Antje Rávic Strubel, Alan Ayckbourn, Scott Turow, Tom Clancy, Agnes Sapper, Edward de Vere, José Gautier Benítez, Alexander Ostrovski, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal


De Duitse schrijfster Antje Rávic Strubel werd geboren op 12 april 1974 in Potsdam. Zie ook alle tags voor Antje Rávic Strubel op dit blog.

Uit: Snowed Under (Vertaald door Zaia Alexander)

“Postal clerk Erik M. Broda, retired for three weeks, though still working part-time, eagerly awaits his female superior Simona’s arrival, so he can give her a special wink as he slams his cancellation stamp on the wrong side of a postcard to Mainz. He doesn't like the card. He has read hundreds of postcards like it in his career.
Whenever he doesn’t like a postcard, he stamps the postmark wrong side up. Bad postcards are like female superiors. They gab a lot and then forget the most important things. The most important things for a postcard are: first, the stamp, second, the postal code, and third, the signature. The signature is missing on this one.
He covers the card with his left palm, sohe’s just able to read the message, and pulls over a stack of thick envelopes in need of postmarking. The stamp hovers in his fist halfway above the desk. That way he can slam it down if Simona came in by surprise.
Ever since she started working here, everything has changed. Back then, he could be sure nobody
would disturb him.

Dear Haschi,
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a funny postcard for you. All they’ve got are ones with sunsets or with Rübezahl, the mountain spirit, on the front. At least they’ve got super yummy dumplings and pancakes and gorgeous wild icicles. I’m drinking lots of mulled wine with Evy. I’d love to know what’s going on in her head, like you always knew with me. Bet she’d like that. But I don’t. Say hi to C., whoever he is. You’re a lot happier, since you’ve been together with him. Laughed more last time. Would love to be with you again, but could it work after all these years?

The card makes him angry. There was enough space for a signature. What angers him most, though, is that the card had obviously been written by a man. He admires women. They are completely perfect beings, right from the start, they help him differentiate one day from the next; they give him a rhythm, like Simona with her irregular visits to his office. But he doesn’t expect precision from women. They’ve
overtaken us, he thinks, but they’ll never take over. He imaginesthey’ll just keep climbing higher than him in the future.”


Antje Rávic Strubel (Potsdam, 12 april 1974)

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Edward de Vere, José Gautier Benítez, Alexander Ostrovski, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal


De Engelse hoveling, dichter en toneelschrijver Edward de Vere, 17e graaf van Oxford, werd geboren op 12 april 1550 in Castle Hedingham. Zie ook alle tags voor Edward de Vere op dit blog.


Even as the wax doth melt, or dew consume away

Even as the wax doth melt, or dew consume away
Before the sun, so I, behold, through careful thoughts decay;
For my best luck leads me to such sinister state,
That I do waste with others' love, that hath myself in hate.
And he that beats the bush the wished bird not gets,
But such, I see, as sitteth still and holds the fowling nets.

The drone more honey sucks, that laboureth not at all,
Than doth the bee, to whose most pain least pleasure doth befall:
The gard'ner sows the seeds, whereof the flowers do grow,
And others yet do gather them, that took less pain I trow.
So I the pleasant grape have pulled from the vine,
And yet I languish in great thirst, while others drink the wine.

Thus like a woeful wight I wove the web of woe,
The more I would weed out my cares, the more they seemed to grow:
The which betokeneth, forsaken is of me,
That with the careful culver climbs the worn and withered tree,
To entertain my thoughts, and there my hap to moan,
That never am less idle, lo! than when I am alone.


Edward de Vere (12 april 1550 – 24 juni 1604)
Rhys Ifans als Edward De Vere in de film Anonymous uit 2011.

Lees meer...


Edward de Vere, José Gautier Benítez, Alexander Ostrovski, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal


De Engelse hoveling, dichter en toneelschrijver Edward de Vere, 17e graaf van Oxford, werd geboren op 12 april 1550 in Castle Hedingham. Zie ook alle tags voor Edward de Vere op dit blog.


Loss of Good Name

Fram’d in the front of forlorn hope past all recovery,
I stayless stand, to abide the shock of shame and infamy.
My life, through ling’ring long, is lodg’d in lair of loathsome ways;
My death delay’d to keep from life the harm of hapless days.
My sprites, my heart, my wit and force, in deep distress are drown’d;
The only loss of my good name is of these griefs the ground.

And since my mind, my wit, my head, my voice and tongue are weak,
To utter, move, devise, conceive, sound forth, declare and speak,
Such piercing plaints as answer might, or would my woeful case,
Help crave I must, and crave I will, with tears upon my face,
Of all that may in heaven or hell, in earth or air be found,
To wail with me this loss of mine, as of these griefs the ground.

Help Gods, help saints, help sprites and powers that in the heaven do dwell,
Help ye that are aye wont to wail, ye howling hounds of hell;
Help man, help beasts, help birds and worms, that on the earth do toil;
Help fish, help fowl, that flock and feed upon the salt sea soil,
Help echo that in air doth flee, shrill voices to resound,
To wail this loss of my good name, as of these griefs the ground.


Edward de Vere (12 april 1550 – 24 juni 1604)

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Edward de Vere, José Gautier Benítez, Alexander Ostrovski, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal


De Engelse hoveling, dichter en toneelschrijver Edward de Vere, 17e graaf van Oxford, werd geboren op 12 april 1550 in Castle Hedingham. Zie ook alle tags voor Edward de Vere op dit blog.



The Meeting With Desire


The lively lark stretched forth her wing
The messenger of Morning bright;
And with her cheerful voice did sing
The Day’s approach, discharging Night;
When that Aurora blushing red,
Descried the guilt of Thetis’ bed.


I went abroad to take the air,
And in the meads I met a knight,
Clad in carnation colour fair;
I did salute this gentle wight:
Of him I did his name inquire,
He sighed and said it was Desire.


Desire I did desire to stay;
And while with him I craved talk,
The courteous knight said me no nay,
But hand in hand with me did walk;
Then of Desire I ask’d again,
What things did please and what did pain.


He smiled and thus he answered than [then]:
Desire can have no greater pain,
Than for to see another man,
The things desired to attain;
Nor greater joy can be than this:
That to enjoy that others miss.



Edward de Vere (12 april 1550 – 24 juni 1604)

Rhys Ifans als Edward De Vere in de film Anonymous uit 2011.

Lees meer...


José Gautier Benítez, Alexander Ostrovski, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal, Edward de Vere, Constantin Göttfert


De Puertoricaanse dichterJosé Gautier Benítez werd geboren op 12 april 1848 in Caguas. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2009en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2010.


Uit: Puerto Rico (Fragment)


Above the waters of the sea, which you rule;

A vase of flowers, swaying

Among foam and coral, perfumes and pearls;

You, that at evening pour over the sea,

With the colors that your sunset put on,

Another ocean of floating flames;

You, that give me the air I breathe,

And life, and the song that breaks forth of its own accord! . . .

of this (American) world, you are the most beautiful fragment,


O my fatherland! broken off and flung into the sea

By a violent cataclysm.

But you brought only the beauty of the vast continent.

Without copying its pomp, or the terrors of its greatness.

Upon your mountains, neither the tiger, the lion, nor the jaguar

Utters its fierce and terrifying cry,

Nor does the boa constrictor coil upon the plains,

Nor does the untamed and savage alligator

Disturb the pure, transparent water

Of your gentle rivers . . .

Nor do your mountains, shaken upon their foundations,

Sound with sudden tumult.

When, with hoarse, titanic breathing,

Orizaba and Cotopaxi roar.


No Niagara makes your soil tremble

With the fall of its immense cataract.

Where Iris, painter of heaven,

Joins to its borders of shining silver,

Gold and crimson, purple and topaz.

While the condor, monarch of space,

Mirrors himself proudly in its crystal;




José Gautier Benítez (12 april 1848 – 24 januari 1880)

Standbeeld in Caguas, Puerto Rico



Lees meer...


Alexander Ostrovski, José Gautier Benítez, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal, Edward de Vere, Constantin Göttfert

De Russische toneelschrijver Alexander Nikolajewitsj Ostrovski werd geboren op 12 april 1823 in Moskou. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2009.


Uit: Sin And Sorrow Are Common To All


„KARP is unfastening a valise, and ZÁYCHIKHA (PROKÓFYEVNA) is looking out of the window.

PROKÓFYEVNA. Just look, dear sir, how many people have gathered.

KARP. What do they want? Why are they curious?

PROKÓFYEVNA. Every one, dear sir, wishes to know who it is that has arrived.

KARP. They say you're provincials, and you certainly are provincials. Well, tell them that it's Babáyev, Valentin Pávlich, a landowner.

PROKÓFYEVNA. [Speaking through the window] Babáyev, a landowner. [To
KARP] They're asking why you came.

KARP. On business, of course. Did you think we came here for sport? Much chance there would be for that here.

PROKÓFYEVNA. [Through the window] For business. [To KARP] Will you remain long?

KARP. We certainly haven't come to settle here. We may stay two days; not longer, you may be sure.

PROKÓFYEVNA. [Through the window] For two days. [Withdraws from the window] Now I've satisfied them. In five minutes the entire city will know.

KARP. Your lodging is all right; it's clean.

PROKÓFYEVNA. Certainly it's clean, sir. No great frills, but it's clean. Of course there's no great travelling to our town.

KARP. It isn't on the highway.

PROKÓFYEVNA. Highway, not much! Yet the best people that do come here, lodge with me. I know a lot of the landowners who come here. They are used to me; very few of them ever go to the hotel.

KARP. Because it's so noisy.

PROKÓFYEVNA. Yes, I should say so! Down-stairs is a bar-room; and on market days the noise is dreadful. Please tell me, wasn't your master's mother Sofya Pavlovna, the wife of General Babáyev?“





Alexander Ostrovski (12 april 1823 – 14 juni 1886)

Portret door Vasily Perov, 1871





De Puertoricaanse dichter José Gautier Benítez werd geboren op 12 april 1848 in Caguas. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2009.


Pueto Rico (Fragment)


Borinquen, name so pleasant to the mind,

Like some sweet memory of a love profound!

Garden of beauty, where can mortals find

Its equal even where lovely spots abound?


Pearl that the sea from deep shellpile has snatched

Amid the pounding of its pleasant waves,

A sleepy heron in white spume unmatched,

You doze as foamy tide your shoreline laves.

Island bedecked by palm fronds, in the breeze

Tossing a kiss afar across the seas.


You seem to one arriving on your soil

A lovely mystic city made of foam,

Fantastic haven far removed from toil

That mermaids sporting near regard as home.




Vertaald door W. K. Jones en Roberto Màrquez





José Gautier Benítez (12 april 1848 – 24 januari 1880)

Standbeeld in Caguas, Puerto Rico





De Franse schrijver Guillaume-Thomas Raynal (Abbé Raynal ) werd geboren op 12 april 1713 in Lapanouse de Séverac. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2009.


Uit: l'Histoire des deux Indes


„Ignore le péril qui te menace, puisque tes alarmes empoisonneraient tous les instants de ta vie et ne te garantiraient de rien. Ignore combien ton existence est précaire. Ignore qu’elle tient à la chute fortuite d’un ruisseau, à l’infiltration peut-être avancée d’une petite quantité des eaux qui t’environnent dans la chaudière souterraine à laquelle on a voulu que ton domicile servit de couvercle. Si tu sortais un moment de ta stupidité, que deviendrais tu ? Tu verrais la mort circuler sous tes pieds. Le bruit sourds des torrents de souffre mis en expansion, obséderait ton oreille. Tu sentirais osciller la croute qui te soutient. Tu l’entendrais s’entrouvrir avec fracas. Tu t’élancerais de ta maison. Tu courrais éperdu dans tes rues. Tu croirais que les murs de ton habitation, que tes édifices s’ébranlent et que tu vas descendre au milieu de leurs ruines, dans le gouffre creusé, si non pour toi, du moins pour tes infortunés descendants. La consommation du désastre qui les attend, sera plus courte que mon récit. Mais s’il existe une justice vengeresse des grands forfaits, s’il est des enfers : c’est là, je l’espère, qu’iront gémir dans les flammes qui ne s’éteindront point, les scélérats qui aveuglés par des vues d’intérêts, en ont imposé au trône, et dont les funestes conseils ont élevé le monument d’ignorance et de stupidité que tu habites, et qui n’a peut être qu’un moment à durer ».



Guillaume-Thomas Raynal (12 april 1713 – 6 maart 1796)





De Engelse hoveling, dichter en toneelschrijver Edward de Vere, 17e graaf van Oxford, werd geboren op 12 april 1550 in Castle Hedingham. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2009.



Love Thy Choice


Who taught thee first to sigh, alas, my heart ?
Who taught thy tongue the woeful words of plaint ?
Who filled your eyes with tears of bitter smart ?
Who gave thee grief and made thy joys to faint ?
Who first did paint with colours pale thy face ?
Who first did break thy sleeps of quiet rest ?
Above the rest in court who gave thee grace ?
Who made thee strive in honour to be best ?
In constant truth to bide so firm and sure,
To scorn the world regarding but thy friends ?
With patient mind each passion to endure,
In one desire to settle to the end ?
Love then thy choice wherein such choice thou bind,
As nought but death may ever change thy mind.





Edward de Vere (12 april 1550 – 24 juni 1604)

Gravure door J. Brown naar G.P. Harding, 1575



Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:


De Oostenrijkse schrijver Constantin Göttfert werd in 1979 in Wenen geboren. Hij studeerde germanistiek en literatuurwetenschappen in Wenen en sinds 2007 volgt hij tevens een studie aan het Deutsche Literaturinstitut Leipzig. Naast zijn schrijverschap werkt hij als vertaler, redacteur en tekstschrijver. In 2007 ontving hij de Wiener Werkstattpreis. In 2009 werd hij stadsschrijver van Schwaz / Tirol.


Uit: Detroit


„Wir sollen sofort anhalten, sagte er. Ich saß am Beifahrersitz, er hinten, ausgestreckt, den Kopf zwischen den Händen haltend, als wolle er ihn zerdrücken. „Du schläfst nicht mehr?“, fragte ich. Seine Augen wirkten wie hineingesteckt in diesen haarlosen, glatten Schädel. „Er übergibt sich“, sagte ich, ohne wegsehen zu können, „Gerhard, du musst anhalten!“ - „Scheiße“, kam die Antwort. Wir waren Brüder. Gerhard bremste ab,schaltete die Warnblinkanlage ein. „Scheiße, ich bin mitten am Highway“, sagte er.

   Man zog hier die Landschaft an den Autos vorbei. Derselbe gelbe Pickup schon seit Stunden neben uns wie ein alter Bekannter. Millionen von Menschen in ihren fahrenden Käfigen im Gleichschritt, während sich die Highways wie unendlich lange Förderbänder durch die Landschaft fraßen. Lebewesen aus Blech, fünfspurig diszipliniert in der Art, wie sie durch diese Landschaft kriechen durften.

   Von der Rückbank Würgelaute: Er schluckte Magensaft, verzog das Gesicht und hielt beide Hände vor den Mund. Endlich unser Wagen am Pannenstreifen, der „hard shoulder“, wie sie es aufgrund der Rillen in der Fahrbahn nannten. Unser Lincoln dröhnte. Augenblicke, nachdem wir standen, hörte ich, wie Manuel die Autotür aufriss.

   „Wenn ich sage sofort, meine ich sofort“, sagte Manuel. Sein Gesicht war grau, tief darin die kleinen, schwitzenden Augen. Sein glatt rasierter Schädel erinnerte mich an einen Stein. „Scheiße“, sagte Gerhard leise. „35 Meilen noch bis Detroit.“ Er drehte sich um: „Schaffst du das?“ Ich blickte auf die Uhr: Es war kurz nach 11. Im Wagen geisterhafte Stille, während draußen die Autos an uns vorbeischossen. Wir wechselten Blicke: Manuel sah mich an, dann Gerhard, der wieder mich und ich wieder Manuel: ein Reigen. Jemand musste sprechen.“




Constantin Göttfert (Wenen, 1979)



Theodor Storm, Alan Ayckbourn, Antje Rávic Strubel, Scott Turow, Tom Clancy, Alexander Ostrovski, Agnes Sapper, Edward de Vere, José Gautier Benítez, Guillaume-Thomas Raynal

Alle bezoekers en mede-bloggers een Vrolijk Pasen!






Piero della Francesca: Verrijzenis van Christus, 1463 - 65,
Fresco en Tempera, in de Pinacoteca Comunale in Sansepolcro.






Es war daheim auf unserm Meeresdeich;
ich ließ den Blick am Horizonte gleiten,
zu mir herüber scholl verheißungsreich
mit vollem Klang das Osterglockenläuten.


Wie brennend Silber funkelte das Meer,
die Inseln schwammen auf dem hohen Spiegel,
die Möwen schossen blendend hin und her,
eintauchend in die Flut der weißen Flügel.


Im tiefen Kooge bis zum Deichesrand
war sammetgrün die Wiese aufgegangen;
der Frühling zog prophetisch über Land,
die Lerchen jauchzen, und die Knospen sprangen.


Enfesselt ist die urgewalt'ge Kraft,
die Erde quillt, die jungen Säfte tropfen,
und alles treibt, und alles webt und schafft,
des Lebens vollste Pulse hör ich klopfen.







Theodor Storm (14 september 1817 -  4 juli 1888)






De Britse blijspelauteur Alan Ayckbourn werd geboren op 12 april 1939 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008.



Uit: A Guided Tour Through Ayckbourn Country door Albert-Reiner Glaap


„My Very Own Story, I'm barely dealing with anything I wouldn't be dealing with in an adult play. The whole thing has become adult plays edited very slightly. They are not really children plays at all; they are family plays. Because I began to see very clearly that what was really fascinating was not a children's audience but an audience in which parents could bring their children. Parents could enjoy the play as well, the children could enjoy the play equally maybe on slightly different levels, occasionally, but generally much the same, but enjoy it in the company of their parents which seemed to me a very positive and a much more satisfying audience for an actor to play to. He was getting all those levels of laughter. Children don't laugh that much in theatre, they watch, they enjoy, they comment occasionally, they empathise tremendously but laughter is something adults do and children just nod like they've seen it and when they do laugh it is not a frightening noise, it has not to do with real laughter at all, I mean, they smile. I've noticed they're rather serious viewers and that is fine. You give them serious work, you give them genuine problems and really, it's me discovering it for myself. Teachers will probably tell me they knew this already, but there are really no dilemmas that children don't appreciate: family problems, dilemmas about honesty and all the things that adults deal with they deal with. The only thing is they get a little bored with the highly complex sexual relationships which puzzle them, I don't think they are disturbed by them, l censor certain things because I think they are had - such as excessive violence - because I think it is something they get so much of and it would be very nice in the theatre somehow to give them alternatives to that. But good and evil - which occupy all traditional plays - I think are very important."




Alan Ayckbourn (Londen, 12 april 1939)

Portret door June Mendoza






De Duitse schrijfster Antje Rávic Strubel werd geboren op 12 april 1974 in Potsdam. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008.


Uit: Unter Schnee


Achte auf nichts meinetwegen

Es macht mich nervös, den Körper in einer Decke zu haben. Man kann nicht vor und zurück darin.

Unter der kratzenden Decke hervor sieht das Ende der Terrasse aus wie ein steil abfallender Berghang. Als könnte man sich in das weit geschwungene Tal stürzen, nur den Wind hören und das scharfe Zischen der Laufsohlen auf den verharschten Stellen, wo man sich weit vorlehnen muß, um das Gewicht zu halten.

Für heute haben sie Schneefall in den Nachrichten gemeldet, starken Schneefall, und die Lifte sind geschlossen. Der Himmel ist grau, undurchlässig, aber nicht von diesem diffusen Grau, das Schnee verspricht. Dann müßte sich auch der Geruch der Luft verändern. Die Luft müßte dichter werden oder graupelig, wie Evy dazu sagt. Wenn man dann noch im Wald unterwegs ist, stehen die Bäume unnatürlich still da.

Den Topf mit dem Glühwein haben wir vorsorglich drinnen gelassen. Unter der Felldecke ist es hier draußen auch so heiß genug.

"Und wenn es nun nicht schneit? Es schneit heute bestimmt nicht. Das versaut uns einen ganzen Tag!"

Evy antwortet nicht. Sie ist bis zum Hals verpackt und sieht aus, als würde sie schlafen. Sie hat so was im Gesicht, das sie dazu macht, so auszusehen. Nur die Augen machen das wieder wett, und manchmal ihre Art zu sprechen.

Aber ihr Glas ist zur Hälfte leer. Also schläft sie nicht. Vielleicht denkt sie auch an die versäumten Abfahrten, die Pisten, von denen wir nur die schwarzen nehmen, die direkt ins Tal schießen, ohne Umwege und mit eingebauten Bukkeln. Die Pisten sind lächerlich kurz, selbst die schwarze hat kaum noch Schwierigkeitsgrade, wenn man an Dreitausender gewöhnt ist. Oben muß man sich abstoßen, um überhaupt loszukommen, dann steht man da und wartet, daß was passiert, und bevor es richtig abgeht, ist man schon wieder unten. Evy stört das alles nicht. Sie fährt hierher, seit sie drei ist, und ich wette, sie wird es noch ewig tun.“




Antje Rávic Strubel (Potsdam,  12 april 1974)





De Amerikaanse schrijver en jurist Scott Turow werd geboren op 12 april 1949 in Chicago. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008.


Uit: Personal Injuries


„He knew they had been stupid, he told me--worse, greedy. He said he knew he should have stopped. But somehow, each time he thought they'd quit, he'd ask himself how once more could make it any worse. Now he knew he was in trouble.

I recognized the tune. Over twenty-some years, the folks sitting in that leather club chair in front of my desk have found only a few old standards in the jukebox. I Didn't Do It. The Other One Did It. Why Are They Picking on Me. His selection, I'm Sorry, made the easiest listening. But they all wanted to hear the same song from me: Maybe I Can Get You Out of This. I said it usually, although I knew it would often prove untrue. But it's a complicated business being somebody's only hope.

This is a lawyer's story, the kind attorneys like to hear and tell. About a case. About a client. His name was Robert Feaver. Everyone knew him as Robbie, although he was getting old for that kind of thing, forty-three, he'd said, when I asked his age. The time was 1992, the second week in September. The pundits had finally stopped predicting that Ross Perot was going to be the next President of the United States, and the terms "dot" and "com" had not yet been introduced to one another. I recall the period precisely because the week before I had returned to Virginia to lay my father to rest. His passing, which over the years I'd assumed I would take as being in the natural order of things, had instead imbued all my waking moments with the remote quality of dreams, so that even my hand, when I considered it, seemed disconnected from my body.“




Scott Turow (Chicago, 12 april 1949)






De Amerikaanse schrijver Tom Clancy werd geboren op 12 april 1947 in Baltimore County, Maryland. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008.


Uit: Every Man A Tiger


“On Friday morning of the August week in 1990 when Iraq invaded Kuwait, Lieutenant General Chuck Horner was at 27,000 feet, cruising at .9 Mach (540 knots), and nearing the North Carolina coast. He was headed out to sea in the Lady Ashley, a recent-model Block 25 F-16C, tail number 216, that had been named after the daughter of his crew chief, Technical Sergeant José Santos. Horner's aide, Lieutenant Colonel Jim Hartinger, Jr., known as "Little Grr," was on Horner's left side, a mile out, slightly high. Horner and Hartinger were en route to a mock combat with a pair of F-15Cs out of the 1st Tactical Fighter Wing (TFW) at Langley Air Force Base in Tidewater Hampton, Virginia: a winner-take-all contest that would match wits and flying skills. After that, they were all scheduled to form up and return to Langley AFB as a flight of four aircraft.

It was a bright, clear day-a good day to be in the air. Horner felt the joy he always did when flying thousands of feet above the earth in a fast and nimble aircraft, an emotion that few others ever had the opportunity to experience. Part of it was the feeling of unity with his aircraft - the fighter was like an extension of his mind and body. The brain commanded and the aircraft responded, with no other conscious motions. In an air battle, a pilot had no time for unnecessary thoughts. He evaluated angle, range, and closure with his target, while keeping track of all the fast, nimble aircraft that were trying to drive him in flames out of the sky. He thought and the jet reacted.”





Tom Clancy (Baltimore County, 12 april 1947)






De Russische toneelschrijver Alexander Nikolajewitsj Ostrovski werd geboren op 12 april 1823 in Moskou. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 12 april 2008.




„NÁDYA. No, Líza, don't say that: what comparison could there be between

country and city life!

LÍZA. What is there so specially fine about city life?

NÁDYA. Well, everything is different there; the people themselves, and

even the whole social order are entirely different. [_She sits down on a

bench_.] When I was in Petersburg with the mistress, one had only to take

a look at the sort of people who came to see us, and at the way our rooms

were decorated; besides, the mistress took me with her everywhere; we even

went on the steamer to Peterhof, and to Tsarskoe Selo.

LÍZA. That was pretty fine, I suppose.

NÁDYA. Yes indeed, it was so splendid that words can't describe it!

Because, no matter how much I may tell you about it, if you haven't seen it

yourself, you'll never understand. And when a young lady, the mistress's

niece, was visiting us, I used to chat with her the whole evening, and

sometimes we even sat through the night.

LÍZA. What in the world did you talk about with her?

NÁDYA. Well, naturally, for the most part about the ways of high society,

about her dancing partners, and about the officers of the guard. And as she

was often at balls, she told me what they talked about there, and whom she

had liked best. Only how fine those young ladies are!




Alexander Ostrovski (12 april 1823 – 14 juni 1886)

Standbeeld in Moskou






De Duitse schrijfster Agnes Sapper werd geboren op 12 april 1852 in München. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007.


Uit: Das kleine Dummerle


„Am 1. Juli, mittags um 12 Uhr, kam Herr Musiklehrer Pfäffling in bester Laune aus der Musikschule. Er hatte heute seinen Gehalt eingenommen und außerdem noch eine ganz nette Summe für Hausunterricht. Ja, er hatte sich mit allerlei fleißigen und faulen Schülern redlich geplagt, das ganze Jahr hindurch, hatte Violin- und Flöten-, Klavier- und Zitherstunden gegeben von frühmorgens bis spät abends. Nun winkte die Ferienzeit; in 14 Tagen sollte sie beginnen, und zum erstenmal seit vielen Jahren hatte Herr Pfäffling so viel erspart, daß er eine Ferienreise unternehmen konnte. Fast unerlaubt kam es ihm vor, sich solchen Aufwand zu gestatten, denn er war Familienvater und hatte sieben Kinder. Aber seine Frau war vor Jahren auch einmal verreist gewesen, seitdem galt es für ausgemacht, daß nun er an der Reihe sei. So wollte er denn fort; nicht weit, nur nach Bayreuth, wo so herrliche Musik zu hören war, und von dort noch ein wenig ins Fichtelgebirge, um Wald- und Bergluft zu genießen, solange eben das Geld reichte. So ging Herr Pfäffling gleich von der Schule aus in die Buchhandlung, erwarb sich dort eine Karte vom Fichtelgebirge, und weil er sie schon auf dem Weg nach Hause studierte, so kam er später heim als sonst und fand die ganze Familie um den gedeckten Tisch versammelt. Da war seine getreue Hausfrau, die einstweilen die Suppe ausschöpfte; auf der einen Seite des Tisches saßen die ältesten, drei große Lateinschüler, und ihnen gegenüber die Zwillingsschwestern, zwei zehnjährige Mädchen. Neben der Mutter hatte das Jüngste seinen Platz, das dreijährige Töchterchen. Diese sechs saßen schon um den Tisch. Der siebente aber, der Frieder, ein kleiner Abcschütz mit einem gutmütigen Gesichtchen, stand am Fenster und spielte auf einer Ziehharmonika.“




Agnes Sapper (12 april 1852 – 19 maart 1929)






De Engelse hoveling, dichter en toneelschrijver Edward de Vere, 17e graaf van Oxford, werd geboren op 12 april 1550  in Castle Hedingham, een dorp in Essex, als Lord Bulbeck, zoon van John de Vere, de 16e graaf en Margery Golding. Zijn vader overleed in 1562, waarbij hij diens titels erfde. In 1575 reisde hij naar Frankrijk, Duitsland en Italië en bleef daarbij ongeveer 15 maanden van huis. Bij zijn terugkeer bleek zijn vrouw bevallen van een dochter, waarop een schandaal ontstond en hij haar verliet. In 1585 kreeg de Vere een militair commando onder zijn hoede in de Nederlanden en in 1588 was hij betrokken bij de slag om de Spaanse Armada. In 1591 hertrouwde hij met de hofdame Elizabeth Trentham. Uit dit huwelijk werd zijn erfgenaam geboren, Henry Lord Vere, de latere 18e graaf van Oxford. De Vere wist overigens slecht met zijn financiële middelen om te gaan. In het literaire circuit gaf hij grote sommen geld uit als begunstiger van verschillende schrijvers, onder wie Edmund Spenser, Arthur Golding, Robert Greene, Thomas Churchyard, Thomas Watson, John Lyly en Anthony Munday, en als sponsor van de toneelgezelschappen Oxford's Men en 'Oxford's Boys. Dit laatste gezelschap trad op in het Blackfriars Theatre, dat hij ook financierde en onder het beheer plaatste van zijn secretaris John Lyly. Een en ander bracht hem tot armoede, waarop Elizabeth hem in 1586 een jaargeld schonk van £1.000, wat door haar opvolger Jacobus I werd voortgezet.



Were I a king I might command content

Were I a king I might command content;
Were I obscure unknown should be my cares,
And were I dead no thoughts should me torment,
Nor words, nor wrongs, nor love, nor hate, nor fears
A doubtful choice for me of
three things one to crave,
A kingdom or a cottage or a grave.  




Edward de Vere (12 april 1550 – 24 juni 1604)






Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 12 april 2007.


De Puertoricaanse dichter José Gautier Benítez werd geboren op 12 april 1848 in Caguas.


De Franse schrijver Guillaume-Thomas Raynal (Abbé Raynal ) werd geboren op 12 april 1713 in Lapanouse de Séverac.