E. E. Cummings, Maarten van der Graaff, Daniël Rovers, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Katherine Mansfield, Margarete Susman, Stefan Ż,eromski, Philip Winkler


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.


maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea



Spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.




there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
past six tic

Spring is not regulated and does
not get out of order nor do
its hands a little jerking move
over numbers slowly

we do not
wind it up it has no weights
springs wheels inside of
its slender self no indeed dear
nothing of the kind.

(So,when kiss Spring comes
we’ll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss
lips because tic clocks toc don’t make
a toctic difference
to kisskiss you and to
kiss me)


E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)

Lees meer...


E. E. Cummings, Maarten van der Graaff, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Daniël Rovers, Katherine Mansfield, Margarete Susman, Stefan Żeromski


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.


My Love

my love
thy hair is one kingdom
  the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest
  filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
  upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
  of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song

my love
thy head is a casket
  of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
  innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
  with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet
  in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
  which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
  of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

  thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense



Who Knows If The Moon’s

who knows if the moon’s
a baloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky—filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their baloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

                   Spring)and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves


E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)
Zelfportret 1958 

Lees meer...


E. E. Cummings, Maarten van der Graaff, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Daniël Rovers, Katherine Mansfield


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.


As Is The Sea Marvelous

as is the sea marvelous
from god’s
hands which sent her forth
to sleep upon the world

and the earth withers
the moon crumbles
one by one
stars flutter into dust

but the sea
does not change
and she goes forth out of hands and
she returns into hands

and is with sleep….

    the breaking

of your
my lips


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


My Mind Is

my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet


E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)
Als student in Harvard, 1915

Lees meer...


E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Daniël Rovers, Katherine Mansfield, Margarete Susman, Stefan Żeromski


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.



In The Rain-


in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

       of you





I Like My Body When It Is With Your


i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new





It Is Funny, You Will Be Dead Some Day


it is funny, you will be dead some day.
By you the mouth hair eyes,and i mean
the unique and nervously obscene

need;it’s funny.  They will all be dead

knead of lustfulhunched deeplytoplay
lips and stare the gross fuzzy-pash
—dead—and the dark gold delicately smash….
grass,and the stars,of my shoulder in stead.

It is a funny,thing.  And you will be

and i and all the days and nights that matter
knocked by sun moon jabbed jerked with ecstasy
….tremble (not knowing how much better

than me will you like the rain’s face and

the rich improbable hands of the Wind)





E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)

Zelfportret, 1958

Lees meer...


E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Daniël Rovers


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor E. E. Cummings op dit blog.



if you like my poems let them


if you like my poems let them
walk in the evening,a little behind you

then people will say
"Along this road i saw a princess pass
on her way to meet her lover(it was
toward nightfall)with tall and ignorant servants."




my father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all




E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)

Self-portrait with sketchpad, 1939

Lees meer...


E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Daniël Rovers


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2010.



"Gay" is the captivating cognomen


"Gay" is the captivating cognomen of a Young Woman of cambridge,


to whom nobody seems to have mentioned ye olde freudian wish;

when i contemplate her uneyes safely ensconced in thick glass

you try if we are a gentleman not to think of(sh)


the world renowned investigator of paper sailors--argonauta argo

harmoniously being with his probably most brilliant pupil mated,

let us not deem it miraculous if their(so to speak)offspring has that largo

appearance of somebody who was hectocotyliferously propagated


when Miss G touched n.y. our skeleton stepped from his cupboard

gallantly offering to demonstrate the biggest best busiest city

and presently found himself rattling for that well known suburb

the bronx(enlivening an otherwise dead silence with harmless quips, out

of Briggs by Kitty)


arriving in an exhausted condition, i purchased two bags of lukewarm


with the dime which her mama had generously provided(despite courte-

ous protestations)

and offering Miss Gay one(which she politely refused)set out gaily for

the hyenas

suppressing my frank qualms in deference to her not inobvious perturba-



unhappily, the denizens of the zoo were that day inclined to be uncouthly


more particularly the primates--from which with dignity square feet

turned abruptly Miss Gay away:

"on the whole"(if you will permit a metaphor savouring slightly of the


Miss Gay had nothing to say to the animals and the animals had nothing

to say to Miss Gay


during our return voyage, my pensive companion dimly remarlted some-

thing about "stuffed

fauna" being "very interesting" . . . we also discussed the possibility of

rain. . .

E distant proximity to a Y.W.c.a. she suddenly luffed

--thanking me; and(stating that she hoped we might "meet again

sometime")vanished, gunwale awash. I thereupon loosened my collar

and dove for the nearest l; surreptitiously cogitating

the dictum of a new england sculptor(well on in life)re the helen moller

dancers, whom he considered "elevating--that is, if dancing CAN be ele-



Miss(believe it or)Gay is a certain Young Woman unacquainted with the


and pursuing a course of instruction at radcliffe college, cambridge, mass.

i try if you are a gentleman not to sense something un poco putrido

when we contemplate her uneyes safely ensconced in thick glass



E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)

Portret doorJohn Bedford

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Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 14e oktober mijn blog bij seniorennet.be


E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt


Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 14e oktober ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag. 


Katherine Mansfield, Margarete Susman, Stefan Żeromski



E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Katherine Mansfield, Margarete Susman, Stefan Żeromski

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008.



i carry your heart with me


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you


here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart


i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)






a man who had fallen among thieves


a man who had fallen among thieves

lay by the roadside on his back

dressed in fifteenthrate ideas

wearing a round jeer for a hat


fate per a somewhat more than less

emancipated evening

had in return for consciousness

endowed him with a changeless grin


whereon a dozen staunch and Meal

citizens did graze at pause

then fired by hypercivic zeal

sought newer pastures or because


swaddled with a frozen brook

of pinkest vomit out of eyes

which noticed nobody he looked

as if he did not care to rise


one hand did nothing on the vest

its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt

while the mute trouserfly confessed

a button solemnly inert.


Brushing from whom the stiffened puke

i put him all into my arms

and staggered banged with terror through

a million billion trillion stars





i shall imagine life


i shall imagine life

is not worth dying,if

(and when)roses complain

their beauties are in vain


but though mankind persuades

itself that every weed's

a rose,roses(you feel

certain)will only smile





E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)





De Hongaarse schrijver Péter Nádas werd geboren op 14 oktober 1942 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008.


Uit: Behutsame Ortsbestimmung (Vertaald door Heinrich Eisterer)


Seit ich in der Nähe dieses riesigen Wildbirnenbaums lebe, muß ich nicht mehr fort,wenn ich in die Ferne schauen oder n die Zeit zurückblicken will. Die Zweige derWildbirne sind voller kleiner, bauchiger Blätter, die glänzen und hart sind wie Rindsleder. Ihre Äste neigen sich bis zur Erde,die Hauptäste halten die regelmäßige Kugelkrone in den Himmel,schirmen die Hitze ab,dämpfen

das Licht, lassen die Niederschläge abprallen.

Auch anderswo im Landstrich Göcsej, auf seinen Hügeln oder an den Südosthängen der langgestreckten Höhenzüge findet man solche einsam stehenden Wildbirnenbäume.Von Ende August bis Anfang Oktoberwerfen sieUnmengen herber Früchte ab und bedecken mit ihnen die magere Erde.Die Einheimischen erzeugen daraus Schnaps und Essig von unvergleichlicher Qualität.

Das Verhängnis des Wildbirnenbaums ist seine Fruchtbarkeit. Nach sommerlichen Wolkenbrüchen,wenn die Pflanzen keine weitere Feuchtigkeit aufnehmen können, kann es geschehen, daß Hauptäste dem Gewicht der Früchte nichtmehr standhalten und brechen. Diese Zwischenfälle verwüsten die Laubkronen und machen sie verwundbar, doch selbst in diesem zerzausten und zunehmend ramponierten Zustand halten sie noch mehrere Jahrhunderte durch. Unser gewaltiger Wildbirnenbaum hat sich seine regelmäßige Krone bewahrt.

Arbores excelsae, wie es in der Fachsprache der Forstwissenschaft heißen würde, ein hervorragendes Exemplar seiner Gattung. Wiewohl einmal, an einem schläfrigen Sommernachmittag,

ein mächtigesKrachen die Stille durchschlug und gleichzeitig der gepeinigte Boden unter mir erdröhnte. Als ich hinausrannte, um zu sehen, was geschehen war, lag ein dicker Ast wie ein abgerissener Arm auf der Erde. Zuerst konnte ich gar nicht abschätzen, was für eine Tragödie sich

ereignet hatte. Ich zersägte den Ast, im Herbst wurde er im Kachelofen zu Wärme. Seitdem vermisse ich ihn schmerzlich.

Ich bemühe mich, beim Anblick des Baums seine Wunde nicht zu sehen. Allerdings hat im Lauf eines Jahrzehnts das Laub anderer Äste die Lücke in der Krone fast gänzlich wieder geschlossen. Fast könnte man sagen, unser Wildbirnenbaum weiß genau,was er wann zu tun hat.Er stellt allmählich

seine Vollkommenheit wieder her, oder zumindest den Anschein von Vollkommenheit.”





Péter Nádas (Boedapest,14 oktober 1942)





De Amerikaanse dichteres, essayiste, critica en feministe Katha Pollitt werd geboren op 14 oktober 1949 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008.




In the Bulrushes


Lotus. Papyrus. Turquoise. Lapis. Gold.

A jackal-headed god

nods in the noon

that shimmers over the river

as if fanned by invisible slave girls.

Frogs fall silent , stunned

by the sun or eternity.

The Pyramids have been crumbling for centuries.


Snug in his bassinet of reeds

the lucky baby plays with his toes,

naked. What does he care

for his mother's eyes in a thorn tree?

Around his head an alphabet of flames

spells Thunder . Transformation.

Woe to women.


The sun begins its red plunge down the sky.

Deep in the earth a locust's eyes snap open.

Frogs resume their trill

And punctual to the minute

down the path,

tottering on jewelled sandals, comes

the beautiful lonely princess


who's wandered in from another kind of story.






Rereading Jane Austen's Novels


This time round, they didn't seem so comic.

Mama is foolish, dim or dead, Papa's

a sort of genial, pampered lunatic.

No one thinks of anything but class.


Talk about rural idiocy! Imagine

a life of tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates,

of fancy work and Mr. Elton's sermons!

No wonder lively girls get into states—


no school, no friends. A man might dash to town

just to have his hair cut in the fashion

while she can't walk five miles on her own.

Past twenty, she conceives a modest crush on


some local stuffed shirt in a riding cloak

who's twice her age and maybe half as bright.

At least he's got some land and gets a joke—

but will her jokes survive the wedding night?


The happy end ends all. Beneath the blotter

the author slides her page, and shakes her head,

and goes to supper—Sunday's joint warmed over,

followed by whist, and family prayers, and bed.






Katha Pollitt (New York,14 oktober 1949)






De Nieuw-Zeelandse schrijfster Katherine Mansfield werd geboren op 14 oktober 1888 in Wellington. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2007 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008.


Uit: Journal of Katherine Mansfield


October 3 (1922)

            Arrived Paris.  Took rooms in Select Hotel, Place de la Sorbonne, for ten francs a day per person.  What feeling?  Very little.  The room is like the room where one could work—or so it feels.  I have been a perfect torment to L. M. who is pale with dark eyes.  I suspect my reactions so much that I hardly dare say what I think of the room and so on.  Do I know?  Not really.  Not more than she. 

            I have thought of J. to-day.  We are no longer together.  Am I in the right way, though?  No, not yet.  Only looking on—telling others.  I am not in body and soul.  I feel a bit of a sham . . . . And so I am.  One of the K. M.’s is so sorry.  But of course she is.  She has to die.  Don’t feed her. 


October.  Important. 

            When we can begin to take our failures non-seriously, it means we are ceasing to be afraid of them.  It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.  What Shestov calls ‘a touch of easy familiarity and derision’ has its value. 

            What will happen to Anatole France and his charming smile?  Doesn’t it disguise a lack of feeling, like M.’s weariness?

            Life should be like a steady, visible light. 

            What remains of all those years together?  It is difficult to say.  If they were so important, how could they have come to nothing.  Who gave up and why? 

            Haven’t I been saying, all along, that the fault lies in trying to cure the body and paying no heed whatever to the sick psyche?  G[urdjieff] claims to do just what I have always dreamed might be done. 

            The sound of a street pipe, hundreds and hundreds of years old. 


October 17

            Fire is sunlight and returns to the sun again in an unending cycle. . . . G[urdjieff] looks exactly like a desert chief.  I kept thinking of Doughty’s “Arabia”. . . 

            To be wildly enthusiastic, or deadly serious—both are wrong.  Both pass.  One must keep ever present a sense of humour.  It depends entirely on yourself how much you see or hear or understand.  But the sense of humour I have found of use in every single occasion of my life.  Now perhaps you understand what the word ‘indifferent’ means.  It is to learn not to mind, and not to show your mind. 






Katherine Mansfield (14 oktober 1888 – 9 januari 1923)






De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en filosofe Margarete Susman werd geboren op  14 oktober 1872 in Hamburg. Toen zij tien jaar was verhuisde zij met haar familie naar Zürich waar zij de  Höhere Töchterschule bezocht. Na de dood van haar vader woonde zij in Hannover. Zij studeerde in Düsseldorf en Parijs, München en Berlijn. Al vanaf 1907 publiceerde zij esay’s in de Frankfurter Zeitung. In 1928, na de scheiding van haar man, de schilder Eduard Bendemann, verhuisde zij naar Frankfurt waar zij ook politiek actief werd. Na de machtsovername van Hitler emigreerde zij meteen naar Zwitseland. Door haar politieke activiteiten tegen het nazisme kwam zij in aanvaring met de vreemdelingenpolitie en kreeg zij een spreek – en publicatieverbod. In 1959 werd zij eredoctor van de Freien Universität Berlin.


Uit: Ich habe viele Leben gelebt. Erinnerungen


„Ich bin in einer der schönsten Städte Deutschlands, in Hamburg, nicht lange nach dem Ende des Siebzigerkrieges geboren. Also in den sogenannten Gründerjahren, in denen Deutschland zu ständig wachsendem Reichtum aufstieg, und so zugleich zu einer Zeit, in der die gehobenen jüdischen Schichten sich bereits ganz als Deutsche empfanden und ein heute kaum mehr verständliches, deutsch­-geprägtes Leben lebten, dessen Fragwürdigkeit ich erst nach dem inneren Zusammenbruch meines kindlichen Daseins zu ahnen be­gann.

Wir waren Deutsche, sonst wäre nicht alles, was später kam, so furchtbar, so niederschmetternd gewesen. Wir sprachen die uns teure deutsche Sprache, im wahrsten Sinn die Muttersprache, in der wir alle Worte und Werte des Lebens empfangen hatten, und Sprache ist ja fast mehr als Blut. Wir kannten kein anderes Vater­land als das deutsche, und wir liebten es mit der Liebe zum Vater­land, die später so verhängnisvoll wurde.

Die seltsame Schönheit meiner Geburtsstadt ist mir immer in Er­innerung geblieben. Ich erinnere mich deutlich der Spaziergänge mit meiner Mutter oder dem Kinderfräulein durch den Harveste­huderweg: auf der einen Seite die eleganten Villen mit den ab­hängenden großen Rasenflächen und den sorgfältig gepflegten Teppichbeeten, auf der anderen Seite ein leerer Raum, von dem ich erst kürzlich erfahren habe, daß es die tiefer gelegene Alster war, die ich als Kind von der anderen Seite her nicht sehen konnte und die den Weg bis in die Stadt hinein begleitet. Hamburg – es gehört dazu auch die weite Elbe, die unmittelbar in das Meer hinausführt, der Duft und die Nähe des Meeres, das Schreien der Möwen über der Stadt.

Ich bin schon sehr früh von dort weggekommen und habe die Stadt nur einen Tag, kurz vor der Machtergreifung Hitlers, wie­dergesehen. Ich sah auch das schöne große Haus wieder, in dem ich geboren wurde und das wir – was heute kaum faßlich er­scheint – zu viert mit drei Dienstboten bewohnten. Von den Räu­men meines Elternhauses erinnere ich mich nur an die, in denen ich ein entscheidendes Erlebnis hatte. Von diesen Erlebnissen sind mir viele als ein Ausdruck ständigen Fragens und Suchens, Unver­standenes zu begreifen, in Erinnerung geblieben. Einige von ihnen möchte ich hier festhalten, weil sie für mein späteres Leben ent­scheidend gewesen sind.

Aus jener frühesten Zeit ist mir geblieben, daß ich mit vier Jah­ren mein erstes Gedicht geschrieben habe, das ein einfaches klei­nes Lied und an meine Mutter gerichtet war. Aber schon zwei Jahre darauf schrieb ich ein Gedicht, das mir in all seiner Kind­lichkeit noch heute für mein ganzes Leben bezeichnend erscheint:




In einem Bäckerladen

Lag ein kleines Brot,

Daneben stand der Bäcker

Und schnitt das Brötchen tot.

Da schrie das kleine Brot

Und war in großer Not.

Allein da half kein Flehen,

Es mußte so geschehen.


Da nahm es einer untern Arm,

Da saß es wenigstens recht warm.

Er trug es in sein Haus hinein,

Da fing das Brötchen an zu schrei'n,

Er steckt es in den Mund,

Gleich fuhr es in den Schlund.

Nun saß es in dem Magen

Und konnte nichts mehr sagen.“





Margarete Susman (14 oktober 1872  - 16 januari 1966)





Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2008.


De Poolse schrijver
Stefan Żeromski werd geboren op 14 oktober 1864 in Strawczyn in de buurt van Kielce. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006.


E. E. Cummings, Péter Nádas, Katha Pollitt, Katherine Mansfield, Stefan Żeromski

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Edward Estlin Cummings werd geboren in Cambridge, Massachusetts op 14 oktober 1894. E.E. Cummings studeerde af aan de universiteit van Harvard, en ging als vrijwilliger naar Frankrijk tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Na de oorlog bleef hij in Parijs, maar keerde later terug naar de VS. Al vanaf jonge leeftijd hield hij zich bezig met het schrijven van gedichten. Zijn eerste gepubliceerde collectie gedichten kwam van zijn manuscript uit 1922 met de titel Tulips & Chimneys (Tulpen & Schoorstenen). In zijn gedichten verwerpt hij de formele dichtvormen zoals stanza's en het gebruik van metrum. Zijn stijl wordt verder gekenmerkt door typografische innovaties, zoals afwijkend hoofdlettergebruik (echter niet een volledig ontbreken van hoofdlettergebruik) en interpunctie, en door woorden of delen van woorden die weloverwogen over de pagina verspreid staan. Zijn gedichten komen hierdoor op het eerste gezicht vaak onsamenhangend over, totdat ze hardop gelezen worden. Naast gedichten heeft Cummings ook kinderboeken en korte verhalen geschreven. Ook was hij een verdienstelijk kunstschilder.

Naast de snel in het oog springende typografische innovaties zijn de levensvreugde, de humor en soms het sarcasme, die uit de gedichten spreken, kenmerkend voor zijn werk.

Zijn naam wordt, in navolging van zijn gedichten waarin Cummings met typografie experimenteerde, vaak zonder hoofdletters geschreven, e.e. cummings. Volgens Norman Friedman in Journal of the E. E. Cummings Society, (Voorjaar 1, 1992), zou zijn naam echter gewoon gespeld moeten worden — als E. E. Cummings dus. De schrijfwijze van zijn naam met kleine letters was een typografisch concept van een uitgever voor de omslag van één van zijn bundels, maar werd nooit gebruikt door Cummings zelf.



if i love You


if i love You

(thickness means

worlds inhabited by roamingly

stern bright faeries


if you love

me) distance is mind carefully

luminous with innumerable gnomes

Of complete dream


if we love each (shyly)

other, what clouds do or Silently

Flowers resembles beauty

less than our breathing






it is at moments after i have dreamed


it is at moments after i have dreamed

of the rare entertainment of your eyes,

when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed


with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;

at moments when the glassy darkness holds


the genuine apparition of your smile

(it was through tears always)and silence moulds

such strangeness as was mine a little while;


moments when my once more illustrious arms

are filled with fascination, when my breast

wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:


one pierced moment whiter than the rest


-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep

i watch the roses of the day grow deep.







you shall above all things be glad and young


you shall above all things be glad and young

For if you're young,whatever life you wear



it will become you;and if you are glad

whatever's living will yourself become.

Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:

i can entirely her only love



whose any mystery makes every man's

flesh put space on;and his mind take off time



that you should ever think,may god forbid

and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:

for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave

called progress,and negation's dead undoom.



I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing

than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance







E. E. Cummings (14 oktober 1894 - 3 september 1962)








De Hongaarse schrijver Péter Nádas werd geboren op 14 oktober 1942 in Boedapest. Nádas studeerde eerst scheikunde en werkte jaren lang als fotograaf. Na de eerste publicatie van zijn verhalen in een tijdschrift in 1965 werd hij zelfstandig schrijver. In 1981 en 1982 verbleef hij op uitnodiging van de DAAD in West-Berlijn. Het verschijnen van zijn eerste roman The End of a Family Story werd lang door de censuur tegengehouden. Het boek verscheen pas in 1977. In 1985 verscheen het 1.300 bladzijden tellende A Book of Memories. De handeling hierin bestaat uit drie met elkaar verweven verhaallijnen. Eeen speelt in de DDR in de jaren zeventig, een rond de eeuwwisseling in Heilgendamm aan de Oostzee en een in Hongarije zelf tijdens de volksopstand van 1956. In 2005 verscheen de uit drie delen bestaande roman Parallel Stories.




Liegengebliebene Aufzeichnungen

eines Provinzjournalisten


Im Jahr nach der Kollektivierung

–Von Haus zu Haus ist er gezogen,Guten Tag bei den Lutheranern, Grüß Gott bei den Katholiken.

– Sie wollten um keinen Preis mit der Maschine melken.

– Auch Kálmán Perlaki wollte das nicht.

– Da kommt nichts dabei rum,wir werden alle verhungern, hat man gesagt.

– Und wenn der Apparat jetzt mal nicht geht,wollen sie nicht mit der Hand melken.

– Kuh mit drei Zitzen sagen die Leute dazu.

– Ehrlich gesagt, so geht das, auch Kálmán Perlaki war ja Kleinbauer.

Warum trittst du nicht in die Genossenschaft ein, hab ich ihn gefragt. Er hat mich genervt. Ehrlich gesagt war mir klar, daß man nichts dabei gewinnt. Aber was das betrifft, hab ich nie

Anlaß zur Beschwerde gegeben. Ich kann zuhören. Wir sind sechs in der Familie. Ich habe ja schließlich auch Augen im Kopf, kann weitersehen! Mein Ältester ist bereits einundzwanzig.

Dem wird’s beim Militär besser gehen. Soll er dabei bleiben,

wenn er will.

– Da ist er richtig. Dieser Józsika wußte schon immer, wo’s langgeht.

– Also berichten Sie bitte über mich, daß ich kein so übler Schweinehund bin.


– So was kann man gar nicht berichten, denn wenn es so wäre, dann wäre er ja gar nicht hier.


Am 7.Februar abends hat der Vorsitzende durch seinen Sohn den Beschluß

der Leitung überbringen lassen:


»Hiermit meldet der LPG-Vorsitzende, daß der Melker Kálmán Perlaki am 3. dieses Monats versucht hat, 8 kg von dem in Kollektiveigentum der LPG befindlichen Futterschrot zu entwenden. Außerdem fand ich 2 l Milch in seiner Aktentasche,die er sich gleichfalls ohne Erlaubnis und ohne Entgelt aneignen wollte. Es ist anzunehmen, aber nicht nachweisbar, daß es sich bei dem Mitglied Perlaki nicht um den ersten Fall dieser Art handelt. Der Leitung ist bekannt, daß er davon abgesehen auch

gegen seine Mitarbeiter ein unverträgliches Benehmen zeigt, zum Beispiel, daß er im Affekt mit einer Heugabel auf den für das Futter zuständigen István Oroszi einstach,was einen Prozeß zur Folge hatte undwofür er auch bestraftworden ist.Mehrmals ist es vorgekommen, daß er sich sowohl dem Brigadier als auch dem Agronomen gegenüber arrogant und provokativ benommen hat.Dieser Mensch glaubt,wenn er nichtwäre,müßten wir den Viehbestand abgeben,was genug zeigt, wie eingenommen

er von sich ist.Bei seinem kleinbäuerlichenDenken liegt ihm am Schicksal der Molkerei gerade soviel, daß er das Futtermittel plündert,damit wir nicht unerwartet bessere Ergebnisse auf dem Gebiet der Milch- und Fleischproduktion erzielen. Daher müssen wir davon ausgehen, daß seine jetzige Tat nur den Höhepunkt schon früher begangener Taten darstellt, welche für die Demokratie in der LPG und die Idee des großbetrieblichen Schutzes vonKollektiveigentum außerordentlich schädlich sind.

Deshalb wird das LPG-Mitglied Kálmán Perlaki gemäß Leitungsbeschluß mit sofortigerWirkung von seiner bisherigenArbeitstätigkeit als Melker abgesetzt und verpflichtet, am 8. Februar morgens um 6 Uhr im Leitungsbüro zu erscheinen.«





Péter Nádas (Boedapest,14 oktober 1942)









De Amerikaanse dichteres, essayiste, critica en feministe Katha Pollitt werd geboren op 14 oktober 1949 in New York. Het bekendst is Polett door haar column "Subject to Debate" in The Nation, maar zij publiceerde ook in diverse andere bladen als The New Yorker, Harper's Magazine, Ms. magazine en The New York Times. In 1994 publiceerde zij Reasonable Creatures: Essays on Women and Feminism, een verzameling van negentien essays. In 1983 had zij een National Book Critics Circle Award ontvangen voor haar dichtbundel Antarctic Traveller. In 2006 verscheen Virginity or Death!: And Other Social and Political Issues of Our Time.



Small Comfort


Coffee and cigarettes in a clean cafe,
forsythia lit like a damp match against
a thundery sky drunk on its own ozone,

the laundry cool and crisp and folded away
again in the lavender closet-too late to find
comfort enough in such small daily moments

of beauty, renewal, calm, too late to imagine
people would rather be happy than suffering
and inflicting suffering. We're near the end,

but O before the end, as the sparrows wing
each night to their secret nests in the elm's green dome
O let the last bus bring

love to lover, let the starveling
dog turn the corner and lope suddenly
miraculously, down its own street, home.






Lilacs in September

Shocked to the root
like the lilac bush
in the vacant lot
by the hurricane--

whose black branch split
by wind or rain
has broken out

into these scant ash-
colored blossoms
lifted high
as if to say

to passersby
What will unleash
itself in you
when your storm comes?






Katha Pollitt (New York,14 oktober 1949)








De Nieuw-Zeelandse schrijfster Katherine Mansfield werd geboren op 14 oktober 1888 in Wellington. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2007.


Uit: Prelude



THERE was not an inch of room for Lottie and Kezia in the buggy. When Pat swung them on top of the luggage they wobbled; the grandmother's lap was full and Linda Burnell could not possibly have held a lump of a child on hers for any distance. Isabel, very superior, was perched beside the new handy-man on the driver's seat. Hold-alls, bags and boxes were piled upon the floor. "These are absolute necessities that I will not let out of my sight for one instant," said Linda Burnell, her voice tremb­ ling with fatigue and excitement.

Lottie and Kezia stood on the patch of lawn just inside the gate all ready for the fray in their coats
with brass anchor buttons and little round caps with battleship ribbons. Hand in hand, they stared with round solemn eyes first at the absolute necessities and then at their mother.

"We shall simply have to leave them. That is all. We shall simply have to cast them off," said Linda Burnell. A strange little laugh flew from her lips; she leaned back against the buttoned leather cushions and shut her eyes, her lips tremb­ling with laughter. Happily at that moment Mrs. Samuel Josephs, who had been watching the scene from behind her drawing-room blind, waddled down the garden path.

"Why nod leave the chudren with be for the afterdoon, Brs. Burnell? They could go on the dray with the storeban when he comes in the eveding. Those thigs on the path have to go, dod't they?"

"Yes, everything outside the house is supposed to go," said Linda Burnell, and she waved a white
hand at the tables and chairs standing on their heads on the front lawn. How absurd they looked!
Either they ought to be the other way up, or Lottie and Kezia ought to stand on their heads, too. And she longed to say: "Stand on your heads, children, and wait for the store-man." It seemed to her that would be so exquisitely funny that she could not attend to Mrs. Samuel Josephs.

The fat creaking body leaned across the gate, and the big jelly of a face smiled. "Dod't you worry, Brs. Burnell. Loddie and Kezia can have tea with by chudren in the dursery, and I'll see theb on the dray afterwards."

The grandmother considered. "Yes, it really is quite the best plan. We are very obliged to you, Mrs. Samuel Josephs. Children, say 'thank you' to Mrs. Samuel Josephs."

Two subdued chirrups: "Thank you, Mrs. Samuel Josephs,"




Katherine Mansfield (14 oktober 1888 – 9 januari 1923)






De Poolse schrijver Stefan Żeromski werd geboren op 14 oktober 1864 in Strawczyn in de buurt van Kielce. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 oktober 2006.


Uit: Forebodings (Vertaald door Marie Busch)


„I had spent an hour at the railway station, waiting for the train to come in. I had stared indifferently at several ladies in turn who were yawning in the corners of the waiting-room. Then I had tried the effect of making eyes at a fair-haired young girl with a small white nose, rosy cheeks, and eyes like forget-me-nots; she had stuck out her tongue (red as a field-poppy) at me, and I was now at a loss to know what to do next to kill time.


Fortunately for me two young students entered the waiting-room. They looked dirty from head to foot, mud-bespattered, untidy, and exhausted with travelling. One of them, a fair boy with a charming profile, seemed absent-minded or depressed. He sat down in a corner, took off his cap, and hid his face in his hands. His companion bought his ticket for him, sat down beside him, and grasped his hand from time to time.


'Why should you despair? All may yet be well. Listen, Anton.'


'No, it's no good, he is dying, I know it.... I know... perhaps he is dead already.'


'Don't believe it! Has your father ever had this kind of attack before?'


'He has; he has suffered from his heart for three years. He used to drink at times. Think of it, there are eight of us, some are young children, and my mother is delicate. In another six months his pension would have been due. Terribly hard luck!'


'You are meeting trouble half-way, Anton.'


The bell sounded, and the waiting-room became a scene of confusion. People seized their luggage and trampled on each other's toes; the porter who stood at the entrance-door was stormed with questions. There was bustle and noise everywhere. I entered the third-class carriage in

which the fair-haired student was sitting. His friend had put him into it, settling him in the corner-seat beside the window, as if he were an invalid, and urging him to take comfort. It did not come easy to him, the words seemed to stick in his throat. The fair-haired boy's face twitched convulsively, and his eyelids closed over his moist eyes.


'Anton, my dear fellow,' the other said, 'well, you understand what I mean; God knows. You may be sure... confound it all!'


The second bell sounded, and then the third. The sympathizing friend stepped out of the carriage, and, as the train started, he waved an odd kind of farewell greeting, as if he were threatening him with his fists.“





Stefan Żeromski (14 oktober 1864 - 20 november 1925)