my father's death. She'd aged slowly in that chair, retiring first to read books and work her needlepoint, and then, when her eyes began to fail, to watch public television from dawn until she fell asleep in front of it after her evening meal. In the last year or two, she would sit in the chair and not even bother to turn on the television. Often she placed the twisted skeins of yarn that my older daughter, Emily, still sent each Christmas, in the center of her lap. She petted them the way some old women might pet cats.“

 

 

 

 

alice_sebold
Alice Sebold (Madison, 6 september 1962)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijfster Amelie Fried werd geboren op 6 september 1958 in Ulm. Na het gymnasium in Heppenheim studeerde zij van 1976 tot 1983 theater- en communicatiewetenschappen, kunstgeschiedenis en Italiaans in München, echter zonder de studies te voltooien. Daarna studeerde zij aan tot 1989 aan de Hochschule für Fernsehen und Film München. Sinds 1984 presenteerde zij diverse televisieprogramma’s, waaronder sinds juli 2009 het literatuurprogramma Die Vorleser. Zij schrijft zowel kinderboeken als boeken voor volwassenen, waarvan er ook enkele werden verfilmd.

 

Uit: Die Findelfrau

 

Holly blickte starr in das rote Licht über ihr. Eine warme Hand legte sich auf ihre kalten Hände, die sie auf dem Bauch gefaltet hatte wie zum Gebet. Lieber Gott, dachte sie, mach, dass alles gut geht. Dass die Schwester meine Unterlagen nicht vertauscht hat. Dass der Computer keine Panne hat. Dass der Doc gestern Nacht nicht zu wenig geschlafen oder zu viel gebechert hat.
Sie überlegte kurz, ob sie vom Tisch springen und weglaufen sollte, dann fielen ihr die ganzen Untersuchungen der letzten Wochen ein. Wäre alles umsonst gewesen, und sie würde es trotzdem bezahlen müssen.
Warum, zum Teufel, hatte sie sich überhaupt darauf eingelassen? War es wirklich so schlimm, kurzsichtig zu sein? Wenn sie die Brille abnahm, verschwamm die Welt zu farbigen Flecken. Ist doch eigentlich ganz schön, dachte sie plötzlich. Schöner als vieles, was sie sah, wenn sie die Brille wieder aufsetzte. Als Kind war sie gehänselt worden, klar. Blindschleiche, Brillenschlange, Streberin. Als junges Mädchen war sie mehr oder weniger blind durchs Leben getappt, weil sie lieber vom Auto überfahren worden wäre, als hässlich auszusehen. Obwohl sie mit ihren ausdrucksvollen, braunen Augen, dem schimmernden Teint und ihrem dunklen Haar als ausgesprochen hübsch galt, war sie überzeugt, dass eine Brille alles kaputt gemacht hätte.
Dann war sie immer wieder neben Typen aufgewacht, die leider nur aus der Ferne attraktiv gewesen waren. Eine Zeit lang hatte sie Kontaktlinsen getragen. Nachdem sie die dritte versehentlich im Waschbecken weggespült hatte, weigerten sich ihre Eltern, neue zu bezahlen. Als Holly endlich selbst Geld verdiente, bekam sie eine Allergie gegen Kontaktlinsen. Jetzt hatte sie genug. Sie wollte endlich wieder klar sehen.“

 

 

 

Fried
Amelie Fried (Ulm, 6 september 1958)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jennifer Egan werd geboren in Chicago op 6 september 1962. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2008.

 

Uit: Look at Me

 

I owe my life to what is known as a "Good Samaritan" someone who pulled me out of the flaming wreck so promptly that only my hair was burned, someone who laid me gently on the perimeter of the cornfield, called an ambulance, described my location with some precision and then, with a self-effacement that strikes me as perverse, not to mention un-American, chose to slink away anonymously rather than take credit for these sterling deeds. A passing motorist in a hurry, that sort of thing.
The ambulance took me to Rockford Memorial Hospital, where I fell into the hands of one Dr. Hans Fabermann, reconstructive surgeon extraordinaire. When I emerged from unconsciousness fourteen hours later, it was Dr. Fabermann who sat beside me, an elderly man with a broad, muscular jaw and tufts of white hair in both ears, though most of this I didn't see that night -- I could hardly see at all. Calmly Dr. Fabermann explained that I was lucky; I'd broken ribs, arm and leg, but had no internal injuries to speak of. My face was in the midst of what he called a "golden time" before the "grotesque swelling" would set in. If he operated immediately, he could get a jump on my "gross asymmetry"--namely, the disconnection of my cheekbones from my upper skull and of my lower jaw from my "midface." I had no idea where I was, or what had happened to me. My face was numb, I saw with slurry double vision and had an odd sensation around my mouth as if my upper and lower teeth were out of whack. I felt a hand on mine, and realized then that my sister, Grace, was at my bedside. I sensed the vibration of her terror, and it induced in me a familiar desire to calm her, Grace curled against me in bed during a thunderstorm, the smell of cedar, wet leaves.... . It's fine, I wanted to say. It's a golden time.
"If we don't operate now, we'll have to wait five or six days for the swelling to go down," Dr. Fabermann said.“
 

 

 

Egan
Jennifer Egan (Chicago, 6 september 1962)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 6e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.