17-02-18

Shahrnush Parsipur, Willem Thies, Sadegh Hedayat, Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Albert Kuyle, Jaroslav Vrchlický, Chaim Potok, Mo Yan, Frederik Hetmann

 

De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook alle tags voor Shahrnush Parsipur op dit blog.

Uit: Touba and the Meaning of Night (Vertaald door Kamran Talattof and Havva Houshmand)

“Haji Adib thought, "I am old." His heart sank. There was not much time left to spend on the subject of becoming and metamorphosis, or the spirit of dust in part and whole, or to contemplate the trees as a whole or the minute parts making up the whole. He thought that probably each in its own minute society had a few Haji Adibs and Moshir O'Dolehs and Englishmen who fought each other. He laughed and imagined that probably Asdolah their local butcher chopped their meat for them. And then he laughed loudly again.
Suddenly the rhythmic sound of the shuttle comb stopped in the basement. Haji Adib could no longer hear the soft conversations of the women. The sun had not yet reached the middle of the sky. Haji Adib still sat on the edge of the octagonal pool, his fist under his chin. He turned his head around and, through the sharp angle that formed between his head and his arm, looked in the direction of the basement. The women had gathered by the basement window staring in his direction and were whispering. He had a feeling that they were talking about him. He remembered that just a few seconds ago he had laughed, loud and without inhibition, in a manner that was not appropriate to his position, and that the women had never seen such behavior in him. As he slowly tapped his foot on the ground, he thought, "They think. Unfortunately, they think. Not like the ants nor like the minute parts of the tree, nor like the particles of dust, but more or less as I do." But, he was certain that they would never have thoughts about Mullah Sadra.
Suddenly he was shaken again, for of course they could think about Mullah Sadra as well. Had that not been the case with that rebellious and audacious woman who lived in their town when he was a child, who created all that uproar and sensation? People said that she was a prostitute, but they also said that she was learned. How much talking there was about her! He remembered someone telling his father that she was the messiah. The women were laughing behind the basement window. Haji thought disparagingly that they were behaving with typical women's foolishness. One pushed and the others burst out laughing; one was tickled while the other tried to get away. If there had not been a man in the house, their laughter would probably have been heard all over. Undoubtedly some of them were going crazy for not having a husband, but it was not possible to find husbands for them. They were dependent on Haji Adib, and there was not a man available at the moment who was rich enough to take one of them. Besides, if they did get married who would then weave the carpets? For that, he couldn't bring strange women into the house. They might then participate in some perverse activities with one another.”

 

 
Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)
Cover

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17-02-17

Chaim Potok, Mo Yan, Frederik Hetmann, Emmy Hennings, Mori Ōgai

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Chaim Potok werd geboren in New York City op 17 februari 1929. Zie ook alle tags voor Chaim Potok op dit blog.

Uit: The Chosen

“On a Sunday afternoon in early June, the fifteen members of my team met with our gym instructor in the play yard of our school. It was a warm day, and the sun was bright on the asphalt floor of the yard. The gym instructor was a short, chunky man in his early thirties who taught in the mornings in a nearby public high school and supplemented his income by teaching in our yeshiva during the afternoons. He wore a white polo shirt, white pants, and white sweater, and from the awkward way the little black skullcap sat perched on his round, balding head, it was clearly apparent that he was not accustomed to wearing it with any sort of regularity. When he talked he frequently thumped his right fist into his left palm to emphasize a point. He walked on the balls of his feet, almost in imitation of a boxer’s ring stance, and he was fanatically addicted to professional baseball. He had nursed our softball team along for two years, and by a mixture of patience, luck, shrewd manipulations during some tight ball games, and hard, fist-thumping harangues calculated to shove us into a patriotic awareness of the importance of athletics and physical fitness for the war effort, he was able to mold our original team of fifteen awkward fumblers into the top team of our league. His name was Mr. Galanter, and all of us wondered why he was not off somewhere fighting in the war.
During my two years with the team, I had become quite adept at second base and had also developed a swift underhand pitch that would tempt a batter into a swing but would drop into a curve at the last moment and slide just below the flaying bat for a strike. Mr. Galanter always began a ball game by putting me at second base and would use me as a pitcher only in very tight moments, because, as he put it once, “My baseball philosophy is grounded on the defensive solidarity of the infield.”
That afternoon we were scheduled to play the winning team of another neighborhood league, a team with a reputation for wild, offensive slugging and poor fielding. Mr. Galanter said he was counting upon our infield to act as a solid defensive front. Throughout the warm-up period, with only our team in the yard, he kept thumping his right fist into his left palm and shouting at us to be a solid defensive front."

 

 
Chaim Potok (17 februari 1929 – 23 juli 2002)

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17-02-16

Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Chaim Potok, Mo Yan, Frederik Hetmann, Shahrnush Parsipur, Emmy Hennings

 

De Russische schrijver, regisseur en acteur Yevgeni Grishkovetz werd geboren op 17 februari 1969 in Kemerovo. Zie ook alle tags voor Yevgeni Grishkovetz op dit blog.

Uit:How I Ate the Dog

“They got out at every station and walked around the platform with an old cassette player, glancing to the sides, meaning – Are they looking at us or not?  Aha…they’re looking!  Very good!  I was surprised at the time by how their sailor hats stayed on the back of their heads, it was obvious that they should have fallen off, but they stayed on, all the same…. Without any sense of idiotic metaphor, they hung like haloes….  I only found out later, how they stayed on… sailor hats.  And that there’s no secret, they simply stay on, and that’s it.
The sailors were entertaining….  We came up to them with questions about how it is, and they gladly told us how…: “Well, we went through La Pérouse Strait, then we went to Cam Ranh, we stopped there…, then we went to New Zealand and they didn’t let us come ashore, but in Australia they let us come ashore, but only the officers went and…”
And I was thinking: “Geeeeee whiz… After all I studied English in school…  Why?”  Well, there were countries where they speak this language, there was Europe, well somewhere there… Paris, London, you know, Amsterdam, there were those, and leave it at all that.  What’s it to me?  They sometimes vaguely disturbed you in that they nevertheless kind of existed…, but they didn’t draw out any concrete desire.  The world was huge, like in a book….
And these sailors had been, my God, in Australia, New Zealand….  And the same awaits me, just put me in that same uniform….  And little by little, already quickly, the train takes us to Vladivostok, and there is still a little left – and some sort of sea, some sort of countries….  Reluctance!!!!  Because even though I didn’t know anything concrete, I suspected that, well, of course, it wasn’t quite that simple, Australia, New Zealand, and still some other place like that, the essential of what I didn’t want to know, of what I was afraid, of what I was very afraid  and what would very soon come up… without fail….“

 

 
Yevgeni Grishkovetz (Kemerovo, 17 februari 1969)

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17-02-15

Shahrnush Parsipur, Sadegh Hedayat, Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Mo Yan,Frederik Hetmann, Emmy Hennings

 

De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook alle tags voor Shahrnush Parsipur op dit blog.

Uit: The Gentlemen (Vertaald door Farzin Yazdanfar)

“Mr. Habibi: What should we look at? I don't get it.
Mr. Nemati: He's right, dear. We should look around. We just talk. We've been talking for 2500 years.**
Mr. Tahmooresi: According to history, 2800 years. I don't understand why we're insisting on 2500 years. Humanity has existed for a million years.
Mr. Habibi: Not humanity, 'humans'.
Mr. Tahmooresi: 'Humanity' is symmetrical with 'human'. One is meaningless without the other.
Mr. Habibi: But it's correct to say 'human'. For instance, Dr. Barnard,*** who performs heart transplant operations, replaces a human being's heart; he doesn't replace humanity's heart.
Mr. Tahmooresi: You're just playing with words. Well, if Dr. Barnard can change the heart of human beings, he'll somehow be able to change the heart of humanity. Won't he?
Mr. Nemati: But let's be honest. The question of humanity aside, Dr. Barnard seems to have started a good business. There's nobody to ask him what the fuss is about.
Mr. Tahmooresi: I really like Nemati.
He never lets the argument end up with a quarrel. I was once a soldier serving in the army in Kurdestan. I mean I wasn't a soldier. I was higher in rank, I was a lieutenant...
Mr. Habibi: This is how they fool people. They think that if they give you a couple of badges and promote you to a higher rank, they have the right to bully you. I don't understand the logic behind it. Why do they waste two years of one's life?
Mr. Tahmooresi: It's obvious. If a war breaks out, there should be some people to fight. After all, how would a war be possible without soldiers?
Mr. Nemati: I don't understand at all what the real purpose of war is. I read somewhere that war isn't part of man's nature. Man invented war.
Mr. Habibi: Man invented God, too.”

 

 
Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

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17-02-14

Shahrnush Parsipur, Sadegh Hedayat, Mo Yan,Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Frederik Hetmann, Emmy Hennings

 

De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook alle tags voor Shahrnush Parsipur op dit blog.

Uit: Touba and the Meaning of Night (Vertaald door Kamran Talattof and Havva Houshmand)

“Haji Adib thought about the women, "They can think." Something had been shaken in him again, just as the first time he had seen the globe. Haji Adib thought, "Very well, you know that the earth is round, you knew it very well. But then why so much anxiety?" This knowledge threw him rapidly into depths of thought. In his studies he had read that some of the Greek philosophers had hypothesized the roundness of the earth. He knew that the scientists of the east also had knowledge of this fact. At least, a few of them knew it. Then Galileo had come and proven it. Haji Adib knew all of this, yet he wanted to continue believing in the squareness of the earth.
He sat on the edge of the octagonal pool and leaned his head on his left arm. He needed to understand why he wanted the earth to remain square. Impatiently, he wanted to throw aside any thought of the sleeping lady earth. But the thought would not leave him, spinning in the sphere of his mind.... Who was it who said that slaves were merely tools that spoke? Haji Adib had at last found a thought to keep him from dwelling on the sleeping lady of the earth. Who said it? Perhaps it was a Roman. He raised his eyebrows, but it would not come to him. He could not remember.
Who was it who had said, "Let us shut the books and return to the school of nature?" Again, his memory failed him. What had been the use of all his reading, he thought.
On the ground, ants were coming and going in a straight line. Haji Adib placed his index finger in the way of one of the ants. The ant stopped, shook his antennae, then climbed up his finger. Now that the earth was round, everything took on a different meaning. The ant walked aimlessly up and down Haji Adib's finger. Without doubt, Rumi had been right: Nature progressed, ascended, and was always becoming. But did an ant think? Perhaps it had some kind of thought process. Not everything could be Haji Adib's sole possession, particularly thought.”

 

 
Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

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12-10-12

Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur voor Mo Yan

 

Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur voor Mo Yan

 

 

De Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur is toegekend aan Chinese schrijver Mo Yan. Dat heeft het Nobelcomité in Stockholm bekendgemaakt. Mo Yan werd geboren op 17 februari 1955 in Gaomi in de provincie Shandong. Aan de Nobelprijs is een bedrag van ongeveer € 930.000 verbonden. Het Nobelcomité roemt Mo Yan voor het "hallucinerend realisme" waarmee hij volksverhalen, geschiedenis en het hedendaagse combineert. Mo Yan, een pseudoniem voor 'spreek niet', krijgt de prijs op 10 december uitgereikt. Zie ook alle tags voor Mo Yan op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Garlic Ballads (Vertaald door Howard Goldblatt)

 

“Gao Yang touched the drop of nectar with his tongue, and his taste buds were treated to a cool, sweet taste that relaxed him. He surveyed his three acres of garlic field. It was a good crop, the white tips large and plump, some at a jaunty angle, others straight as a board. The garlic was moist and juicy, with downy sprouts beginning to appear. His pregnant wife was on her hands and knees beside him, yanking garlic out of the ground. Her face was darker than usual, and there were fine lines around her eyes, like veins of spreading rust on a sheet of iron. As she knelt, knees coated with mud, her childhood deformity — a stunted left arm that inconvenienced her in everything she did — made the job harder than it ought to have been. He watched her reach down and pinch the stalks with a pair of new bamboo chopsticks; the effort made her bite her lip each time, and he felt sorry for her. But he needed her help, for he’d heard that the co-op was setting up shop in the county town to buy the garlic crop at slightly over fifty fen a pound, higher than last year’s peak price of forty-five. He knew the county had expanded the amount of acreage given over to garlic this year; and with a bumper crop, the earlier you harvested yours, the sooner you could sell it. That was why everyone in the Village, women and children included, was out in the fields. But as he looked at his pitiable pregnant wife, he said, “Why not rest awhile?”

“What for?” She raised her sweaty face. “I’m not tired. I just worry the baby might come.”

“Already?” he asked anxiously.

“I figure some time in the next couple of days. I hope it waits till the harvest is in, at least.”

“Do they always come when they’re due?”

“Not always. Xinghua was ten days late.”

They turned to look behind them, where their daughter sat obediently at the edge of the field, her sightless eyes opened wide. She was holding a stalk of garlic in one hand and stroking it with the other.

“Careful with that garlic, Xinghua,” he said. “Each stalk is worth several fen.”

 

 

 

Mo Yan (Gaomi, 17 februari 1955)

 

 

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17-02-12

Shahrnush Parsipur, Sadegh Hedayat, Mo Yan,Yevgeni Grishkovetz

 

De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook alle tags voor Shahrnush Parsipur op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Gentlemen (Vertaald door Farzin Yazdanfar)

 

„There were three gentlemen: Mr. Tahmooresi, Mr. Habibi, and Mr. Nemati. They were sitting on a patio covered with an old rug. The evening was rather long and the sun was on the edge of the roof. Mr. Tahmooresi, half-drunk, was looking at the rain spots on the wall and at the sun which was setting on the ledge. Mr. Nemati, cheerful, was whispering a popular song.

Mr. Habibi: She has a good heart. Yes, she's very sincere.

Mr. Nemati: There's something attractive in her voice. A strain of sadness! Her voice is unusually sad.

Mr. Habibi: They say that she has had a tragic life, too. Her aunt raised her after she had tragically lost her parents.

Mr. Nemati: How strange!

Mr. Tahmooresi: You guys are talking too much.

"So what do you want us to do?" The other gentlemen asked.

Mr. Tahmooresi: Keep quiet for a moment and look at the beauties of nature.

Mr. Nemati and Mr. Habibi looked at what Mr. Tahmooresi had called nature: An incongruous polygonal pond with two rectangular flower- beds on each side. The violets had withered, and Mrs. Tahmooresi had not gotten a chance to plant summer flowers. They had sprinkled water on the mosaic tiles, and steam rising from the wet tiles had made the air in the backyard swelter.

Mr. Nemati: What do you mean 'nature', Tahmooresi?

Mr. Tahmooresi: Don't try to split hairs. This is nature. Isn't this?"

Mr. Habibi: Of course! You told us to look at nature and we would like to know what you mean by nature.

Mr. Nemati: I know. He means this pine tree, these violets, this blackberry tree. Am I right Tahmooresi?

Mr. Tahmooresi: I think you don't understand what I'm saying. I mean something different. Perhaps the word 'nature' isn't quite the right word. I should look for a different word. Look around carefully. This is what I meant: you shouldn't talk too much; you should look instead.“

 

 

 

Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

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17-02-11

Shahrnush Parsipur, Sadegh Hedayat, Mo Yan,Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Frederik Hetmann, Emmy Hennings

 

De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2010.

 

Uit: The Story of the Men of Sialk Hills (Vertaald door Steve MacDowell en Afshin Nassiri) 

 

„This was very strange. And they wanted to discuss this strange event with each other, but the people in the line started protesting and asked them to go stand at the end of the line. Hence the tar player and his fiancée started walking toward the end of the line. That is how they followed along the line and passed a few streets and corners. Then they walked along the main highway and reached Baghdad. At that time Baghdad was more or less like the Sialk Hills, hazy and full of dust, but the sound of music could be heard from a small deli around the corner. At this moment the tar player’s fiancée became angry and told him she had always felt that his love for her had never been real and that he only wanted to marry her because of his need for a servant. Otherwise, why would he make her borrow her own mother’s wedding ring? The tar player swore that it was not like that at all, that he sincerely loved her, and that he wanted to marry her. That is how, as they walked with the line, they kept arguing. It was hot, and a swarm of flies were flying around their heads. The man became increasingly irritated and furious. That was why when they got to Damascus he screamed, "What do you want from my life? Do you realize how long we have been arguing?"

At this moment a little event encouraged them to keep to their decision to see the film. That event was a fork in the line.

The man yelled, "You are shameless!"

The girl yelled, "Am I shameless, or are you?"

Without answering her, the man said, "What a slut!"

Red-faced from anger, the girl screamed, "You call me slut?" and she continued to go with the other branch of the line and went away. It was clear that for a long time after this event she did not look back. And in order to prove that he was his own man, he continued to go with the main branch of the line. After a while he stopped and asked one of the people in the line, "Excuse me, what film are you standing in line for?"

The man in the line said, "I want to see the last film of the great director, Edward Muntz, the director who recently passed away."

 

 

 

Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

 

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17-02-10

Shahrnush Parsipur, Sadegh Hedayat, Mo Yan,Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Frederik Hetmann, Emmy Hennings, Chaim Potok, Gustavo Bécquer


De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

Uit: Touba and the Meaning of Night (Vertaald door Kamran Talattof and Havva Houshmand)

 

„He remembered the chaos of war in the city of Herat, and the flood of deserters, the hunger, and the inflated food prices. He remembered how he had thought that if only he could spread his body on the earth so it would cover these four walls, if only he could for one second take her with love and aggressiveness, then all wars would end. People would become calm. They would look after their own business, and there would never be famine. And after that loving domination, he would have only to give orders, and the lady would submit. She might give birth, she might not; she might bear fruit, she might not. Whether the sky poured rain or not, everything would be at his command.

When his father died after a long illness, he was left with the responsibility for the many women in the family, those who did their weaving in the basement of the house. They were from the city of Kashan, where weaving was a tradition. His brothers were all in the carpet business, but he had turned to the sciences. Every time he entered the house and announced his arrival by invoking the name of God, the women would run to different corners to cover their hair. Haji enjoyed their imposed silence when he was there, and, without knowing how or why, he cared for their affairs. He would arrange for the girls' marriages and find wives for their sons. In order to take care of everyone's needs he spent his own youth without a wife. Unknowingly, he had married the lady earth. And though he did not confess it, he feared her. He was afraid of her chaotic laws and her famines. At the age of fifty when he finally married his illiterate wife, he actually enjoyed her ignorance and simplicity. A single sharp glance was enough to put the woman in her place, and the turning wheel of life's activity continued.

After the incident of the Englishman, having paced the yard of his home for many long days, Haji Adib finally came to the conclusion that women do eventually lose their innocence. In fact, the lady was never asleep, nor even half asleep. Rather, she was always awake and spinning in frenzy. It was just this turning that caused the seasons to follow one another, floods to occur, and droughts to descend. The rhythmic sound of the shuttle comb on the loom now implied something different.“

 

 

 

 

Parsipur
Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

 

 

 

 

De Iraanse schrijver Sadegh Hedayat werd geboren op 17 februari 1903 in Teheran. Hij stamde uit een adelijke familie met groot aanzien. Zijn oergrootvader Mirza Reza Qoli Khan Hedayat was een beroemde geschiedschrijver, dicher en opvoeder van prinsen in het Iran van de 19e eeuw. Hedayat bezocht het gymnasium in Teheran, maar hij moest deze na een jaar wegens een oogziekte al weer verlaten. Hij bezocht daarna de Franse missieschool St. Louis, waar hij de Franse taal en literatuur leerde kennen. Hij begon later aan diverse studies in Frankrijk. Depressief en vol twijfels aan zichzelf deed hij in 1929 een zelfmoordpoging in de rivier de Marne. Deze mislukte echter. Zonder zijn studies te voltooien keerde hij naar Iran terug en had hij allelei baantjes voordat hij weer naar Frankrijk terug ging. Hij bleef zijn hele leven de westerse literatuur bestuderen als ook de Iraanse geschiedenis en folklore. Hij publiceerde talrijke short stories, novellen, een toneelstuk, twee historische drama’s, satires en kritieken. Zijn belanrijkste boek is wel „De blinde uil“ uit 1937.

 

Uit: Myth of Creation (Vertaald door Ali Sadri)

 

„In the middle of an elaborate assembly O is seated on a throne shrouded with jewels. He is an old man leaning lazily against gold-threaded pillows covered with precious stones. He has a long beard, silver hair, round spectacles and is warring loose clothing also covered with jewels. A black slave holding an umbrella stands over him while a fair-skinned young maiden fans him.

The four archangels stand at attention encircling the throne. On the right stand Gabriel and Michael while on the left Izrael and Raphael. All except Izrael are dressed like Roman soldiers fully equipped with suits of armor, shields, helmets, and knee-high boots; their long swords hanging from their waists, and their wings resting on their backs. Izrael on the other hand, his face resembling death, hangs a long, black cloak on his back and instead of a sword, holds a sickle in his hand.

Behind them a group of mermaids and virgins with tight-fitting head-covers gaze at the assembly and the slaves in turn gawk at the virgins with lustful eyes. In one corner of the room Lucifer stands erect with exaggeratingly arched eyebrows and pointed beard wearing a red cloak, coned hat, and a wide heavy sword on his belt.

In the middle of the room, the provocatively dressed virgins sing and dance moving sinuously about. One in a translucent dress dances flirtatiously and sidesteps towards the throne. O takes out a coin from his belt and throws it to her. The musicians and the jesters stop simultaneously as O half rises from his throne and gives the be-silent signal. He produces a piece of paper from his side and begins to read.

"Behold, this is the truth and nothing but the truth," he swallows. "In spite of old age and infirmity, I've been busy for the past few days. The first day I created light, then I created the earth, then the sky, then the sea, rocks, mud, etc." He pauses for a breath. "Now I would like to demonstrate my power and leave behind an everlasting legacy. From my will, shall roam upon earth--which is a member of the solar system--multitude of beasts that will be governed by Adam. From mud, I shall make Adam and the beasts."

 

 

 

sadegh_hedayat_01
Sadegh Hedayat (17 februari 1903 – 9 april 1951)

 

 

 

 

De Chinese schrijver Mo Yan werd geboren op 17 februari 1955 in Gaomi in de provincie Shandong. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

Uit: Frog (Vertaald door Howard Goldblatt)

 

„Sir, I was the second child my midwife aunt delivered.

When my mother's time came, my grandmother did what tradition called for her to do: She washed her hands, changed clothes, and lit three sticks of incense, which she stuck in a burner in front of the ancestral tablets. Then she kowtowed three times and sent all the males in the family outside. It was not my mother's first delivery: two boys and a girl preceded me. You're an old hand at this, my grandmother said, you don't need any help. Just take your time. My mother replied: Mother, I don't feel so good about this one, there's something different. My grandmother wouldn't hear of it. How different can it be? she said. You don't expect to have a unicorn, do you?

My mother's feeling did not betray her. My brothers and sister all came out headfirst. Me? Leg first.

My grandmother was scared witless when she saw that tiny calf of mine emerge. There's a popular saying in the countryside that goes: If a leg is foremost, then you owe a ghost. Owe a ghost? What does that mean? It means that someone in the family had an outstanding debt in a previous life, and that the person owed returns as a newborn baby intent on making life hard on the woman in labor. Either mother and child die together or the child hangs around till a certain age, then dies, leaving the family destitute and devastated. So Grandma tried her best to appear calm. This one, she said, is born to run - a lackey. He'll grow up to be an official's go-fer. Now, don't worry, she said, I know just what to do. She went out into the yard, where she picked up a copper basin, brought it back inside, stood at the foot of the bed, and beat it like a cymbal with a rolling pin - Bong! Bong! Come out, she shouted, come out now! Lao ye wants you to deliver a feathered urgent message, so you're in for a whipping if you don't come out right this minute!

Sensing that something was seriously wrong, Mother tapped on the window with the bed whisk and shouted to my sister, who was waiting anxiously out in the yard, Man - my sister's name - go fetch your aunt, and hurry!“

 

 

 

MoYan
Mo Yan (Gaomi, 17 februari 1955)

 

 

 

 

De Russische schrijver, regisseur en acteur Yevgeni Grishkovetz werd geboren op 17 februari 1969 in Kemerovo. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

Uit: Das Hemd (Vertaald door Beate Rausch)

 

„Autos fuhren vorüber. Viele! Ich hob die Hand. Ein Taxi hielt.
»Guten Abend. Zur Ostoschenka?« fragte ich und musterte Auto und Fahrer. ›In Ordnung‹, dachte ich.
»Bitte sehr«, sagte der kräftige Mann am Steuer. Er hatte langes Haar, war glattrasiert und trug eine runde Brille. Er hatte einen hellen Pullover an. Er lächelte.
»Wissen Sie, wie man da hinkommt?«
»Sie werden es nicht glauben! Das weiß ich!« antwortete er. »Da mußte ich schon öfter hin. So ungefähr ...«, er tat so, als würde er es überschlagen und im Kopf rechnen, »eine Million Mal.«
Ich nahm auf dem Rücksitz Platz, und wir fuhren los. Der Fahrer schaltete Musik ein. Nicht laut, sondern ... angenehm. Er hatte eine gute Anlage im Auto, das hörte man an der Klangqualität. Er hatte irgendeinen Jazz eingelegt. Ich verstehe nichts davon ... von Jazz. Für mich ist das eine einzige endlose und verschlungene Komposition. Aber jetzt war es angenehm. Ich schloß leicht die Augen, dadurch zerfielen die Lichter der Stadt und der Autos ringsum und wurden zu langen Strahlen. Und da – das Taxi, die Lichtstreifen, der Jazz, der langhaarige Fahrer mit seiner runden Brille, der Geruch des Wagens, ich werde beschattet ... Amerika!!!
»Stört Sie die Musik? Soll ich vielleicht leiser stellen?« fragte der Fahrer. »Nur das Radio mach ich nicht an. Ich höre kein Radio.«
»Alles wunderbar! Mir gefällt’s. Danke«, antwortete ich.
»Wenn Sie rauchen wollen, bitte, aber Radio auf keinen Fall!« Er hatte eine tiefe und sehr angenehme Stimme.
»Danke, ich rauche nicht. Aber was haben Sie denn gegen Radio?«
 

 

 

 

grishkovetz
Yevgeni Grishkovetz (Kemerovo, 17 februari 1969)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Frederik Hetmann (eig. Hans-Christian Kirsch) werd geboren op 17 februari 1934 in Breslau. Hij groeide op in Neder-Silezië, vluchtte na de oorlog eerst naar Thüringen en in 1949 naar het westen. Hij studeerde in Frankfurt am Main, München en  Madrid pedagogie, Engels, Romanistiek, filosofie en politicologie. Sinds 1962 werkte hij als zelfstandig schrijver. In 1972 werd hij lector en uitgever bij de Otto-Maier-Verlag, maar dat beroep gaf hij zes jaar later al weer op om zich aan het schrijven te wijden. Hij werd bekend met zijn verzamelingen en vertalingen van sprookjes, mythen en sagen en zijn biografieën. Ook schreef hij roman in het fantasy-genre.

 

Uit: Reisender mit schwerem Gepäck. Leben und Werk des Walter Benjamin

 

„Eine zentrale Frage im Werk Benjamins, die wahrscheinlich auch in nachdenklicheren Stunden eines jeden, der diese Zeilen liest, schon einmal aufgetaucht ist, lautet: Was lässt sich über den Verlauf der Geschichte sagen? Oder, um es konkreter auszudrücken: Hat die Menschheit, deren Teil wir alle sind, trotz aller Kriege und anderer Gewalttaten noch eine Zukunft? Und welches wären die Voraussetzungen, um als Zeitgenossen in der Gegenwart zu einer Zukunft, in der es für den Menschen noch Hoffnung auf ein Leben ohne Not und Verfolgung geben sollte, beizutragen?

Benjamins Vorschlag dazu ist es - und diesem Thema gilt ein Hauptstrang seines Denkens, bei dem er kurz vor seinem tragischen Ende noch zu entscheidenden Aussagen gelangte - auf eine ganz bestimmte Art und Weise, die Vergangenheit zu betrachten und aus dieser Betrachtung Konsequenzen für die Gegenwart und die Zukunft zu ziehen.

Wir werden sehen, wie er entdeckt und darstellt, dass die Wurzeln für die Probleme des 20. und auch des 21. Jahrhunderts sich schon im 19. Jahrhundert abzeichnen und dort vor allem in der Fortschrittsgläubigkeit und in der Verherrlichung und Glorifizierung der Warenwelt liegen. Waren werden seither zu einem Fetisch. Dass Waren nicht mehr nur allein zur Befriedigung eines Lebensbedürfnisses oder eines Wunsches dienen, sondern selbst zu magisch verklärten Gegenständen geworden sind, ist heute für jeden selbst einsichtig, der auch nur für eine

Viertelstunde die Werbung im Fernsehen anschaut. Also wäre das eine trivialselbstverständliche

Einsicht? Für uns ist es das wohl geworden. Komplizierter wird es schon, wenn man sich fragt, wie es zu dieser Verzauberung der Warenwelt gekommen ist und welche Konsequenzen sie hat.

Man hat gesagt, Benjamins Bedeutung als Philosoph habe in seiner Fähigkeit bestanden, zwei scheinbar so weit von einander entfernt liegende philosophische Systeme wie das des Marxismus und das der jüdischen Mystik zu einer offenen Philosophie der Zukunft zu verbinden. Man kann dies, je nach eigenem Standpunkt, positiv oder negativ deuten, und man hat es getan.“

 

 

 

hetmann_t
Frederik Hetmann (17 februari 1934 – 1 juni 2006)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en caberetiere Emmy Hennings werd geboren op 17 februari 1885 in Flensburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

 

Nach dem Cabaret

 

Ich gehe morgens früh nach Haus.

Die Uhr schlägt fünf, es wird schon hell,

Doch brennt das Licht noch im Hotel.

Das Cabaret ist endlich aus.

In einer Ecke Kinder kauern,

Zum Markte fahren schon die Bauern,

Zur Kirche geht man still und alt.

Vom Turme läuten ernst die Glocken,

Und eine Dirne mit wilden Locken

Irrt noch umher, übernächtig und kalt.

Lieb mich von allen Sünden rein.

Sieh, ich hab manche Nacht gewacht.

 

 

 

 

Gesang zur Dämmerung

für Hugo Ball

 

Oktaven taumeln Echo nach durch graue Jahre.

Hochaufgetürmte Tage stürzen ein.

Dein will ich sein -

Im Grabe wachsen meine gelben Haare

Und in Holunderbäumen leben fremde Völker

Ein blasser Vorhang raunt von einem Mord

Zwei Augen irren ruhelos durchs Zimmer

Gepenster gehen um beim Küchenbord.

Und kleine Tannen sind verstorbene Kinder

Uralte Eichen sind die Seelen müder Greise

Die flüstern die Geschichte des verfehlten Lebens.

Der Klintekongensee singt eine alte Weise.

Ich war nicht vor dem bösen Blick gefeit

Da krochen Neger aus der Wasserkanne,

Das bunte Bild im Märchenbuch, die rote Hanne

Hat einst verzaubert mich für alle Ewigkeit.

 

 

 

 

HenningsBall

Emmy Hennings (17 februari  1885 – 10 augustus 1948)

Hier met haar echtgenoot Hugo Ball

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Chaim Potok werd geboren in New York City op 17 februari 1929. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007 Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

Uit: The Chosen

 

Danny’s block was heavily populated by the followers of his father, Russian Hasidic Jews in somber garb, whose habits and frames of reference were born on the soil of the land they had abandoned. They drank tea from samovars, sipping it slowly through cubes of sugar held between their teeth; they ate the foods of their homeland, talked loudly, occasionally in Russian, most often in a Russian Yiddish, and were fierce in their loyalty to Danny’s father.
A block away lived another Hasidic sect, Jews from southern Poland, who walked the Brooklyn streets like specters, with their black hats, long black coats, black beards, and earlocks. These Jews had their own rabbi, their own dynastic ruler, who could trace his family’s position of rabbinic leadership back to the time of the Ba’al Shem Tov, the eighteenth-century founder of Hasidism, whom they all regarded as a God-invested personality.
About three or four such Hasidic sects populated the area in which Danny and I grew up, each with its own rabbi, its own little synagogue, its own customs, it own fierce loyalties. On a Shabbat or festival morning, the members of each sect could be seen walking to their respective synagogues, dressed in their particular garb, eager to pray with their particular rabbi and forget the tumult of the week and the hungry grabbing for money which they needed to feed their large families during the seemingly endless Depression. The sidewalks of Williamsburg were cracked squares of cement, the streets paved with asphalt that softened in the stifling summers and broke apart into potholes in the bitter winters. Many of the houses were brownstones, set tightly together, none taller than three or four stories. In these houses lived Jews, Irish, Germans, and some Spanish Civil War refugee families that had fled the new Franco regime before the onset of the Second World War. Most of the stores were run by gentiles, but some were owned by Orthodox Jews, members of the Hasidic sects in the area. They could be seen behind their counters, wearing black skullcaps, full beards, and long earlocks, eking out their meager livelihoods and dreaming of Shabbat and festivals when they could close their stores and turn their attention to their prayers, their rabbi, their God.“

 

 

 

Potok
Chaim Potok (17 februari 1929 – 23 juli 2002)

 

 

 

 

De Spaanse dichter Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer werd op 17 februari 1836 in Sevilla geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2009.

 

 

A Light
(Rima LXXI)

 

Do you not see something
shining and weeping
faraway amid the trees
of the intricate woods? It's a star.

 

Now nearer it appears
visible as if through tulle,
shining on the portico
of the hermitage. It's a light.

 

This fast race is run.
Disillusionment. The light
we have followed is neither
lamp nor star. It's a candle.

 

 

 

Vertaald door Michael Smith

 

 

 

Rhyme LII. The dark-winged swallows will return...

The dark-winged swallows will return
to hang their nests beneath your eaves,
and before your windows once again
beckon with their wings;

but those whose flight restrained
your beauty and my joy to learn,
those who came to know our names...
those...will not return!

The twining honeysuckles will return
your garden walls to climb
and on another afternoon, more lovely still,
again their flowers will bloom;

but those with sparkling drops of dew,
which we'd watch trembling, yearn
and fall, like teardrops of the day...
those...will not return!

From love will come once more the sound
of burning words to ring;
your heart from within its soundest sleep
perhaps will rise again;

but mute, entranced and kneeling down
as adoring God before His throne,
as I have loved you...accept the truth!
they will not love you so!

 

 

 

 

Becquer
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (17 februari 1836 – 22 december 1870)

Portret, geschilderd door zijn broer Valeriano Bécquer

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 17e februari ook mijn vorige twee blogs van vandaag.

17-02-09

Shahrnush Parsipur, Yevgeni Grishkovetz, Mo Yan, Emmy Hennings, Chaim Potok, Gustavo Bécquer, Georg Britting, Andrew Paterson, Ruth Rendell, Pêr-Jakez Helias, Fjodor Sologoeb, Friedrich Klinger, Louisa Lawson, Max Schneckenburger


De Iraanse schrijfster Shahrnush Parsipur werd geboren op 17 februari 1946 in Teheran. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008.

 

Uit: The Story of the Men of Sialk Hills

 

The Sialk Hills civilization had many members. One of these was a man who played the tar and loved his profession very much. This man’s house was located on the western side of the hill. To the right of it was the house of a bearded man. And to the left of his house lived a man who shaved his beard. They were not friends, but they always greeted each other when they met on the street. The tar player had a girlfriend who always reminded him that she was a decent girl. The tar player knew that she was a decent girl, too. That is why he had decided to marry her one of these days. For this reason, he had bought a set of porcelain chimes and had hung them outside his house so when the wind blew they played a nice tune. As a result, the girl came to see him one day and said that they were showing a film that had won international acclaim in a movie theater in the downtown area. She said that it would be nice if they too could go and see it. Then they argued for awhile that since they were not married yet, they might get arrested if they walked together on the street and that they should think of a solution or a trick. This was easily done. The tar player asked his father to lend him his wedding ring, and the girl borrowed her mother’s ring. Then they started walking toward the cinema together.

There was a huge crowd before the theater. On the marquee above the theater door, they had hung the film posters. "The Sad Life Story of the Sufferers," was written in blinking neon. The tar player had forgotten his glasses. He asked the girl to read him the director’s name. The girl read, "A film by Edward Muntz, the Great Director Who Is Either Dead or Will Be Born in the Future and Die Sometime Afterwards."

 

 

 

Parsipur
Shahrnush Parsipur (Teheran, 17 februari 1946)

 

 

 

 

De Russische schrijver, regisseur en acteur Yevgeni Grishkovetz werd geboren op 17 februari 1969 in Kemerovo. Daar studeerde hij ook Russische filologie en richtte hij in 1990 het theaterensemble Loge op, waarmee hij in de volgende jaren meer dan twintig stukken ontwikkelde, voortgekomen uit gesprekken en improvisaties met de groep. In 1998 ontstond zijn solostuk Hoe ik een hond gegeten heb dat zijn premiere beleefde tijdens het Internationale Theaterfestival in Moskou.

 

Uit: Das Hemd (Vertaald door Beate Rausch)

 

»Sie werden es nicht glauben! Das weiß ich!« antwortete er. »Da mußte ich schon öfter hin. So ungefähr ...«, er tat so, als würde er es überschlagen und im Kopf rechnen, »eine Million Mal.«

Ich nahm auf dem Rücksitz Platz, und wir fuhren los. Der Fahrer schaltete Musik ein. Nicht laut, sondern ... angenehm. Er hatte eine gute Anlage im Auto, das hörte man an der Klangqualität. Er hatte irgendeinen Jazz eingelegt. Ich verstehe nichts davon ... von Jazz. Für mich ist das eine einzige endlose und verschlungene Komposition. Aber jetzt war es angenehm. Ich schloß leicht die Augen, dadurch zerfielen die Lichter der Stadt und der Autos ringsum und wurden zu langen Strahlen. Und da – das Taxi, die Lichtstreifen, der Jazz, der langhaarige Fahrer mit seiner runden Brille, der Geruch des Wagens, ich werde beschattet ... Amerika!!!

»Stört Sie die Musik? Soll ich vielleicht leiser stellen?« fragte der Fahrer. »Nur das Radio mach ich nicht an. Ich höre kein Radio.«

»Alles wunderbar! Mir gefällt’s. Danke«, antwortete ich.

»Wenn Sie rauchen wollen, bitte, aber Radio auf keinen Fall!« Er hatte eine tiefe und sehr angenehme Stimme.

»Danke, ich rauche nicht. Aber was haben Sie denn gegen Radio?«

Ich dachte, er würde vermutlich antworten, daß er keine Kraft habe, diese schreckliche Musik zu hören, die immer gesendet werde, oder daß die Nachrichten alle negativ seien, wozu sie anhören, wo das Leben auch so schon scheußlich sei. Aber ich bekam eine ganz andere Antwort zu hören.

»Ich mag Radio nicht, ich höre kein Radio. Ich rege mich immer so auf! Ich habe das Gefühl, etwas zu verpassen. Es gibt so viele Radiosender! Und genau diese Vielzahl beunruhigt mich.”

 

 

 

 

Grishkovetz
Yevgeni Grishkovetz (Kemerovo, 17 februari 1969 )

 

 

 

 

De Chinese schrijver Mo Yan werd geboren op 17 februari 1955 in Gaomi in de provincie Shandong. Mo Yan is een van China's grootste moderne schrijvers. Op 20-jarige leeftijd ging hij bij het Volks Bevrijdings Leger waar hij al snel zijn schrijversambities kon ontplooien. Van zijn talrijke publicaties zijn 'Het rode korenveld', 'De knoflookliederen' en 'De wijnrepubliek' een paar van zijn meest vertaalde en sucesvolle romans. Op latere leeftijd verliet hij het Volks Bevrijdings Leger omdat hij het niet meer eens was met de Partij. Ondanks dat hij probeert kunst en politiek gescheiden te houden, dus geen stelling in zijn boeken te nemen, sijpelt iets van zijn kritiek door in zijn schrijven. Werd in 1986  'Het rode korenveld' als het beste boek gekozen door lezers van het in Bejing uitgegeven 'People's literature', zijn daarna verschenen romans 'De wijnrepubliek' en 'Grote borsten, brede heupen' zijn verboden in de Volksrepubliek China.

 

Uit: Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh (Vertaald door Howard Goldbaltt)

 

„Ding Shikou, or Ten Mouth Ding, had worked at the Municipal Farm Equipment Factory for forty-three years and was a month away from mandatory retirement age when he was abruptly laid off. Now if you put shi (+), the word for ten, inside a kou (??), the word for mouth, you get the word tian (??), for field. The family name Ding can mean a strapping young man. As long as a strapping young man has a field to tend, he'll never have to worry about having food on the table and clothes on his back. That was his farmer father's cherished wish for his son when he named him. But Ding Shikou was not destined to own land; instead he found work in a factory, which led to a far better life than he'd have had as a farmer. He was enormously grateful to the society that had brought him so much happiness, and was determined to pay it back through hard work. Decades of exhausting labor had bent him over, and even though he wasn't yet sixty, he had the look of a man in his seventies.

One morning, like all other workday mornings, he rode to the factory on his 1960s black and obstinate, clunky Grand Defense bicycle, which presented quite a sight among all the sleek lightweight bikes on the street. Young cyclists, male and female, first gave him curious stares, then steered clear of him, the way a fancy sedan gets out of the way of a lumbering tank. As soon as he pedaled through the factory gate, he saw a group of people clustered around the bulletin board. The voices of a couple of women rose above the general buzz, like hens about to lay eggs. His heart fluttered as he realized that what the workers feared most had finally happened.“

 

 

 

Mo_Yan
Mo Yan (Gaomi, 17 februari 1955)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en caberetiere Emmy Hennings werd geboren op 17 februari 1885 in Flensburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008.

 

 

 

Ich bin so vielfach

 

Ich bin so vielfach in den Nächten,
Ich steige aus den dunklen Schächten.
Wie bunt entfaltet sich mein Anderssein.

 

So selbstverloren in dem Grunde,
Nachtwache ich, bin Traumesrunde
Und Wunder aus dem Heiligenschrein.

 

Es öffnen sich mir viele Pforten.
Bin ich nicht da? Bin ich nicht dorten?
Bin ich entstiegen einem Märchenbuch?

 

Vielleicht geht ein Gedicht in ferne Weiten,
Vielleicht verwehen meine Vielfachheiten,
Ein einsam flatternd, blasses Fahnentuch.

 

 

 

Tänzerin

Dir ist als ob ich schon gezeichnet wäre
Und auf der Totenliste stünde.
Es hält mich ab von mancher Sünde.
Wie langsam ich am Leben zehre.
Und ängstlich sind oft meine Schritte,
Mein Herz hat einen kranken Schlag
Und schwächer wird's mit jedem Tag.
Ein Todesengel steht in meines Zimmers Mitte.
Doch tanz ich bis zur Atemnot.
Bald werde ich im Grabe liegen
Und niemand wird sich an mich schmiegen.
Ach, küssen will ich bis zum Tod.

 

 

 

 

EMMY_HENNINGS
Emmy Hennings
(17 februari  1885 – 10 augustus 1948)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Chaim Potok werd geboren in New York City op 17 februari 1929. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007 Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008.

 

Uit: My name is Asher Lev

 

My name is Asher Lev, the Asher Lev, about whom you have read in newspapers and magazines, about whom you talk so much at your dinner affairs and cocktail parties, the notorious and legendary Lev of the Brooklyn Crucifixion.
I am an observant Jew. Yes, of course, observant Jews do not paint crucifixions. As a matter of fact, observant Jews do not paint at all--in the way that I am painting. So strong words are being written and spoken about me, myths are being generated: I am a traitor, an apostate, a self-hater, an inflicter of shame upon my family, my friends, my people; also, I am a mocker of ideas sacred to Christians, a blasphemous manipulator of modes and forms revered by Gentiles for two thousand years.
Well, I am none of those things. And yet, in all honesty, I confess that my accusers are not altogether wrong: I am indeed, in some way, all of those things.
The fact is that gossip, rumors, mythmaking, and news stories are not appropriate vehicles for the communication of nuances of truth, those subtle tonalities that are often the truly crucial elements in a causal chain. So it is time for the defense, for a long session in demythology. But I will not apologize. It is absurd to apologize for a mystery.
And that is what it has been all along--a mystery, of the sort theologians have in mind when they talk about concepts like wonder and awe. Certainly it began as a mystery, for nowhere in my family background was there any indication that I might have come into the world with a unique and disquieting gift. My father was able to trace his family line down through the centuries to the time of the Black Death in 1347, whichdestroyed about half the population of Europe.

 

 

 

Potok
Chaim Potok (17 februari 1929 – 23 juli 2002)

 

 

 

 

De Spaanse dichter Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer werd op 17 februari 1836 in Sevilla geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008.

 

 

LYRICAL INTERMEZZO NO. 55

 

 

OFTEN when two are parting,

Each grasps a hand as friend;

And then begins a weeping

And a sighing without end.

 

 

We did not sigh when parting;

No tears between us fell;

The weeping and the sighing

Came after our farewell.

 

 

Vertaald door Chas. G. Leland

 

 

 

 

THE VIEWLESS ATOMS OF THE AIR

 

 

THE viewless atoms of the air

Around me palpitate and burn,

All heaven dissolves in gold, and earth

Quivers with new-found joy.

Floating on waves of harmony I hear

A stir of kisses, and a sweep of wings;

Mine eyelids close--"What pageant nears?"

"'Tis Love that passes by!"

 

 

Vertaald door Mrs. Ward

 

 

 

 

 

Becquer
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (17 februari 1836 – 22 december 1870)

Portret, geschilderd door zijn broer Valeriano Bécquer

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Georg Britting werd op 17 februari 1891 geboren in Regensburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007

 

 

Am offenen Fenster bei Hagelwetter

 

Himmlisches Eis

sprang mir auf den Tisch,

rund, silberweiß,

schoß wie ein Fisch

 

weg von der Hand,

die's greifen wollt,

schmolz und verschwand.

Blitzend wie Gold

 

blieb auf dem Holz

nur ein Tropfen dem Blick.

Mächtig die Sonne

sog ihn zurück.

 

 

 

 

Fröhlicher Regen              

 

Wie der Regen tropft, Regen tropft

an die Scheiben klopft!

Jeder Strauch ist naß bezopft.

 

Wie der Regen springt!

In den Blättern singt

eine Silberuhr.

Durch das Gras hin läuft,

wie eine Schneckenspur,

ein Streifen weiß beträuft.

 

Das stürmische Wasser schießt

in die Regentonne,

daß die überfließt,

und in breitem Schwall

auf den Weg bekiest

stürzt Fall um Fall.

 

Und der Regenriese,

der Blauhimmelhasser,

Silbertropfenprasser,

niesend faßt er in der Bäume Mähnen,

laustvoll schnaubend in dem herrlich

vielen Wasser.

 

Und er lacht mit fröhlich weißen Zähnen

und mit kugelrunden, nassen Freudentränen.

 

 

 

britting_georg
Georg Britting (7 februari 1891- 27 april 1964)

 

 

 

 

De Australische dichter Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson werd geboren op 17 februari 1864 in  Narambla in New South Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007

 

 

Australian Scenery

 

The Mountains
A land of sombre, silent hills, where mountain cattle go
By twisted tracks, on sidelings deep, where giant gum trees grow
And the wind replies, in the river oaks, to the song of the stream below.
A land where the hills keep watch and ward, silent and wide awake
As those who sit by a dead campfire, and wait for the dawn to break,
Or those who watched by the Holy Cross for the dead Redeemer's sake.

A land where silence lies so deep that sound itself is dead
And a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless, overhead
And the world's great story is left untold, and the message is left unsaid.


The Plains
A land as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred -- land where you never know.
Land of plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.

And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
-- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.

 

 

 

 

Patterson
Andrew Paterson (17 februari 1864 – 5 april 1941)  

Paterson op een Australisch $10 biljet

 

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Ruth Rendell werd geboren als Ruth Grasemann in Londen op 17 februari 1930. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 februari 2008.

 

Uit: A Sight for Sore Eyes

 

They were to hold hands and look at one another. Deeply, into each other's eyes.
"It's not a sitting," she said. "It's a standing. Why can't I sit on his knee?"
He laughed. Everything she said amused or delighted him, everything about her captivated him from her dark red curly hair to her small white feet. The painter's instructions were that he should look at her as if in love and she at him as if enthralled. This was easy, this was to act naturally.
"Don't be silly, Harriet," said Simon Alpheton. "The very idea! Have you ever seen a painting by Rembrandt called The Jewish Bride?"
They hadn't. Simon described it to them as he began his preliminary sketch. "It's a very tender painting, it expresses the protective love of the man for his young submissive bride. They're obviously wealthy, they're very richly dressed, but you can see that they're sensitive, thoughtful people and they're in love."
"Like us. Rich and in love. Do we look like them?"
"Not in the least, and I don't think you'd want to. Ideas of beauty have changed."
"You could call it 'The Red-haired Bride.' "
"She's not your bride. I am going to call it 'Marc and Harriet in Orcadia Place'--what else? Now would you just stop talking for a bit, Marc?"


 

Rendell
Ruth Rendell (Londen, 17 februari 1930)

 

 

 

 

 

De Franse dichter, schrijver en acteur Pêr-Jakez Helias werd geboren op 17 februari 1914 in Pouldreuzig, Penn-ar-Bed. Helias verzamelde ook volksverhalen uit zijn geboortestreek. Hij schreef zowel in het Frans als in het Bretons. Zijn grootste succes was de roman Le Cheval d'orgueil uit 1975, in 1980 verfilmd door Claude Chabrol.

 

Uit: Le cheval d'orguei

 

" Trop pauvre que je suis pour posséder un autre animal, du moins 'le Cheval d'Orgueil' aura-t-il toujours une stalle dans mon écurie ". Ainsi parlait à l'auteur, son petit-fils, l'humble paysan Alain Le Goff qui n'avait d'autre terre que celle qu'il emportait malgré lui aux semelles de ses sabots de bois. " Quand on est pauvre, mon fils, il faut avoir de l'honneur. Les riches n'en ont pas besoin. " Et l'honneur consiste à tenir et à faire respecter son rang, si humble soit-il.L'auteur a grandi dans ce sentiment. Avant d'apprendre le français, il a été élevé en milieu bretonnant, dans une société qui vivait selon un code strictement établi. Il n'enseigne pas, il raconte minutieusement comment on vivait dans une "paroisse" bretonnante de l'extrême Ouest armoricain dans la première moitié de ce siècle. Il nous fait partager sa profonde conviction: ceux qui jugent les paysans comme des êtres grossiers sont eux-mêmes des esprits sommaires et naïfs. Il affirme que ce sont des siècles de mépris culturel qui ont fini par déclencher jacqueries et révoltes chez les paysans de notre pays. Et puis, un jour,"le Cheval d'Orgueil" a secoué furieusement sa crinière !“

 

 

 

 

jakez
Pêr-Jakez Helias (17 februari 1914 – 13 augustus 1995)

 

 

 

 

De Russische dichter en schrijver Fjodor Sologoeb  (eig. Fjodor Koezmitsj Teternikov) werd geboren in Sint-Petersburg op 17 februari 1863. Van 1875 tot 1878 bezocht Sologoeb het Rozjdestvogymnasium. In juni 1882 studeerde hij af aan instituut van de Heilige Hilarion in Sint-Petersburg. en kreeg hij een betrekking in Kresttsy, een klein stadje in de provincie Novgorod. In 1891 vergezelde hij zijn zuster Olga, die zich voor een medische opleiding had ingeschreven, naar Sint-Petersburg. Hij ontmoette de dichter Minski, een ontmoeting die een grote ommekeer betekende in het leven van Sologoeb. Het was deze dichter die hem introduceerde in de Petersburgse literaire kringen.In 1892 vestigde Sologoeb zich tenslotte definitief in Sint-Petersburg, na tien jaar dienst in de provincie. Hij maakte er onder andere kennis met Dmitri Merezjkovski en diens vrouw Zanaida Gippius. Hij begon mee te werken aan het tijdschrift Severnyj Vestnik, het symbolistische tijdschrift bij uitstek. Een eerste gedicht van Fjodor Teternikov verscheen in het tweede nummer van 1892 en andere volgden in 1893. In 1892 begon hij aan zijn beroemdste werk Melki bes, die echter pas in 1905 zou verschijnen. Reeds in 1902 had hij het werk voltooid, maar tijdschriften weigerden het te publiceren omdat het te bijtend en te vreemd was. Uiteindelijk bleek het tijdschrift Voprosy zjizni (Levensvragen) bereid de roman te plaatsen. In 1907 werd de roman uiteindelijk in zijn geheel uitgegeven en direct haalde hij hoge verkoopcijfers. Reeds in 1909 waren er vijf drukken verschenen en werd het boek bewerkt tot een toneelstuk.

 

 

Devil's Swing

 

Over the rushing river

Where shaggy fir-trees stand,

The devil himself is pushing

My swing with furry hand.

 

Pushing, he laughs away,

       And up I go,

       And down I go,

The seat creaks ominously,

The rope begins to fray,

Rubbing against a bough.

 

Prolonged the seat-board's creaking,

As up and down it glides.

With wheezy laughter shaking,

The devil holds his sides.

 

l hang on, swinging, gliding,

       As up I go,

       And down I go,

Slithering, slipping, sliding,

My dizzy gaze avoiding

The devil down below.

 

Above the shady fir-tree,

A voice laughs from the blue:

"You've landed on the swing, see! -

Swing, and to hell with you!"

 

And in the shaggy fir-tree,

A raucous hullabaloo:

"You've landed on the swing, see! -

Swing, and to hell with you!"

 

The devil will not leave it,

The swing will fly apace

Till with a violent buffet

I'm swept clean off my place,

 

Until the last few strands

Of hemp snap finally,

Until my native land

Comes flying up at me.

 

I'll soar above that fir-tree

And bang earth with my head.

So swing the swing on, devil,

Higher, higher… Aah! 

 

 

 

 

 

Feodor_Sologub
Fjodor Sologoeb  (17 februari 1863 - 5 december 1927)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Friedrich Maximilian Klinger werd geboren op 17 februari 1752 in Frankfurt am Main. Zijn vader stierf vroeg en zijn moeder moest als was- en vroedvrouw het gezin onderhouden. Toch kon hij met financiële steun van de jonge Goethe het gymnasium bezoeken. Hij begon een studie rechten in Gießen, maar besloot na eerste successen als theaterschrijver de universiteit te verlaten. In 1780 werd hij eerst voorlezer, daarna officier in dienst van de Russische troonopvolger grootvorst Paul. Met hem maakte hij verschillende reizen door Europa. In 1776 verscheen onder de titel Der Wirrwarr zijn drama Sturm und Drang. Andere belangrijke werken uit die tijd zijn Zwillinge en Simsone Grisaldo.

 

Uit: Sturm und Drang

 

WILD. Heida! nun einmal in Tumult und Lärmen, daß die Sinnen herumfahren wie Dachfahnen beim Sturm. Das wilde Geräusch hat mir schon so viel Wohlsein entgegengebrüllt, daß mir's würklich ein wenig anfängt besser zu werden. So viel Hundert Meilen gereiset um dich in vergessenden Lärmen zu bringen – Tolles Herz! du sollst mir's danken! Ha! tobe und spanne dich dann aus, labe dich im Wirrwarr! – Wie ist's euch?

BLASIUS. Geh zum Teufel! Kommt meine Donna nach?

LA FEU. Mach dir Illusion Narr! sollt mir nicht fehlen, sie von meinem Nagel in mich zu schlürfen, wie einen Tropfen Wasser. Es lebe die Illusion! – Ei! ei, Zauber meiner Phantasie, wandle in den Rosengärten von Phyllis' Hand geführt –

WILD. Stärk dich Apoll närrischer Junge!

LA FEU. Es soll mir nicht fehlen, das schwarze verrauchte Haus gegenüber, mitsamt dem alten Turm, in ein Feenschloß zu verwandeln. Zauber, Zauber Phantasie! – Lauschend. Welch lieblich, geistige Symphonien treffen mein Ohr? – – Beim Amor! ich will mich in ein alt Weib verlieben, in einem alten, baufälligen Haus wohnen, meinen zarten Leib in stinkenden Mistlaken baden, bloß um meine Phantasie zu scheren. Ist keine alte Hexe da mit der ich scharmieren könnte? Ihre Runzeln sollen mir zu Wellenlinien der Schönheit werden; ihre herausstehende schwarze Zähne, zu marmornen Säulen an Dianens Tempel; ihre herabhangende lederne Zitzen, Helenens Busen übertreffen. Einen so aufzutrocknen, wie mich! – He meine phantastische Göttin! – Wild, ich kann dir sagen, ich hab mich brav gehalten die Tour her. Hab Dinge gesehen, gefühlt, die kein Mund geschmeckt, keine Nase gerochen, kein Aug gesehen, kein Geist erschwungen –.“

 

 

 

Klinger
Friedrich Maximilian Klinger (17 februari 1752 – 25 februari 1831)

 

 

 

 

De Australische dichteres, schrijfster, uitgeefster en suffragette Louisa Lawson werd geboren op 17 februari 1848 in Mudgee, New South Wales. In 1888 begon zij met het uitgeven van Dawn, het eerste Australische tijdschrift dat door uitsluitend vrouwen gemaakt werd. Het verscheen zeventien jaar lang en behield al die tijd een streng feministische lijn. Na haar pensionering in 1905 publiceerde Lawson The Lonely Crossing and Other Poems.

 

The Hill Of Death

 

No downward path to death we go

Through no dark shades or valleys low,

But up and on o’er rises bright

Toward the dawn of endless light.

 

For not in lowlands can we see

The path that was and that to be,

But on the height, just where the soul

Takes deeper breath to reach the goal.

 

There we can see the winding way

That we have journeyed all our day,

Then turn and view with spirits still

Our future home beyond the hill. 

 

 

 

 

lawson_louisa3
Louisa Lawson (17 februari 1848 – 12 augustus 1920)

 

 

 

 

De  Duitse dichter Max Schneckenburger werd geboren op 17 februari 1819 in Talheim bij Tuttlingen. Hij is vooral bekend gebleven als dichter van het lied Die Wacht am Rhein. Schneckenburger schreef het in 1840 toen Frankrijk de linkse Rijnoever bedreigde. Populair werd het echter pas tijdens de Frans-Duitse oorlog van 1870/71,  op muziek gezet door Karl Wilhelm. In de tijd van de Duitse keizers had het de status van – officieus – volkslied.

 

 

Die Wacht am Rhein (Fragment)


Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,
Wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall:
Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein,
Wer will des Stromes Hüter sein?
Lieb’ Vaterland, magst ruhig sein,
Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein!

Durch Hunderttausend zuckt es schnell,
Und aller Augen blitzen hell;
Der deutsche Jüngling, fromm und stark,
Beschirmt die heil’ge Landesmark.
Lieb’ Vaterland, magst ruhig sein,
Fest steht und treu die Wacht am Rhein!

 

 

 

 

Schneckenburger3

Max Schneckenburger (17 februari 1819 – 3 mei 1849)