13-01-18

Edmund White, Daniel Kehlmann, Jay McInerney, Lorrie Moore, Jan de Bas, Edgardo Cozarinsky, Mohammad- Ali Jamā,lzā,deh, Clark Ashton Smith, Michael Carroll

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Edmund White werd geboren op 13 januari 1940 in Cincinnati. Zie ook alle tags voor Edmund White op dit blog.

Uit: Hotel de Dream

“This little room above the massive front oak door was his study, where now he was wheezing, listless and half-asleep, on the daybed. The whole room smelled of dogs and mud. At one end, under the couch and Stephen's table, there lay a threadbare Persian carpet, pale and silky but discolored on one side with a large tea-stain the shape of Borneo.At the other end of the room it had amused Stephen to throw rushes on the floor as if he were a merry old soul living in crude, medieval splendor. There were reeds and rushes and grass everywhere downstairs, which confused two of the three dogs, Tolstoi and Spongie, into thinking they were outdoors: they weren't always mindful of their best housebroken comportment.
The maid, a superstitious old thing, had placed a small jar of tar under Stephen's bed. Did she think it would absorb the evil spirits, or hold off the ghosts that were supposed to haunt Brede Place?
Yes, Stephen had all the symptoms, what the doctors called the "diathesis," or look of consumption: nearly transparent skin, through which blue veins could be seen ticking, and a haggard face and a cavernous, wheezing chest. His hair was as lank and breakable as old lamp fringe. His voice was hoarse from so much coughing and sometimes he sounded as if he were an owl hooting in the innermost chamber of a deep cave. He complained of a buzzing in the ears and even temporary deafness, which terrified a "socialist" like him, the friendliest man on earth (it was Cora's companion, the blameless but dim Mrs. Ruedy, who had worked up this very special, facetious, meaning of socialist). Cora wondered idly if Mrs. Ruedy was back in America yet—another rat deserting the sinking ship.
Cora glimpsed something bright yellow and pushed back Stephen's shirt—oh! the doctor had painted the right side of his torso with iodine. At least they weren't blistering him. She remembered how one of the "girls" in her house, the Hotel de Dream, in Jacksonville, had had those hot jars applied to her back and bust in order to raise painful blisters, all to no avail. She'd already been a goner.
"Hey, Imogene," Stephen murmured, his pink-lidded eyes fluttering open. He smiled, a faint echo of his usual playfulness. He liked to call her "Imogene Carter," the nom de plume she'd made up for herself when she was a war correspondent in Greece and which she still used for the gossip columns and fashion notes she sent to American newspapers."

 
Edmund White (Cincinnati, 13 januari 1940)
Cover

Lees meer...

13-01-17

Edmund White, Daniel Kehlmann, Jay McInerney, Lorrie Moore, Jan de Bas, Edgardo Cozarinsky, Mohammad- Ali Jamālzādeh, Clark Ashton Smith, Michael Carroll

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Edmund White werd geboren op 13 januari 1940 in Cincinnati. Zie ook alle tags voor Edmund White op dit blog.

Uit:Our Young Man

“Although Guy was thirty-five he was still working as a model, and certain of his more ironic and cultured friends called him, as the dying Proust had been called by Colette, “our young man.” For so many years he’d been actually young; he’d arrived from Paris to New York in the late 1970s when he was in his late twenties but passed as nineteen. He’d been the darling of Fire Island Pines the summers of 1980 and 1981; everyone in the Octagon House was in love with him and he was a good deal more egalitarian and participatory in chores and expenses than he needed to be, splitting the grocery and house cleaning bills down to the last penny, even when he skipped meals or entire weekends.
Everyone adored him, so he could have skimped on his share. He was making $175 an hour as a model for a whole host of beauty products, which was a lot of money in those days; he made more in two hours than his housemate, the young journalist Howard, earned in a week, or Howard’s lover the mustachioed Cuban bartender Martin took in at Uncle Charlie’s in tips on two or three shifts. Even his heavy French accent made him all the more desirable; one of their most besotted housemates, Tom, started taking French lessons but could never master a whole sentence.
Nor was he stinting with his favors. He’d swallow an after- dinner concoction Ted would assemble of acid, tranquilizers, Quaaludes, and the odd yellow jacket. After a strenuous night of dancing at the Sandpiper he’d be found nude at dawn, splayed in the surf with three other amorous beauties or massaging a Croatian fellow model on the deck by the pool as they sipped big shaggy joints of Acapulco gold.
He liked the Pines, since the muscular men there were bankers or lawyers or surgeons and not just gigolos, as comparable studs would have been in Saint-Tropez, lounging around on the decks of moored yachts (or “laying out in the sun,” as these American guys all said, though Guy knew from lycée English class back in France that it should be “lying”; the French, he thought primly, would never have made a similar mistake in their own language).
He was from Clermont-Ferrand, a big, dead, dreary industrial city in the heart of France, lava-black, cold in the winter and suffocatingly hot in the summer, and now he sent home a thousand dollars a month from New York to his pious mother, who arranged the flowers for the altar, and his Communist father, a Michelin factory hand who’d been laid off for twenty years, living on welfare and drinking too much red wine (his first coup de rouge he downed at eleven every morning, an old habit from his working days).”

 

 
Edmund White (Cincinnati, 13 januari 1940)

Lees meer...

13-01-16

Edmund White, Daniel Kehlmann, Jay McInerney, Lorrie Moore, Jan de Bas, Edgardo Cozarinsky, Mohammad- Ali Jamālzādeh, Clark Ashton Smith

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Edmund White werd geboren op 13 januari 1940 in Cincinnati. Zie ook alle tags voor Edmund White op dit blog.

Uit: The Farewell Symphony

“I'd been afraid I wouldn't feel anything when Brice finally died-but my body did all the feeling for me. It took over. My knees buckled, I lost my balance, tears spurted from my eyes. I staggered in the sunlight and nearly fell and had to be held up by Laurent and his lover.
Everything I'd lived through in the last five years had changed me-whitened my hair, made me a fat, sleepy old man, matured me, finally, but also emptied me out. I met Brice five years before he died-but I wonder whether I'll have the courage to tell his story in this book. The French call a love affair a "story," une histoire, and I see getting to it, putting it down, exploring it, narrating it as a challenge I may well fail. If I do fail, don't blame me. Understand that even writers, those professional exhibitionists, have their moments of reticence.
Strange that I should be living here, in Paris. Ever since I'd been a child, an imaginary Paris had been the bright planet pulsing at the heart of my mental star map, but the one time I'd gone to Paris I had been dressed in a horrible shiny blazer and everyone in the cafés had laughed at me. I said to a French acquaintance as we left the Flore, "I know I'm being paranoid," but he said matter-of-factly, "No, they are laughing at you."
A sign in the tailor shop window off the Boulevard St.-Germain warned that customers would not be allowed more than three fittings after the purchase of a suit and my mind winced at this proof of shameless male vanity, so exotic to an American since Americans equated male vanity with effeminacy or Mafia creepiness. The year was 1968 and stylish young American men back home were wearing fringe and puffy-sleeved pirate shirts, headbands, mirrored vests and winklepicker boots, but the materials were synthetic, the colors garish, the fit very approximate and the mood one of dressing up. Orange and black were popular colors. The long Mardi Gras of that decade in the States was a mockery of traditional good taste, a send-up of adult propriety, the recklessness of a generation that would never settle down long enough to study the fine gradations with which quality, and especially beauty, begin. And if the mood was festive, the festivity seemed more a gesture defying parental drabness than an assertion of a new-born hedonism. A true search for pleasure is an exacting science and is born from a profound interest in raglan versus fitted sleeves and in the precise arc a weighted hem on the bias will describe."

 

 
Edmund White (Cincinnati, 13 januari 1940)
Hier met partner Michael Carroll (links)

Lees meer...

13-01-15

Edmund White, Daniel Kehlmann, Jay McInerney, Lorrie Moore, Jan de Bas, Edgardo Cozarinsky, Mohammad- Ali Jamālzādeh, Clark Ashton Smith

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Edmund White werd geboren op 13 januari 1940 in Cincinnati. Zie ook alle tags voor Edmund White op dit blog.

Uit: City Boy

“I had constant daydreams of meeting Susan Sontag and Paul Goodman. I don't know why I focused on them — maybe because they were so often mentioned in the Village Voice and the Partisan Review but even by Time. He'd written Growing Up Absurd, the bible of the sixties, now largely forgotten (I never read it in any event). How could I have worshipped a man whose work I didn't know? I guess because I'd heard that he was bisexual, that he was a brilliant therapist, and that he was somehow for the young and the liberated. I read his astonishing journal, Five Years, published in 1966, a groundbreaking book in which he openly discussed paying men for sex and enjoying anonymous sex in the meatpacking district. Today that would seem unremarkable, perhaps, but for a husband and a father back then to be so confi ding, so shameless, was unprecedented, especially since the sex passages were mixed in with remarks on culture and poetry and a hundred other subjects.
Sontag was someone I read more faithfully, especially Against Interpretation and even individual essays as they were published.
New York, in short, in the seventies was a junkyard with serious artistic aspirations. I remember that one of our friends, the poet Brad Gooch, wanted to introduce us to his lover, who'd become an up-and-coming Hollywood director, but Brad begged him not to tell us that he worked as a director since Hollywood had such low prestige among us. That sort of reticence would be unthinkable today in a New York that has become enslaved by wealth and glitz, but back then people still embraced Ezra Pound's motto, "Beauty is difficult."
We kept asking in 1972 and 1973 when the seventies were going to begin . . .
Then again we had to admit the sixties hadn't really begun until the Beatles came over to the States in 1964, but after that the decade took on a real, definite personality — protest movements, long hair, love, drugs, a euphoria that turned sour only toward the end of 1969. Of course for Leftists the decade began with the Brown v. Board of Education decision and ended with Nixon's resignation in 1974.”

 

 
Edmund White (Cincinnati, 13 januari 1940)
Cover

Lees meer...

13-01-14

Edgardo Cozarinsky

 

De Argentijnse schrijver en regisseur Edgardo Cozarinsky werd geboren 13 januari 1939 in Buenos Aires. Cozarinsky komt uit een familie van Russisch- Joodse immigranten uit Odessa en Kiev . Hij groeide op, zoals hij later pleegde te vertellen, met oude Hollywood-films in de theaters van zijn wijk en met de Europese literatuur. Hij studeerde literatuur aan de universiteit van zijn geboortestad en verdiende zijn brood als filmcriticus voor Argentijnse en Spaanse kranten en tijdschriften . Als 20 -jarige ontmoette hij Silvina Ocampo, Adolfo Bioy Casares en leerde via hen Jorge Luis Borges kennen. In 1974 verliet hij als gevolg van de dramatische politieke situatie vóór de dood van Juan Peron Argentinië en vestigde zich in Frankrijk. Hij leeft als schrijver en filmmaker (regisseur, scenarioschrijver en producent) en "als een nomade uit roeping" gedeeltelijk in Parijs en gedeeltelijk in Buenos Aires en refelcteert in zijn literaire en filmische werken over Borges,Tsjechov en Nabokov. Edgardo Cozarinsky schreef romans en korte verhalen en essays . Dankzij de vertalingen van zijn boeken, onder anderen in het Frans, Engels en Duits, is hij een van de bekendste vertegenwoordigers van de Argentijnse literatuur buiten de Spaanstalige wereld. Hij was o.a. te gast op het Internationaal Literatuur Festival Berlijn 2007.

Uit: Die Braut aus Odessa: Erzählungen (Vertaald door Sabine Giersberg)

„An einem Frühlingsnachmittag im Jahre 1890 beobachtete ein junger Mann vom Primorsky Boulevard aus die Bewegung der Schiffe im Hafen von Odessa.
In seinem sonntäglichen Gewand hob er sich von der Alltagslässigkeit oder dem exotischen Aussehen der Passanten ab. Der junge Mann war für ein großes Abenteuer gekleidet: die Lackschuhe hatte ihm seine Mutter geschenkt, den Maßanzug sein Onkel, von Beruf Schneider, er hatte ihn erst am Tag vor seiner Abreise fertiggestellt; und schließlich der Hut, den sein Vater zweiundzwanzig Jahre zuvor am Tag seiner Hochzeit und danach vielleicht noch fünf- oder sechsmal getragen hatte. Es waren noch drei Tage hin bis zu dem großen Abenteuer, aber für ihn waren die vierhundert Werst, die Kiew von Odessa trennten, und dieser erste Anblick eines Hafens und des Schwarzen Meeres (das in das Mittelmeer übergehen würde und dieses in den Atlantik) schon Teil der Reise, die aus ihm einen neuen Menschen machen würde.
Doch über der Begeisterung, mit der er die vielen Eindrücke der großen Stadt und des Hafens verschlang, lag ein Schleier von Traurigkeit. Er hatte seine Education sentimentale noch nicht zu Ende durchlaufen, und sein erstes Liebeserlebnis beschäftigte seine Gedanken derart, dass er die bevorstehende Reise, das kühnste Abenteuer seines Lebens, nicht recht genießen konnte. Um diesen Schmerz zu vertreiben, den er nicht auslöschen konnte, folgte er mit dem Blick jedem Menschen, der vorüberging; an jedem war etwas, das sein Interesse weckte. Eine Kinderfrau in adretter Uniform schob lustlos den Wagen, aus dem aus üppiger Spitze ein quengelndes Baby herausschaute; zwei beleibte Männer, die sich durch die Goldketten unsichtbarer Taschenuhren auszeichneten, schlenderten vorbei und diskutierten über die Preise von Weizen und Sonnenblumen auf verschiedenen europäischen Märkten; ein schwarzer Seemann – es war das erste Mal, dass er jemanden von dieser Hautfarbe sah – beobachtete, ebenso neugierig wie er, alles, was um ihn herum vorging; ein anderer Seemann, der eher wie ein als Seemann verkleideter Schauspieler aussah, hatte einen goldenen Ring im Ohr und einen Papagei auf der Schulter, den er erfolglos zu verkaufen versuchte.“

 

 
Edgardo Cozarinsky (Buenos Aires, 13 januari 1939)

18:46 Gepost door Romenu in Literatuur | Permalink | Commentaren (0) | Tags: edgardo cozarinsky, romenu |  Facebook |