06-03-18

Patrick deWitt, Gabriel García Márquez, Jeremy Reed, Marijke Hanegraaf, Thomas Acda, Günter Kunert, Clark Accord, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Michelangelo

 

De Canadese schrijver en scenarist Patrick deWitt werd geboren op 6 maart 1975 op Vancouver Island. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick deWitt op dit blog.

Uit: Ablutions

“You are sitting in the magical Ford outside the bar when Junior the crack addict walks up and steps into the car and you both sit there watching the building. His smell is otherworldly, like a demon from deep in the earth’s crust, and he repeatedly passes the fiercest gas; he has been too long without his drugs and his body is causing a fuss. He does not greet you and you do not greet him; a rift has grown between you recently, or rather a rift has grown between Junior and everyone—he is in the worst way and the doormen say he has been robbing people with his machete blade after hours. You are not afraid of him and you do not believe he would ever do you any harm but you wish he were somewhere other than sitting at your side, wondering about the contents of your pockets.
He is fidgeting with a lighter and finally he says to you, “I need twenty dollars, man. I need it bad.” When you tell him you haven’t got any money he punches your dashboard and pouts, asking himself how long this torture might go on. You tell him to wait a minute and you enter the empty bar, retrieving twenty dollars from the safe. You walk it out to him and he is relieved to see this money but wants to know where it came from. When you tell him you stole it he looks worried and asks if you won’t get into trouble, which is insulting because you know he does not actually care one way or the other. “Do your drugs or don’t do your drugs,” you say. “Don’t stand around sobbing and bitching about it.” He straightens himself up and nods and hustles off to find his dealer. All through the night you are bothered by guilt and self-loathing for speaking with him so harshly and angered that such a man could conjure these emotions in you.
Discuss your feeling of wonder when the pilfered twenty dollars is not reported missing at the end of the night. Discuss your routine of thieving that stems from this incident, and the criminal spree you quickly embark upon.
Your plan is to keep an at-home stolen-monies pile, separate from your life-monies pile, and to cultivate it to a respectable size and then, at some key point, utilize it dramatically. Within a month you have three hundred dollars and you feel great relief and satisfaction, as if justice has been served, and you wonder why you waited until this late date to begin stealing from the owner, who you (on a whim) decide is a bad man who expects you to gladly damage your mind and body with this potentially deadly work of washing dishes in a bar, and who has never asked you how your feelings were doing even though it is fairly obvious that they, your feelings, have been hurt and are still hurting yet.”

 

 
Patrick deWitt (Vancouver Island, 6 maart 1975)

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06-03-17

Patrick deWitt, Gabriel García Márquez, Jeremy Reed, Marijke Hanegraaf, Thomas Acda, Günter Kunert, Clark Accord, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Michelangelo

 

De Canadese schrijver en scenarist Patrick deWitt werd geboren op 6 maart 1975 op Vancouver Island. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick deWitt op dit blog.

Uit: Undermajordomo Minor

“These words played in Lucy’s head as he stood on the platform awaiting the Count and Countess’s arrival. As the train came into the station, he could hear a man’s wild cackling; when the Count emerged from his compartment he was quite obviously drunken, swaying in place, a cigar planted in the fold of his slick, blubbery mouth. His skull was a softly pink egg, his eyes blood-daubed yolks — he drew back from the sunlight as one scalded. Once recovered, he focused on Lucy, gripping him by the lapel. “Ah, Broom, happy to see you again, boy.”
“Yes, sir, nice to see you, as well. Only I’m not Mr Broom; my name is Lucy.”
“What?”
“My name is Lucy, sir.”
The Count stared. “You’re Broom.”
“I’m not he, sir.”
“Well, where has Broom run off to?”
“He has died, sir.”
The Count leaned back on his heels. Speaking over his shoulder and into the blackened compartment, he said, “Did you know about this?”
“About what?” said the Countess.
“Broom is dead.”
“Who?”
“The servant lad? Broom? You were so fond of him last time we visited.”
“Oh, yes, him. Nice boy — nice colouring. He’s dead, you say?”
“Dead as dinner, apparently.”
“How did he die?”
“I don’t know how.” The Count looked at Lucy. “How?”
Lucy said, “He was possessed by a wickedness and so cast himself into the Very Large Hole, sir.”
The Count made an irritable face.
“Did he say a very large hole?” the Countess asked."

 

 
Patrick deWitt (Vancouver Island, 6 maart 1975)

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06-03-16

Patrick deWitt, Gabriel García Márquez, Jeremy Reed, Marijke Hanegraaf, Günter Kunert, Clark Accord

 

De Canadese schrijver en scenarist Patrick deWitt werd geboren op 6 maart 1975 op Vancouver Island. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick deWitt op dit blog.

Uit: Undermajordomo Minor

“On the morning of the guests’ arrival, Mr Olderglough had taken Lucy aside and told him, “I will look after the Duke and Duchess, and you will mind the Count and Countess. Is that quite all right with you, boy?”
Lucy answered that it was, but it struck him as curious, for Mr Olderglough had never positioned an instruction in so accommodating a manner before. “May I ask why you prefer the Duke and Duchess to the Count and Countess?” he said.
Here Mr Olderglough nodded, as if he had been found out. “We have been through a good deal together, you and I, and so I feel I can speak to you in confidence, and as a peer. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Very good. Well, boy, if I’m to address the truth of the matter, none of the coming guests is what might be called desirable company. Actually, I have in the past found them to be distinctly undesirable.”
“In what way, sir?”
“In many ways which you will, I fear, discover for yourself. But your question, if I understand correctly, is to wonder which of the two parties is the worse, isn’t that right?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“Then I must tell you that the Count and Countess merit that prize, handily. And while I feel on the one hand duty-bound to take the heavier burden unto myself, I must also recognize that I simply haven’t the capacities I once did. To look after people such as those who are coming to stay with us is a young man’s game, and I am not young any longer, and so I take the simpler path, though you may rest assured that when I say simpler, I do not mean simple. The Duke and Duchess are no stroll in the park, and I can attest to that personally, and at length.” Mr Olderglough stepped closer, his eyes filled with ugly memories. “Be on your guard with these people, boy. They answer to no one. They never have, and they never will.”

 

 
 Patrick deWitt (Vancouver Island, 6 maart 1975)

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06-03-15

Jeremy Reed

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver Jeremy Reed werd geboren op 6 maart 1951 op Jersey. Reed heeft vijftig werken gepubliceerd in 25 jaar. Hij heeft meer dan twee dozijn bundels poëzie, 12 romans, en boeken met literaire- en muziekkritiek geschreven. Hij heeft ook vertalingen van Montale, Cocteau, Nasrallah, Adonis, Bogart en Hölderlin gepubliceerd. Zijn eigen werk is in het buitenland vertaald in meer dan een dozijn talen. Hij heeft diverse onderscheidingen ontvangen en hij won de Poetry Society's European Translation Prize. Reed begon met het publiceren van gedichten in tijdschriften en kleine publicaties in de jaren 1970. Hij is beïnvloed door onder meer Rimbaud, Artaud, Jean Genet, JG Ballard, David Bowie en Iain Sinclair. Een selectie van zijn gedichten is uitgegeven door door Penguin Books. Zijn laatst gebubliceerde roman is “The Grid.” Reed heeft ook samengewerkt met de muzikant Itchy Ear. Zij treden live op onder de naam Ginger Light. Reed behaalde een doctoraat aan de universiteit van Essex en hij doceert af en toe aan die instelling en aan de Universiteit van Londen.

 

London Flowers

These oriental poppies earthed
as scattered outtakes, rough demos
lucked into NW3
shivery silk minis on runway pins —
pink, yellow, orange, blue and red,
they’re like randomised confetti
transient saucerians
an anthology of MAC eye colours
in nitrogen-depleted soil.
I give them names like Toyoko,
Masako, Yumiko, O,
Yuan Yuan, a garden harem
cooking Chinese opium.
Ixia and violet iris
lyricise intense moments,
so too explosive azaleas
and a libidinous steamy lily,
a transplant brain from Asia
with a bulb like a shaved cortex.
This marine blue hydrangea’s
the colour of the blue deodorant cube
floating in the Gatwick men’s toilet,
a sort of deep Atlantic blue
squirted with ultramarine.
Like everything I see they’re poetry,
poppies bringing a dusty frill
to capital affairs, a bright
liaison like a thought pattern;
immediate as light checked-in
8 mins travel time from the sun
to reach this wiry leggy cluster
that tomorrow will be gone.

 

 

Bloody Mary

Red icebergs shattered in a glass,
auroral tiara with cracked pepper
Tabasco in the undertow:

it tastes hot, but it’s really cold,
like feelings we can’t separate
from loving someone, all aspects

slippery as goldfish in a bowl.
A vodka in a scarlet dress
stagy as Ute Lemper,

its temper’s unpredictable
like Wasabi and Habanero
or Worcester sauce tangoing tomato

with a sharp taste of leather.
It’s not a gunshot to the throat,
more a slow burn that separates

into component tastes, the lime
gets tweaky if unmollified
by mid-ballast horseradish.

It’s a capricious, husky thing,
a ruminative, slow hand trick,
you get to know at gut level,

the vodka underpinning it
raised as raw firepower in the blood,
a CIA agent policing the cells

with a kick like a cobra’s hood.
An ex pat mixed it first at Harry’s Bar,
spiked the membrane with a celery stick,

got a red brick crust on the lip,
and knew he’d done it, felt the bite hit in
and raised an eyebrow in silent applause.

 

 
Jeremy Reed (Jersey, 6 maart 1951)

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