Athol Fugard, Nnimmo Bassey, Jules Vallès, George Wither, Barnabe Googe


De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook alle tags voor Athol Fugard op dit blog.

Uit: Hello And Goodbye

„HESTER. Ja, that's right.
HESTER [ignoring his question]. You were always daring me. You used to find it—the thing you were too scared to do, and dare me, and watch while I did it and got into trouble. That's what you want, hey? You and him. `Hester's in trouble again, Pa!'
JOHNNIE. You won't?
HESTER. No. [She goes back to the papers.]
JOHNNIE [to himself]. Too much to hope for.
HESTER. You won't get rid of me that easily.
JOHNNIE. But I tried. Whatever happens nobody can say I didn't try. Be brave.
HESTER [readingfrom one of the papers]. 'Johannes Albertus Smit.' That's you.
JOHNNIE. Yes, in full. What's it say?
HESTER [scanning the letter]. 'Your application. . . The Kroonstad Railway School. From the Principal. Saying they accept your application to be a learner-stoker. And a second-class voucher to get there. November, 1958.
JOHNNIE. Too late now.
HESTER. But you said you tore up your application.
JOHNNIE. That's right.
HESTER. Because you didn't want to go.
HESTER. So here he says he got your application.
JOHNNIE. These things happen. [Pause. Hester thinks about this.]
HESTER. No. No, they don't. He wouldn't tell you to come if you didn't have asked him if you could come.
JOHNNIE. Where does that get us?
HESTER. You did post that application.
HESTER. But you told me you didn't."


Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)
Scene uit een opvoering in Kaapstad, 2014

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Athol Fugard, Nnimmo Bassey, Jules Vallès, George Wither, Barnabe Googe


De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook alle tags voor Athol Fugard op dit blog.

Uit: Hello And Goodbye

““OHNNIE. What did you want to do?
HESTER. Nothing. [Loo/ting a! the certificate in her hand.] Johannes Cornelius Smit-Anna Van Rooyen. Biggest mistake she ever made!
JOHNNIE. You don’t know what you’re saying.
HESTrER. Yes, I do! I’m saying this was the biggest mistake she ever made. Marriage! One man’s slave all your life, slog away until you’re in your grave. For what? Happiness in Heaven? I seen them- Ma and the others like her, with more kids than they can count, and no money; bruises every pay-
day because he comes home drunk or anOIher one in the belly because he was so drunk he didn’t know it was his old wife and got into bed!
JOHNNIE. Daddy never beat Mommie. He was never drunk.
HESTER. Because he couldn’t. He was a crock. But he did it other ways. She fell into her grave the way they all do- tired, maeg. Frightened! I saw her.
JOHNNIE. This is terrible, Hester.
HESTER. You’re damned right it is. It’s hell. They live in hell, but they’re too frightened to do anything about it because there’s always somebody around shouting God and Judgement. Mommie should have taken what she wanted and then
kicked him out.
JOHNNlE. And the children.
HESTER. So what! If you get them you get them and if you don’t want them there’s ways.
JOHNNlE. Hester! Hester!
HESTER. Hester, Hester what? Hester who? Hester Smit! That‘s me. I’ve done it. And I don‘t care a damn. Two months old and I got rid of it.”


Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)
Scene uit een opvoering in het Abbey Theatre, St Albans, 2011

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William Styron, Renée Vivien, Jean-Pierre Chabrol, Sophie van der Stap, Ben Jonson, Yasunari Kawabata, Athol Fugard


De Amerikaanse schrijver William Styron werd op 11 juni 1925 in Newport News in de staat Virginia geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor William Styron op dit blog.

Uit: Darkness Visible

“When I was aware that I had been laid low by the disease, I felt a need, among other things, to register a strong protest against the word “depression.” Depression, most people know, used to be termed ‘melancholia,” a word which appears in English as early as the year 1305 and crops up more than once in Chaucer, who in his usage seemed to be aware of its pathological nuances. “Melancholia” would still appear to be a far more apt and evocative word for the blacker forms of this disorder, but it was usurped by a noun with a bland tonality and lacking any magisterial presence, used indifferently to describe an economic decline or a rut in the ground, a true wimp of a word for such a major illness. It may be that the scientist generally held responsible for its currency in modern times, a Johns Hopkins Medical School faculty member justly venerated—the Swiss-born Adolf Meyer—had a tin ear for the finer rhythms of English and therefore was unaware of the semantic damage he had inflicted by offering “Depression” as a descriptive noun for such a dreadful and raging disease. Nonetheless, for over seventy-five years the word had slithered innocuously through the language like a slug, leaving little trace of its intrinsic malevolence and preventing, by its very insipidity, a general awareness of the horrible intensity of the disease when out of control.
As one who has suffered from the malady in extremis yet returned to tell the tale, I would lobby for a truly arresting designation. “Brainstorm,” for instance, has unfortunately been preempted to describe, somewhat jocularly, intellectual inspiration. But something along these lines is needed. Told that someone’s mood disorder has evolved into a storm—a veritable howling tempest in the brain, which is indeed what a clinical depression resembles like nothing else—even the uninformed layman might display sympathy rather than the standard reaction that ‘depression” evokes, something akin to So what?” pr “You’ll pull out of it” or “We all have bad days. The phrase “nervous breakdown” seems on its way out, certainly deservedly so, owing to its insinuation of a vague spinelessness, but we still seem destined to be saddled with “depression” until a better, sturdier name is created."


William Styron (11 juni 1925 – 1 november 2006)

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William Styron, Renée Vivien, Jean-Pierre Chabrol, Sophie van der Stap, Ben Jonson, Athol Fugard, Yasunari Kawabata


De Amerikaanse schrijver William Styron werd op 11 juni 1925 in Newport News in de staat Virginia geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor William Styron op dit blog.


Uit: Sophie's Choice


„Sometime during my thirties the nickname and I mysteriously parted company, Stingo merely evaporating like a wan ghost out of my existence, leaving me indifferent to the loss. But Stingo I still was during this time about which I write. If, however, it is perplexing that the name is absent from the earlier part of this narrative, it may be understood that I am describing a morbid and solitary period in my life when, like the crazy hermit in the cave on the hill, I was rarely called by any name at all.

I was glad to be shut of my job--the first and only salaried position, excluding the military, of my life--even though its loss seriously undermined my already modest solvency. Also, I now think it was constructive to learn so early in life that I would never fit in as an office worker, anytime, anywhere. In fact, considering how I had so coveted the job in the first place, I was rather surprised at the relief, indeed the alacrity, with which I accepted my dismissal only five months later. In 1947 jobs were scarce, especially jobs in publishing, but a stroke of luck had landed me employment with one of the largest publishers of books, where I was made "junior editor"--a euphemism for manuscript reader. That the employer called the tune, in those days when the dollar was much more valuable tender than it is now, may be seen in the stark terms of my salary--forty dollars a week. After withholding taxes this meant that the anemic blue check placed on my desk each Friday by the hunchbacked little woman who managed the payroll represented emolument in the nature of a little over ninety cents an hour. But I had not been in the least dismayed by the fact that these coolie wages were dispensed by one of the most powerful and wealthy publishers in the world; young and resilient, I approached my job--at least at the very beginning--with a sense of lofty purpose; and besides, in compensation, the work bore intimations of glamour: lunch at "21," dinner with John O'Hara, poised and brilliant but carnal-minded lady writers melting at my editorial acumen, and so on.“



William Styron (11 juni 1925 – 1 november 2006)

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Athol Fugard, Yasunari Kawabata, Jules Vallès, George Wither, Barnabe Googe


De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2010


Uit: Hello And Goodbye


„Hester: Somewhere else. Your were too young. They pushed me forward. ‘Say goodbye to your Mommie, Hester.’ I said it – but I couldn’t cry. I was dry and hot inside. Ashamed! Of u. Of her, Mommie, for being dead and causing all the fuss. Of him, Daddy, his face cracked like one of our old plates, saying things he never said when she was alive.

And all the uncles and aunties kissing him and patting hin on the back and saying ‘Shame!’ every time they saw you. It was those cousins of his from Despatch, who never ever came to visit us. The whole mob of them, all in black, the little girls in pretty dresses, looking at everything in the house and us looking like poor whites because there wasn’t enough cups to give everybody coffee at the same time. I hated it! I hated Mommie for being dead. I couldn’t cry. I cried later. I don’t know, maybe two days. Everything was over, the relatives gone. He was in bed with shock. The house was quiet like never before. Then there was a knock at the back door. I opened it an it was that coolie who always sold the vegetables, Where’s your Mommie?’ he asked. I couldn’t say anything at first. ‘Girlie, where’s your Mommie?’ then I told him. ‘Dead.’ I just said, ‘Dead’, and started to cry. He took off his hat and stood there watching me until I shouted, ‘Voetsek!” and chased him away – and sad down and cried and cried. Because suddenly I knew she was dead, and what it meant, being dead. It’s goodbye for keeps. She was gone forever. So I cried. There was something I wanted to do, but it was to late.



Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)

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Athol Fugard, Yasunari Kawabata, Jules Vallès, George Wither, Barnabe Googe

De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009.


Uit: Tsotsi


„Tsotsi opened his eyes and listened to the knocking on his door.

Instinctively, but for no other reason than having awoken, he put his hand under his pillow to find his knife.

Before he found it, another thought crossed his mind and he sat up on his elbows and looked down at the foot of the bed. The baby was still there, and apparently asleep.

The knocking had stopped, but now came again. Tsotsi shook his head.

He must have fallen asleep; some time in the night his tiredness must have caught up with him and he had fallen asleep.

No, it was in the morning. He remembered going out once to piss and hearing cocks crowing and noticing that the sky was pale.

How long had he slept? He looked at the window and listened. Bright light and casual noise. Early morning.“




Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)





De Japanse schrijver Yasunari Kawabata werd geboren op 11 juni 1899 in Osaka. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009.


Uit: The dancing girl of Izu and other stories (Vertaald door J. Martin Holman)


Since I was a boy, I have had neither my own house nor home. During school vacations I stayed with relatives. I made the rounds of my many relatives from one house to another. However, I spent most of my school vacations at the homes of two of my closest relatives. These two houses were south and north of the Yodo River, one in a town in Kawachi Province and the other in a mountain village in Settsu Province. I traveled back and forth by ferry. At either house I was greeted not with "Thank you for coming" but with "Welcome home."

During the summer holiday when I was twenty-two, I attended three funerals in the space of less than a month. Each time, I wore my late father's silk gauze jacket, long divided skirts, and white socks, and I carried a Buddhist rosary. </p> <p> First there was a funeral in a branch of the Kawachi household. The mother of the family's patriarch had died. She was quite old; they said she had grandchildren in their thirties and that she had been nursed through a long illness. You might say she had gone on to her reward without regrets. When I gazed at the patriarch's despondent appearance and the granddaughters' red eyes, I could see their grief. But my heart did not mourn directly for the late woman; I could not grieve her death. Although I burned incense before the altar, I did not know the face of the woman in the coffin. I had forgotten there even was such a person. </p> <p> Before the coffin was carried out, I made a condolence call in mourning clothes, rosary and fan in hand, with my elder cousin who had come from Settsu. Compared to my cousin's behavior, what little I did, though I was young, appeared considerably more composed and appropriate for a funeral ceremony. I was comfortable performing my role. Surprised, my cousin studied my bearing and imitated me. Five or six cousins were gathered in the main house. They felt no need to make solemn faces. </p> <p> About a week later, I was in Kawachi when I received a telephone call from my elder cousin in Settsu. There was going to be a funeral in a branch of the family into which his elder sister had married.”




Yasunari Kawabata (11 juni 1899 — 16 april 1972)





De Franse schrijver Jules Vallès werd geboren op 11 juni 1832 in Puy-en-Velay, Haute-Loire. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009.


Uit: Les Enfants du Peuple


"Nous parlerons de la prison et point du prisonnier, non d'un coupable, mais d'un supplice. Je connais Mazas. Il y a de cela pas mal d'années, nous fûmes, quelques amis et moi, arrêtés. Ce n'était la faute de personne. Un pauvre garçon nous avait dénoncés comme complices de je ne sais quelle conspiration, et l'on nous conduisit en prison. Renseignements pris, le juge d'instruction reconnut que notre accusateur n'était qu'un fou. Depuis le collège où nous avions été ses camarades et où nous nous mettions quelquefois à dix pour le maintenir dans ses accès, il était en proie à des attaques d'épilepsie et de délire ; lui-même avoua sa folie : on nous relâcha. Mais nous avions passé là quelques semaines, et entendant parler ces jours-ci prison et prisonnier, il m'est revenu à la mémoire quelques-unes des sensations que j'éprouvai dans la cellule et entre les murs des promenoirs..."




Jules Vallès (11 juni 1832 – 14 februari 1885)





De Engelse dichter en satiricus George Wither werd geboren op 11 juni 1588 in Bentworth. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009.



A Sonnet Upon a Stolen Kiss 


Now gentle sleep hath clos'd up those eyes

Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,

And free access unto that sweet lip lies,

From whence I long the rosy breath to draw;

Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal

From those two melting rubies one poor kiss;

None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,

Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss;

Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,

There would be little sign I had done so;

Why then should I this robbery delay?

Oh! she may wake and therewith angry grow.

Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,

And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.





George Wither (11 juni 1588 – 2 mei 1667)





De Engelse dichter en vertaler Barnabe Googe werd geboren op 11 juni 1540 in Londen of Kent. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2009.



Out Of Sight, Out Of Mind


The oftener seen, the more I lust,

The more I lust, the more I smart,

The more I smart, the more I trust,

The more I trust, the heavier heart;

The heavy hearty breeds mine unrest,

Thy absence, therefore, like I best.

The rarer seen, the lest in mind,

The less in mind, the lesser pain,

The lesser pain, less grief I find,

The lesser grief, the greater gain,

The greater gain, the merrier I,

The further off, the more I joy,

The more I joy, the happier life,

The happier life, less hurts annoy,

The lesser hurts, pleasure most rife:

Such pleasures rife shall I obtain

When distance doth depart us twain. 





Barnabe Googe
(11 juni 1540 – 1594)

Staple's Inn, het oudste gebouw in Londen, geschilderd door Eric Bottomley

(Geen portret beschikbaar)



William Styron, Sophie van der Stap, Renée Vivien, Jean-Pierre Chabrol, Ben Jonson, Athol Fugard, Yasunari Kawabata, Jules Vallès, George Wither, Barnabe Googe, Eduard Escoffet

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Styron werd op 11 juni 1925 in Newport News in de staat Virginia geboren. Zie ook mijn blogs van 11 juni 2006, van 4 november 2006. en mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008.


Uit: Darkness Visible


„I was feeling in my mind a sensation close to, but indescribably different from, actual pain. This leads me to touch again on the elusive nature of such distress. That the word “indescribable” should present itself is no fortuitous, since it has to be emphasized that if the pain were readily describable most of the countless sufferers from this ancient affliction would have been able to confidently depict for their friends and loved ones (even their physicians) some of the actual dimensions of their torment, and perhaps elicit a comprehension that has been generally lacking; such incomprehension has usually been due not to a failure of sympathy but to the basic inability of healthy people to imagine a form of torment so alien to everyday experience. For myself, the pain is most closely connected to drowning or suffocation—but even these images are off the mark. William James, who battled depression for many years, gave up the search for an adequate portrayal, implying it near-impossibility when he wrote in The Varieties of Religious Experience: “It is a positive and active anguish, a sort of psychical neuralgia wholly unknown to normal life.”

The pain persisted during my museum tour and reached crescendo in the next few hours when, back at the hotel, I fell onto the bed and lay gazing at the ceiling, nearly immobilized and in a trance of supreme discomfort. Rational thought was usually absent from my mind at such times, hence trance. I can think of no more apposite word for this state of being, a condition of helpless stupor in which cognition was replaced by that “positive and active anguish.” And one of the most unendurable aspects of such an interlude was the inability to sleep. It had been my custom of a near-lifetime, to settle myself into a soothing nap in the late afternoon, but the disruption of normal sleep patterns is a notoriously devastating feature of depression; to the injurious sleeplessness with which I had been afflicted each night was added the insult of this afternoon insomnia, diminutive by comparison but all the more horrendous because it struck during the hours of the most intense misery.“





William Styron (11 juni 1925 – 1 november 2006)





De Nederlandse schrijfster Sophie van der Stap werd geboren in Amsterdam op 11 juni 1983.  Het Barlaeus Gymnasium en haar verre reizen brachten haar tot de studiekeuze politicologie, met als afstudeerrichting ontwikkelingssamenwerking. Deze weg werd abrupt onderbroken, toen ze in 2005 te horen kreeg dat ze kanker had. Ze hield al haar ervaringen met betrekking tot haar ziekte en het gevecht ertegen gedurende 54 weken bij in een weblog en een dagboek. Ze debuteerde in 2006 met haar roman "Meisje met negen pruiken". Bij het verschijnen van de Duitse vertaling van haar debuutroman zond het Duitse televisiekanaal ZDF de uitgebreide reportage Das Mädchen mit den neun Perücken uit over Sophie in haar reeks 37°. In 2007 richtte Sophie samen met Walter Scheffrahn en Jurriaan van Dam de stichting Orange Ribbon International op. De liefdadigheidsinstelling heeft zich ten doel gesteld om wereldwijd alle vormen van kinderkanker te bestrijden. Sophie is de internationale ambassadeur van Orange Ribbon International.

In april 2008 verscheen haar tweede roman "Een blauwe vlinder zegt gedag". In juni 2009 presenteerde ze in het NKI-AVL het eerste luisterboek van "Meisje met negen pruiken". Momenteel woont en werkt Sophie het merendeel van haar tijd in Parijs aan haar derde boek en is een verfilming van "Meisje met negen pruiken" in voorbereiding.


Uit: Meisje met negen pruiken


‘Tja, Lange Wapper kan een heleboel. Maar het beste is hij in stil zijn. "De stilte bewaren, zegt hij dan, is als het leven vasthouden." Het leven dat jou en mij verbindt. Jou en mij, jij en ik, Lange Wapper en Sophie. Verbonden zijn we door een beetje vocht dat ons door een dun draadje verbindt. Samen luisteren we graag naar de muziek van dat draadje, de klank van al die luchtbelletjes en pompgeluidjes bij elkaar. Dan genieten wij van de stilte totdat Lange Wapper het gevaar hoort naderen en zijn piep weer laat horen. Want dan komen de zusters weer aansnellen en gaan de lichten weer aan. De stilte laat zijn plaats dan eensklaps veroveren door een schelle stem. De stem van mijn lange vriend, die eveneens eensklaps verandert in een felle strijder die zich met al zijn krachten ontfermt over mij. Maar gelukkig gaan de lichten altijd weer uit en worden we weer alleen gelaten met onze vredige stilte. Slechts onze stilte en een beetje vocht, dat ons met een dun draadje verbindt.’



‘Zoenen, knuffelen en vrijen. Passie en seks. Toch nog maar even langs bij mijn pruikenwonder om wat extra plakkertjes te kopen en zo mijn pruiken wat seksbestendiger te maken. Zonder pruik vrij ik niet, mijn haar ligt altijd op de rand van het bed. Ik vind het nog moeilijk me helemaal te laten gaan bij Rob, uit angst dat hij schrikt voor de bagage die ik mee naar bed neem. Ik leef zo in mijn eigen wereld. Misschien dat ik daarom ook wel zo aan mijn pruiken vasthoud, die kale kop is zo confronterend.’





Sophie van der Stap (Amsterdam, 11 juni 1983)





De Britse dichteres en schrijfster Renée Vivien (eig. Pauline Mary Tarn) werd geboren op 11 juni 1877 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008.



Prolong the Night


Prolong the night, Goddess who sets us aflame!

Hold back from us the golden-sandalled dawn!

Already on the sea the first faint gleam

   Of day is coming on.


Sleeping under your veils, protect us yet,

Having forgotten the cruelty day may give!

The wine of darkness, wine of the stars let

   Overwhelm us with love!


Since no one knows what dawn will come,

Bearing the dismal future with its sorrows

In its hands, we tremble at full day, our dream

   Fears all tomorrows.


Oh! keeping our hands on our still-closed eyes,

Let us vainly recall the joys that take flight!

Goddess who delights in the ruin of the rose,

   Prolong the night!






Renée Vivien (11 juni 1877 – 10 november 1909)






De Franse schrijver Jean-Pierre Chabrol werd geboren op 11 juni 1925 in Chamborigaud. Hij groeide op in het hart van de Cévennes en kreeg zijn opleiding in Alès. In 1944 sloot hij zich aan bij het Franse verzet. Hij werkte als journalist en tekenaar voor l’Humanité. Louis Aragon spoorde hem aan om zijn eerste roman te schrijven, La dernière cartouche. Hij raakte bevriend met mensen als Georges Brassens, Léo Ferré, Jacques Brel, Pierre Mac Orlan, werkte veel mee aan radio –en televisieprogrammá’s en maakte talrijke reizen.


Uit: Le crève Cévenne


„C’est long de mourir. C’est insupportable, une langueur ! Y aurait de quoi se flinguer un bon coup. Surtout quand il ne s’agit pas que de sa propre mort, quand se mourir soi-même ne suffit plus, quand il faut bien, se mourant, mourir aussi son pays. Crever sa mort dans la mort de sa terre. On ne peut que rester le soir au coin de sa cheminée, quand on en a encore une, à regarder flamber les dernières bougnes des derniers mûriers. Mais il y a pire, mais il est des soirs, des nuits, l’hiver surtout, par des temps à ne pas mettre un assureur dehors, où personne ne passe, où personne ne vient s’accroupir dans l’autre coin, outre-flammes. Alors on se résout à sortir, à chercher un toit, un autre feu, un autre coin, un autre agonisant, un mourant veinard qui voit, lui guilleret, quelqu’un venir mourir avec lui dans la crève du vieux pays.
Les feuilles mortes ont un tel poids qu’elles font crier le sol. À ne plus passer sous les arbres. Les voitures ont de bons freins. La rue-route du village, l’artère unique, est une immensité de frissonnantes grisailles. À cette heure, en ce lieu, un cri d’enfant paraît déplacé, choquant même, c’est une atteinte aux bonnes mœurs.
Le vieux Socrate est couché, sans connaissance depuis quatre semaines. Son cousin Platon en est à sa troisième attaque, je l’entends gémir derrière les volets de la fenêtre à gauche de ce cadran solaire qui porte en exergue, sous les heures : « Chacune d’entre elles blesse, la dernière tue ».




Jean-Pierre Chabrol (11 juni 1925 – 1 december 2001)






De Engelse dichter en schrijver  Ben Jonson werd geboren rond 11 juni 1572 in Westminster, Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2006 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008.



The Hour-Glass


O but consider this small dust, here running in the glass,

By atoms moved.

Could you believe that this the body was

Of one that loved?


And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,

Turned to cinders by her eye?

Yes, and in death as life unblest,

To have't expressed,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.





On My First Son


Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy,

My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy;

Seven years th' wert lent to me, and I thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, I could lose all father now. For why

Will man lament the state he should envy?

To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,

And, if no other misery, yet age?

Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry;

For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such

As what he loves may never like too much.





Ben Jonson (ca. 11 juni 1572 – 6 augustus 1637)





De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2008.


Uit: On Tsotsi (Interview in The Morning After, 2006)


„I wrote Tsotsi at the same time that I was writing the first of my plays to really receive recognition within South Africa, and then ultimately outside of South Africa: The Blood Knot. It went to London where good old Ken Tynan killed it stone dead. It launched my career, really, [it was a] watershed play.

I felt I had arrived, then, at a kind of crossroads. I had to choose disciplines. Of course they’re such very, very different disciplines. To this day, I still don’t think that I really know how to write a novel. I really mean that. I know I took the plunge [at the] deep end with Tsotsi.

I think I just naturally gravitated -- by virtue of my chemistry as a man, my metabolism as a writer -- towards theatre. And that snuffed out the possibility of being a prose writer, a novelist. I don’t think I could do the two in tandem. I don’t know if you really can... Can you think of any successful novelist who is also a good playwright --





Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)






De Japanse schrijver Yasunari Kawabata werd geboren op 11 juni 1899 in Osaka. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007


Uit: First Snow on Fuji (Vertaald door Michael Emmerich)


Takako read "This Country, That Country" in the Sankei Daily Times a second and even a third time on the eve of Culture Day, which is to say on November second. The column printed curious and interesting articles about occurrences abroad, more like stories or seeds of stories than hard news.

The previous day's edition had given rather extensive coverage to an announcement made by England's Princess Margaret, in which she had said that she would not marry Group Captain Townshend after all. It was only natural that one of the stories in today's "This Country, That Country" should concern the princess's love affair:

One often comes across mounds of stones in the Scottish highlands. In the past, these mounds were erected in memory of heroes who fell in battle, but now it's said that lovers who add stones to these mounds achieve "eternal love." Four years ago, at a time when Princess Margaret and Group Captain Townshend were both staying in Balmoral, they placed a stone on a mound located in the middle of an overgrown field some three miles outside of town, swore their love for one another, and by this act leapt instantly into fame. The princess's love affair has now ended.

There was a picture of the mound at the end of the article. Its size could be estimated from the size of the people who stood around it—the pile itself was almost as tall as a man, and the individual stones that formed it were a good deallarger than a person's head. A few stones were as wide across as a person's shoulders.

Of course it was impossible to tell which of the stones the princess and the group captain had placed on the pile, but none looked as though the princess could have lifted it alone. She and Group Captain Townshend must have lifted the stone together, and even so it must have been heavy.“





Yasunari Kawabata (11 juni 1899 — 16 april 1972)






De Franse schrijver Jules Vallès werd geboren op 11 juni 1832 in Puy-en-Velay, Haute-Loire. Vallès was een van de kopmannen van de Parijse Commune van 1871. Na de bloedige week wist hij te ontsnappen naar Engeland en kon pas in 1880 terugkeren. Als schrijver was hij vergeten totdat hij in Frankrijk zo'n 20 jaar geleden werd (her)ontdekt. Hij wordt nu als een van de grootste schrijvers uit de 19e eeuw gezien.  In zijn boeken beschrijft hij het leven in Frankrijk en Parijs voor en tijdens de Commune van Parijs. Hij was een strijdmakker van o.a. Paul Lafargue, de schoonzoon van Karl Marx en van Eugène Pottier, de dichter van de Internationale. Hij werkte onder andere mee aan de dagbladen 'La Révolution française' en 'Cri du Peuple', het eerste grote revolutionaire dagblad na de Commune.


Uit: L’Enfant


"Ai-je été nourri par ma mère?Est-ce une paysanne qui m'a donné son lait?Je n'en sais rien.Quel que soit le sein que j'ai mordu, je ne me rappelle pas une caresse du temps où j'étais tout petit; je n'ai pas été dorloté, tapoté, baisotté; j'ais été beaucoup fouetté.

  Ma mère dit qu'il ne faut pas gâter les enfants, et elle me fouette tous les matins; quand elle n'a pas le temps le matin, c'est pour midi, rarement plus tard que quatre heures.

  Mlle Balandreau m'y met au suif.

  C'est  une bonne vieille fille de cinquante ans. Elle demeure au-dessous de nous. D'abord elle était contante: comme elle n'a pas d'horloge, ça lui donnait l'heure.

"Vlin! Vlan! Zon! Zon!-voilà le petit Chose qu'on fouette; il est temps de faire mon café au lait."

  Mais un jour que j'avais levé mon pan, parce que ça me cuisait trop,et que je prenais l'air entre deux portes, elle m'a vu; mon derrière lui a fait pitié.

  Elle voulait d'abord le monter a tout le monde, ameuter les voisins autour; mais elle a pensé que ce n'était pas le moyen de le sauver, et elle a inventé autre chose.

  Lorsqu'elle entend ma mère me dire: "Jacques, je vais te fouetter!

-Madame Vingtras, ne vous donnait pas la peine, je vais faire ça pour vous.

-Oh! chère demoiselle, vous êtes trop bonne!"





Jules Vallès (11 juni 1832 – 14 februari 1885)

Portret door Gustave Courbet





De Engelse dichter en satiricus George Wither werd geboren op 11 juni 1588 in Bentworth. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007



Veil, lord, mine eyes till she be past


Veil, Lord, mine eyes till she be past,

When Folly tempts my sight;

Keep Thou my palate and my taste

From gluttonous delight.

Stop Thou mine ear from sirens’ songs,

My tongue from lies restrain;

Withhold my hands from doing wrongs,

My feet from courses vain.


Teach, likewise, ev’ry other sense

To act an honest part,

But chiefly settle innocence

And pureness in my heart;

So naught without me or within,

Shall work an ill effect,

By tempting me to act a sin,

Or virtues to neglect.






George Wither (11 juni 1588 – 2 mei 1667)






De Engelse dichter en vertaler Barnabe Googe werd geboren op 11 juni 1540 in Londen of Kent. Hij studeerde aan het Christ's College, Cambridge. Hij verhuisde daarna naar Staple's Inn, waar ook zijn neef William Lovelace verbleef. Hij begon te dichten en ontmoette ook andere dichters en schrijvers als Jasper Heywood en George Turberville. Ook had hij nauwe contacten met het hof van koningin Elisabeth. Hij begeleidde Sir Thomas Challoner op een diplomatie missie naar Spanje.



Of Money


Give money me, take friendship whoso list,

For friends are gone, come once adversity,

When money yet remaineth safe in chest,

That quickly can thee bring from misery;

Fair face show friends when riches do abound;

Come time of proof, farewell, they must away;

Believe me well, they are not to be found

If God but send thee once a lowering day.

Gold never starts aside, but in distress,

Finds ways enough to ease thine heavin.




Barnabe Googe
(11 juni 1540 – 1594)

Een bewaard gebleven 16e eeuws steegje in Londen, West End.

Ook de ramen links zijn 16e eeuws. (Geen portret beschikbaar)





Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:



De Catalaanse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Eduard Escoffet werd geboren in Barcelona in 1979. Het zwaartepunt ligt bij zijn gedichten op klankpoëzie en performance, Ook vertaalde hij werk van Goethe, Quasimodo en M. Lenz. Ook was hij initiatiefnemer tot het festival voor experimentele literatuur PROPOSTA. Zijn eigen werk verschijnt wel in allerlei tijdschriften en bloemlezingen, maar uit ecologische overwegingen heeft hij nog geen eigen bundel uitgegeven.



sie haben alle schulen geschlossen


sie haben alle schulen geschlossen. es wird dort nicht mehr lesen gelernt. es wird dort nicht mehr schreiben gelernt. wir haben alle wörter geschlossen. da die körper nicht mehr so lange halten, wie sie sollten – so wie die nacht und das blinde feuer der minnenden –, ist es besser, die wörter beiseite zu lassen. heute sorgen sich die mütter nicht mehr um die kinder und die schule und die stunden. heute kümmern sich die mütter, weit entfernt von der väterwärme, nur noch um die uniformen. und die söhne werkeln oder verformen ihre körper. sie haben alle kleidungsstücke verfleckt. trotzdem: sie können nicht mehr schreiben, und lesen können sie auch nicht mehr. und die nacht, schwach und kurz, nimmt zwei körper auf, die sich verformen. wie die wörter, aber ohne wörter.




Vertaald door Àxel Sanjosé





Eduard Escoffet (Barcelona, 1979)




William Styron, Renée Vivien, Athol Fugard, Ben Jonson, Yasunari Kawabata, George Wither

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Styron werd op 11 juni 1925 in Newport News in de staat Virginia geboren. Zie ook mijn blogs van 11 juni 2006, van 4 november 2006. en mijn blog van 11 juni 2007.


Uit: The Paris Review, interview (1954)





Does your emotional state have any bearing on your work?




I guess like everybody I’m emotionally fouled up most of the

time, but I find I do better when I’m relatively placid. It’s hard to

say, though. If writers had to wait until their precious psyches were

completely serene there wouldn’t be much writing done.

Actually—though I don’t take advantage of the fact as much as

I should—I find that I’m simply the happiest, the placidest, when

I’m writing, and so I suppose that that, for me, is the final answer.

When I’m writing I find it’s the only time that I feel completely

self-possessed, even when the writing itself is not going too well.

It’s fine therapy for people who are perpetually scared of nameless

threats as I am most of the time—for jittery people. Besides, I’ve

discovered that when I’m not writing I’m prone to developing

certain nervous tics, and hypochondria. Writing alleviates those

quite a bit. I think I resist change more than most people. I dislike

traveling, like to stay settled. When I first came to Paris all I could

think about was going home, home to the old James River. One of

these days I expect to inherit a peanut farm. Go back home and

farm them old peanuts and be real old Southern whiskey gentry.




Your novel was linked to the Southern school of fiction.

Do you think the critics were justified in doing this?




No, frankly, I don’t consider myself in the Southern school,

whatever that is. Lie Down in Darkness, or most of it, was set in

the South, but I don’t care if I never write about the South again,

really. Only certain things in the book are particularly Southern.

I used leitmotifs—the negroes, for example—that run throughout

the book, but I would like to believe that my people would have

behaved the way they did anywhere. The girl, Peyton, for instance,

didn’t have to come from Virginia. She would have wound up

jumping from a window no matter where she came from. Critics

are always linking writers to “schools.” If they couldn’t link

people to schools, they’d die. When what they condescendingly

call “a genuinely fresh talent” arrives on the scene, the critics

rarely try to point out what makes him fresh or genuine but

concentrate instead on how he behaves in accordance with their

preconceived notion of what school he belongs to.





William Styron
(11 juni 1925 – 1 november 2006)

Foto uit 1952






De Britse dichteres en schrijfster Renée Vivien (eig. Pauline Mary Tarn) werd geboren op 11 juni 1877 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007


Roses Rising


My brunette with the golden eyes, your ivory body, your amber
Has left bright reflections in the room
   Above the garden.

The clear midnight sky, under my closed lids,
Still shines....I am drunk from so many roses
   Redder than wine.

Leaving their garden, the roses have followed me....
I drink their brief breath, I breathe their life.
   All of them are here.

It's a miracle....The stars have risen,
Hastily, across the wide windows
   Where the melted gold pours.

Now, among the roses and the stars,
You, here in my room, loosening your robe,
   And your nakedness glistens

Your unspeakable gaze rests on my eyes....
Without stars and without flowers, I dream the impossible
   In the cold night.




Your laughter is light, your caress deep,
Your cold kisses love the harm they do;
Your eyes-blue lotus waves
And the water lilies are less pure than your face..

You flee, a fluid parting,
Your hair falls in gentle tangles;
Your voice-a treacherous tide;
Your arms-supple reeds.

Long river reeds, their embrace
Enlaces, chokes, strangles savagely,
Deep in the waves, an agony
Extinguished in a night drift.




Vertaald door Margaret Porter and Catherine Kroger




Renée Vivien (11 juni 1877 – 10 november 1909)

Beeld door Auguste Rodin





De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007.


Uit: Encounters with Fugard: native of the Karoo (artikel in ‘Twentieth Century Literature’ door Mary Benson)


His sense of rootedness became a recurring theme. "I know that I have mastered the code of one time, one place," he confided in another letter. "My life's work is possibly to witness as truthfully as I can the nameless and destitute of this one little corner of the world." And so he wrote about Johnnie and Hester Smit living in a back street of Port Elizabeth and in the first production of Hello and Goodbye, directed by Barney Simon at the Library Theatre in Johannesburg, gave a poignant and wonderfully comic performance as Johnnie. Next he created Boesman and Lena, the "coloured" couple scratching for bait in the mudflats, and embraced them "so fiercely and lovingly," as Stanley Kauffmann wrote in The New Republic, "that in their rags and drunkenness and cunning and persistence they move through a small epic of contemporary man" .

Deprived of his passport for four years by the South African government, Fugard was not free until 1971 to journey to London for a production of Boesman and Lena. He arrived exhausted after touring the play in South Africa. Paul Klee's Pedagogical Sketchbook stimulated him with its theme of the flight of an arrow and the question, "How do I expand my reach?" (Klee 54). Here is restriction, thither is there and liberation, Klee was saying. The consolation, then, is to go a bit farther than customary. "Yes!" Athol exclaimed, when I gave him Klee's book and he glanced through it, "I must extend my reach with this new production!"




Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)





De Engelse dichter en schrijver  Ben Jonson werd geboren rond 11 juni 1572 in Westminster, Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2006 en ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007



To John Donne


DONNE, the delight of Phoebus, and each Muse,

Who, to thy one, all other braines refuse ;

Whose every work, of thy most early wit,

Came forth example, and remaines so, yet ;

Longer a knowing, than most wits do live ;

And which no affection praise enough can give !

To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,

Which might with halfe mankinde maintaine a strife ;

All which I meant to praise, and, yet, I would ;

But leave, because I cannot as I should !







SOME act of LOVE'S bound to rehearse,

I thought to bind him in my verse :

Which when he felt, Away, quoth he,

Can poets hope to fetter me ?

It is enough, they once did get

Mars and my mother, in their net :

I wear not these my wings in vain.

With which he fled me ; and again,

Into my rhymes could ne'er be got

By any art : then wonder not, 

That since, my numbers are so cold,

When Love is fled, and I grow cold.







The ports of death are sins ; of life, good deeds ;

Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.

How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,

And hath it, in his powers, to make his way !

This world death's region is, the other life's ;

And here, it should be one of our first strifes,

So to front death, as men might judge us past it :

For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.






Ben Jonson (ca. 11 juni 1572 – 6 augustus 1637)





Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2007


De Japanse schrijver Yasunari Kawabata werd geboren op 11 juni 1899 in Osaka.


De Engelse dichter en satiricus George Wither werd geboren op 11 juni 1588 in Bentworth.



William Styron, Renée Vivien, Yasunari Kawabata, Athol Fugard, Ben Jonson, George Wither

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Styron werd op 11 juni 1925 in Newport News in de staat Virginia geboren. In 1979 publiceerde hij de roman Sophie's Choice waarvoor hij de National Book Award kreeg. In 1998 werd de roman opgenomen in de lijst van de 100 beste Engelstalige boeken van de 20ste eeuw opgesteld door de American Modern Library. Zie ook mijn blogs van 11 juni 2006 en van 4 november 2006.


Uit: Sophie's Choice


“In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Brooklyn. This was in 1947, and one of the pleasant features of that summer which I so vividly remember was the weather, which was sunny and mild, flower-fragrant, almost as if the days had been arrested in a seemingly perpetual springtime. I was grateful for that if for nothing else, since my youth, I felt, was at its lowest ebb. At twenty-two, struggling to become some kind of writer, I found that the creative heat which at eighteen had nearly consumed me with its gorgeous, relentless flame had flickered out to a dim pilot light registering little more than a token glow in my breast, or wherever my hungriest aspirations once resided. It was not that I no longer wanted to write, I still yearned passionately to produce the novel which had been for so long captive in my brain. It was only that, having written down the first few fine paragraphs, I could not produce any others, or--to approximate Gertrude Stein's remark about a lesser writer of the Lost Generation--I had the syrup but it wouldn't pour. To make matters worse, I was out of a job and had very little money and was self-exiled to Flatbush--like others of my countrymen, another lean and lonesome young Southerner wandering amid the Kingdom of the Jews.

Call me Stingo, which was the nickname I was known by in those days, if I was called anything at all. The name derives from my prep-school days down in my native state of Virginia. This school was a pleasant institution to which I was sent at fourteen by my distraught father, who found me difficult to handle after my mother died. Among my other disheveled qualities was apparently an inattention to personal hygiene, hence I soon became known as Stinky. But the years passed. The abrasive labor of time, together with a radical change of habits (I was in fact shamed into becoming almost obsessively clean), gradually wore down the harsh syllabic brusqueness of the name, slurring off into the more attractive, or less unattractive, certainly sportier Stingo.”




William Styron
(11 juni 1925 – 1 november 2006)


De Britse dichteres en schrijfster Renée Vivien (eig. Pauline Mary Tarn) werd geboren op 11 juni 1877 in Londen. Zij was de dochter van een Schotse vader en een Amerikaanse moeder. Na haar schooltijd die zij in New York, Parijs en Londen doorbracht, vestigde zij zich als schrijfster in Parijs. Schrijven deed zij in het Frans. Vivien was bekend vanwege haar excentrieke manier van kleden en voor haar openlijk beleden lesbische geaardheid. Zij had jarenlang een relatie met Natalie Clifford Barney, de spil van een literaire salon. Vivien was zeer gecultiveerd en maakte talrijke reizen. Een deel van haar werk verscheen onder het pseudoniem Paule Riversdale.

Roses du soir


Des roses sur la mer, des roses dans le soir,
Et toi qui viens de loin, les mains lourdes de roses !
J'aspire ta beauté. Le couchant fait pleuvoir
Ses fines cendres d'or et ses poussières roses...

Des roses sur la mer, des roses dans le soir.

Un songe évocateur tient mes paupières closes.
J'attends, ne sachant trop ce que j'attends en vain,
Devant la mer pareille aux boucliers d'airain,
Et te voici venue en m'apportant des roses...

Ô roses dans le ciel et le soir ! Ô mes roses !



Ta royale jeunesse a la mélancolie


Ta royale jeunesse a la mélancolie
Du Nord où le brouillard efface les couleurs,
Tu mêles la discorde et le désir aux pleurs,
Grave comme Hamlet, pâle comme Ophélie.

Tu passes, dans l'éclair d'une belle folie,
Comme elle, prodiguant les chansons et les fleurs,
Comme lui, sous l'orgueil dérobant tes douleurs,
Sans que la fixité de ton regard oublie.

Souris, amante blonde, ou rêve, sombre amant,
Ton être double attire, ainsi qu'un double aimant,
Et ta chair brûle avec l'ardeur froide d'un cierge.

Mon coeur déconcerté se trouble quand je vois
Ton front pensif de prince et tes yeux bleus de vierge,
Tantôt l'Un, tantôt l'Autre, et les Deux à la fois.


Renée Vivien (11 juni 1877 – 10 november 1909)


De Japanse schrijver Yasunari Kawabata werd geboren op 11 juni 1899 in Osaka. Hij won in 1968 als eerste Japanner (en tweede Aziaat) de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur won.Het werk dat hijzelf het beste vond is in de jaren 70 in het Nederlands vertaald onder de titel De meester van het go-spel en heet in het Engels The master of Go. Het gaat over een match tussen de twee beste Go-spelers ter wereld, de ene een oude vos, de andere een onconventioneel aanstormend jong talent. De match heeft echt plaatsgevonden in 1938 tussen de oude Honinbo Shusai en Minoru Kitani. Kawabata maakte in 1972 een einde aan zijn leven.


Uit: Tausend Kraniche


“Kikuji war in den Garten des Enkakuji-Tempel in Kamakura eingetreten, aber er wusste immer noch nicht recht, ob er an dieser Teezeremonie teilnehmen sollte. Sie musste längst begonnen haben.

Chikako Kurmoto, die Teezeremonienlehrerin seines verstorbenen Vaters, pflegte Kikuji jedesmal einzuladen, wenn sie mit ihren Schülern und Schülerinnen eine Teezeremonie in einem Pavillon des Tempels beging. In den Jahren nach dem Tod seines Vaters hatte Kikuji diese Einladungen nur noch als Gesten der Höflichkeit betrachtet und war ihnen nie mehr gefolgt.

Unter die jüngste Einladung hatte Chikako jedoch geschrieben, dass sie ihn bäte, dieses Mal zu kommen, da sie ihn mit einer ihrer Schülerinnen bekannt machen möchte.

Als Kikuji die Einladung las, war eine merkwürdige Erinnerung in ihm aufgestiegen: er musste an Chikakos Muttermal denken.”



Yasunari Kawabata (11 juni 1899 — 16 april 1972)


De Zuidafrikaanse schrijver Harold Athol Lannigan Fugard werd geboren op 11 juni 1932 in Middelburg, Kaapprovincie. Hij studeerde in Kaapstad en was daarna enige tijd werkzaam als zeeman, klerk bij een gerechtshof en journalist voordat hij zich in 1957 definitief aan het theater ging wijden. Zijn stukken werden opgevoerd in onder andere Engeland, de Verenigde Staten, Zuid-Afrika en Nederland. Fugard debuteerde als toneelschrijver in 1958 met het stuk No Good Friday. Hierin speelden zwarte acteurs mee, wat een gewaagde onderneming was op het hoogtepunt van de Apartheid. Mongogo verscheen een jaar later en in 1963 The Blood Knot. Deze vormde samen met Hello and Goodbye (1966) en Boesman en Lena (1969), een familie-trilogie. Enkele andere werken van Fugard zijn The island (1973) over het leven van gevangenen op Robbeneiland, de roman Tsotsi (1980) over het leven in Sophiatown in de jaren vijftig. In 2005 werd naar deze roman de film Tsotsi gemaakt, onder de regie van Gavin Hood. De film won in 2005 een Oscar voor Beste Niet-Engelstalige Film.


Uit: Tsotsi


“His Sunday night now, come in a warm cloud of smoke and darkness in the streets and moths raging in soft storms around the lamp; come under a velveted spread of smudged stars and a promise of the moon in the east where a white radiance is already leaping off the rooftops of houses that way; come at last after the hazy end to a day that loitered its way lazily through sunshine and prepares now for sleep with the widest yawn and longest stretch of the week. And wherever the people are gathered togethter in drowsy knots, in rooms, around fires in backyards, on street corners or drinking in the shebeens, words are thrown out dispiritedly like a dice game without a stake. The prospect of sleep and the passing of time recur like lucky numbers, but no one gets excited because no one stands to win.”



Athol Fugard (Middelburg (ZA), 11 juni 1932)


De Engelse dichter Ben Jonson werd geboren rond 11 juni 1572 in Westminster, Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 11 juni 2006.





I beheld her, on a day,

When her look outflourished May,

And her dressing did outbrave

All the pride the fields then have.

Far I was from being stupid,

For I ran and called on Cupid,

'Love, if thou wilt ever see

Mark of glory, come with me.

Where's thy quiver? Bend thy bow.

Here's a shaft; thou art too slow!'

And withal I did untie

Every cloud about his eye.

But he had not gained his sight

Sooner, than he lost his might

Or his courage; for away

Straight he ran, and durst not stay,

Letting bow and arrow fall;

Nor for any threat or call,

Could be brought once back to look.

I, foolhardy, there uptook

Both the arrow he had quit

And the bow, which thought to hit

This my object. But she threw

Such a lightning, as I drew,

At my face, that took my sight

And my motion from me quite;

So that there I stood a stone,

Mocked of all, and called of one--

Which with grief and wrath I heard--

Cupid's statue with a beard,

Or else one that played his ape

In a Hercules's shape.




Ben Jonson (ca. 11 juni 1572 – 6 augustus 1637)


De Engelse dichter en satiricus George Wither werd geboren op 11 juni 1588 in Bentworth. Zijn opleiding kreeg hij aan Magdalen College in Oxford. Twee maal zat hij vast voor zijn satirische werk. Voor Abuses, Stript and Whipt (1613), en later in Newgate voorWither's Motto (1621). Zijn belangrijkste werken waren Fidelia (1617), Fair Virtue (1622), and Juvenilia (1622). Hij publiceerde ook een A Collection of Emblemes (1634/35).


The Marigold


When with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly, ev'ry morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending towards him her tender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedew'd, as 'twere, with tears, till he returns;
And how she veils her flow'rs when he is gone,
As if she scorned to be looked on
By an inferior eye, or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him;
When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.

But, O my God! though groveling I appear
Upon the ground (and have a rooting here
Which hales me downward) yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire;
And all my best affections I profess
To Him that is the sun of righteousness.
Oh, keep the morning of His incarnation,
The burning noontide of His bitter passion,
The night of His descending, and the height
Of His ascension ever in my sight,
That imitating Him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.



George Wither (11 juni 1588 – 2 mei 1667)

Uit: A Collection of Emblemes (geen portret beschikbaar)