19-10-13

Nardo Aluman, Andrew Vachss, John le Carré, Adam Lindsay Gordon

 

De Surinaamse schrijver Nardo Aluman (eig. Ronald Renardo Aloema) werd geboren in Christiaankondre op 19 oktober 1946. Zie ook alle tags voor Nardo Aluman op dit blog en eveneens mijn blog van 19 oktober 2010

 

Uit: Epakano Jakonombo/Tijdens de opstanding

 

“Heel, heel lang voor de witte man kwam, bestond er een welvarend en vreugdevol dorpje aan de bovenloop van de Amana-rivier in het huidige Frans-Guyana. De naam Amana (Mana) is ontleend aan een soort klei. Het is een roodgele klei en komt veel voor aan de oevers van deze rivier. Van deze klei vervaardigen de Caraïbische vrouwen van de dorpen Awara en Galibi nog altijd hun aardewerk. Het dorp was gevestigd bij een grote Ulemari-boom en heette daarom Ulemari-undy (de stam van de Ulemari).

De rivier Amana leverde tal van middelen van bestaan. Aan vis en vlees had men in het dorp dan ook nooit gebrek. De bevolking van Ulemari-undy deed ook aan landbouw en het dorp was volbeplant met allerlei soorten vruchtbomen. De bewoners vormden een grote familie die onder leiding stond van een pyjai. Deze man was één van de grootste pyjai's in de Guyana's. Iedereen in de Guyana's kende hem en men had veel eerbied voor hem. Zijn onderdanen durfden hem niet bij zijn naam te noemen en daarom wist niemand hoe hij heette. Zijn aanspreektitel was ‘Byjai’, dat betekent leermeester. Zoals het overal in de wereld toegaat, had deze Byjai ook tegenstanders in de andere dorpen; mensen die niet van hem hielden, omdat zij jaloers op hem waren. Maar waarom was men eigenlijk jaloers op hem? Wel, deze man bezat een aantal bijzondere gaven. Zo kon hij zich op bepaalde momenten één maken met de natuur. De vogels en andere dieren, dus ook de wilde poema, gehoorzaamden hem. Hij kon met ze spelen en hun opdrachten geven. Hij alleen kon met de totale natuur communiceren, zelfs met het kleinste levende wezen, zoals de krekel. Soms, als hij zin had, ging hij met de vogels op pad. Geen wonder dat deze man nooit problemen had met het vergaren van voedsel voor zijn gezin. Natuurlijk waren er mannen in het dorp die erachter wilden komen hoe hij dat allemaal deed.”

 

 

 

Nardo Aluman (Christiaankondre, 19 oktober 1946)

Lees meer...

19-10-11

Philip Pullman, Andrew Vachss, Fannie Hurst, John le Carré

 

De Britse schrijver Philip Pullman werd geboren op 19 oktober 1946 in Norwich als zoon van een luchtmachtofficier. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 18 oktober 2009en ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2010

 

Uit: The Amber Spyglass

 

Ama climbed the path to the cave, as she'd done for many days now, bread and milk in the bag on her back, a heavy puzzlement in her heart. How in the world could she ever manage to reach the sleeping girl? Would the woman never leave the cave for more than a few minutes?
Ama came to the rock where the woman had told her to leave the food since she wasn't allowed in the cave anymore. She put down the bag, but she didn't go straight home; she climbed a little farther, up past the cave and through the thick rhododendrons, and farther up still to where the trees thinned out and the rainbows began.
This part of the valley was where the streams and cascades ran most confusingly: shafts of green-white water would sink into potholes and emerge a little lower down, or gush upward in splintered fountains, or divide into myriad streamlets, or swirl round and round trapped in a whirlpool. When the world was frozen, spears and shelves and columns of glassy ice grew over every surface, and under it all, the water could still be heard gushing and tinkling, and spray still escaped to the air for the rainbows to form.
Ama and her daemon climbed up over the rock shelves and around the little cataracts, past the whirlpools and through the spectrum-tinted spray, until her hair and her eyelids and his squirrel fur were beaded all over with a million tiny pearls of moisture. The game was to get to the top without wiping your eyes, despite the temptation, and the sunlight sparkled and fractured into red, yellow, green, blue, and every color between right in front of Ama's eyes, but she mustn't wipe her hand across to see better until she got right to the top, or the game would be lost.
Kulang, her daemon, sprang to a rock near the top of the little waterfall, and she knew he would turn at once to watch and make sure she didn't brush the moisture off her eyelashes - except that he didn't.”



 


Philip Pullman
(Norwich, 19 oktober 1946)

 

Lees meer...

19-10-10

Leigh Hunt, Adam Lindsay Gordon, Miguel Ángel Asturias, Nardo Aluman, Philip Pullman, Andrew Vachss, Fannie Hurst, John le Carré

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 19e oktober mijn blog bij seniorennet.be

 

Leigh Hunt, Adam Lindsay Gordon, Miguel Ángel Asturias, Nardo Aluman

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 19e oktober ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag

 

Philip Pullman, Andrew Vachss, Fannie Hurst, John le Carré

 

19-10-09

Leigh Hunt, Adam Lindsay Gordon, Miguel Ángel Asturias, Nardo Aluman, Philip Pullman, Andrew Vachss, Fannie Hurst, John le Carré


De Engelse dichter, schrijver en essayist James Leigh Hunt werd geboren op 19 oktober 1784 in Southgate, Middlesex. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2007 en ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

 

An Angel in the House 

 

How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,

An angel came to us, and we could bear

To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers

News of dear friends, and children who have never

Been dead indeed,--as we shall know forever.

Alas! we think not what we daily see

About our hearths,--angels that are to be,

Or may be if they will, and we prepare

Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;--

A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings

In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.

 

 

 

 

The Nile 

 

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,

Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,

And times and things, as in that vision, seem

Keeping along it their eternal stands,--

Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands

That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,

As of a world left empty of its throng,

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,

And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along

'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take

Our own calm journey on for human sake.

 

 

 

 

 

Hunt
Leigh Hunt (19 oktober 1784 – 28 augustus 1859)

 

 

 

 

 

De Australische dichter Adam Lindsay Gordon werd geboren op 19 oktober 1833 op de Azoren. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

 

The Swimmer

 

With short, sharp violent lights made vivid,

To the southward far as the sight can roam,

Only the swirl of the surges livid,

The seas that climb and the surfs that comb,

Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward,

And rocks receding, and reefs flung forward,

And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward

On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.

 

A grim grey coast and a seaboard ghastly,

And shores trod seldom by feet of men --

Where the batter'd hull and the broken mast lie

They have lain embedded these long years ten.

Love! when we wander'd here together,

Hand in hand through the sparkling weather,

From the heights and hollows of fern and heather,

God surely loved us a little then.

 

Then skies were fairer and shores were firmer --

The blue sea over the bright sand roll'd;

Babble and prattle, and ripple and murmur,

Sheen of silver and glamour of gold --

And the sunset bath'd in the gulf to lend her

A garland of pinks and of purples tender,

A tinge of the sun-god's rosy splendour,

A tithe of his glories manifold.

 

Man's works are craven, cunning, and skillful

On earth where his tabernacles are;

But the sea is wanton, the sea is wilful,

And who shall mend her and who shall mar?

Shall we carve success or record disaster

On her bosom of heaving alabaster?

Will her purple pulse beat fainter or faster

For fallen sparrow or fallen star?

 

I would that with sleepy soft embraces

The sea would fold me -- would find me rest

In luminous shades of her secret places,

In depths where her marvels are manifest,

So the earth beneath her should not discover

My hidden couch -- nor the heaven above her --

As a strong love shielding a weary lover,

I would have her shield me with shining breast.

 

When light in the realms of space lay hidden,

When life was yet in the womb of time,

Ere flesh was fettered to fruits forbidden,

And souls were wedded to care and crime,

Was the course foreshaped for the future spirit --

A burden of folly, a void of merit --

That would fain the wisdom of stars inherit,

And cannot fathom the seas sublime?

 

Under the sea or the soil (what matter?

The sea and the soil are under the sun),

As in the former days in the latter

The sleeping or waking is known of none,

Surely the sleeper shall not awaken

To griefs forgotten or joys forsaken,

For the price of all things given and taken,

The sum of all things done and undone.

 

Shall we count offences or coin excuses,

Or weigh with scales the soul of a man,

Whom a strong hand binds and a sure hand looses,

Whose light is a spark and his life a span?

The seed he sowed or the soil he cumber'd,

The time he served or the space he slumber'd,

Will it profit a man when his days are number'd,

Or his deeds since the days of his life began?

 

One, glad because of the light, saith, "Shall not

The righteous judges of all the earth do right,

For behold the sparrows on the house-tops fall not

Save as seemeth to Him good in His sight?"

And this man's joy shall have no abiding

Through lights departing and lives dividing,

He is soon as one in the darkness hiding,

One loving darkness rather than light.

 

A little season of love and laughter,

Of light and life, and pleasure and pain,

And a horror of outer darkness after,

And dust returneth to dust again;

Then the lesser life shall be as the greater,

And the lover of light shall join the hater,

And the one thing cometh sooner or later,

And no one knoweth the loss or gain.

 

Love of my life! we had lights in season --

Hard to part with, harder to keep --

We had strength to labour and souls to reason,

And seed to scatter and fruits to reap.

Though time estranges and fate disperses,

We have had our loves and loving mercies.

Though the gifts of the light in the end are curses,

Yet bides the gift of darkness -- sleep!

 

See! girt with tempest and wing'd with thunder,

And clad with lightning and shod with sleet,

The strong winds treading the swift waves sunder

The flying rollers with frothy feet.

One gleam like a bloodshot swordblade swims on

The skyline, staining the green gulf crimson

A death stroke fiercely dealt by a dim sun

That strikes through his stormy winding sheet.

 

Oh, brave white horses! you gather and gallop,

The storm sprite loosens the gusty reins;

Now the stoutest ship were the frailest shallop

In your hollow backs, or your high arch'd manes.

I would ride as never a man has ridden

In your sleepy swirling surges hidden,

To gulfs foreshadow'd, through straits forbidden,

Where no light wearies and no love wanes.

 

 

 

 

Adam_Lindsay_Gordon

Adam Lindsay Gordon (19 oktober 1833 – 24 juni 1870)

 

 

 

 

 

De Guatemalteekse schrijver Miguel Ángel Asturias werd geboren op 19 oktober 1899 in Guatemala-Stad. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2006. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

 

Punishment of Profundities (fragment)

Woodlands and abandoned cities burned
on the bank of rivers that roasted
stones and embankments,
bleeding gums
and teeth of buttery ash
like the distance that the golden-smoke azuacan
brings on its wings from southern lands.
Butterflies of turpentine
flew from the trunks of the pines.
Cataracts of orchid sweat
rained from the arms of the ceiba trees.
Fire dust fell from the dry oaks,
boiling balsam from the liquidambars
and to the perfume of tamarinds ablaze
was joined that of the cacao groves, a scent of chocolate,
amid the little bone cracks of the sapodillas ,
the rubber trees twisted in elastic columns,
the chicle trees dripping with milky hairs,
and the crackling conocastes ,
red blood of uprooted foliage,
and the sleeping white oaks ,
almost mineral,
and the fleshy mahoganies,
already butter from the touch of a constellation
that lost a foot in the conflagration of the sky
and now walked its leg of fire
in the conflagration of the land.

Whales gone astray in tropical seas,
phosphorescent, torrid flying seas,
playing vaqueros, they hurled jets of water
to lasso the tiger of the conflagration,
the tiger of squeaking rubies,
who recovered his comet-gone-mad ferocity
as he fell on the crystal hoop straps
of the blue vaqueros,
liquid lariats that held him,
paralyzed with surprise,
long enough to slow his escape,
his flight from the water-made-steam,
while the corsairs, floating islands with tiny eyes,
managed to rope him with new and more powerful
jets of water, slip-knot rings,
whose loops the tiger of squeaking rubies
pulled up among flames and stars,
toward the constellation of the mirage,
the one that lost its foot, the constellation of distance,
and toward the army of blue lakes
parapeted in the mouths of the higher volcanoes,
lakes that before falling into fragments -
conquered, evaporated -
leapt
and, coiled on the tiger of rubies, galloped with him,
transformed into serpents of turquoise flames.

The earth was subjected
to a punishment of profundities.
After the conflagration, the invisible rains,
the soil overturned, the hurricane of mud,
the razors of the sun,
the chichicaste nettle in the living flesh...
a punishment of profundities
for having made room
for the first barbarian, not the last,
for the first human beast,
for the first executioner
in my country forged of honey.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Robert W. Lebling

 

 

 

 

 

asturias
Miguel Ángel Asturias (19 oktober 1899 – 9 juni 1974)

 

 

 

 

 

De Surinaamse schrijver Nardo Aluman (eig. Ronald Renardo Aloema werd geboren in Christiaankondre op 19 oktober 1946. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: De hond en de papegaai

 

“Het verhaal van de hond en de papegaai [kulewago] is een voorbeeld van een categorie van verhalen waarvan er talloze zijn. Ze worden vooral verteld vanwege het amusement - voor de luisteraar, maar ook voor de vertelster. In dit geval was dat wijlen La'imo (geboren ca 1893, in Langamankondre), de echtgenote van Yanumesi, die gedurende vele jaren kapitein was van Christiaankondre. La'imo overleed in 1968. Het verhaal vertelde zij, zittend temidden van een groot aantal van haar kleinkinderen.

 

... mohkaron amïkon tïwaiyeman, parï, penaro, isenurupiriyako, pïitono, ohko tïwaiye mandon ...

 

.... er waren eens, kleinkind, lang geleden, in de fabeltijd, twee jonge mannen. Broers, ze waren broers van elkaar. Vervolgens zijn ze misschien wel gaan jagen. Twee, één hond was er, hij was hun huisdier, en één papegaai. De papegaai zat op een balk van het huis. De hond lag op de grond. Ze waren gaan jagen. Eerst wisten ze van niets. Dan gaan ze weg [om te gaan jagen]. Ze gaan ver weg. Eerst gaan ze heel ver weg. Ze komen weer thuis. Hé, er was kasiri gemaakt [een van cassave gemaakte, licht alcoholische drank]. In een grote kom misschien, in een samaku [een pot van 70-80 cm hoog]. Lang geleden hadden de Indianen zulke grote potten. Ze komen weer thuis. Hé, er was kasiri gemaakt, [het stond] onder de dakrand van het huis. Dan praten ze met elkaar. ‘Wie heeft die kasiri gemaakt’; zegt hij tegen zijn oudere broer. ‘Dat vraag ik me ook af’, zegt hij. De papegaai zit nog steeds op de balk. Hij draait z'n kop heen en weer. Hij ziet z'n baas komen. De hond kwispelt met z'n staart, uit blijdschap om z'n baas. Door hen is de kasiri gemaakt.

Ze waren weer weggegaan. Nadat hun baas is weggegaan trekt de hond z'n huid uit. De papegaai legt z'n veren af. Ze gaan snel kasiri maken. De kasiri wordt door hun gemaakt. Hun kasiri is rood, dan drinken zij [de mannen] het als kasiri, het is drank. ‘Welk wezen heeft deze kasiri gemaakt’, zeggen ze. Ze denken na. Zo gebeurde het misschien driemaal. Ze gaan weer ver weg. Daarna wordt het [de drank] door hen [de mannen] opgemaakt. Ze [de huisdieren] maakten misschien maar een beetje. Dan gaan ze [de mannen] weer weg. Dan is er weer kasiri gemaakt. Ze komen thuis. ‘Welk wezen toch heeft het gemaakt, vraag ik me af’, zeggen ze. ‘Wie toch, vrouwen zijn er niet, geen enkele’, zeggen ze. De hond is er, en de papegaai, het zijn hun huisdieren. Ze kijken, de papegaai praat niet en zit op de balk. De hond ligt daar op de grond. Vanaf dat moment doen ze alsof ze weggaan. Ze gaan zich verbergen achter de stam van een grote boom. Ze willen zien of het een Indiaan is [die de kasiri maakt]. Vervolgens gaan ze weer weg.”

 

 

 

 

Aluman
Nardo Aluman (Christiaankondre, 19 oktober 1946)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Andrew Vachss werd geboren op 19 oktober 1942 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: Mask Market

 

"I'm not the client," the ferret seated across from me said. He was as thin as a garrote, with a library-paste complexion, the facial skin surrounding his veined-quartz eyes as papery as dried flowers. He was always room temperature. "You know me, Burke. I only work the middle."

"I don't know you," I lied. "You knew—you say you knew—my brother. But if you did—"

"Yeah, I know he's gone," the ferret said, meeting my eyes, the way you do when you've got nothing to hide. With him, it was an invitation to search an empty room. "But you've got the same name, right? He never had any first name that I knew; so what would I call you, I meet you for the first time?"

It's impossible to actually look into my eyes, because you have to do it one at a time. One eye is a lot lighter than the other, and they don't track together anymore.

A few years ago, I was tricked into an ambush. The crossfire cost me my looks, and my partner her life. I mourn her every day—the hollow blue heart tattooed between the last two knuckles of my right hand is Pansy's tombstone—but I don't miss my face. True, it was a lot more anonymous than the one I've got now. Back then, I was a walking John Doe: average height, average weight — generic lineup filler. But a lot of different people had seen that face in a lot of different places. And the State had a lot of photographs of it, too—they don't throw out old mug shots.

I'd come into the ER without a trace of ID, dropped at the door by the Prof and Clarence—they knew I was way past risking the do-it-yourself kit we kept around for gunshot wounds.

Since the government doesn't pay the freight for cosmetic surgery on derelicts, the hospital went into financial triage, no extras. So the neat, round keloid scar on my right cheek is still there, and the top of my left ear is still as flat as if it had been snipped off. And when the student surgeons repaired the cheekbone on the right side of my face, they pulled the skin so tight that it looked like one of the bullets I took had been loaded with Botox. My once-black hair is steel-gray now—it turned that shade while I was in a coma from the slugs, and never went back.”

 

 

 

 

vachss
Andrew Vachss (New York, 19 oktober 1942)

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Philip Pullman werd geboren op 19 oktober 1946 in Norwich als zoon van een luchtmachtofficier. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: The Golden Compass

 

“Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions.

Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

"You're not taking this seriously," whispered her daemon. "Behave yourself."

Her daemon's name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the hall.

"They're making too much noise to hear from the kitchen," Lyra whispered back. "And the Steward doesn't come in till the first bell. Stop fussing."

But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

"There's no one there," he whispered. "But we must be quick."

Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into the Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had lived most of her life in the College, but had never seen the Retiring Room before: only Scholars and their guests were allowed in here, and never females. Even the maid-servants didn't clean in here. That was the Butler's job alone.”

 

 

 

 

philip pullman
Philip Pullman
(Norwich, 19 oktober 1946)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Fannie Hurst werd geboren op 19 oktober 1889 in Hamilton, Ohio. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2008.

 

Uit: Fannie: The Talent for Success of Writer Fannie Hurst  (Biografie door Brooke Kroeger)

 

"What I lack is rhythm"
The first known published work of Fannie Hurst appeared in her high school newspaper at Christmastime 1904, the month before she graduated. "An Episode," a nine-paragraph story, sketches a few moments in the life of a wealthy, powerful, but godless man alone with his conscience in a cathedral. Overcome by the haunting majesty of his surroundings, he watched his misdeeds pass before him. Pain and remorse engulfed him. He sat crouched alone on a pew until the last echoes of "Ave Maria" died away.
Then he rose, and went out, and as he went he said, "I have knowledge, I have power--what I lack is rhythm."
Then he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud and bitterly, and went off into the dusk.
Fannie Hurst, the daughter of now quite comfortable, assimilated German Jews with deadening middle-class aspirations, wanted to be a writer. She liked to claim that the Saturday Evening Post mailed back her manuscripts as if by boomerang from the time she was fourteen. This did not deter her. Nor did her mother's dire prediction that she would end up "an old-maid schoolteacher like Tillie Strauss," the sad and lonely spinster daughter of one of her mother's friends. Fannie defied this well-meant but suffocating opposition and compromised only enough to go to college in St. Louis, her hometown. She entered Washington University in the fall of 1905, a month before she turned twenty.
Fannie and her classmates watched much ground break. The handsome new Gothic-style "Quad" had been a site for the most defining seven months of the century for St. Louis, the "Universal Exposition," more commonly known as the 1904 World's Fair. The trees thatlined the campus drives were only saplings in those days, reminding Fannie of "the knees of newborn calves."

 

 

 

 

Fannie_Hurst
Fannie Hurst (19 oktober 1889 – 23 februari 1968)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2006

 

De Britse schrijver John le Carré werd geboren op 19 oktober 1931 in Poole, Dorset, Engeland.

19-10-08

Leigh Hunt, Adam Lindsay Gordon, Miguel Ángel Asturias, Nardo Aluman, Philip Pullman, Andrew Vachss, Fannie Hurst, John le Carré


De Engelse dichter, schrijver en essayist James Leigh Hunt werd geboren op 19 oktober 1784 in Southgate, Middlesex. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2007.

 

 

Robin Hood, An Outlaw

 

Robin Hood is an outlaw bold
Under the greenwood tree;
Bird, nor stag, nor morning air
Is more at large than he.

They sent against him twenty men,
Who joined him laughing-eyed;
They sent against him thirty more,
And they remained beside.

All the stoutest of the train,
That grew in Gamelyn wood,
Whether they came with these or not,
Are now with Robin Hood.

And not a soul in Locksley town
Would speak him an ill word;
The friars raged; but no man's tongue,
Nor even feature stirred;

Except among a very few
Who dined in the Abbey halls;
And then with a sigh bold Robin knew
His true friends from his false.

There was Roger the monk, that used to make
All monkery his glee;
And Midge, on whom Robin had never turned
His face but tenderly;

With one or two, they say, besides,
Lord! that in this life's dream
Men should abandon one true thing,
That would abide with them.

We cannot bid our strength remain,
Our cheeks continue round;
We cannot say to an aged back,
Stoop not towards the ground;

We cannot bid our dim eyes see
Things as bright as ever;
Nor tell our friends, though friends from youth,
That they'll forsake us never:

But we can say, I never will,
Friendship, fall off from thee;
And, oh sound truth and old regard,
Nothing shall part us three.

 

 

 

 

 

Hunt
Leigh Hunt (
19 oktober 178428 augustus 1859)

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Australische dichter Adam Lindsay Gordon werd geboren op 19 oktober 1833 op de Azoren. Hij stamde uit een oude Schotse familie. Zijn vader was kapitein in het lerger. Nog tijdens zijn kinderjaren trok de familie naar Madeira en in 1840 naar het Engelse Cheltenham, waar Gordons vader leraar oriëntaalse talen werd. Gordon bezocht de school vanaf 1841, maar werd er wegens slecht gedrag vanaf gestuurd. Zijn vader stuurde hem toen hij zijn leven niet beterde naar Australië. In 1864 erfde hij na de dood van zijn vader 7000 pond. Hij kocht enkele renpaarden en werd de beste hindernisspringer van Australië. In 1865 werd hij ook lid van het parlement van Zuid Australië in Victoria, maar verliet het ambt al weer een jaar later. In 1867 trok hij naar Mount Gambier om zich te wijden aan het schrijven en het trainen van paarden. Gokken, alcoholisme en proceskosten in rechtszaken over het familiebezit in Schotland leverden hem talrijke schulden op. In 1870 verloor hij dat proces ook nog. Een dag na het verschijnen van zijn laatste dichtbundel schoot hij zich zelf dood.Tegenwoordig wordt hij als de nationale dichter van Australië beschouwd.

 

 

A Song of Autumn

 

WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?’
‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear—
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.’

 

 

 

 

For the great things of life are small things

 

For the great things of life are small things,

The longest life is a span,

And there is an end to all things,

A season to every man,

Whose glory is dust and ashes,

Whose spirit is but a spark,

That out from the darkness flashes,

And flickers out in the dark.

 

We remember the pangs that wrung us

When some went down to the pit,

Who faded as leaves among us,

Who flitted as shadows flit;

What visions under the stone lie?

What dreams in the shroud sleep dwell,

For we saw the earth pit only,

And we heard only the knell.

 

 

 

 

Gordon
Adam Lindsay Gordon (19 oktober 1833 – 24 juni 1870)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Guatemalteekse schrijver Miguel Ángel Asturias werd geboren op 19 oktober 1899 in Guatemala-Stad. Zie ook mijn blog van 19 oktober 2006.

 

 

Hidden Crafts (fragment)


The poets, anonymous amanuenses, the heels
of the Magician of Song in the house of the North,
carried their complaint to the petaled flower
of the ear of the Celestial Hunters:

"The motionless flight of poetry and its unfoldings
in ritual song, warrior dance, word play,
conversation of deified hearts, this is our secret.
To hear seedbeds of syllables sprout and transplant them
with salivations of the golden strophe,
this is our role as thinkers with music.
We know the pulse of the lashing rains
in the calendrical drawing and the colored, polychrome calligraphy
of symbols and astrological prophecies;
but, passed over by the Magician of Song,
we can't be more than wordcadavers,
our tongues perforated with metaphor arrows."

Onto what liana of silence do they fasten bells,
drops of water, fish scales, fragments of glass,
pieces of wood, fingernails of metal,
in tests of new resounding rains,
those who are the Invisible Back of the Visible Magician,
he of the Copal of Music, in his house of the South?
What canes, toasted over low flame, do they pierce
in search of the pathetic trill?
What stones polished with tobacco
do they use to iron the drum skins?
In what millennial liquor do they soak the ocarina,
the tortoise, the snail, the stone
for the keys of the marimbas?
Silent is the lament of anonymous musicians in the questions
that fly to the ear of the Celestial Hunters.

They walked in the house of the luminous cactus,
the painters, statues without feet,
only eyes, like the Magician of Color
in his house of the East... Anonymous and absent
they are, and this their lament at the ear of the Hunters,
those who entered and exited from the blues
of wood dye, from the bleeding achiotes ,
from the divine purples robbed from crustaceans
of the Southern Sea, from the oily blacks,
the limestone whites, the ochres of mud,
the yellows, pollen or gold dust,
the greens of ground emeralds,
the ruddy lands,
the tawny guapinoles ...
Theirs is the secret of the porous woods,
of the tablets of hairless surface,
treated with honey, wax or serum,
and theirs is the secret of the flexible skins
and the terror-struck skins that stretched death...
Silent, anonymous, absent,
the luminous cactus in their pupils,
the lament in their painting...

 

 

 

 

asturias
Miguel Ángel Asturias (19 oktober 1899 – 9 juni 1974)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Surinaamse schrijver Nardo Aluman (eig. Ronald Renardo Aloema werd geboren in Christiaankondre op 19 oktober 1946. Christiaankondre is een van de twee dorpen die samen Galibi vormen aan de monding van de Marowijnerivier (de grensrivier met Frans-Guyana). Aluman is een zoon van de bekende vertelster Kamala'imïn. Hij is werkzaam als medewerker voor inheemse culturen bij de Afdeling Cultuurstudies van het Ministerie van Onderwijs en Cultuur in Paramaribo. In 1985 vertaalde hij een bundeltje pyjai-liederen (een pyjai is een genezer of sjamaan): Atamygano Warery, letterlijk vertaald: Liederen om in zichzelf te keren.In 1988 bracht hij het avondvullende toneelstuk Julawai, gebaseerd op Caraïbische mythen, culturele gebruiken en geschiedopvattingen. Het werd gevolgd door Epakano jakonombo/Opstanding in de Amazone (1989), Parana Agyry/De Geest van de Zee (1990), Epakadono Auran/De Stem van Epakadono (1991), Kawa’i/Oorlog (1992) en Auran mero (Talen, stemmen of woorden) (1994). Aluman bestudeert de taal, de tulala (magische planten) en de rituelen van zijn volk en publiceert daarover (o.m. in De Gids, De Ware Tijd Literair en de bundels Verhalen van Surinaamse schrijvers (1989) en Sirito (1990)). Hij vertaalde Karaïbse legenden, mythen en sagen in de Nederlandse taal en schrijft ook poëzie

 

Uit: Ombadapo, het gezicht

 

„Ombadapo betekent ‘gezicht’, maar het is tevens een andere naam voor het sterrenbeeld Ulayumaka waarvan de verschijning het begin van de droge tijd aankondigt. Het verhaal van Ombadapo kan gelezen worden als een oorsprongsmythe, maar het laat tevens de spanningen zien in de Karaïbische samenleving tussen aanverwanten, in dit geval tussen een man en zijn schoonmoeder. De nu volgende versie werd mij verteld door een Karaïbische vrouw, Kamala'imïn, in 1926 geboren aan de Mana, Frans Guyana.

 

... ombadapo torirï ... ombadapo ga'u nan? Tïpa-rimï ... mohko nopokombo waitobombo man. Inorombo, mohko iparimï ‘wa masiwa tïye tïwaiye amïn iporirï da, amïn itupo da, itupo daka ...

 

Het verhaal van Ombadapo... Ombadapo is het [dat je wil horen]? Die oude vrouw had een schoonzoon. Deze schoonzoon had een visval geplaatst in een tak van de rivier, in een kreek. Vervolgens ging die oude vrouw, zijn schoonmoeder, de visval leeghalen, zij had hem leeggehaald. Vaak ging haar schoonzoon kijken. De kreek heeft alweer geen vis, zijn visval. Dan gaat hij op een dag, hij gaat haar opwachten. Hij ziet haar. Ja, door zijn schoonmoeder is de visval leeggehaald, zij heeft het gedaan. Dan zegt hij, het is goed zegt hij. Ik zal je krijgen, zegt hij. Vervolgens overlegt haar schoonzoon met de geest van de Anyumara, opdat zij door hem opgegeten wordt.

De oude vrouw had huisdieren, een paar vogels. Ze worden Koweyupa [een klein soort grietjebie] genoemd. Haar huisdieren heetten Koweyupa, het waren er veel. Ze had ze naar de poel gebracht om er te eten. Vervolgens is de oude vrouw er weer heen gegaan. Ze weet niet wat er in de visval is gedaan. De oude vrouw gaat er weer heen, haar huisdieren voedsel verschaffen, heel vroeg in de ochtend gaat zij er weer heen. E, de oude vrouw nu is door de Anyumara, door de geest onthoofd. Ze is opgegeten door hem. Alleen het hoofd dat van haar was, is overgebleven.“

 

 

 

 

Aluman
Nardo Aluman (
Christiaankondre, 19 oktober 1946)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Philip Pullman werd geboren op 19 oktober 1946 in Norwich als zoon van een luchtmachtofficier. Door het beroep van zijn vader en later zijn stiefvader, die ook in het leger diende, reisde hij in zijn vroege jeugd de hele wereld over. Vanaf zijn elfde keerde hij terug naar het Verenigd Koninkrijk en woonde in Noord-Wales. Na de middelbare school ging Pullman Engels studeren aan het Exeter College in Oxford. Na zijn afstuderen heeft hij vanaf zijn 25e twaalf jaar lang les gegeven aan middelbare scholen in Oxford. Hier begon hij met het schrijven van kinderboeken.

In 1986 ging hij parttime college geven aan het Westminster College over de Victoriaanse roman en volksverhalen. Na acht jaar is hij uiteindelijk met doceren gestopt om zich volledig op het schrijven te richten. schreef tot op heden meer dan twintig jeugdromans en korte verhalen, maar brak internationaal door met de bestsellerserie His Dark Materials (vert. Het Gouden Kompas). De trilogie werd in meer dan twintig talen uitgebracht en leverde Pullman verschillende prijzen op. Voor het laatste deel, The Amber Spyglass (vert. De Amberkleurige Kijker), ontving hij in 2000 de Whitbread Prize voor het beste boek van het jaar, die nog nooit eerder aan een kinderboekenauteur werd uitgereikt.

 

Uit: His Dark Materials, Book III: The Amber Spyglass

 

In a valley shaded with rhododendrons, close to the snow line, where a stream milky with meltwater splashed and where doves and linnets flew among the immense pines, lay a cave, half, hidden by the crag above and the stiff heavy leaves that clustered below.

The woods were full of sound: the stream between the rocks, the wind among the needles of the pine branches, the chitter of insects and the cries of small arboreal mammals, as well as the birdsong; and from time to time a stronger gust of wind would make one of the branches of a cedar or a fir move against another and groan like a cello.

It was a place of brilliant sunlight, never undappled. Shafts of lemon-gold brilliance lanced down to the forest floor between bars and pools of brown-green shade; and the light was never still, never constant, because drifting mist would often float among the treetops, filtering all the sunlight to a pearly sheen and brushing every pine cone with moisture that glistened when the mist lifted. Sometimes the wetness in the clouds condensed into tiny drops half mist and half rain, which floated downward rather than fell, making a soft rustling patter among the millions of needles.

There was a narrow path beside the stream, which led from a village-little more than a cluster of herdsmen's dwellings - at the foot of the valley to a half-ruined shrine near the glacier at its head, a place where faded silken flags streamed out in the Perpetual winds from the high mountains, and offerings of barley cakes and dried tea were placed by pious villagers. An odd effect of the light, the ice, and the vapor enveloped the head of the valley in perpetual rainbows.

The cave lay some way above the path. Many years before, a holy man had lived there, meditating and fasting and praying, and the place was venerated for the sake of his memory. It was thirty feet or so deep, with a dry floor: an ideal den for a bear or a wolf, but the only creatures living in it for years had been birds and bats.

But the form that was crouching inside the entrance, his black eyes watching this way and that, his sharp ears pricked, was neither bird nor bat. The sunlight lay heavy and rich on his lustrous golden fur, and his monkey hands turned a pine cone this way and that, snapping off the scales with sharp fingers and scratching out the sweet nuts.“

 

 

 

 

Philip_Pullman
Philip Pullman
(Norwich, 19 oktober 1946)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Andrew Vachss werd geboren op 19 oktober 1942 in New York. In 1975 voltooide hij zijn studie rechten in Boston magna cum laude. Hij werkt hoofdzakelijk als advocaat voor kinderen en jeugdigen. Vachss schrijft grotendeels hardboiled detectives, maar heeft ook twee bundels korte verhalen gepubliceerd. Verder schrijft hij songteksten, strips, essays, twee zakelijke boeken over jeugdcriminaliteit en kindermisbruik en talrijke artikelen.

 

Uit: The Getaway Man

“Every outfit needs a getaway man. It doesn't matter how smooth the job goes; if you don't get away with the money, it's all for nothing.
I learned that when I was just a kid, when I first started getting locked up. Once that happens the first time, it's like that's your destiny. They let you out, but they know you're coming back, and you do, too.
Inside, some guys get tattoos, so that when they get out, other guys will know where they've been. I never wanted one. I figured people can always tell, anyway.
Every time they sent me to the kiddie camps, it was for stealing cars. I never stole cars to keep; I just wanted to drive them. I wanted to learn how to do that more than anything. The reason I took the cars was so I could practice.
When you're in one of those places for kids, guys always ask you what you're in for. The first time I went in, before I learned, I told them the truth.
I found out quick how dumb that was. When I told other guys, that first time, why I took the cars, they said that wasn't even stealing, it was just joyriding. That's what a kid does with a car, joyriding. A man wouldn't do that.
It sounds weird, but the worst thing you can be in the kiddie camps is what they call a "kid." The word means something different in there. Something very bad.
Right after I told the truth that first time, I had to fight a lot. So I wouldn't get taken for a kid.
By the next time I went in, I was smarter. I knew nobody would understand if I told them I took the cars so I could practice my driving. So, after that, when they asked me, I always said, "Grand Theft Auto." I wasn't some little joyrider; I was a thief.
A thief steals cars to keep. To sell, I mean. The really good thieves, they get a reputation, and people hire them to steal certain cars. Like ordering food in a restaurant, and the parking lot is the menu.
It's good to be known as a thief when you go Inside. It's even better to be known as a killer, but only a certain kind. Like if you killed someone in a fight, that would be good. Or if someone paid you to do it.
It's pretty unusual, to be in one of the kiddie places for a killing like that, but I know one guy, Tyree, who was. A drug dealer paid Tyree to shoot someone, and he did it. Everyone respected him for doing that. It was something a big-time criminal would do.
But not every killing got you respect. The sick-in-the-head kids, they were nothings. Nobody was afraid of them. Like the one who chopped up his mother with an ax. Or the one who went to school with a rifle and shot a bunch of other kids who were bullying him.
After that one got locked up, he still got bullied, only much worse. The kind of bullying they do in here.
Sometimes, a killing happens right where they have us locked up. The one I most remember, it was a little kid who did it. Devon, his name was. A bigger kid, Rock, had done something to him.“

 

 

 

 

Vachss
Andrew Vachss (New York, 19 oktober 1942)

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Fannie Hurst werd geboren op 19 oktober 1889 in Hamilton, Ohio. Haar ouders waakten streng over haar opvoeding. Zij gold als vroegrijp en uiterst intelligent. Al op de middelbare school begon Hurst met schrijven en bood zij haar verhalen aan verschillende kranten aan, waaronder The Saturday Evening Post en bij Reedy's Mirror. In 1909 promoveerde zij aan de Washington University in St. Louis en een jaar later vierde zij haar eertse literaire succes met het verhaal It`s not Wonderful Life. Tegen de wil van haar ouders trok zij naar New York om aan de Columbia University te studeren. Zonder steun van haar ouders werkte Hurst als kindermeisje, als kelnster en door korte verhalen aan tijdschriften te verkopen. Hurst was ook in verschillende maatschappelijke organisaties actief, zoals National Urban League en het National Advisory Committee,

 

Uit: HUMORESQUE

 

On either side of the Bowery, which cuts through like a drain to catch its sewage, Every Man's Land, a reeking march of humanity and humidity, steams with the excrement of seventeen languages, flung in _patois_ from tenement windows, fire escapes, curbs, stoops, and cellars whose walls are terrible and spongy with fungi.

 

By that impregnable chemistry of race whereby the red blood of the Mongolian and the red blood of the Caucasian become as oil and water in the mingling, Mulberry Street, bounded by sixteen languages, runs its intact Latin length of pushcarts, clotheslines, naked babies, drying vermicelli; black-eyed women in rhinestone combs and perennially big with child; whole families of buttonhole-makers, who first saw the blue-and-gold light of Sorrento, bent at home work round a single gas flare; pomaded barbers of a thousand Neapolitan amours. And then, just as suddenly, almost without osmosis and by the mere stepping down from the curb, Mulberry becomes Mott Street, hung in grillwork balconies, the moldy smell of poverty touched up with incense. Orientals whose feet shuffle and whose faces are carved out of satinwood. Forbidden women, their white, drugged faces behind upper windows. Yellow children, incongruous enough in Western clothing. A draughty areaway with an oblique of gaslight and a black well of descending staircase. Show-windows of jade and tea and Chinese porcelains.

 

More streets emanating out from Mott like a handful of crooked rheumatic fingers, then suddenly the Bowery again, cowering beneath Elevated trains, where men burned down to the butt end of soiled lives pass in and out and out and in of the knee-high swinging doors, a veiny-nosed, acid-eaten race in themselves.”

 

 

 

 

hurst_fannie
Fannie Hurst (19 oktober 1889 – 23 februari 1968)

 

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver John le Carré werd geboren op 19 oktober 1931 in Poole, Dorset, Engeland.