07-08-17

John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Joachim Ringelnatz, Garrison Keillor, Dieter Schlesak, Othon III de Grandson

 

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit: Weapons of Choice

“He unwrapped the banana leaves from around a small rice cake, thanking Allah for the generosity of his masters. They had included a little dried fish in his rations for today, a rare treat.
Sometimes, when the sun climbed directly overhead and beat down with a slow fury, Adil's thoughts wandered. He cursed his weakness and begged God for the strength to carry out his duty, but it was hard. He had fallen asleep more than once. Nothing ever seemed to happen. There was plenty of movement down in Dili, which was infested with crusader forces from all over the Christian world, but Dili wasn't his concern. His sole responsibility was to watch those ships that were hiding in the shimmering haze on the far horizon.
Still, Adil mused, it would be nice to know he had some real purpose here; that he had not been staked out like a goat on the side of a hill. Perhaps he was to be part of some elaborate strike on the Christians in town. Perhaps tonight the darkness would be torn asunder by holy fire as some martyr blew up one of their filthy taverns. But then, why leave him here on the side of this stupid hill, covered in monkey shit and tormented by ants?
This wasn't how he had imagined jihad would be when he had graduated from the Madrasa in Bandung.
USS Kandahar, 1014 Hours, 15 January 2021
The marines wouldn't have been surprised at all to discover that someone like Adil was watching over them. In fact, they assumed there were more than two hundred million pairs of eyes turned their way as they prepared to deploy into the Indonesian Archipelago.
Nobody called it the Caliphate. Officially the United States still recognized it as the sovereign territory of Indonesia, seventeen thousand islands stretching from Banda Aceh, three hundred kilometers off the coast of Thailand, down to Timor, just north of Australia.
The sea-lanes passing through those islands carried a third of the world's maritime trade, and officially they remained open to all traffic. The Indonesian government-in-exile said so-from the safety of the Grand Hyatt in Geneva where they had fled, three weeks earlier, after losing control of Jakarta. »

 

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

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07-08-16

Dolce far niente, Abdelkader Benali, John Birmingham, Cees Buddingh’, Diana Ozon, Othon III de Grandson

 

Dolce far niente

 

 
Kasteel Assumburg, Heemskerk

 

 

Heemskerk

Paars pioenroze in juni. Twee vijftig voor een bosje.
Te geef. Ze liggen in een kratje te wachten op een
hardloper, een wandelaar, een koper.Wij passeren.
Mijn tweede keer in Heemskerk. Drie rondjes

van zeven kilometer. Een bordje met daarop kam-
pioenen. Bloemen geurt alles naar. Drie rondjes
betaald door Tata Steel. Tietenijzer. De eerste keer
liep ik harder, de tweede keer kom ik niet verder

dan de derde. Villawijk. Polder. De geur van
mest. Mensen op het gazon, kortgeknipt en
groen. Een villa staat te koop. Een donkere
vrouw met aan haar voet een flesje water,

wacht op haar man, haar minnaar, haar vriend,
een zus. Familie. Onze blikken missen elkaar.

 

 
Abdelkader Benali (Ighazzazen, 25 november 1975)

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07-08-15

John Birmingham, Diana Ozon, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

 

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit: Stalin's Hammer

“Harry dug a thumb into the man’s biceps to emphasize just who was controlling this negotiation.
“You won’t get a chance to tell anybody anything until you get to a safe house, and I’m not taking you anywhere until I know whether it’s worth it. Quite frankly, comrade, there’s a very good chance I’m going to get my arse shot off tonight.
It’s a fine-looking arse too. I spend a lot of time keeping it in trim and my girlfriend will be jolly fucking upset if some filthy Smedlov shoots a big bloody hole in it. So before we go anywhere, before you begin the first day of your new life as a pampered turncoat on some beach in bloody Australia, you’re going to tell me everything you know. Just. In. Case.”
The businessman grinned, or at least tried to. It was a weak, unconvincing effort. His eyes shifted left and right, and he jumped a little as the fire-exit door suddenly opened.
“Still looks clear out here, guv,” reported St. Clair.
“Thanks, Viv.”
“Don’t thank me, Your bloody Highness. Just make sure they pay my invoice promptly when I send it for this little bit of freelancing. Seven-day terms.”
“Your check is in the mail.”
Harry laid his gaze back on the quivering Sobeskaia, allowing the Russian to see the smile in his eyes die when he turned away from his old friend.
“Is complicated, and much difficulty,” blurted Sobeskaia.
“Much I do not know, much I have to tell. This is not place and, really, we must go now. I can tell all, later.”
“Aggregate it for me, Comrade Huff Po.”

 

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

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07-08-14

John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

 

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

Uit:Without Warning

„They were her mission. And her name wasn’t Cathy. It was Caitlin.
The women were dressed in cheap clothing, layered for warmth. Falling back into the pillows, recovering from an uncontrolled moment of vertigo into which she had fallen, Caitlin Monroe composed herself. She was in a hospital bed, and in spite of the apparent poverty of her “friends,” the private room was expensively fitted out. The youngest of the women wore a brown suede jacket, frayed at the cuffs and elbows and festooned with colorful protest buttons.
A stylized white bird. A rainbow. A collection of slogans: Halliburton Watch. Who Would Jesus Bomb? And Resistance Is Fertile.
Caitlin took a sip of water from a squeeze bottle by the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she croaked. “What happened to me?”
She received a pat on the leg from an older, red-haired woman wearing a white T-shirt over some sort of lumpy handmade sweater. Celia. “Auntie” Celia, although she wasn’t related to anyone in the room. Auntie Celia had very obviously chosen the strange ensemble to show off the writing on her shirt, which read If you are not outraged you are not paying attention.
“Doctor!” cried the other older woman, who had just moved to the doorway.
Maggie. An American, like Caitlin. And there the similarity ended. Maggie the American was short and barrel-chested and pushing fifty, where Caitlin was tall, athletic, and young.
She felt around under her blanket and came up with a plastic control stick for the bed.
“Try this,” she offered, passing the controller to the young girl she knew as Monique, a pretty, raven-haired Frenchwoman. “See, the red call button. That’ll bring ’em.” Then, gently touching the bandages that swaddled her head, she asked, “Where am I?”
“You’re in a private room, at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris,” explained Monique. “Paris, France,” she added self-consciously.
Caitlin smiled weakly. “’Okay. I remember that Paris is in France.” She paused. “And now I am, too, I guess. How did I get here? I don’t remember much after coming out of the Chunnel on the bus.”


 

 
John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

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07-08-12

John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Michael Roes, Cees Buddingh’, Joachim Ringelnatz

 

De Australische schrijver John Birmingham werd geboren op 7 augustus 1964 in Liverpool, Engeland. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Birmingham op dit blog.

 

Uit: After America

 

„New York
“No siree, Mister President, you do not get these from pettin’ kitty cats.”
James Kipper nodded, smiling doubtfully as the slab-shouldered workman flexed his biceps and kissed each one in turn. His Secret Service guys didn’t seem much bothered, and he’d long ago learned to pick up on their unspoken signals and body language. They paid much less attention to the salvage crew in front of him than to the ruined façades of the office blocks looking down on the massive, rusting pileup in Lower Manhattan. The hard work and unseasonal humidity of Lower Manhattan had left the workman drenched in sweat, and Kipper could feel the shirt sticking to his own back.
Having paid homage to his bowling-ball-sized muscles, the workman reached out one enormous, calloused paw to shake hands with the forty-forth president of the United States. Kipper’s grip was not as strong as it once had been and had certainly never been anywhere near as powerful as this gorilla’s, but a long career in engineering hadn’t left him with soft fingers or a limp handshake. He returned the man’s iron-fisted clench with a fairly creditable squeeze of his own.
“Whoa there, Mister President,” the salvage and clearance worker cried out jokingly. “I need these dainty pinkies for my second job. As a concert pianist, don’tcha know.”
The small crush of men and women gathered around Kipper grinned and chuckled. This guy was obviously the clown of the bunch.
“A concert penis, you say?” Kipper shot back. “What’s that, some sorta novelty act? With one of those really tiny pianos?”
The groan of his media handler, Karen Milliner, was lost in the sudden uproar of coarse, braying laughter as the S&C workers erupted at the exchange. That did put his security detail a little on edge, but the man-mountain with the kissable biceps was laughing the loudest of them all, pointing at the chief executive and crying out, “This fuggin’ guy. He cracks me up. Best fuggin’ president ever.”

 

 

John Birmingham (Liverpool, 7 augustus 1964)

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07-08-11

Michael Roes, John Birmingham, Vladimir Sorokin, Cees Buddingh’, Garrison Keillor

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver en filmmaker Michael Roes werd geboren op 7 augustus 1960 in Rhede. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 7 augustus 2010.

 

Uit: Geschichte der Freundschaft

 

Wir sitzen am Strand reden über sein Studium, über Literatur und Philosophie und über die Schwierigkeiten des Übersetzens. Plötzlich ändert sich sein Ton. Heute Nacht habe ich von dir geträumt, sagt er. Im Traum hattest du die Gestalt eines Elefanten. Aber ich wusste von Anfang an, dass du es warst. Zunächst fürchtete ich, du würdest alles zertrampeln, die Obstkisten vor den Geschäften, die Tische und Stühle vor den Cafés. Doch du bewegst dich ganz vorsichtig durch die enge Straße, lässt dich von den Kindern streicheln und hebst die Mutigeren von ihnen mit deinem Rüssel sogar auf deinen Rücken. Als du dann mich packst, bekomme ich doch Angst. Ich will etwas rufen, aber halte dann lieber den Mund, um den Elefanten nicht zu erschrecken.”

 

 

 

Michael Roes (Rhede, 7 augustus 1960)

 

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