27-09-17

Irvine Welsh, Ko de Laat, Kay Ryan, Esther Verhoef, Ignace Schretlen, Josef ¦kvorecký, Christian Schloyer, Tanja Kinkel, Edvard Kocbek

 

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

Uit:The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs

“She Came to Dance, 20 January 1980
- THIS IS THE fuckin Clash! The green-haired girl had screamed into the face of the flinty-eyed bouncer, who'd shoved her back into her seat. — And this is a fuckin cinema, he'd told her. It was the Odeon cinema, and the security personnel seemed determined to stop any dancing. But after the local band, Joseph K, had finished their set, the main act had come out all guns blazing, blasting out 'Clash City Rockers', and the crowd immediately surged down to the front of the house. The girl with the green hair scanned around for the bouncer, who was preoccupied, then sprang back up. For a while the security staff tried to stem the tide, but finally capitulated about halfway through the set, between 'I Fought the Law' and '(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais'. The crowd was lost in the thrashing noise; at the front of the house they bounced along in rapture, while those at the back climbed on to their seats to dance. The girl with green hair, now right at the front centre of the stage, seemed to be rising higher than the rest, or perhaps it was just her hair, and the way the strobes hit it, making it appear as if a spectacular emerald flame was bursting from her head. A few, only a few, were gobbing at the band and she was screaming at them to cut it out as he – her hero – had only just recovered from hepatitis. She'd been to the Odeon only a few times before, most recently to see Apocalypse Now, but it wasn't like this and she could bet that it had never been. Her friend Trina was a few feet from her, the only other girl so near the front that she could almost smell the band. Taking a last gulp from the plastic Im Bru bottle she'd filled with snakebite, she killed it and let it fall to the sticky, carpeted floor. Her brain fizzed with the buzz of it working in tandem with the amphetamine sulphate she'd taken earlier. She roared the words of the songs as she leapt, working herself into a defiant frenzy, going to a place where she could almost forget what he had told her earlier that afternoon. Just after they'd made love when he'd gone so quiet and distant, his thin, wiry frame shivering on the mattress. — What's up, Donnie? What is it? she'd asked him. — It's all fucked, he'd said blankly. She told him not to be daft, everything was brilliant and the Clash gig was happening tonight, they'd been waiting for this for ages. Then he turned round and his eyes were moist and he looked like a child. It was then that her first and only lover had told her that he'd been fucking someone else earlier; right there on the mattress they shared every night, the place where they'd just made love. It had meant nothing; it was a mistake, he immediately claimed, panic rising in him as the extent of his transgression became apparent in her reaction.”

 

 
Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

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27-09-16

Irvine Welsh, Ignace Schretlen, Ko de Laat, Kay Ryan, Josef Škvorecký, Esther Verhoef, Christian Schloyer

 

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

Uit: Skagboys

“We head oot and dive oantae a 16, bound fir Johnny’s pad at Tolcross. It’s a blindin hot day so we sit doonstairs at the back for a better view ay the passin fanny. Back top deck wi Begbie, tae intimidate wideos, back bottom wi Sick Boy tae leer at lassies. Life has its simple codes.
– This is gaunny be so much fun, Sick Boy says, and rubs his hands thegither. – Drugs are always fun. Do you believe in cosmic forces, destiny n aw that shite?
– Nup.
– Me neither, but bear one thing in mind: today was a ‘T’ day.
– What … ? ah ask, then it dawns on us. – Yir dictionary thingy.
– All will be revealed, he nods, then starts talking about heroin.
Smack’s the only thing ah huvnae done, ah’ve never even smoked or snorted it. And ah must confess that ah’m fuckin shitein it. Ah wis brought up tae believe that one joint ay hash would kill me. And, of course, it wis bullshit. Then one line ay speed. Then one tab ay acid; aw lies, spread by people hell-bent on self-extermination through booze and fags.
But heroin.
It’s crossing a line.
But as the boy said, anything once. And Sick Boy doesnae seem concerned, so ah bullshit tae keep ma front up. – Aye, ah cannae wait tae dae some horse.
– What? Sick Boy looks at me in horror as the bus growls up the hill. – What the fuck are you talking aboot, Renton? Horse? Dinnae say that in front ay yir dealer mate or he’ll laugh in yir face. Call it skag, for Papa John-Paul’s sake, he snaps, then stares oot at a short-skirted lassie meandering wi seductive intent up Lothian Road. – She’s a peach … far too carefree in bearing and expression tae be a baboon …
– Right … ah feebly respond.”

 

 
Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

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27-09-15

Irvine Welsh, Ignace Schretlen, Ko de Laat, Kay Ryan, Josef ¦kvorecký, Esther Verhoef

 

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

Uit: Trainspotting

„– Ah wisnae ... ah protested.– Fling yir fuckin jaykit oan well!
At the Fit ay the Walk thir wir nae taxis. They only congregated here when ye didnae need them. Supposed tae be August, but ah'm fuckin freezing ma baws oaf here. Ah'm no sick yet, but it's in the fuckin post, that's fir sure.
– Supposed tae be a rank. Supposed tae be a fuckin taxi rank. Nivir fuckin git one in the  summer. Up cruising fat, rich festival cunts too fuckin lazy tae walk a hundred fuckin yards fae one poxy church hall tae another fir thir fuckin show. Taxi drivers. Money–grabbin bastards ... Sick Boy muttered deliriously and breathlessly tae hissel, eyes bulging and sinews in his neck straining as his heid craned up Leith Walk.
At last one came. There were a group ay young guys in shellsuits n bomber jaykits whae'd been standin thair longer than us. Ah doubt if Sick Boy even saw them. He charged straight oot intae the middle ay the Walk screaming: – TAXI!
Hi! Whit's the fuckin score? One guy in a black, purple and aqua shell–suit wi a flat–top asks.
Git tae fuck. We wir here first, Sick Boy sais, opening the taxi door. – Thir's another yin comin. He gestured up the Walk at an advancing black cab.
– Lucky fir youse. Smart cunts,
– Fuck off, ya plukev–faced wee hing oot. Git a fuckin ride! Sick Boy snarled as we piled intae the taxi.
– Tollcross mate, ah sais tae the driver as gob splattered against the side windae.
– Square go then smart cunt! C'moan ya crappin bastards! the shell–suit shouted. The taxi driver wisnae amused. He looked a right cunt. Maist ay them do. The stamp–peyin self–employed ur truly the lowest form ay vermin oan god's earth."

 

 
Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

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27-09-14

Dolce far niente, Hans van Weely, Ignace Schretlen, Ko de Laat

 

Dolce far niente

 

 
Oude ansichtkaart van Ponypark Slagharen

 

 

Ponypark Slagharen

Het is niet erg
dat het leven geen zin heeft

er is voedsel genoeg
en huilen mag om illusies
die verdwijnen -

ik ben een kind
uit de tijd van wederopbouw

en weet verdriet
bestaat sinds heugenis, dus lang
voordat de Duitsers kwamen.

Alles is gezegd,

maar ga nooit
naar Ponypark Slagharen,

verwek geen kinderen op
een zinkend schip.

 

 

 
Hans van Weely (1945)*
Slagharen (geen portret beschikbaar)

 

 

* De Nederlandse dichter Hans van Weely publiceerde o.a. de bundels ‘Verzuim aan dode dingen’ (1969) en ‘De ideale lijn’ (1980)

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27-09-13

Irvine Welsh, Kay Ryan, Ignace Schretlen, Josef Škvorecký, Esther Verhoef, Christian Schloyer

 

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

 

Uit: Filth

 

 “We wait and think and doubt and hate. How does it make you feel? The overwhelming feeling is rage. We hate ourself for being unable to be other than what we are. Unable to be better. We feel rage. The feelings must be followed. It doesn't matter whether you're an ideologue or a sensualist, you follow the stimuli thinking that they're your signposts to the promised land. But they are nothing of the kind. What they are is rocks to navigate the past, each on your brush against, ripping you a little more open and they are always more on the horizon. But you can't face up to the that, so you force yourself to believe the bullshit of those you instinctively know are liars and you repeat those lies to yourself and to others, hoping that by repeating them often and fervently enough you'll attain the godlike status we accord those who tell the lies most frequently and most passionately. But you never do, and even if you could, you wouldn't value it, you'd realise that nobody believes in heroes any more. We know that they only want to sell us something we don't really want and keep from us what we really do need. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we're getting in touch with our condition at last. It's horrible how we always die alone, but no worse than living alone.”

(…)

 

“All I can think about is that boy’s skull, bashed in, the way his head was caved in and how it wasn’t like a heid at all, just like a broken silly puppet face, about how when you destroy something, when you brutalise it, it always looks warped and disfigured and slightly unreal and unhuman and that’s what makes it easier for you to go on brutalising it, go on fucking it and hurting it and mashing until you’ve destroyed it completely, proving that destruction is natural in the human spirit, that nature has devices to enable us to destroy, to make it easier for us; a way of making righteous people who want to act do things without the fear of consequence, a way of making us less than human, as we break the laws . .”

 

 

 

Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

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27-09-12

Irvine Welsh, Kay Ryan, Ignace Schretlen, Josef Škvorecký, Esther Verhoef, Christian Schloyer

 

De Schotse schrijver Irvine Welsh werd geboren op 27 september 1958 in Leith, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 september 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Irvine Welsh op dit blog.

 

Uit: Glue

 

“Davie briskly shook his head. - Naw, take it while ye can get it. This is Scotland, mind, it's no gaunny last. Taking in a deep breath, Davie picked up the table, recommencing his arduous struggle towards the kitchen. It was a tricky, bugger: a smart new Formica-topped job which seemed to constantly shift its weight and spill all over the place. Like wrestling wi a fuckin crocodile, he thought, and sure enough, the beast snapped at his fingers forcing him to withdraw them quickly and suck on them as the table clattered to the floor.

- Sh ... sugar, Davie cursed. He never swore in front of women. Certain talk was awright for the pub, but no in front of a woman. He tiptoed over to the cot in the corner. The baby still slept soundly.

- Ah telt ye ah'd gie ye a hand wi that Davie, yir gaunny huv nae fingers and a broken table the wey things are gaun, Susan warned him. She shook her head slowly, looking over to the crib. - Surprised ye dinnae wake her.

Picking up her discomfort, Davie said, - Ye dinnae really like that table, dae ye?

Susan Galloway shook her head again. She looked past the new kitchen table, and saw the new three-piece suite, the new coffee table and new carpets which had mysteriously arrived the previous day when she'd been out at her work in the whisky bonds.

- What is it? Davie asked, waving his sore hand in the air. He felt her stare, open and baleful. Those big eyes of hers.

- Where did ye get this stuff, Davie?

He hated when she asked him things like that. It spoiled everything, drove a wedge between them. It was for all of them he did what he did; Susan, the baby, the wee fellay. - Ask no questions, ah'll tell ye no lies, he smiled, but he couldn't look at her, as unsatisfied himself with this retort as he knew she would be. Instead, he bent down and kissed his baby daughter on the cheek.

Looking up, he wondered aloud, - Where's Andrew? He glanced at Susan briefly.

Susan turned away sourly. He was hiding again, hiding behind the bairns.”

 

 


Irvine Welsh (Edinburg, 27 september 1958)

 

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27-09-11

Ignace Schretlen, Louis Auchincloss, William Empson, Bernat Manciet, Edvard Kocbek

 

De Nederlandse dichter, schrijver, kunstenaar en huisarts Ignace Schretlen werd geboren in Tilburg op 27 september 1952. Al tijdens zijn gymnasiumtijd manifesteerde zich bij hem een grote belangstelling voor muziek, literatuur en fotografie. Ofschoon hij op al deze gebieden actief is geweest of nog actief is, ging hij in Nijmegen geneeskunde en filosofie studeren om uiteindelijk te kiezen voor een loopbaan als huisarts in 's-Hertogenbosch (1984-2002). Over het Franstalige lied publiceerde hij tientallen artikelen en drie bundels. Zijn interesse voor tekeningen en schilderwerken van kinderen resulteerde in de oprichting van de Stichting "Kijk op Krabbels". Als beeldend kunstenaar exposeerde hij op vele plaatsen, waaronder enkele musea. Op medisch gebied kreeg Schretlen vooral bekendheid als auteur van kritische publicaties, waaronder het boek Anatomie van het gevoel (dagboek van een co-assistent), geschreven onder het pseudoniem van Alexander van Es. Vanaf 1971 verschenen van hem verhalen in bloemlezingen en bundels. In 2007 verscheen een selectie uit zijn poëzie en aforismen onder de titel „Een onvermoede bocht“.

 

 

Onder vrienden

 

1

 

Je treft hen op een bergweg en

nooit aan zee, noch op een ladder

 

ze tekenen geen rechte lijnen en

weten dat cirkels niet bestaan

 

halverwege raken ze verweesd

in wolken die de verte bedekken.

 

 

2

 

Kennen planten een moment van sterven

hoe gaan dieren dood en hoe wij

 

wie heeft ons tot dit tempo opgejaagd

wij weken ons los van vlees en bloed

 

nooit zullen wij onze moedertaal verleren

onze onbekende metgezel begrijpen

 

 

3

 

Allengs verworden ze tot contouren

lossen op of trekken zielloos weg

 

wat valt er nu nog op het laatst te leren

anders dan dat hun zwijgen vele talen kent?

 

 

 

Ignace Schretlen (Tilburg, 27 september 1952)

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