02-08-17

Jussi Adler-Olsen, James Baldwin, Isabel Allende, Kristine Bilkau, Philippe Soupault, Ernest Dowson, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr, Félix Leclerc

 

De Deense schrijver Carl Henry Valdemar Jussi Adler-Olsen werd geboren op 2 augustus 1950 in Kopenhagen. Zie ook alle tags voor Jussi Adler-Olsen op dit blog.

Uit: Selfies (Vertaald door Kor de Vries)

“Zoals altijd droeg haar gezicht de sporen van de voorbije nacht. Haar huid was een beetje uitgedroogd en de donkere kraters onder haar ogen leken dieper dan toen ze naar bed ging.
Denise trok grimassen naar haar spiegelbeeld. Nu was ze een uur bezig geweest om de schades te herstellen en het werd nooit goed genoeg.
‘Je ziet eruit als een hoer en zo stink je ook,’ aapte ze haar moeders stem na terwijl ze haar ogen nog wat extra aanzette.
Op de zit-slaapkamers om haar heen kondigde het lawaai aan dat de andere huurders eindelijk wakker werden en dat het snel weer avond was. Het was een bekende deken van geluid: het gerinkel van flessen, het bij elkaar aankloppen om sigaretten te bietsen, een continu rennen naar het versleten ‘toilet met douche’, dat in het huurcontract ‘luxueus’ werd genoemd.
Nu was de minisamenleving van de onderklasse Denen in een van de donkerder straten van Frederiksstaden eindelijk op gang gekomen, op weg naar een volgende avond zonder uitgesproken doel.
Na een ogenblik keren en draaien stapte ze naar de spiegel toe en bekeek haar gezicht van dichterbij.
‘Spiegeltje spiegeltje aan de wand, wie is de mooiste van het land?’ zei ze met een verwaande glimlach terwijl ze haar spiegelbeeld met haar vingertoppen liefkoosde. Ze tuitte haar lippen, liet haar vingers langs haar heupen omhoog naar haar borsten glijden en verder langs haar nek door haar haar. Vervolgens plukte ze een paar pluisjes van haar angorablouse, bracht wat foundation aan op een paar plekjes die onvoldoende waren bedekt en stapte heel tevreden achteruit. Haar geëpileerde en omhoog gestreken wenkbrauwen hadden samen met de Neulash-versterkte wimpers haar ‘appearance’, zoals zij het noemde, verstevigd. Het had haar blik dieper en de gloed van haar iris intenser gemaakt en gaf haar met weinig middelen een extra snufje onbenaderbaarheid.
Kort gezegd was ze klaar om de wereld te betoveren.”

 

 
Jussi Adler-Olsen (Kopenhagen, 2 augustus 1950)

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02-08-12

Isabel Allende, James Baldwin, Philippe Soupault, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr

 

De Chileense schrijfster Isabel Allende werd geboren in Lima op 2 augustus 1942. Zie ook alle tags voor Isabel Allende op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2010.

 

Uit: Eva Luna (Vertaald door Margaret Sayers Peden)

 

My name is Eva, which means "life," according to a book of names my mother consulted. I was born in the back room of a shadowy house, and grew up amidst ancient furniture, books in Latin, and human mummies, but none of those things made me melancholy, because I came into the world with a breath of the jungle in my memory. My father, an Indian with yellow eyes, came from the place where the hundred rivers meet; he smelled of lush growing things and he never looked directly at the sky, because he had grown up beneath a canopy of trees, and light seemed indecent to him. Consuelo, my mother, spent her childhood in an enchanted region where for centuries adventurers have searched for the city of pure gold the conquistadors saw when they peered into the abyss of their own ambitions. She was marked forever by that landscape, and in some way she managed to pass that sign on to me.
Missionaries took Consuelo in before she learned to walk; she appeared one day, a naked cub caked with mud and excrement, crawling across the footbridge from the dock like a tiny Jonah vomited up by some freshwater whale. When they bathed her, it was clear beyond a shadow of doubt that she was a girl, which must have caused no little consternation among them; but she was already there and it would not do to throw her into the river, so they draped her in a diaper to cover her shame, squeezed a few drops of lemon into her eyes to heal the infection that had prevented her from opening them, and baptized her with the first female name that came to mind. They then proceeded to bring her up, without fuss or effort to find out where she came from; they were sure that if Divine Providence had kept her alive until they found her, it would also watch over her physical and spiritual well-being, or, in the worst of cases, would bear her off to heaven along with the other innocents. Consuelo grew up without any fixed niche in the strict hierarchy of the Mission. She was not exactly a servant, but neither did she have the status of the Indian boys in the school, and when she asked which of the priests was her father, she was cuffed for her insolence. She told me that a Dutch sailor had set her adrift in a rowboat, but that was likely a story that she had invented to protect herself from the onslaught of my questions. I think the truth is that she knew nothing about her origins or how she had come to be where the missionaries found her.“

 

 

Isabel Allende (Lima, 2 augustus 1942)

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02-08-11

Félix Leclerc, Arnold Kübler, Adolf Friedrich von Schack, Kamiel Verwer, Zoltán Egressy

 

De Frans-Canadese dichter, schrijver, acteur, zanger en politiek activist Félix Leclerc werd geboren op 2 augustus 1914 in La Tuque, Quebec, Canada. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2010

 

 

Le petit bonheur

 

C'est un petit bonheur que j'avais ramassé

Il était tout en pleurs sur le bord d'un fossé

Quand il m'a vu passer il s'est mis à crier

"Monsieur, ramassez-moi, chez vous emmenez-moi

Mes frères m'ont oublié, je suis tombé, je suis malade

Si vous ne me cueillez point, je vais mourir, quelle ballade

Je me ferai petit, tendre et soumis, je vous le jure

Monsieur, je vous en prie, délivrez-moi de ma torture"

 

J'ai pris le petit bonheur, l'ai mis sous mes haillons

J'ai dit: "Faut pas qu'il meurt, viens-t'en dans ma maison"

Alors le petit bonheur a fait sa guérison

Sur le bord de mon coeur, y'avait une chanson

Mes jours, mes nuits, mes peines, mes deuils, mon mal, tout fut oublié

Ma vie de désoeuvré, j'avais le dégoût de la recommencer

Quand il pleuvait dehors ou que mes amis me faisaient des peines

Je prenais mon petit bonheur et je lui disais: "C'est toi ma reine"

 

Mon bonheur a fleuri, il a fait des bourgeons

C'était le paradis, ça se voyait sur mon front

Or un matin joli que je sifflais ce refrain

Mon bonheur est parti sans me donner la main

J'eus beau le supplier, le cajoler, lui faire des scènes

Lui montrer le grand trou qu'il me faisait au fond du coeur

Il s'en allait toujours la tête haute, sans joie, sans haine

Comme s'il ne pouvait plus voir le soleil dans ma demeure

 

J'ai bien penser de mourir de chagrin et d'ennui

J'avais cessé de rire, c'était toujours la nuit

Il me restait l'oubli, il me restait le mépris

Enfin que je me suis dit, il me reste la vie
J'ai repris mon bâton, mes deuils, mes peines et mes guenilles

Et je bats la semelle dans des pays de malheureux

Aujourd'hui quand je vois une fontaine ou une fille

Je fais un grand détour ou bien je me ferme les yeux

Je fais un grand détour ou bien je me ferme les yeux

 

 

Félix Leclerc (2 augustus 1914 – 8 augustus 1988)

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02-08-10

Isabel Allende, James Baldwin, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr, Philippe Soupault, Félix Leclerc, Arnold Kübler, Adolf Friedrich von Schack

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 2e augustus mijn blog bij seniorennet.be

  

Isabel Allende, James Baldwin, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr

 

 

Zie voor de volgende schrijvers van de 2e augustus ook bij seniorennet.be mijn vorige blog van vandaag. 

 

Philippe Soupault, Félix Leclerc, Arnold Kübler, Adolf Friedrich von Schack

02-08-09

Isabel Allende, James Baldwin, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr, Philippe Soupault, Félix Leclerc, Arnold Kübler, Adolf Friedrich von Schack


De Chileense schrijfster Isabel Allende werd geboren in Lima op 2 augustus 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

Uit: Daughter of Fortune (Vertaald door Margaret Savers Peden)

 

Everyone is born with some special talent, and Eliza Sommers discovered early on that she had two: a good sense of smell and a good memory. She used the first to earn a living and the second to recall her life-if not in precise detail, at least with an astrologer's poetic vagueness. The things we forget may as well never have happened, but she had many memories, both real and illusory, and that was like living twice. She used to tell her faithful friend, the sage Tao Chi'en, that her memory was like the hold of the ship where they had come to know one another: vast and somber, bursting with boxes, barrels, and sacks in which all the events of her life were jammed. Awake it was difficult to find anything in that chaotic clutter, but asleep she could, just as Mama Fresia had taught her in the gentle nights of her childhood, when the contours of reality were as faint as a tracery of pale ink. She entered the place of her dreams along a much traveled path and returned treading very carefully in order not to shatter the tenuous visions against the harsh light of consciousness. She put as much store in that process as others put in numbers, and she so refined the art of remembering that she could see Miss Rose bent over the crate of Marseilles soap that was her first cradle.
"You cannot possibly remember that, Eliza. Newborns are like cats, they have no emotions and no memory," Miss Rose insisted the few times the subject arose.
Possible or not, that woman peering down at her, her topaz-colored dress, the loose strands from her bun stirring in the breeze were engraved in Eliza's mind, and she could never accept the other explanation of her origins.
"You have English blood, like us," Miss Rose assured Eliza when she was old enough to understand. "Only someone from the British colony would have thought to leave you in a basket on the doorstep of the British Import and Export Company, Limited. I am sure they knew how good-hearted my brother Jeremy is, and felt sure he would take you in. In those days I was longing to have a child, and you fell into my arms, sent by God to be brought up in the solid principles of the Protestant faith and the English language."

 

 

 

 

isabel-allende
Isabel Allende (Lima, 2 augustus 1942)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Baldwin werd op 2 augustus 1924 in Harlem, New York, geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007  en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

Uit: Another Country

 

HE WAS FACING Seventh Avenue, at Times Square. It was past midnight and he had been sitting in the movies, in the top row of the balcony, since two o'clock in the afternoon. Twice he had been awakened by the violent accents of the Italian film, once the usher had awakened him, and twice he had been awakened by caterpillar fingers between his thighs. He was so tired, he had fallen so low, that he scarcely had the energy to be angry; nothing of his belonged to him anymore—you took the best, so why not take the rest?—but he had growled in his sleep and bared the white teeth in his dark face and crossed his legs. Then the balcony was nearly empty, the Italian film was approaching a climax; he stumbled down the endless stairs into the street. He was hungry, his mouth felt filthy. He realized too late, as he passed through the doors, that he wanted to urinate. And he was broke. And he had nowhere to go.

The policeman passed him, giving him a look. Rufus turned, pulling up the collar of his leather jacket while the wind nibbled delightedly at him through his summer slacks, and started north on Seventh Avenue. He had been thinking of going downtown and waking up Vivaldo—the only friend he had left in the city, or maybe in the world—but now he decided to walk up as far as a certain jazz bar and night club and look in. Maybe somebody would see him and recognize him, maybe one of the guys would lay enough bread on him for a meal or at least subway fare. At the same time, he hoped that he would not be recognized.

The Avenue was quiet, too, most of its bright lights out. Here and there a woman passed, here and there a man; rarely, a couple. At corners, under the lights, near drugstores, small knots of white, bright, chattering people showed teeth to each other, pawed each other, whistled for taxis, were whirled away in them, vanished through the doors of drugstores or into the blackness of side streets. Newsstands, like small black blocks on a board, held down corners of the pavements and policemen and taxi drivers and others, harder to place, stomped their feet before them and exchanged such words as they both knew with the muffled vendor within.”

 

 

 

 

Baldwin
James Baldwin (2 augustus 1924 – 1 december 1987)

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver Zoltán Egressy wird geboren in Boedapest op 2 augustus 1967. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

Uit: DREI SÄRGE (Vertaald door Wilhelm Droste)

 

(Im Zimmer sieht man außer dem Bett – mit Emmi und Viktor – noch einen großen Tisch und zwei Stühle. Ein dritter Stuhl ist eng unter den Tisch geschoben. An der Wand hängen drei Bilder, auf dem einen ist ein betagter Mann, das andere zeigt ein Ehepaar mittleren Alters. Auf dem dritten ist Emmi als Kind mit ihrem Vater, dem männlichen Part des Ehepaares in mittleren Jahren. In der Ecke steht ein Klavier. Auf dem Tisch ist eine Tischdecke, darauf zwei Teller und zwei Gläser. Das Essen ist offensichtlich beendet. In der Mitte des Tisches steht eine Vase, darin vertrocknete Feldblumen. Emmi und Viktor nach dem Liebesakt. Sie liegen auf dem Rücken. Emmi ist schlecht gelaunt.)
VIKTOR: Das war gut.
EMMI: Dann ist ja gut.
VIKTOR: Du bist geschickt.
Es war gut.
EMMI: Dann ist ja gut.
VIKTOR: Für dich?
EMMI: Das ist das wichtigste.
(Sie zieht sich einen Bademantel an, steht auf, nimmt den trockenen Strauß aus der Vase.)
VIKTOR: Auch das Essen war gut.
EMMI: Das freut mich.
(Sie steht da mit den vertrockneten Blumen, dann geht sie hinaus. Viktor liegt befriedigt da.. Emmi kommt zurück.)
VIKTOR: So ist es doch besser. Wenn deine Mama da ist und die Veronka, dann achte ich immer darauf, ob sie vielleicht reinkommen.
EMMI: Die kommen nicht rein.
VIKTOR: Nein.
EMMI: Wenn sie wüßten…
VIKTOR: Würden sie dann reinkommen.
EMMI: So ist es besser.
VIKTOR: Besser. Wie lange noch?
EMMI: Drei Wochen.
(Stille)
VIKTOR: Gib mir noch was von dem Pflaumenschnaps.
EMMI: Bis wann kannst du bleiben?
VIKTOR: Ich mach mich auf, gib mir nur noch ein bißchen Schnaps.
EMMI: Früher bist du länger geblieben.
(Stille)
VIKTOR: In den nächsten Tagen kommt eine Division. Man sagt, in der Stadt würden dann Offiziere stationiert. Sie werden hier in die Häuser einziehen.”

 

 

 

 

 

egressy
Zoltán Egressy (Boedapest, 2 augustus 1967)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en historicus Caleb Carr werd  geboren op 2 augustus 1955 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

Uit: Killing Time

 

“Somewhere in the Mitumba Mountain Range of Central Africa, September 2024

We leave at daylight, so I must write quickly. All reports indicate that my pursuers are now very close: the same scouts who for the last two days have reported seeing a phantom airship moving steadily down from the northeast, setting fire to the earth as it goes, now say that they have spotted the vessel near Lake Albert. My host, Chief Dugumbe, has at last given up his insistence that I allow his warriors to help me stand and fight, and instead offers an escort of fifty men to cover my escape. Although I'm grateful, I've told him that so large a group would be too conspicuous. I'll take only my good friend Mutesa, the man who first dragged my exhausted body out of this high jungle, along with two or three others armed with some of the better French and American automatic weapons. We'll make straight for the coast, where I hope to find passage to a place even more remote than these mountains.

It seems years since fate cast me among Dugumbe's tribe, though in reality it's been only nine months; but then reality has ceased to have much meaning for me. It was a desire to get that meaning back that originally made me choose this place to hide, this remote, beautiful corner of Africa that has been forever plagued by tribal wars. At the time the brutality of such conflicts seemed to me secondary to the fact that the ancient grievances fueling them had been handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth alone; I thought this a place where I might be at least marginally sure that the human behavior around me was not being manipulated by the unseen hands of those who, through mastery of the wondrous yet sinister technologies of our "information age," have obliterated the line between truth and fiction, between reality and a terrifying world in which one's eyes, ears, and heart can no longer be trusted.”

 

 

 

 

carrcaleb
Caleb Carr (New York, 2 augustus 1955)

 

 

 

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Philippe Soupault werd geboren op 2 augustus 1897 in Chaville bij Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007  en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

 

 

C’est demain dimanche

 

Il faut apprendre à sourire

même quand le temps est gris

Pourquoi pleurer aujourd'hui

Quand le soleil brille

C'est demain la fête des amis

Des grenouilles et des oiseaux

des champignons des escargots

n'oublions pas les insectes

Les mouches et les coccinelles

Et surtout à l'heure à midi

j'attendrai l'arc-en-ciel

violet indigo bleu vert

jaune orange et rouge

et nous jouerons à la marelle

 

 

 

 

 

Le pirate

 

Et lui dort-il sous les voiles

il écoute le vent son complice

il regarde la terre ferme son ennemie sans envie

et la boussole est près de son cœur immobile

Il court sur les mers

à la recherche de l’axe invisible du monde

Il n’y a pas de cris

pas de bruit

des chiffres s’envolent

et la nuit les efface

Ce sont les étoiles sur l’ardoise du ciel

Elles surveillent les rivières qui coulent dans l’ombre

et les amis du silence les poissons

mais ses yeux fixent une autre étoile

perdue dans la foule

tandis que les nuages passent

doucement plus fort que lui

lui

lui

 

 

 

 

 

Soupault
Philippe Soupault (2 augustus 1897 – 12 maart 1990)

 

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

 

De Frans-Canadese dichter, schrijver, acteur, zanger en politiek activist Félix Leclerc werd geboren op 2 augustus 1914 in La Tuque, Quebec, Canada.

 

De Zwitserse schrijver Arnold Kübler werd geboren op 2 augustus 1890 in Wiesendrangen.

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver, kunst- en literatuurcriticus Adolf Friedrich von Schack werd geboren op 2 augustus 1815 in Brüsewitz bij Schwerin. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2008.

 

 

02-08-08

Isabel Allende, James Baldwin, Philippe Soupault, Zoltán Egressy, Caleb Carr, Adolf Friedrich von Schack, Félix Leclerc, Arnold Kübler


De Chileense schrijfster Isabel Allende werd geboren in Lima op 2 augustus 1942. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

 

Uit: Of Law and Shadows

 

 

“Rivera remembered the first execution as clearly as if he were seeing it today. It had happened five years ago, a few days after the military takeover. It was still cold, and it had rained all night; the skies had opened and washed the world, leaving the barracks bright and clean and smelling of moss and moisture. By dawn, the rain had stopped, but everything was softened in the haze of its memory, and small pools of water glittered among the cobbles like slivers of glass. The firing squad was assembled at the far end of the patio, and two strides before them, deathly pale, stood Lieutenant Ramirez. The prisoner was brought in between two guards, who were holding him up by the arms because he couldn't stand on his own two feet.

“Position the prisoner against the wall, Corporal!”
“But, Lieutenant, he can't stand up.”
“Then sit him down!”
“Where, Lieutenant?”
“Well, bring a chair, goddammit,” and the lieutenant's voice had cracked.

Faustino Rivera turned to the man at his left, repeated the order, and the man departed. Why don't they pitch the prisoner on the ground and shoot him like a dog before it gets light and we can see everybody's face? Why drag it out like this? the corporal thought, uneasy because the patio was getting lighter by the second. The prisoner raised his eyes and looked at each of them with the astounded expression of the dying; he paused when he came to Faustino. He undoubtedly recognized him, because once they'd played soccer on the same field, and there he was now standing in the middle of icy pools of water, holding a rifle in his hands that weighed a ton, while the prisoner lay on the ground waiting. At this point the chair arrived and the lieutenant ordered them to tie the prisoner to the chairback because he was swaying like a scarecrow. The corporal stepped toward him with a kerchief.”

 

 

isabelallende

Isabel Allende (Lima, 2 augustus 1942)

 

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Baldwin werd op 2 augustus 1924 in Harlem, New York, geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

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 Uit: If Beale Street Could Talk

 

“I look at myself in the mirror. I know that I was christened Clementine, and so it would make sense if people called me Clem, or even, come to think of it, Clementine, since that's my name: but they don't. People call me Tish. I guess that makes sense, too. I'm tired, and I'm beginning to think that maybe everything that happens makes sense. Like, if it didn't make sense, how could it happen? But that's really a terrible thought. It can only come out of trouble--trouble that doesn't make sense.

Today, I went to see Fonny. That's not his name, either, he was christened Alonzo: and it might make sense if people called him Lonnie. But, no, we've always called him Fonny. Alonzo Hunt, that's his name. I've known him all my life, and I hope I'll always know him. But I only call him Alonzo when I have to break down some real heavy shit to him.

Today, I said, "--Alonzo--?"

And he looked at me, that quickening look he has when I call him by his name.

He's in jail. So where we were, I was sitting on a bench in front of a board, and he was sitting on a bench in front of a board. And we were facing each other through a wall of glass between us. You can't hear anything through this glass, and so you both have a little telephone. You have to talk through that. I don't know why people always look down when they talk through a telephone, but they always do. You have to remember to look up at the person you're talking to.

I always remember now, because he's in jail and I love his eyes and every time I see him I'm afraid I'll never see him again. So I pick up the phone as soon as I get there and I just hold it and I keep looking up at him.

So, when I said, "--Alonzo--?" he looked down and then he looked up and he smiled and he held the phone and he waited.

I hope that nobody has ever had to look at anybody they love through glass.

And I didn't say it the way I meant to say it. I meant to say it in a very offhand way, so he wouldn't be too upset, so he'd understand that I was saying it without any kind of accusation in my heart.

You see: I know him. He's very proud, and he worries a lot, and, when I think about it, I know--he doesn't--that that's the biggest reason he's in jail. He worries too much already, I don't want him to worry about me. In fact, I didn't want to say what I had to say. But I knew I had to say it. He had to know.

And I thought, too, that when he got over being worried, when he was lying by himself at night, when he was all by himself, in the very deepest part of himself, maybe, when he thought about it, he'd be glad. And that might help him.

I said, "Alonzo, we're going to have a baby."

I looked at him. I know I smiled. His face looked as though it were plunging into water. I couldn't touch him. I wanted so to touch him. I smiled again and my hands got wet on the phone and then for a moment I couldn't see him at all and I shook my head and my face was wet and I said, "I'm glad. I'm glad. Don't you worry. I'm glad."

But he was far away from me now, all by himself. I waited for him to come back. I could see it flash across his face: my  baby? I knew that he would think that. I don't mean that he doubted me: but a man thinks that. And for those few seconds while he was out there by himself, away from me, the baby was the only real thing in the world, more real than the prison, more real than me.

I should have said already: we're not married. That means more to him than it does to me, but I understand how he feels. We were going to get married, but then he went to jail.

Fonny is twenty-two. I am nineteen.

He asked the ridiculous question: "Are you sure?"

"No. I ain't sure. I'm just trying to mess with your mind."

 

 

 

 

Baldwin

James Baldwin (2 augustus 1924 – 1 december 1987)

Richard Olney, Portrait of James Baldwin, 1954

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Philippe Soupault werd geboren op 2 augustus 1897 in Chaville bij Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

 

Grammaire

Peut-être et toujours peut-être
adverbes que vous m'ennuyez
avec vos presque et presque pas
quand fleurissent les apostrophes

Et vous points et virgules
qui grouillez dans les viviers
où nagent les subjonctifs
je vous empaquette vous ficelle

Soyez maudits paragraphes
pour que les prophéties s'accomplissent
bâtards honteux des grammairiens
et mauvais joueurs de syntaxe

Sucez vos impératifs
et laissez-nous dormir
une bonne fois
c'est la nuit
et la canicule

 

 

C’est vrai

Sept veaux

c'est peu

sept œufs

c'est beaucoup

 

Mille huit cent quatre-vingt-douze

c'est sec

Mille huit cent quatre-vingt-dix-sept

c'est trop

 

Pomme poire et pendulette

c'est émouvant

 

Rien n'égale la satinette

c'est évident

 

N'essayez pas de m'arrêter

c'est décidé

 

la lune l'orage et le poirier

c'est lune.

 

 

 

soupaultabott
Philippe Soupault (2 augustus 1897 – 12 maart 1990)

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver Zoltán Egressy wird geboren in Boedapest op 2 augustus 1967. Hij studeerde Hongaars, literatuur en geschiedenis aan de universiteit van Boedapest en sloot zijn stidie in 1990 af. In 1991 publiceerde hij een dichtbundel, Csókko, (in het Duits „Kusszeit“), vervolgens vertaalde hij werk van Pessoa en Quasimodo. In dezelfde tijd was hij ook zanger in een Underground band en schreef hij voor een theatertijdschrift. Sinds 1995 schrijft Egressy toneelstukken, hoorspelen en draaiboeken. Zijn eerswte stuk, Sóska, sült krumpli, wird opgevoerd het József-Katona-Theater in Boedapest en was een groot succes. Zijn tweede stuk, Portugál, wird door Andor Lukáts verfilmd. Egressy is getrouwd met de Hongaarse actrice Ágnes Bertalan en heeft twee kinderen.

 

 

 

Uit: 4 x 100 (Vertaald door Albert Koncsek)

 

“(Massageraum. In der Mitte die Massagebank, an den Wänden weitere Bänke. An den Wänden Kalender, Plakate. Ein Plakat informiert über Allergiesymptome (Pollenflug), ein anderes über die Dinosaurierarten, aber es gibt auch einige zur Athletik. Die Tür ist offen. Dali sitzt auf einer Bank an der Wand, packt seine Tasche aus, holt verschiedene Mittelchen hervor, stellt die Plastikflaschen und Salben kommod nebeneinander. Einige nimmt er sich genauer unter die Lupe, nicht ausgeschlossen, dass er sich das Verfallsdatum betrachtet. Er scheint müde und zerstreut zu sein. Von draußen ist Radau zu hören. Dali nervt der Lärm, er geht zur Tür und schließt sie. Er geht zurück an seinen Platz. Er seufzt. Es klopft, kurz darauf öffnet sich die Tür. Tante Judy steht da.) 

Tante Judy Du schon?... (Tritt ungezwungen und temperamentvoll ein.) Dein Harem kommt gleich, der Bus ist angekommen, hallo. (Lächelt, gibt ihm einen Wangenkuss.)

 

Dai: (Leise, bündig)

Oje, oje, wir müssen sterben.

Tante Judy

 Ich weiß im Übrigen nicht, warum man sie zusammensperren muss, wenn der Wettkampf eh hier stattfindet, alle sind aus Budapest, sie könnten auch von zu Hause kommen, nicht?

Dali

 Wir können uns nicht mehr selbst betrügen. Oje, oje, wir müssen sterben, wir müssen sterben.

Tante Judy

 Ich bin heute Vormittag nicht zu ihnen ins Trainigslager gegangen, die haben auch ohne mich genug Sorgen, hast du heute mit Piroschka gesprochen?

Dali 

Wir werden sterben, Judy. Wir werden sterben.

Tante Judy 

Ich liebe die Welt, Dali, sag mir nicht so was, vor allem nicht heute.

Dali 

Es ist auch heute ganz offensichtlich, dass wir sterben müssen.

Tante Judy 

Es muss gelingen.

Dali 

Es wird gelingen. Jedem irgendwann. Zwischen Herbst und Frühling oder zwischen Frühling und Herbst. Es ist ganz offensichtlich. (Ergreift Tante Judys Hand.) Du hast dort, wo dich niemand sieht, nicht geweint.

Tante Judy (Öffnet sich, versucht, das persönliche Thema zu meiden. Fröhlich.)

Als kleines Mädchen war ich mir sicher, dass man ein Mittel erfinden wird, und dann muss niemand mehr sterben.

Dali 

Man hat es aber nicht erfunden, Judy.

Tante Judy 

Ja ja.

Dali 

Ja ja.

      (Pause)

Tante Judy (Klatscht einmal, will vom Thema ablenken.)

Na dann...

Dali 

Du hast nicht geweint... Aber ich!... Es gibt keinen Film, bei dem ich nicht weinen muss.

      (Tante Judy geht hinaus auf den Flur. Das Klimpern von Geld und das Geräusch eines Kaffeeautomaten sind zu hören. Die Tür ist offen, Tante Judys Rücken ist zu sehen. Sie hört Dali, den es sichtlich nicht kümmert, ob die Trainerin ihm zuhört.)      

Es gibt keine Schnulze, bei der ich nicht weine. Gleichzeitig lache ich über mich. Weine aber dabei. Ein Witz. Da setzt im Film die Musik ein, damit der Bauer weint. Und wer weint - ich, ja. Oder bei irgendeiner Hochzeit. Wenn es nicht meine eigene ist. Wenn die sagen, in guten und in schlechten Zeiten, zum Beispiel.

(Tante Judy tritt ein, in der Hand der Kaffee.)

 Oder nur eine Melodie. Was weiß ich, nur eine Strophe. Und schon weine ich wie ein Trottel. Rollen die Tränen. Wie aus der Pistole geschossen. (Lacht dreckig.)

Tante Judy (Zeigt auf den Kaffee.)

Ein klein wenig nicht heiß.

Dali 

Mit geht’s nicht gut, Judy. (Lacht wieder gezwungen auf.)

Tante Judy 

Seit Tagen, Wochen, Monaten, Jahren geht es dir nicht gut.

Dali 

Seit dreiundzwanzig Jahren. Seither schwächele ich.

      (Pause)

Tante Judy 

Dieser Kaffee ist ein klein wenig schlecht. (Trinkt den Rest in einem Zug und wirft den Becher in einen Papierkorb.)

Dali (Ernsthaft nachdenkend)

Was ist heute? Ist Ostern schon vorbei?

Tante Judy 

Zwei Monate her. Vor zwei Monaten war Ostern, Dali. Es ist Sommer und alles lebt! Hast du schon mit Piroschka gesprochen?

Dali

 Wer liebt, ist wohl kaum schuldig.”

 

 

 

Egressy_Zoltan

Zoltán Egressy (Boedapest, 2 augustus 1967)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en historicus Caleb Carr werd  geboren op 2 augustus 1955 in New York. Zijn jeugd in een achtergestelde buurt van Manhatten werd gekenmerkt door chaotische familieverhoudingen. Zijn vader, een journalist, was alcoholist en veroordeeld wegens doodslag. Hij was wel bevriend met mensen als Jack Kerouac en Allen Ginsberg. Zijn ouders lieten zich al vroeg scheiden. Ook zijn nieuwe stiefvader was alcoholist. Toch rondde Carr zijn studie geschiedenis in New York met succes af. Hij begon zijn loopbaan als journalist. In 1994 volgde zijn doorbraak, internationaal,  met een in het Victoriaanse tijdperk spelende detective, The Alienist. De latere president van de VS, Theodore Roosevelt, speelt hierin een rol als leider van een politiecorps. In het in 1997 verschenen vervolg, The Angel of Darknes, kon Carr het hoge stilistische niveau handhaven. Andere boeken van hem, zoals The Italian Secretary en Killing Time waren minder succesvol.

 

 

Uit: The Alienist

 

The words as I write them make as little sense as did the sight of his coffin descending into a patch of sandy soil near Sagamore Hill, the place he loved more than any other on earth. As I stood there this afternoon, in the cold January wind that blew off Long Island Sound, I thought to myself: Of course it’s a joke. Of course he’ll burst the lid open, blind us all with that ridiculous grin and split our ears with a high-pitched bark of laughter. Then he’ll exclaim that there’s work to do—“action to get!”—and we’ll all be martialed to the task of protecting some obscure species of newt from the ravages of a predatory industrial giant bent on planting a fetid factory on the little amphipian’s breeding ground. I was not alone in such fantasies; everyone at the funeral expected something of the kind, it was plain on their faces. All reports indicate that most of the country and much of the world feel the same way. The notion of Theodore Roosevelt being gone is that—unacceptable. In truth, he’d been fading for longer than anyone wanted to admit, really since his son Quentin was killed in the last days of the Great Butchery. Cecil Spring-Rice once droned, in his best British blend of affection and needling, that Roosevelt was throughout his life “about six”; and Herm Hagedorn noted that after Quentin was shot out of the sky in the summer of 1918 “the boy in Theodore died.” I dined with Laszlo Kreizler at Delmonico’s tonight, and mentioned Hagedorn’s comment to him. For the remaining two courses of my meal I was treated to a long, typically passionate explanation of why Quentin’s death was more than simply heartbreaking for Theodore: he had felt profound guilt, too, guilt at having so instilled his philosophy of “the strenuous life” in all his children that they often placed themselves deliberately in harm’s way, knowing it would delight their beloved father. Grief was almost unbearable to Theodore, I’d always known that; whenever he had to come to grips with the death of someone close, it seemed he might not survive the struggle. But it wasn’t until tonight, while listening to Kreizler, that I understood the extent to which moral uncertainty was also intolerable to the twenty-sixth president, who sometimes seemed to think himself Justice personified. Kreizler . . . He didn’t want to attend the funeral, though Edith Roosevelt would have liked him to. She has always been truly partial to the man she calls “the enigma,” the brilliant doctor whose studies of the human mind have disturbed so many people so profoundly over the last forty years. Kreizler wrote Edith a note explaining that he did not much like the idea of a world without Theodore, and, being as he’s now sixty-four and has spent his life staring ugly realities full in the face, he thinks he’ll just indulge himself and ignore the fact of his friend’s passing. Edith told me today that reading Kreizler’s note moved her to tears, because she realized that Theodore’s boundless affection and enthusiasm—which revolted so many cynics and was, I’m obliged to say in the interests of journalistic integrity, sometimes difficult even for friends to tolerate—had been strong enough to touch a man whose remove from most of human society seemed to almost everyone else unbridgeable. Some of the boys from the Times wanted me to come to a memorial dinner tonight, but a quiet evening with Kreizler seemed much the more appropriate thing. It wasn’t out of nostalgia for any shared boyhood in New York that we raised our glasses, because Laszlo and Theodore didn’t actually meet until Harvard. No, Kreizler and I were fixing our hearts on the spring of 1896—nearly a quarter-century ago!—and on a series of events that still seems too bizarre to have occurred even in this city. By the end of our dessert and Madeira (and how poignant to have a memorial meal in Delmonico’s, good old Del’s, now on its way out like the rest of us, but in those days the bustling scene of some of our most important encounters), the two of us were laughing and shaking our heads, amazed to this day that we were able to get through the ordeal with our skins; and still saddened, as I could see in Kreizler’s face and feel in my own chest, by the thought of those who didn’t. There’s no simple way to describe it.”

 

 

 

carr

Caleb Carr (New York, 2 augustus 1955)

 

 

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver, kunst- en literatuurcriticus Adolf Friedrich von Schack werd geboren op 2 augustus 1815 in Brüsewitz bij Schwerin. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

 

Der Brief

 

Nichts ist mir von dir geblieben

Als der Brief, den du geschrieben,

Meines Lebens höchstes Gut;

Mag das Auge mir erblinden,

Tröstung kann ich einzig finden,

Wenn es auf dem Blatte ruht.

 

Dann erstehn mir sel'ge Stunden

Mit den Wonnen, die geschwunden,

Wieder aus der Totengruft;

Und um meine wehmuttrunkne

Seele hauchen lang versunkne

Lenze ihren Blütenduft.

 

Ueber mir im Abendwinde

Rauscht das Wipfellaub der Linde

So wie ehmals wiederum,

Als wir Arm in Arm gelegen

Und nur mit des Herzens Schlägen

Zwiesprach hielten, wonnestumm.

 

Und dann ist mir, auf dem Blatte

Ruhe neben mir dein Schatte

In dem blassen Dämmerlicht;

O, an ihm im langen, langen

Kusse soll mein Mund noch hangen,

Wenn im Tod mein Auge bricht.

 

 

 

scackpor

Adolf Friedrich von Schack (2 augustus 1815 – 14 april 1894)

 

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 2 augustus 2007.

 

De Frans-Canadese dichter, schrijver, acteur, zanger en politiek activist Félix Leclerc werd geboren op 2 augustus 1914 in La Tuque, Quebec, Canada.

 

De Zwitserse schrijver Arnold Kübler werd geboren op 2 augustus 1890 in Wiesendrangen.