08-05-17

Roddy Doyle, Thomas Pynchon, Pat Barker, Gary Snyder, Gertrud Fussenegger, Edmund Wilson, Romain Gary, Alain-René Lesage, Sophus Schandorph

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Zie ook alle tags voor Roddy Doyle op dit blog.

Uit:Brilliant

“Gloria Kelly lay in bed. She was wide awake. She knew her brother, Raymond, was too. She could tell by the way he was breathing. It was awake breath. He was lying there, thinking and listening. Sleep breath was different. It was longer and lighter, less in and out.
‘Rayzer?’ she whispered,
Raymond didn’t answer. But she didn’t care.
She liked sharing the bedroom. Although she knew Raymond didn’t. She didn’t care about that either. She could like it in secret. She didn’t have to tell him.
She’d been moved into Raymond’s room when their Uncle Ben had come to live with them. For a while. That was what her mam and dad had said. Uncle Ben would be staying ‘for a while’. At first her mother had called it ‘a little while’. But the ‘little’ had disappeared when Uncle Ben kept staying, and Gloria began to think that her bedroom wasn’t hers any more. And Raymond, she supposed, began to think the same thing. His room had become their room.
She looked into her room sometimes, when her Uncle Ben wasn’t in there. He hadn’t done anything to it. He hadn’t touched her pictures or her other stuff. It was still pink, nearly everything in it. The only really new thing in the room was her Uncle Ben’s smell. It was kind of an adult smell. A mixture of soap and sweatiness. There were none of his clothes lying around, and just one book that wasn’t hers. She’d looked at the cover but it had looked boring, about a war or something. Except for the fact that she didn’t sleep or play in there any more, it was still Gloria’s room. So maybe her Uncle Ben really was only staying for a while – but the while was a bit longer than they’d expected.
Maybe.
‘Rayzer?’
He still wouldn’t answer.
She didn’t like her bed. It wasn’t a real bed. It was just a mattress on the floor. She’d liked it at first. It had been fun, nearly like camping. But not now. Her face was sometimes right against the wall, low down, at the skirting board, nearly where it joined the floor. It was cold there. Always – even when the rest of the room was warm. And she could hear things sometimes – she thought she could. Behind the skirting board.”

 

 
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

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08-05-16

Romain Gary, Peter Benchley, Alain-René Lesage, J. Meade Falkner, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook alle tags voor Romain Gary op dit blog.

Uit: La promesse de l’aube

«l me fallut quarante-huit heures pour arriver à Nice, par le train des permissionnaires. Le moral de ce train bleu horizon était au plus bas. C'était l'Angleterre qui nous avait entraînés là-dedans, on allait se faire mettre jusqu'au trognon, Hitler était un type pas si mal que ça qu'on avait pas compris et avec qui on aurait dû causer, mais il y avait tout de même un point clair dans le ciel: on avait inventé un nouveau médicament qui guérissait la blemorragie en quelques jours.
Cependant, j'étais loin d'être désespéré. Je ne le suis même pas devenu aujourd'hui. Je me donne seulement des airs. Le plus grand effort de ma vie a toujours été de parvenir à désespérer complètement. Il n'y a rien à faire. Il y a toujours en moi quelque chose qui continue à sourire.
J'arrivai à Nice au petit matin et me précipitai au Mermonts. Je montai au septième et frappai à la porte. Ma mère occupait la plus petite chambre de l'hôtel: elle avait les intérêts du patron à cœur. J'entrai. La chambre minuscule, triangulaire, avait un air bien fait et inhabité qui me terrifia complètement. Je me précipitai en bas, réveillai la concierge et appris que ma mère avait été transportée à la clinique Saint-Antoine. Je sautai dans un taxi.
Les infirmières me dirent plus tard qu'en me voyant entrer elles avaient cru à une attaque à main armée.
La tête de ma mère était enfoncée dans l'oreiller, son visage était creusé, inquiet, et désemparé. Je l'embrassai et m'assis sur le lit. J'avais toujours mon cuir sur le dos, et ma casquette sur l'œil: j'avais besoin de cette carapace. Il m'arriva pendant cette permission de garder un mégot de cigare serré pendant plusieurs heures entre mes lèvres: j'avais besoin de me ramasser autour de quelque chose. Sur la table de chevet, bien en évidence dans son écrin violet, il y avait la médaille d'argent gravée à mon nom que j'avais gagnée au championnat de ping-pong, en 1932."

 

 
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

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08-05-11

Alain-René Lesage, J. Meade Falkner, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane

 

Blas de Santillane, mon père, après avoir longtemps porté les armes pour le service de la monarchie espagnole, se retira dans la ville où il avait pris naissance. Il y épousa une petite bourgeoise qui n'était plus de sa première jeunesse, et je vins au monde dix mois après leur mariage. Ils allèrent ensuite demeurer à Oviédo, où ma mère se mit femme de chambre, et mon père écuyer. Comme ils n'avaient pour tout bien que leurs gages, j'aurais couru risque d'être assez mal élevé, si je n'eusse pas eu dans la ville un oncle chanoine. Il se nommait Gil Perez. Il était frère aîné de ma mère et mon parrain. Représentez-vous un petit homme haut de trois pieds et demi, extraordinairement gros, avec une tête enfoncée entre les deux épaules : voilà mon oncle. Au reste, c'était un ecclésiastique qui ne songeait qu'à bien vivre, c'est-à-dire qu'à faire bonne chère ; et sa prébende, qui n'était pas mauvaise, lui en fournissait les moyens.
Il me prit chez lui dès mon enfance, et se chargea de mon éducation. Je lui parus si éveillé, qu'il résolut de cultiver mon esprit. Il m'acheta un alphabet, et entreprit de m'apprendre lui-même à lire ; ce qui ne lui fut pas moins utile qu'à moi ; car, en me faisant connaître mes lettres, il se remit à la lecture, qu'il avait toujours fort négligée, et, à force de s'y appliquer, il parvint à lire couramment son bréviaire, ce qu'il n'avait jamais fait auparavant.“

 

 

 

Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

Borstbeeld in Vannes

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08-05-10

Sloan Wilson, J. Meade Falkner, Alain-René Lesage, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph, Otto Zierer


De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: A Summer Place

 

“The most junior officer was usually given the graveyard watch, as it was called, lasting from midnight to four in the morning. In March of 1943, on only the third night that he had stood his own watch, a heavy gale was blowing. The convoy consisted of a dozen naval tankers taking gasoline to bases in Britain. Heavy-laden, they were smothered in foam by the Arctic combers, and the convoy speed had to be reduced to four knots. There were no moon and stars that night, and Bart’s ship had not yet been given radar. Depending on eyesight and echo sounding devices alone, Bart’s destroyer and three others tried to keep close to the unlighted vessels without running into them. It was bitter cold, with the spray freezing on deck and on the portholes of the pilothouse…It was eighteen minutes after two in the morning when a star shell suddenly burst over the convoy, turning the raging sea white. A wolf pack of five black submarines, almost invisible in the night, came charging arrogantly in on the surface with their deck guns stabbing the fat-bellied tankers. It hadn’t been necessary for the submarines to send up another star shell, for in the few seconds that the first one hung blazing in the sky, a gas tanker exploded, sending a column of fire a thousand feet into the air.”

 

 

 

 

wilson
Sloan Wilson
(8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Meade Falkner werd geboren op 8 mei 1858 in Manningford Bruce, Wiltshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: The Nebuly Coat

 

The Hand of God stood on the highest point in all the borough, and Mr. Westray's apartments were in the third story. From the window of his sitting-room he could look out over the houses on to Cullerne Flat, the great tract of salt-meadows that separated the town from the sea. In the foreground was a broad expanse of red-tiled roofs; in the middle distance St. Sepulchre's Church, with its tower and soaring ridges, stood out so enormous that it seemed as if every house in the place could have been packed within its walls ; in the background was the blue sea. In summer the purple haze hangs over the mouth of the estuary, and through the shimmer of the heat off the marsh, can be seen the silver windings of the Cull as it makes its way out to sea, and snow-white flocks of geese, and here and there the gleaming sail of a pleasure-boat. But in autumn, as Westray saw it for the first time, the rank grass is of a deeper green, and the face of the salt-meadows is seamed with irregular clay-brown channels, which at high- tide show out like crows'-feet on an ancient countenance, but at the ebb dwindle to little gullies with greasy-looking banks and a dribble of iridescent water in the bottom. It is in the autumn that the moles heap up meanders of miniature barrows, built of the softest brown loam ; and in the turbaries the turf-cutters pile larger and darker stacks of peat. Once upon a time there was another feature in the view, for there could have been seen the masts and yards of many stately ships, of timber vessels in the Baltic trade, of tea- clippers, and Indiamen, and emigrant ships, and now and then the raking spars of a privateer owned by Cullerae adventurers.“

 

 

 

Falkner

J. Meade Falkner (8 mei 1858 – 22 juli 1932)

Falkner in 1883

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Le diable boiteux

 

Le dramaturge prétentieux : « Tous mes ouvrages, a-t-il continué sans façon, sont marqués au bon coin : aussi, quand je les lis, il faut voir comme on les applaudit ; je marrête à chaque vers pour recevoir des louanges. »
Le barbaresque esclavagiste : « Aby Ali me dit en langue castillane : Modérez votre affliction : consolez-vous dêtre tombée dans lesclavage ; ce malheur était inévitable pour vous ; mais que dis-je, ce malheur ? cest un avantage dont vous devez vous applaudir. Vous êtes trop belle pour vous borner aux hommages des chrétiens. Le ciel ne vous a point fait naître pour ces misérables mortels ; vous méritez les tous premiers hommes du monde : les seuls musulmans sont dignes de vous posséder. »

(...)

 

« Les femmes ne saiment point. Jen suppose deux parfaitement unies ; je veux même quelles ne disent pas le moindre mal lune de lautre en leur absence, tant elles sont amies ; vous les voyez toutes deux ; vous penchez dun côté, la rage se met de lautre ; ce nest pas que lenragée vous aime ; mais elle voulait la préférence. Tel est le caractère des femmes : elles sont trop jalouses les unes des autres pour être capables damitié. »

 

 

 

Lesage
Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann von Besser werd geboren op 8 mei 1654 in Frauenburg (tegenwoordig Saldus in Letland). Zie en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

 

An die auff Doris brust verwelckte rose.

Wie hastu rose / voller pracht /
Auff Doris brust zu sterben wissen?
Hat dich ihr schnee beschämt gemacht /
Daß du davor erbleichen müssen?
Ja freylich blumen-königin /
Dein purpur weichet dem jeßmin /
Den dieser schöne kreiß läst spüren.
Doch sorge nicht ob dem verlust /
Du stirbst auff meiner Doris brust /
Du solst dadurch gar nichts verlieren,
Ich werde nun dein welckes blat /
In meynung Doris brust zu küssen /
An meinen mund zu drücken wissen /
Und wünschen / daß an deiner statt
Ich für dich hätte sterben müssen.

 

 

 

 

Johann_von_Besser02
Johann von Besser (8 mei 1654 – 10 februari 1729)

 

 

 

 

De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

Uit: Stina Becomes a Farmer's Wife  (vertaald door Sally Ryan)

 

„She never stopped or quickened her steps, but kept an even pace with unchanging calmness, walking along with her feet apart, like a sturdy, broadgaged wagon, while the thick, heavy soles of her leather shoes made goodly tracks on the ground. Drops of perspiration trickled from her white forehead down her ruddy, freckled nose, but this was the only movement in her big, sun-burned face. She did not even blink in the sun. Her mouth was slightly open, displaying a remarkably strong and beautiful row of upper teeth. From time~ to time she ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, without, however, changing their position.

Stina had need to arm herself with patience; she had already walked two miles from the town where she was in service, and had fully four miles more to go before reaching the village of her destination. Her mistress, the widow of the late dean, had given her a whole day's leave. This occurred twice a year, once at Shrovetide, and once after the summer holidays, when the two sons of the house had returned to their studies at the University in Copenhagen.

Stina always took advantage of these two free days to visit her eight-year-old daughter. With some help from the parish, this child–unfortunately born out of wedlock–had been placed in the care of a cottager and his wife in Stina's native village. The father had worked on the same farm with Stina when she was twenty-two years old, but, upon learning that she was "in trouble," he had hastily left for America.

Stina's progress along the dusty road was very slow, just barely noticeable. One or two vehicles passed her. The first was a light cabriolet, on the back seat of which a fat country gentleman was sprawling, pulling at his cigar. On the front seat the coachman cracked his whip as the carriage whizzed by. Stina came near being struck by the tip of the lash. She even blinked a little at the threatening possibility. The dust stirred up by the wheels whirled around her like the steam from an engine and made her sneeze. Although there was plenty of room in the carriage, it would never occur to a "gentleman farmer" to give a peasant girl a lift, nor would she ever ask him to do so.“

 

 

 

Sophus_Schandorph
Sophus Schandorph (8 mei 1836 - 1 januari 1901)

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2009.

 

De Duitse schrijver Otto Zierer werd geboren op 8 mei 1909 in Bamberg.

08-05-09

Thomas Pynchon, Roddy Doyle, Gertrud Fussenegger, Pat Barker, Gary Snyder, Romain Gary, Edmund Wilson, Sloan Wilson, Otto Zierer, J. Meade Falkner, Alain-René Lesage, Johann von Besser, Sophus Schandorph


De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Pynchon werd op 8 mei 1937 geboren in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Inherent Vice

 

“She came along the alley and up the back steps the way she always used to. Doc hadn’t seen her for over a year. Nobody had. Back then it was always sandals, bottom half of a flower-print bikini, faded Country Joe and the Fish T-shirt. Tonight she was all in flatland gear, hair a lot shorter than he remembered, looking just like she swore she’d never look.

“That you, Shasta? The packaging fooled me there for a minute.”

“Need your help, Doc.”

They stood in the streetlight through the kitchen window there’d never been much point putting curtains over and listened to the thumping of the surf from down the hill. Some nights, when the wind was right, you could hear the surf all over town.

Nobody was saying much. What was this? “So! You know I have an office now? Just like a day job and everything?”

“I looked in the phone book, almost went over there. But then I thought, better for everybody if this looks like a secret rendezvous.”

OK, nothing romantic tonight. Bummer. But it might be a paying gig. “Somebody’s keeping a close eye?”

“Just spent an hour on surface streets trying to make it look good.”

“How about a beer?” He went to the fridge, pulled two cans out of the case he kept inside, handed one to Shasta.

“There’s this guy,” she was saying.

There would be. No point getting emotional. And if he had a nickel for every time he’d heard a client start off this way, he would be over in Hawaii now, loaded day and night, digging the waves at Waimea, or better yet hiring somebody to dig them for him. . . . “Gentleman of the straight-world persuasion,” he beamed.”

 

 

 

 

pynchon
Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937)

Buttons van de cameraschuwe Pynchon

 

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Paula Spencer

 

“She copes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. She copes. And sometimes she doesn’t. Cope. At all.

This is one of the bad days.

She could feel it coming. From the minute she woke up. One of those days. It hasn’t let her down.

She’ll be forty-eight in a few weeks. She doesn’t care about that. Not really.

It’s more than four months since she had a drink. Four months and five days. One of those months was February. That’s why she started measuring the time in months. She could jump three days. But it’s a leap year; she had to give one back. Four months, five days. A third of a year. Half a pregnancy, nearly.

A long time.

The drink is only one thing.

She’s on her way home from work. She’s walking from the station. There’s no energy in her. Nothing in her legs. Just pain. Ache. The thing the drink gets down to.

But the drink is only part of it. She’s coped well with the drink. She wants a drink. She doesn’t want a drink. She doesn’t want a drink. She fights it. She wins. She’s proud of that. She’s pleased. She’ll keep going. She knows she will.

But sometimes she wakes up, knowing the one thing. She’s alone.

She still has Jack. Paula wakes him every morning. He’s a great sleeper. It’s a long time now since he was up before her. She’s proud of that too. She sits on his bed. She ruffles his hair. Ruffles — that’s the word. A head made for ruffling. Jack will break hearts.

And she still has Leanne. Mad Leanne. Mad, funny. Mad, good. Mad, brainy. Mad, lovely — and frightening.

They’re not small any more, not kids. Leanne is twenty-two. Jack is nearly sixteen. Leanne has boyfriends. Paula hasn’t met any of them. Jack, she doesn’t know about. He tells her nothing. He’s been taller than her since he was twelve. She checks his clothes for girl-smells but all she can smell is Jack.”

 

 

 

 

doyle_2
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Gertrud Fussenegger werd geboren op 8 mei 1912 in Pilsen. Gertrud Fussenegger overleed op 19 maart van dit jaar op 96-jarige leeftijd. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Goethe und wir Katholiken

 

Katholiken haben es mit Goethe nie ganz leicht gehabt. Nicht, das wir etwa seine Größe bestritten hatten; aber die meisten von uns - vor allem der älteren Generation - verhielten sich gegen ihn wie die Katze zum heißen Brei: mit Vorsicht und Vorbehalten. Er galt uns als Heide, Pantheist, gar Atheist - und als unerlaubt leidenschaftlicher, allzu leicht entflammbarer und flatterhafter Liebhaber desweiblichen Geschlechts. Der jüngeren Generation wurde er überdies als Konservativer, als Fiirstenknecht und verstaubter Klassiker madig gemacht.Das Jubeljahr 1999 fordert auch uns Katholiken zu einer Art Revision auf. Zweifellos: Goethes Äußerungen über unsere Kirche waren oft nicht sehr schmeichelhaft, und sein getrübtes Verhältnis zur Romantik erschwerte von Anfang an seine Rezeption durch jene, die die Religion auch in und von der Dichtung bestätigt sehen wollten. Um so lieber nahmen sich die Kirchenfernen seiner an. In unzähligen Anthologien und selektiven Ausgaben wurde, was er je an Religionskritischem von sich gegeben, gründlichst zitiert und immer wieder hervorgehoben. So hat man ihn weithin als unerbittlichen Freigeist suggeriert und sein Bild verkürzt und verzerrt.

Nun gewiß: In den Frankfurter Bürgersohn war schon beizeiten das alte Mißtrauen gesät worden, das noch aus den Religionskriegen stammte und das er selbst später die ,,Protestantische Erbsünde" nannte: der Argwohn gegen die Kirche als Macht, der Argwohn auch gegen ihre Duldung des Menschlichen, gegen ihre nicht immer leicht durchschaubaren Formen.“

 

 

 

 

gertrud_fussenegger
Gertrud Fussenegger (8 mei 1912 – 19 maart 2009)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijfster Pat Barker werd geboren in Thornaby-on-Tees op 8 mei 1943. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Regeneration

 

“He woke to find Orme standing immediately inside the door. He wasn't surprised, he assumed Orme had come to rouse him for his watch. What did surprise him, a little, was that he seemed to be in bed. Orme was wearing that very pale coat of his. Once, in ‘C' company mess, the CO had said, ‘Correct me if I'm wrong, Orme, but I have always assumed that the colour of the British Army uniform is khaki. Not…beige.' ‘Beige' was said in such Lady Bracknellish* tones that Sassoon had wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh now, but his chest muscles didn't seem to work. After a while he remembered that Orme was dead.”

(…)

"Your watch is brought back by a runner, having been synchronized at headquarters." A long pause. "You wait, you try to calm down anybody who’s obviously shitting himself or on the verge of throwing up. You hope you won’t do either of those things yourself. Then you start the count down : ten, nine, eight… so on. You blow the whistle. You climb the ladder. Then you double through a gap in the wire, lie flat, wait for somebody else to get out - and then you stand up. And you start walking. Not at the double. Normal walking speed." Prior started to smile. "In a straight line. Across open country. In broad daylight. Towards a line of machine-guns."

 

 

 

 

Pat_Barker
Pat Barker (Thornaby-on-Tees, op 8 mei 1943)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gary Snyder werd geboren op 8 mei 1930 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

 

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout

 

Down valley a smoke haze

Three days heat, after five days rain

Pitch glows on the fir-cones

Across rocks and meadows

Swarms of new flies.

 

I cannot remember things I once read

A few friends, but they are in cities.

Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup

Looking down for miles

Through high still air.

 

 

 

 

 

Civilization

 

Those are the people who do complicated things.

 

     they'll grab us by the thousands

     and put us to work.

 

World's going to hell, with all these

     villages and trails.

Wild duck flocks aren't

     what they used to be.

Aurochs grow rare.

 

Fetch me my feathers and amber

 

         *

 

A small cricket

on the typescript page of

"Kyoto born in spring song"

grooms himself

in time with The Well-Tempered Clavier.

I quit typing and watch him through a glass.

How well articulated! How neat!

 

Nobody understands the ANIMAL KINGDOM.

 

         *

 

When creeks are full

The poems flow

When creeks are down

We heap stones.

 

 

 

 

 

Snyder
Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)

 

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: Pour Sganarelle

 

"J'arrive ainsi à trois conceptions du roman que je voudrais tenter de combiner dans un roman total: un, le roman où l'imagination picaresque s'exerce vers l'aventure intérieure, vers les péripéties intérieures du psychisme, où le romancier imagine l'introspection : deux, le roman où l'imagination est plus libérée vers l'extérieur, dans les rapports de l'histoire de l'individu avec l'Histoire, dans un infini de formes et de péripéties, de personnages et d'identités; trois, le roman de la littérature, où le langage est exploré par l'imagination comme un monde en soi, ce qui aboutit aujourd'hui - l'étape flaubertienne du mot "juste" et de la perfection de la phrase rationelle étant dépassée - à l'étape du roman post-mallarméen où le sens est entièrement porté par le blanc, par ce qui n'est pas exprimé, et où ne règne qu'une sorte d'écho de la dernière syllabe du Mot-clé, qui retentit dans ce qui n'est pas dit dans la phrase comme une musique de l'inexprimable."

 

 

 

 

romain_gary
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en criticus Edmund Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1895 in Red Bank, New Jersey. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2008.

 

Uit: The Sixties: The Last Journal, 1960-1972

 

As a character in one of Chekhov's plays says he's "a man of the 80's," so I find that I am a man of the 20's. I still expect something exciting: drinks, animated conversation, gaiety: an uninhibited exchange of ideas. Scott Fitzgerald's idea that somewhere things were "glimmering." I am managing to discipline myself now so that I shan't be silly in this way. New York, Winter 1962

 

Had dinner with Wystan Auden before Elena [ Wilson's wife ] arrived. He was pleased at having what he described as an honor on the part of the Establishment. He has been made an honorary fellow (I think that is the phrase) of Christ Church [ College, Oxford ] . I gather that he can retire and live there for nothing. He thinks that "Down There on a Visit" is Isherwood's best book -- I was just in the middle of reading it. He says the disintegrating homo on his horrible island in Greece was a real person whom he knew and the only person he knew who would drink the spirits out of lamps when there was nothing else to be had. He thought that "Paul" was the best of the stories. I agreed with him when I came to read it; but the whole book is rather disgusting. I am getting sick of this subject. The attitude in these books toward homosexuality involves of course a revolt against society. See the diatribe of the man on the island about putting the heterosexuals in ghettos. Paul is made by Isherwood into a hero. But Genet is the best of these writers. He is the most in revolt, the most genuinely an outlaw. Cambridge, Spring 1962“

 

 

 

 

Edmund_Wilson
Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit


” By the time they had lived seven years in the little house on Greentree Avenue in Westport, Connecticut, they both detested it. There were many reasons, none of them logical, but all of them compelling. For one thing, the house had a kind o fevil genius for displaying proof of their weaknesses and wiping out all traces of their strengths. The ragged lawn and weed-filled garden proclaimed topassers-by and the neighbors that Thomas R. Rathand his family disliked "working around the place" and couldn't afford to pay someone else to do it. The interior of the house was even more vengeful. In the living room there was a big dent in the plaster near the floor, with a huge crack curving up from it in the shape of a question mark. That wall was damaged in the fall of 1952,when, after struggling for months to pay up the back bills, Tom came home one night to find that Betsy had bought a cut-glass vase for forty dollars. Such an extravagant gesture was utterly unlike her, at least since the war. Betsy was a conscientious household manager, and usually when she did something Tom didn't like, they talked the matter over with careful reasonableness. But on that particular night, Tom was tired and worried because he himself had just spent seventy dollars on a new suit he felt he needed to dress properly for his business, and at the climax of a heated argument, he picked up the vase and heaved it against the wall. The heavy glass shattered, the plaster cracked, and two of the laths behind it broke. The next morning, Tom and Betsy worked together on their knees to patch the plaster, and they repainted the wholes-wall, but when thepaint dried, the big dent near the floor with the crack curving up from it almost to the ceiling in theThe crack remained as a perpetual reminder of Betsy's moment of extravagance, Tom's moment of violence, and their inability either to fix walls properly or to pay to have them fixed. shape of a question mark was still clearly visible. The fact that the crack was in the shape of a questionmark did not seem symbolic to Tom and Betsy, noreven amusing—it was just annoying.”

 

 


Sloan_Wilson
Sloan Wilson (8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijver Otto Zierer werd geboren op 8 mei 1909 in Bamberg. Hij schreef meer dan honderd boeken, waaronder enige romans en een beschrijving van zijn oorlogservaringen in Rot schien die Sonne. Zijn voorkeur ging echter uit naar de geschiedenis van de mensheid vanaf de vroegste tijd die hij voor een breed publiek toegankelijk maakte.

 

Uit: München - Eine Stadt und ihre Geschichten aus 850 Jahren

 

»Leut«, sagt Max Joseph, »aufs Geld kommt’s nicht an! Wer mir die Frau und den Buben herausholt, der erhält eine schöne Belohnung!« Persönlich steigt der hohe Herr in das Gewirr der übereinanderliegenden Dachsparren und schief hängenden Zimmerdecken, die Zimmerleute, Maurer und andere Nachbarn folgen ihm, beginnen die Böden abzuklopfen und in die Tiefe zu horchen.

Der Palier Fruhholz sägt aus einem Boden ein Brett heraus und legt sich vor die so geschaffene Öffnung. »Da unt is oana!«, verkündet er. »I glaab, dass ’s der Lehrbua is!« Und tatsächlich erscheint nach einiger Zeit ein dünner Knabenarm in dem Loch. Es sieht fast so aus, als winke einer aus dem Grabe. »Ja, der Bua lebt no!«, freut sich der Spiegelmacher. »Joseph Fraunhofer hoaßt er, vierzehn Jahr is er alt und stammt aus Straubing. « Nun bemühen sich die Arbeiter um die Befreiung des Knaben. Der Kurfürst steht mitten unter ihnen und lässt sich nicht durch die besorgten Reden seiner Hofherren abhalten, selbst Hand anzulegen. Nach ein paar Stunden eifriger Bemühung wird Joseph Fraunhofer unverletzt aus der Höhle gezogen, die ihn bewahrt hat. Zu seinem Glück hatten sich einige Balken quer über seinen Kopf gelegt und so das nachstürzende Ziegelwerk abgehalten. Die Frau des Spiegelmachers freilich wird später als Leiche geborgen.

Kurfürst Max Joseph lässt den geretteten Buben in die Residenz kommen, nimmt ihn in der Kutsche mit nach Nymphenburg hinaus und stellt ihn seiner Familie vor.

 

 

 

Nymphenburg
Otto Zierer (8 mei 1909 – 5 maart 1983)

Slot Nymphenburg, München (Geen portret beschikbaar)

 

 

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Meade Falkner werd geboren op 8 mei 1858 in Manningford Bruce, Wiltshire en groeide op in Dorchester en Weymouth. Hij studeerde rechten in Oxford en werd een geslaagd zakenman in de wapenindustrie, maar bleef daarnaast evenveel interesse houden voor literatuur, architectuur en heraldiek. Zijn bekendste boek is de roman Moonfleet uit 1898.

 

Uit: Moonfleet

 

My name is John Trenchard, and I was fifteen years of age when this story begins. My father and mother had both been dead for years, and I boarded with my aunt, Miss Arnold, who was kind to me in her own fashion, but too strict and precise ever to make me love her.

I shall first speak of one evening in the fall of the year 1757. It must have been late in October, though I have forgotten the exact date, and I sat in the little front parlour reading after tea. My aunt had few books; a Bible, a Common Prayer, and some volumes of sermons are all that I can recollect now; but the Reverend Mr Glennie, who taught us village children, had lent me a story-hook, full of interest and adventure, called the Arabian Nights Entertainment. At last the light began to fail, and I was nothing loth to leave off reading for several reasons; as, first the parlour was a chilly room with horse-hair chairs and sofa, and only a coloured-paper screen in the grate, for my aunt did not allow a fire till the first of November; second, there was a rank smell of molten tallow in the house, for my aunt was dipping winter candles on frames in the back kitchen; third, I had reached a part in the Arabian Nights which tightened my breath and made me wish to leave off reading for very anxiousness of expectation. It was that point in the story of the "Wonderful Lamp", where the false uncle lets fall a stone that seals the mouth of the underground chamber; and immures the boy, Aladdin, in the darkness, because he would not give up the lamp till he stood safe on the surface again. This scene reminded me of one of those dreadful nightmares, where we dream we are shut in a line room, the walls of which are closing in upon us, and so impressed me that the memory of it served as a warning in an adventure that befell me later on.“

 

 

 

 

J_Meade_Falkner
J. Meade Falkner (8 mei 1858 – 22 juli 1932)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver Alain-René Lesage werd geboren op 8 mei 1668 in Sarzeau. Hij geldt als de eerste schrijver in de Franse literatuur die van zijn pen kon leven. Hij studeerde rechten in Parijs. Zijn schrijvers loopbaan begon moeizaam met vertalingen van Spaanse stukken. In 1707 kwam de doorbraak met de komedie Crispin, rival de son maître.

 

Uit: Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane

 

„Nous passâmes auprès de Pontferrada, et nous allâmes nous mettre en embuscade dans un petit bois qui bordait le grand chemin de Léon. Là, nous attendions que la fortune nous offrît quelque bon coup à faire, quand nous aperçûmes un religieux de l’ordre de Saint-Dominique, monté, contre l’ordinaire de ces bons pères, sur une mauvaise mule. Dieu soit loué, s’écria le capitaine en riant, voici le chef-d’œuvre de Gil Blas. Il faut qu’il aille détrousser ce moine. Voyons comment il s’y prendra. Tous les voleurs jugèrent qu’effectivement cette commission me convenait, et ils m’exhortèrent à m’en bien acquitter. Messieurs, leur dis-je, vous serez contents. Je vais mettre ce père nu comme la main, et vous amener ici sa mule. Non, non, dit Rolando, elle n’en vaut pas la peine. Apporte-nous seulement la bourse de Sa Révérence. C’est tout ce que nous exigeons de toi. Là-dessus je sortis du bois, et poussai vers le religieux, en priant le ciel de me pardonner l’action que j’allais faire. J’aurais bien voulu m’échapper dès ce moment-là. Mais la plupart des voleurs étaient encore mieux montés que moi : s’ils m’eussent vu fuir, ils se seraient mis à mes trousses, et m’auraient bientôt rattrapé, ou peut-être auraient-ils fait sur moi une décharge de leurs carabines, dont je me serais fort mal trouvé. Je n’osai donc hasarder une démarche si délicate. Je joignis le père, et lui demandai la bourse, en lui présentant le bout d’un pistolet. Il s’arrêta tout court pour me considérer ; et, sans paraître fort effrayé : Mon enfant, me dit-il, vous êtes bien jeune.“

 

 

 

Lesage
Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter Johann von Besser werd geboren op 8 mei 1654 in Frauenburg (tegenwoordig Saldus in Letland). Hij studeerde theologie in Königsberg en rechten in Leipzig. Koning Frederik I van Pruisen benoemde hem in 1690 tot hofdichter. In 1717 werd hij geheim raadsheer en ceremoniemeester aan het hof van August de Sterke in Dresden.

 

 

Liebe will was eignes haben

 

1.

Wer liebet solchen mund

Dem alle küsse schmecken

Und jederman mag lecken

Und machen ungescheut die heisse flammen kund

Der heut mit diesem scherzet

Und morgen jenen herzet

Ja der mit tausenden macht einen liebes-bund?

Wer liebet solchen mund?

 

 

2.

Da sitzt die biene nicht

Wo wilde hummeln sitzen:

Sie sucht die süssen ritzen

Da noch das wespen-heer nicht honig draus gekriegt.

Auch wo vergiffte spinnen

Den geiffer lassen rinnen

Und wo die raupe schon ihr nest hat eingericht

Da sitzt die biene nicht.

 

 

 

 

Johann_von_Besser
Johann von Besser (8 mei 1654 – 10 februari 1729)

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.


De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt.

 

08-05-08

Thomas Pynchon, Edmund Wilson, Gary Snyder, Romain Gary, Roddy Doyle, Pat Barker, Gertrud Fussenegger, Sloan Wilson, Sophus Schandorph


De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Pynchon werd op 8 mei 1937 geboren in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: The Crying of Lot 49

 

“One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary. Oedipa stood in the living room, stared at by the greenish dead eye of the TV tube, spoke the name of God, tried to feel as drunk as possible. But this did not work. She thought of a hotel room in Mazatlan whose door had just been slammed, it seemed forever, waking up two hundred birds down in the lobby; a sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west; a dry, disconsolate tune from the fourth movement of the Bartok Concerto for Orchestra; a whitewashed bust of Jay Gould that Pierce kept over the bed on a shelf so narrow for it she'd always had the hovering fear it would someday topple on them. Was that how he'd died, she wondered, among dreams, crushed by the only ikon in the house? That only made her laugh, out loud and helpless: You're so sick, Oedipa, she told herself, or the room, which knew.

The letter was from the law firm of Warpe, Wistfull, Kubitschek and McMingus, of Los Angeles, and signed by somebody named Metzger. It said Pierce had died back in the spring, and they'd only just now found the will. Metzger was to act as co-executor and special counsel in the event of any involved litigation. Oedipa had been named also to execute the will in a codicil dated a year ago. She tried to think back to whether anything unusual had happened around then. Through the rest of the afternoon, through her trip to the market in downtown Kinneret-Among-The-Pines to buy ricotta and listen to the Muzak (today she came through the bead-curtained entrance around bar 4 of the Fort Wayne Settecento Ensemble's variorum recording of the Vivaldi Kazoo Concerto, Boyd Beaver, soloist); then through the sunned gathering of her marjoram and sweet basil from the herb garden, reading of book reviews in the latest Scientific American, into the layering of a lasagna, garlicking of a bread, tearing up of romaine leaves, eventually, oven on, into the mixing of the twilight's whiskey sours against the arrival of her husband, Wendell ("Mucho") Maas from work, she wondered, wondered, shuffling back through a fat deckful of days which seemed (wouldn't she be first to admit it?) more or less identical, or all pointing the same way subtly like a conjurer's deck, any odd one readily clear to a trained eye.”

 

 

 

 

pynchon
Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en criticus Edmund Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1895 in Red Bank, New Jersey. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: The Historical Interpretation of Literature

 

"To begin with, it will be worth while to say something about the kind of criticism which seems to be furthest removed from this. There is a comparative criticism which tends to be non-historical. The essays of T. S. Eliot, which have had such an immense influence in our time, are, for example, fundamentally non-historical. Eliot sees, or tries to see, the whole of literature, so far as he is acquaninted with it, spread out before him under the aspect of eternity. He then compares the work of different periods and countries, and tries to draw from it general conclusions about what literature out to be. He understands, of course, that our point of view in connection with literature changes, and he has what seems to me a very sound conception of the whole body of writing of the past as something to which new works are continually added, and which is not thereby merely increased in bulk but modified as a whole—so that Sophocles is no longer precisely what he was for Aristotle, or Shakespeare what he was for Ben Jonson or for Dryden or for Dr. Johnson, on account of all the later literature that has intervened between them and us. Yet at every point of this continual accretion, the whole field may be surveyed, as it were, spread out before the critic. The critic tries to see it as God might; he calls the books to a Day of Judgement. And, looking at things in this way, he may arrive at interesting and valuable conclusions which could hardly be reached by approaching them in any other way. Eliot was able to see, for example—what I believe had never been noticed before—that the French Symbolist poetry of the nineteenth century had certain fundamental resemblances to the English poetry of the age of Donne. Another kind of critic would draw certain historical conclusions from these purely esthetic findings, as the Russian D. S. Minsky did; but Eliot does not draw them.

"Another example of this kind of non-historical criticism, in a somewhat different way and on a somewhat different plane, is the work of the late George Saintsbury. Saintsbury was a connoisseur of wines; he wrote an entertaining book on the subject. And his attitude toward literature, too, was that of the connoisseur. He tastes the authors and tells you about the vintages; he distinguishes the qualities of the various wines. His palate was as fine as could be, and he possessed the great qualification that he knew how to take each book on its own terms without expecting it to be some other book and was thus in a positions to appreciate a great variety of kinds of writing. He was a man of strong social prejudices and peculiarly intransigent political views, but, so far as it is humanly possible, he kept them out of his literary criticism. The result is on of the most agreeable and most comprehensive commentaries on literature that have ever been written in English. Most scholars who have read as much as Saintsbury do not have Saintsbury's discriminating taste. Here is a critic who has covered the whole ground like any academic historian, yet whose account of it is not merely a chronology but a record of fastidious enjoyment. Since enjoyment is the only thing he is looking for, he does not need to know the causes of things, and the historical background of literature does not interest him very much.”

 

 

 

Wilson
Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gary Snyder werd geboren op 8 mei 1930 in San Francisco. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

 

Riprap

 

Lay down these words 
Before your mind like rocks. 
      placed solid, by hands 
In choice of place, set 
Before the body of the mind
      in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf or wall 
      riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way, 
      straying planets, 
These poems, people, 
      lost ponies with 
Dragging saddles -- 
      and rocky sure-foot trails.
The worlds like an endless
      Four-dimensional 
Game of Go.
      ants and pebbles 
In the thin loam, each rock a word
      a creek-washed stone
Granite: ingrained 
      with torment of fire and weight
Crystal and sediment linked hot
      all change, in thoughts,
As well as things.

 

 

 

After Work

 

The shack and a few trees

float in the blowing fog

 

I pull out your blouse,

warm my cold hands

     on your breasts.

you laugh and shudder

peeling garlic by the

     hot iron stove.

bring in the axe, the rake,

the wood

 

we'll lean on the wall

against each other

stew simmering on the fire

as it grows dark

            drinking wine.

 

 

 

 

The Spring

 

Beating asphalt into highway potholes

        pickup truck we'd loaded

road repair stock shed & yard

a day so hot the asphalt went in soft.

        pipe and steel plate tamper

took turns at by hand

then drive the truck rear wheel

a few times back and forth across the fill--

finish it off with bitchmo around the edge.

 

the foreman said let's get a drink

& drove through the woods and flower fields

        shovels clattering in back

into a black grove by a cliff

        a rocked in pool

        feeding a fern ravine

                      tin can to drink

numbing the hand and cramping in the gut

surging through the fingers from below

        & dark here--

let's get back to the truck

get back on the job.

 

 

 

 

Snyder
Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)

 

 

 

 

De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: Frühes Versprechen (La Promesse de l'aube, nieuwe Duitse vertaling  door Giò Waeckerlin Induni)

 

Mit dreizehn, glaube ich, habe ich zum ersten Mal meine Berufung geahnt.
Ich besuchte damals die dritte Klasse am Gymnasium von Nizza, und meine Mutter hatte im Hotel Négresco eine der »Vitrinen« auf den Korridoren gemietet, wo sie modische Accessoires ausstellte, die die Luxusgeschäfte ihr in Kommission gaben; sie bekam für jede verkaufte Bluse, für jeden verkauften Gürtel oder Schal zehn Prozent Vermittlungsprovision. Ab und zu nahm sie eine kleine unerlaubte Preiserhöhung vor und steckte die Differenz in die eigene Tasche. Sie lauerte den ganzen Tag auf mögliche Kunden und rauchte nervös unzählige Gauloises, denn unser täglich Brot hing damals von diesem unsicheren Geschäft ab.
Allein, ohne Ehemann, ohne Liebhaber, kämpfte sie schon seit dreißig Jahren mutig, um jeden Monat unser Auskommen zu sichern, um die Butter zu bezahlen, die Schuhe, die Miete, die Kleider, das Steak zum Mittagessen – dieses Steak, das sie jeden Tag fast feierlich auf dem Teller vor mich hinstellte, als sei es der Beweis ihres Sieges über das widrige Geschick. Ich kam aus der Schule und setzte mich zu Tisch. Meine Mutter stand daneben und sah mir beim Essen mit dem zufriedenen Blick einer ihre Jungen säugenden Hündin zu.
Sie weigerte sich, das Steak anzurühren, beteuerte, sie möge nur Gemüse, und Fleisch und Fette seien ihr strikt untersagt. Eines Tages stand ich vom Tisch auf und ging in die Küche ein Glas Wasser trinken. Meine Mutter saß auf einem Schemel; sie hielt die Pfanne auf den Knien, in der mein Steak gebraten worden war. Sie wischte den Pfannenboden sorgfältig mit Brotstücken auf, die sie dann gierig verschlang, und obwohl sie die Pfanne rasch unter der Serviette versteckte, erfasste ich blitzartig die ganze Wahrheit über den wirklichen Grund ihrer vegetarischen Diät.
Ich stand einen Moment versteinert da, betrachtete fassungslos die halb unter der Serviette versteckte Pfanne und das schuldbewusste Lächeln meiner Mutter, dann brach ich in Schluchzen aus und rannte davon. Am Ende der Avenue Shakespeare, wo wir damals wohnten, verlief ein hoher, fast senkrechter Damm die Eisenbahnlinie entlang, und dorthin rannte ich mich verstecken. Ich dachte kurz daran, mich vor den Zug zu werfen und mich so meiner Beschämung und meiner Hilflosigkeit zu entziehen, doch gleich darauf flammte wilde Entschlossenheit in mir auf: Ja, ich würde die Welt wieder in Ordnung bringen und sie eines Tages, gerecht, glücklich und ihrer würdig, meiner Mutter zu Füßen legen. Das Gesicht in den Armen vergraben, überließ ich mich ganz meinem Kummer, doch die Tränen, die so oft meinen Schmerz gestillt hatten, brachten mir diesmal keinen Trost. Ein unerträgliches Gefühl von Entbehrung, Entmännlichung, von Lähmung nahm von mir Besitz; je älter ich wurde, desto mehr wuchs meine Frustration, und mein verschwommenes kindliches Bestreben verblasste nicht etwa, sondern verwandelte sich nach und nach in ein Verlangen, das weder Frau noch Kunst je würden stillen können.“

 

 

 

 

Gary
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

 

 

 

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: The Deportees

 

“In April 2000, two Nigerian journalists living in Dublin, Abel Ugba and Chinedu Onyejelem, started publishing a multicultural paper called Metro Eireann. I read an article about these men in the Irish Times, and decided that I’d like to meet them. Three or four years into our new national prosperity, I was already reading and hearing elegies to the simpler times, before we became so materialistic — the happy days when more people left Ireland than were born here; when we were afraid to ask anyone what they did for a living, because the answer might be ‘Nothing’; when we sent our pennies and our second-hand clothes to Africa but never saw a flesh-and-blood African. The words ‘racist’ and ‘racism’ were being flung around the place, and the stories were doing the rounds. An African woman got a brand new buggy from the Social Welfare and left it at the bus stop because she couldn’t be bothered carrying it onto the bus, and she knew she could get a new one. A man looked over his garden wall and found a gang of Muslims next door on the patio, slaughtering an Irish sheep. A Polish woman rented a flat and, before the landlord had time to bank the deposit, she’d turned it into a brothel, herself and her seven sisters and their cousin, the pimp. I heard those three, and more, from taxi drivers. I thought I’d like to make up a few of my own.”

 

 

 

Doyle2
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijfster Pat Barker werd geboren in Thornaby-on-Tees op 8 mei 1943. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: Life Class

 

They’d been drawing for over half an hour. There was no sound except for the slurring of pencils on Michelet paper or the barely perceptible squeak of charcoal. At the center of the circle of students, close to the dais, a stove cast a barred red light onto the floor. The smell of burning coke mingled with other smells: sweat, hot cloth, cigar and tobacco smoke. Now and again you could hear the soft pop of lips inhaling and another plume of blue smoke would rise to join the pall that hung over the whole room.

Nobody spoke. You were not allowed to talk in the life class. In the Antiques Room, where they spent the mornings copying from casts of Classical and Renaissance sculpture, talking was permitted, and the students—a few of the women, in particular—chattered nonstop. Here, apart from the naked woman on the dais, the atmosphere was not unlike a men’s club. The women students had their own separate life class somewhere on the lower floor. Even the Slade, scandalously modern in most respects, segregated the sexes when the naked human body was on display.

Paul Tarrant, sitting on the back row, as far away from the stove as he could get, coughed discreetly into his handkerchief. He was still struggling to throw off the bronchitis that had plagued him all winter and the fumes irritated his lungs. He’d finished his drawing, or at least he’d reached the point where he knew that further work would only make matters worse. He leaned back and contemplated the page. Not one of his better efforts.”

 

 

 

 

pat_barker1
Pat Barker (Thornaby-on-Tees, op 8 mei 1943)


 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Gertrud Fussenegger werd geboren op 8 mei 1912 in Pilsen. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

Uit: Ein Spiegelbild mit Feuersäule

 

Ich fluchte dem Krieg, der da als silberfunkelnder, hundertfach geflügelter und geschwänzter Drache schräg über mir im sonnigen Blau dahinzog, satanisch schön. Aber ich fluchte auch dem Frieden, der uns mit verlogenen Parolen und schmeichlerischen Entwürfen in einen verderblichen Traum gewiegt hatte. Ich fluchte der Glasglocke, in die mich die Liebe der Meinen gesetzt und in der sie mich verpäppelt und mit verzuckerten Illusionen genährt hatte. Diese Glasglocke war jetzt endgültig unter dem Schlag einer entsetzlichen Belehrung zerborsten. Ich sah unter den immer steigenden Erdfontänen, unter den Detonationsflammen und wirbelnden Trümmern die eigene Jugend mit allen ihren verwegenen Glückserwartungen und Ansprüchen in einem Malstrom von Dreck und Feuer vergehen. In mir war Haß, aber Haß nicht nur auf die Mächte der Vernichtung und die verbrecherische Narrheit, die diese Vernichtung auf uns losgelassen, sondern auch auf den Traum von bürgerlicher Sicherheit, in dem ich erzogen worden war, auf diesen Traum voll Hochmut und Selbstgewißheit, der jetzt unter dem Keulenschlag einer brutalen Erniedrigung endgültig in die Brüche ging.”

 

 

 

 

fussenegger
Gertrud Fussenegger (Pilsen, 8 mei 1912)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 mei 2007.

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut.
De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt.

 

08-05-07

Thomas Pynchon, Sloan Wilson, Edmund Wilson, Gary Snyder, Sophus Schandorph, Romain Gary, Roddy Doyle, Pat Barker, Gertrud Fussenegger


De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Pynchon werd op 8 mei 1937 geboren in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York. Zijn vader, een landmeter, was een kennis van president Theodore Roosevelt. Thomas Pynchon zelf verliet de universiteit (Cornell, waar ook Kurt Vonnegut, 10 jaar eerder, studeerde) om twee jaar lang dienst te nemen bij de Amerikaanse marine. Na zijn terugkomst zei hij de wetenschap vaarwel en studeerde hij  af met een graad in de filologie. Zijn eerste korte verhalen publiceerde hij in 1959.

Na zijn studie ging hij werken voor Boeing in Seattle, Washington. Hij gaf zijn werk op om zijn eerste roman te voltooien, V. (1963). Terwijl verreweg de meeste auteurs zich verheugen in de belangstelling van de media (voor zover deze media zich voor hen interesseren), beslistte Pynchon volledig uit het publieke leven te verdwijnen. Nooit heeft hij een interview gegeven, en sinds 1963 zijn de enige tekens van leven zijn werk zelf, behoudens wat journalistiek werk, enige recensies van andermans werk.

Zijn hoofdwerk is Gravity's Rainbow (1973, vertaald als Regenboog van Zwaartekracht). Dit werd bekroond met de belangrijkste literaire prijs in de VS, de National Book Award. De prijs werd opgehaald door een clown. Voor de William Dean Howells Medal, een vijfjaarlijkse prijs voor het belangrijkste Amerikaanse fictiewerk, bedankte hij met een briefje waarin stond dat er maar één manier is om "neen" te zeggen, en dat is "neen". Ook werd hem een Pulitzer toegekend, maar de beslissing van de jury werd teniet gedaaan door de beheerders van deze prijs, omdat het book (o. a.) 'obsceen' zou zijn.

 

Uit:  Gravity's Rainbow:

 

“Kekeul? dreams the Great Serpent holding its own tail in its mouth, the dreaming Serpent which surrounds the World. But the meanness, the cynicism with which this dream is going to be used. The Serpent that announces, "The World is a closed thing, cyclical, resonant, eternally returning," is to be delivered into a system whose only aim is to violate the Cycle. Taking and not giving back, demanding that "productivity" and "earnings" keep on increasing with time, the System removing from the rest of the World these vast quantities of energy to keep its own tiny desperate fraction showing a profit: and not only most of humanity - most of the World, animal, vegetable, and mineral is laid waste in the process. The System may or may not understand that it's only buying time. And that time is an artificial resource to being with, of no value to anyone or anything but the Systems, which sooner or later must crash to its death, when its addiction to energy has become more than the rest of the World can supply, dragging with it innocent souls all along the chain of life. Living inside the System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by a maniac bent on suicide . . . though he's amiable enough, keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker . . ."

 

Pynchon
Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Sloan Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1920 in Norwalk, Connecticut. Hij studeerde in Harvard en diende tijdens WO II in de Coast Guard. Wilson schreef vijftien boeken, waaronder The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (1955) en A Summer Place (1958) die allebei verfilmd werden.

 

Uit: The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

 

“A major, coming to squat beside him, said:” Some of these goddamn sailors got heads. They went ashore and got Jap heads, and they tried to boil them in the galley to get the skulls for souvenirs”.

Tom had shrugged and said nothing. The fact that he had been too quick to throw a hand grenade and had killed Mahoney, the fact that some young sailors had wanted skulls for souvenirs, and the fact that a few hundred men had lost their lives to take the island of Karkow—all these facts were simply incomprehensible and had to be forgotten. That, he had decided, was the final truth of the war, and he had greeted it with relief, greeted it eagerly, the simple fact that it was incomprehensible and had to be forgotten. Things just happen, he had decided; they happen and they happen again, and anybody who tries to make sense out of it goes out of his mind.”

 

sloan
Sloan Wilson
(8 mei 1920 – 25 mei 2003)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en criticus Edmund Wilson werd geboren op 8 mei 1895 in Red Bank, New Jersey en werd opgeleid aan Princeton. Hij begon zijn carrière als een verslaggever voor de New York Sun, en diende in het leger tijdens de Eerste Wereldoorlog. Hij was hoofdredacteur van Vanity Fair magazine in 1920 en 1921, en werkte later bij de kranten de New Republic en de New Yorker. Wilson was geïnteresseerd in moderne cultuur in zijn geheel, en veel van zijn schrijfselen gaan buiten het gebied van de pure literaire kritieken. In zijn boek To the Finland Station bestudeerde hij het verloop van het Europese socialisme dat toeloopt op de aankomst van Lenin op het Finland Station in Sint-Petersburg als aanvoerder van de revolutie van de Bolsjewieken.

Wilson's vroege werken zijn erg beïnvloed door de ideeën van Freud en Marx, en hij had een diepe interesse in hun werk. Hij was een goede vriend van schrijver F. Scott Fitzgerald, en hij redigeerde Fitzgeralds' laatste boek voor postume publicatie.

 

Uit: The Fifties

 

“Had dinner with Wystan Auden before Elena [ Wilson's wife ] arrived. He was pleased at having what he described as an honor on the part of the Establishment. He has been made an honorary fellow (I think that is the phrase) of Christ Church [ College, Oxford ] . I gather that he can retire and live there for nothing. He thinks that "Down There on a Visit" is Isherwood's best book -- I was just in the middle of reading it. He says the disintegrating homo on his horrible island in Greece was a real person whom he knew and the only person he knew who would drink the spirits out of lamps when there was nothing else to be had. He thought that "Paul" was the best of the stories. I agreed with him when I came to read it; but the whole book is rather disgusting. I am getting sick of this subject. The attitude in these books toward homosexuality involves of course a revolt against society. See the diatribe of the man on the island about putting the heterosexuals in ghettos. Paul is made by Isherwood into a hero. But Genet is the best of these writers. He is the most in revolt, the most genuinely an outlaw. Cambridge, Spring 1962”

 

 

Wilson
Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972)

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Gary Snyder werd geboren op 8 mei 1930 in San Francisco. Zijn werk werd beïnvloed door de Amerikaanse dichters Walt Whitman en Ezra Pound. Hij wordt gerekend tot de Beat Generation.  Het werk van Snyder is doordrongen van een diep respect voor de natuur en doordrongen van Oosterse filosofie. In 1975 won Snyder de Pulitzer Prize voor zijn bundel Turtle Island.

 

 

Rolling In At Twilight

 

Rolling in at twilight -- Newport Oregon --

   cool of september ocean air, I

saw Phil Whalen with a load of groceries

   walking through a dirt lot full

   of logging trucks, cats

      and skidders

 

   looking at the ground.

 

I yelld as the bus wheeld by

   but he kept looking down.

   ten minutes later with my books and pack

       knockt at his door

 

"Thought you might be on that bus"

             he said, and

   showed me all the food.

 

 

 

Manzanita

 

Before dawn the coyotes

            weave medicine songs

            dream nets -- spirit baskets --

            milky way music

                        they cook young girls with

                        to be woman;

            or the whirling dance of

            striped boys --

 

At moon-set the pines are gold-purple

Just before sunrise.

 

The dog hastens into the undergrowth

Comes back panting

Huge, on the small dry flowers.

 

A woodpecker

Drums and echoes

Across the still meadow

 

One man draws, and releases      an arrow

Humming, flat,

Misses a gray stump, and splitting

A smooth red twisty manzanita bough.

 

Manzanita     the tips in fruit,

Clusters of hard green berries

The longer you look

The bigger they seem,

 

            `little apples'

 

 

 

 

 

Snyder2
Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)

 

De Deense schrijver Sophus Schandorph werd geboren op 8 mei 1836 in Ringstedt. Hij studeerde theologie in Kopenhagen, verwisselde die studie echter voor romanistiek en werd daarna leraar. Schandorph behoorde tot de schrijvers van de „Moderne doorbraak“ van 1871 die zich oriënteerden aan Brandes. Ook Toergenjev en Zola hadden invloed op hem.

 

Uit: Stina Becomes a Farmer's Wife  (vertaald door Sally Ryan)

 

“SINCE Midsummer Day not a drop of rain had fallen, and now August was nearing its end. The road looked like a trail of spilled flour winding through bare fields. The stubble land was cracked with drought. The fallow fields gleamed yellow against crumbling grayish white soil. The low ditches were lined with ugly dusty grass, like long tangled wisps of hair. All growing things were drying up in an abandonment of despair. The light blue cloudless sky had tortured them too long. The sun, with its self-complacent smile, had scorched them so mercilessly, so continuously, that now, in spite of their burning thirst, they had grown too listless to implore the heavens for a drop of water. In all the dazzling whiteness of the landscape there was not a spot of deeper color to rest the weary eye.

A peasant girl of short, broad stature came walking along the road. Every step she took raised the dust like a low, dense cloud of steam. She seemed as resigned as the plants, but with a considerably greater vitality. No sentimental pity for her floral fellow-creatures moved her–at least she did not waste one glance on them. Only when a cow began to prance in the field she slightly turned her snugly kerchiefed head.”

 

 

Schandorph
Sophus Schandorph (8 mei 1836 - 1 januari 1901)

 

De Fransjoodse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Hij schreef vooral in het Frans, maar ook in het Engels. Na het overlijden van zijn vader trok hij met zijn moeder in 1928 naar Nice. Al in 1935 publiceerde hij twee korte verhalen in het tijdschrift Gringoire. Nadat hij in 1945 tot de diplomatieke dienst was toegetreden verscheen zijn eerste roman Éducation européenne. Het werk werd in zevenentwintig talen vertaald. Voor Les racines du ciel kreeg hij in 1956 en voor La vie devant soi  in 1975 de Prix Goncourt. Hij is de enige schrijver die deze prijs tweemaal ontving.

 

Uit : La vie devant soi

 

« La première chose que je peux vous dire c'est qu'on habitait au sixième à pied et que pour Madame Rosa, avec tous ces kilos qu'elle portait sur elle et seulement deux jambes, c'était une vraie source de vie quotidienne, avec tous les soucis et les peines. Elle nous le rappelait chaque fois qu'elle ne se plaignait pas d'autre part, car elle était également juive. Sa santé n'était pas bonne non plus et je peux vous dire aussi dès le début que c'était une femme qui aurait mérité un ascenseur.

Je devais avoir trois ans quand j'ai vu Madame Rosa pour la première fois. Avant, on n'a pas de mémoire et on vit dans l'ignorance. J'ai cessé d'ignorer à l'âge de trois ou quatre ans et parfois ça me manque.

Il y avait beaucoup d'autres Juifs, Arabes et Noirs à Belleville, mais Madame Rosa était obligée de grimper les six étages seule. Elle disait qu'un jour elle allait mourir dans l'escalier, et tous les mômes se mettaient à pleurer parce que c'est ce qu'on fait toujours quand quelqu'un meurt. On était tantôt six ou sept tantôt même plus là-dedans.

Au début, je ne savais pas que Madame Rosa s'occupait de moi seulement pour toucher un mandat à la fin du mois. Quand je l'ai appris, j'avais six ou sept ans et ça m'a fait un coup de savoir que j'étais payé. Je croyais que Madame Rosa m'aimait pour rien et qu'on était quelqu'un l'un pour l'autre. J'en ai pleuré toute une nuit et c'était mon premier grand
chagrin. »

 

 

 

Gary
Romain Gary (9 mei 1914 – 2 december 1980)

 

De Ierse schrijver Roddy Doyle werd geboren in Dublin op 8 mei 1958. Voor zijn eerste succes was hij leraar Engels en aardrijkskunde aan de Greendale Community School in Kilbarrack, Noord-Dublin, waar hij nog steeds woont. Zijn boeken gaan over de werkende klasse in Dublin, en zijn luchthartig maar hebben een serieuze ondertoon.

 

Uit: A Star Called Henry

 

"Henry rushed, he skipped all the way, but he dreaded the quick trip home and what he'd find there. Melody was about to give birth. Again. . . . They moved again, to a house on Summerhill. The room was smaller, the house meaner. . . . This was the room that Henry was rushing home to. This was their last chance, he was sure of it. He was panting when he turned onto Summerhill. He was getting old; he was twenty-six. His hair was greying, although he hadn't seen it. He was stooped, carrying the heavy ghosts of his children. He could still feel them in his arms. He could smell them. Little Henry, little Lil. His love for them was an unending fight in his chest. He was always on the verge of seeing them. He didn't sleep any more."

 

 

 

DOYLE
Roddy Doyle (Dublin, 8 mei 1958)

 

De Engelse schrijfster Pat Barker werd geboren in Thornaby-on-Tees op 8 mei 1943. Zij publiceerde haar eerste roman, Union Street, in 1982. Beroemd werd ze met haar Regeneration trilogie, die handelt over WO I. Voor het derde deel daarvan, The Ghost Road, kreeg ze in 2001 de Booker Prize.

 

Uit: Double Vision (2003)

 

“Christmas was over. Feeling a slightly shame-faced pleasure in the restoration of normality, Kate stripped the tree of lights and decorations, cut off the main branches and dragged the trunk down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. There she stood looking back at the house, empty again now -- her mother and sister had left the morning after Boxing Day -- seeing the lighted windows and reflected firelight almost as if she were a stranger, shut out. A few specks of cold rain found her eyelids and mouth. All around her the forest waited, humped in silence. Shivering, she ran back up the lawn.

Gradually she re-established her routine. Up early, across to the studio by eight, five hours' unbroken work that generally left her knackered for the rest of the day, though she forced herself to walk for an hour or two in the afternoons.

The weather turned colder, until one day, returning from her walk, she noticed that the big puddle immediately outside her front gate was filmed with ice, like a cataract dulling the pupil of an eye. She heated a bowl of soup, built up the fire and huddled over it, while outside the temperature dropped, steadily, hour by hour, until a solitary brown oak leaf detaching itself from the the frost-hard ground with a crackle that echoed tree fell onto through the whole forest.”

 

 

 

pat_barker
Pat Barker (Thornaby-on-Tees, op 8 mei 1943)

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Gertrud Fussenegger werd geboren op 8 mei 1912 in Pilsen. Zij studeerde in Innsbruck en München geschiedenis, kunstgeschiedenis en filosofie. Zij begon met het schrijven van historische roman. Haar katholieke afkomst is van invloed op haar werk. Omstreden is haar houding in de tijd van het nationaalsocialisme toen zij door kon gaan met publiceren. Na de oorlog hield zij zich echter steeds weer bezig met de schuld van de Duitsers bezig.

 

Uit: Das Haus der dunklen Krüge

 

“Es war im Jahre 1870: im Hause Bourdanin wurde Hochzeit gefeiert.
Ehe die Sonne des langen glühendheißen Augusttages unterging, führte der Bräutigam, der kaiserliche und königliche Rittmeister Balthasar Bourdanin, seine jungangetraute Frau aus der Gesellschaft der Festgäste hinweg, in die für ihn eingerichteten Gemächer seines Vaterhauses. Die Stuben waren still und leer. Die Fenster standen offen; durch die weißen Schleierbahnen der Vorhänge drang, in schräge Balken gebrochen, das schwere gelbrote Abendlicht. Der Rittmeister warf Hut und Handschuhe ab und schwang seinen Hochzeitsrock über die Sessellehne. „Und nun", sprach er, „nun sage mir auch, Marie, wie glücklich du bist."
Zwischen den Fenstern hing ein Spiegel. Der Mann konnte es sich nicht versagen, sein Bild mit einem Blick zu messen. Balthasar Bourdanin war ein schöner Mann, fest und gedrungen gebaut, breitschultrig, rundköpfig, von kräftiger Hautfarbe und dunklem Haar. Die Nase stand zwar ein wenig schief in dem Angesicht und zielte mit ihrer Spitze abwärts gegen den buschigen Schnurrbart; doch stand sie nicht übel zu dem festen Mund, zu der starken Braue, zu dem dunkelrollenden hephai= stischen Blick. Der Rittmeister mußte es sich selbst gestehen, er war ein in seiner Art prächtiger Mann; darum hielt er die Frau, die ihn bekommen, für ein vollendet glückliches Geschöpf.”

 

 

Fussenegger
Gertrud Fussenegger (Pilsen, 8 mei 1912)