De Oostenrijkse dichteres en schrijfster Friederike Mayröcker werd op 20 december 1924 in Wenen geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2006  en ook mijn blog van 20 december 2007 en ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

was brauchst du

was brauchst du? einen Baum ein Haus zu
ermessen wie groß wie klein das Leben als Mensch
wie groß wie klein wenn du aufblickst zur Krone
dich verlierst in grüner üppiger Schönheit
wie groß wie klein bedenkst du wie kurz
dein Leben vergleichst du es mit dem Leben der Bäume

du brauchst einen Baum du brauchst ein Haus
keines für dich allein nur einen Winkel ein Dach
zu sitzen zu denken zu schlafen zu träumen
zu schreiben zu schweigen zu sehen den Freund
die Gestirne das Gras die Blume den Himmel

 

Der Aufruf

Mein Leben:
ein Guckkasten mit kleinen Landschaften
gemächlichen Menschen
vorüberziehenden Tieren
wohl bekannten wiederkehrenden Szenerien

plötzlich aufgerufen bei meinem Namen
steh ich nicht länger im windstillen Panorama
mit den bunten schimmernden Bildern

sondern drehe mich wie ein schrecklich
glühendes Rad
einen steilen Abhang hinunter
aller Tabus und Träume von gestern entledigt
auf ein fremdes bewegtes Ziel gesetzt:

ohne Wahl
aber mit ungeduldigem Herzen

 

mit scardanelli

im grunde deines mundes, damals
wann weisz die schwalbe dasz es frühling
wird nachts nadelst du als regen an mein fenster ich
liege wach ich denke an die nachmittage umschlungenen
mitternächte, vor vielen jahren diese rosenkugeln die
schaafe auf der dunklen himmels weide

Friederike Mayröcker (Wenen, 20 december 1924)

 

De Canadese dichter, schrijver en acteur Sky Gilbert werd geboren op 20 december 1952 Norwich,  Connecticut. Hij studeerde theaterwetenschappen in Toronto, Ontario aan de York University en de University of Toronto. Hij werd mede-oprichter en artistiek directeur van of Buddies in Bad Times, een toneelgezelschap uit Toronto. Howel hij op de eerste plaats toneelschrijver is publiceerde hij ook romans, gedichten, columns en een autobiografie. Daarnaast doceert hij Creative Writing and Theatre Studies aan de University of Guelph.

 

As Sure As If

 

Longing is a kind of company
there is a generosity in it
a presence inside the ache
a gift
(standing on the subway and not thinking of you, sure, earlier there had
been something, but then: some skinny boy with fuzzy hair and a receding
hairline — he had some girl pressed against a pole — and suddenly it was
you, jumping up and down in my livingroom and saying “If you break my heart,
I’ll break your face” and demanding we dye our hair, and it was your fierce
bravery against whatever it is that was killing you, as something so
evidently was, that I loved, very clearly “I have a lesion on my nose” you
said, I didn’t bother to ask, I was afraid to ask, why you used that word,
lesion)
I have a feeling you’ll turn up
But meanwhile,
there is, like a cold blast of wind in the face,
that whisper, when the cat makes a strange scurrying sound,
the certainty of my longing,
which places you here beside me
as sure as if

 

Sky Gilbert (Norwich, 20 december 1952)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Hortense Calisher werd geboren in New York op 20 december 1911. Hortense Calisher overleed op 15 januari van dit jaar op 97-jarige leeftijd. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

 

Uit: Sunday Jews

 

„In her mid-sixties, Zipporah Zangwill, born in Boston to longtime residents of that name, for over forty years married to Peter Duffy, who teaches philosophy in New York, and herself well-known as a “social” anthropologist, has informed her family, a large clan, that from now on she wishes to be known as Zoe-sending out cards to that effect, along with an invitation to a celebratory party.
To Peter, who has perhaps been aware of her progress toward some decision that will mortally affect their lives, if not this one, she has merely shown the cards, ordered from the same stationer who had always supplied the formal announcements the years had required: engagements and weddings of the children, anniversaries of all kinds, plus bids to those coveted “theme parties” she threw when some professional or affectionate interest erupted. And of course the two change-of-address announcements, of yore.
These newest cards, thinner than any of those and modest in size, say simply “One of our Sundays,” giving the date. The time would be known by custom as afternoon, the eats to straggle along with individual noshing, and focus hard as dusk falls. A footnote, lower left, in small but legible print, says: “From now on Zipporah asks to be known as Zoe…” It’s not certain whether the reason for the party is this.
Few phone to inquire. For some grateful elders in the circle, she is their only fount of surprise. The Duffy children-Gerald, Charles, Nell, Erika, and Zachary, all grown now-do mildly mention it, in no order of age status except whoever had the smarts and the sass to speak up first. They chat constantly, over a sibling network maintained either coastto coast from their homes or now and then from sites no longer as strange as those their mother had all their young lives gone to. Their feeling on her travels had long since been expressed by Mickey, a former youngest son, whose age was fixed, he having died at twelve: “She never really leaves us. And she always comes back.”
The network isn’t kept out of duty. All the Duffys have the kind of family feeling that filches away their attention even from those they are married to. Charles, an academic always somewhere in the middle of the country, is also their median voice. “They’re so close a pair. They never skimped us. But it helped us close ranks.” His puns, as a part-time lawyer as well as a physicist, make Nell sigh. “A pun should be more illegal, Chuck. But I hear you.”

 

Hortense Calisher (20 december 1911 – 15 januari 2009)

 

 

De Zwitserse schrijver Jürg Laederach werd geboren op 20 december 1945 in Basel. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

 

Uit: Depeschen nach Mailland

 

„Gesendet: Donnerstag, 28. Februar 2002 09:15

Mein Vorzugslokal, um die Ecke, betrat ich neulich frühmorgens bettverstruwwelt, bewußtlos, suchte einen Espresso. Stand also davor, hebe den Blick – und es ist komplett abgerissen, Erdgeschoß eines großen Hauses, total ausgeräumt, alle Tapeten ab, nur noch die nackte Betonkammer der Innenschachtel. Wirkte plötzlich sehr klein, genau wie im Blade-Runner-Film, Lokal anno 2567. Sarkastisch, hinten brannten noch zwei Lichter, dies waren aber über Nacht angezündete vergitterte Baulampen, die den Abriß beleuchten sollten. Lokal, seinerzeit, von leichtgeschürzten Damen bewirtet: fraß der Bagger sie? Im spießigen Nebenlokal konnte man mir über die Zukunft keine Aussage geben, obgleich ich ihnen nach dem Espresso den Kaffeesatz hinstreckte.

 

Gesendet: Samstag, 9. März 2002 09:34

Vielen Dank, du schoßt mit dem besten. Milt Jackson, den ich je hörte, den Vogel ab, sofern Jazz ein Vogel ist. Gestern vor dem Einschlafen stöhnte ich kurz, heut früh beim Aufwachen stöhnte ich wieder, und als Bemerkung, über mehrere Stunden verteilt, war es tiefsinniger als jeder Filosof. Ich melde mich, tat dir gestern blind was auf die Post, was ich selbst leicht nach-masterte, damit man’s mit Genuß hören kann. Merz aus deinem Live-Diskurs, d. h. deiner Rede, die Unterwerfungs und Selbstabwertungs-Gesten aus, und du wirst ein nützliches Mitglied dieser nutzlosen Gesellschaft, vielleicht dereinst eine Säule, dies sagt dir deine Gouvernante.

 

Gesendet: Donnerstag, 14. März 2002 02:12

Von John Patitucci kaufte ich gerade etwas dem Anschein nach Tolles, das sich als eine Countryside-Platte entpuppte, zu der der Efeu wachsen und die Pferde grasen können. Gott, wenn diese Musiker sich bloß auf ihren Beruf konzentrieren und uns nicht auch noch den Privatmann zeigen möchten, der nichts taugt. Was mich sehr interessiert ebenfalls: wo hast du beim Getz das attraktive Plastiktäschchen her? Ist das irgendwo käuflich? So was such ich schon lange, sieht hochelegant aus.

Ich bin verzögert, also bitte Geduld, kannst nicht jeden Tag von meinen Absinthen saufen.“

 

Jürg Laederach (Basel, 20 december 1945)

 

De Turkse schrijver Aziz Nesin werd geboren op 20 december 1915 in Istanbul. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

 

Uit: Istanbul Boy (Vertaald door Joseph S. Jackson)

 

„They often ask me, “How can you write so much?”

They say that some artists have peris which blow art on their souls. When peris are mentioned, I see an airmaid–something like a mermaid, whose upper part is girl and the bottom fish–she is bird below, and above, a ravishing beauty with golden hair. This half-bird, half-girl peri whispers inspiration into the ear of the artist on whose shoulder she perches. She gives him the copy.

I have no peri, but I have inspirational demons, witches and fiends. Mine are not half-bird, half-girl; they are, at the best, one-tenth human and the balance, monster. They don’t perch on my shoulder, they climb on my back; I double up under them in blood and tears, tired and exhausted. I don’t have just one demon or witch, I have herds and herds. If two of them get off, three more climb on my back.

Peris are of matchless beauty; witches, demons, of matchless ugliness.

Peris caress; demons strike, pinch, bite.

The inspirational fairy breathes into the ear of the artist on whose shoulder she perches; she inspires him.

The witches, demons and
monsters who are on my back, who hurl themselves on me, ceaselessly command, force, and rebuke me.

“Write! Write, you! Don’t stop; write! Why do you stop? Do you have the right to sleep, you? Wake up! Don’t sit down–get up, quick! You can’t get sick–pssst, come on, get up–write!”

My demons, witches and monsters are the ones who demand the rent, those who ask for money, my creditors, my inexhaustible necessities.

If I didn’t write, what would I do?

In all this world, there is nothing which will inspire and force an artist to work as much as holes in the soles of his shoes.

If it had been in my hands, I would have had the Universal Society for the Propagation of Human Rights add the following article:

“The right to get sick is man’s most indisputable, irrefutable, natural, and social right; every human may get sick.”

I have always envied the happy people who can lie down on their backs in bed when they get sick. In my life, which has extended half a century, I haven’t used my right to get sick for even one small day; my inspirational witches and monsters won’t leave me alone. They are in my dream at night, my daytime fancies, in my whole world.

“Write!”

I write.

“Write more.”

I write more.

If I look at the emerald green meadows in the morning dew with longing in my heart, I want to stretch out at full length on the grass. If only I could stroll there in my bare feet, the fifty years of weariness would quickly flow from my feet through and under the skin of the earth.“

 

Aziz Nesin (20 december 1915 – 6 juli 1995)
Signerend

 

De Finse schrijver Väinö Linna werd geboren op 20 december 1920 in Urjala, bij Tampere. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

 

Uit: The Unknown Soldier (Vertaald door David McDuff)

 

„The rain clouds dispersed in rags that gleamed ever lighter. As the sun shone between the rags, the grey morning began to sparkle. Wet, the forest glittered, and a
lthough the grass still soaked the legs of their trousers up to the knees, it was pleasant to walk through. The damp began to vanish from their clothes in the warmth of the sun, and this fresh and beautiful summer morning lifted from their minds the mood of gloom the rainy, oppressive night had inspired.

Sometimes a shot rang out, and there was the hum of a motor up ahead.

‘The road’s not far away, lads.’

‘Ruki vverkh, idi syuda, idi syuda!’

A man emerged from the bushes holding a white scrap of cloth. He was followed by others, a couple of dozen men in all. These prisoners belonged to the same lost and wandering detachments to which the prisoner shot by Lehto had also belonged, as well as the men Määttä had seen. Although none of them knew what the general situation was, the men realized from this surrender that something decisive had happened. The enemy was scattered, and during the night the artillery fire had changed to a direction that seemed to be far ahead of them.

Then they saw the road. Cautiously, they ventured out on it, but were soon satisfied there was no danger there. The morning sun had already dried the road’s surface, which the caterpillar tracks had torn up late in the fighting. They had scarcely got onto the road when a bicycle troop approached from the direction of the frontier.

‘What’s this bunch, then?’

‘Jaeger battalion. How far away is the neighbour?’

‘There’s a couple of dozen of him in that clump of spruces over there.’

‘Don’t try to be funny with me. Where’s your company commander?’

The helmeted Jaeger lieutenant dismounted from his bicycle. With his helmet, his rolled-up sweater sleeves and the submachine gun dangling from a cord round his neck, he had a thoroughly martial look. His men looked the same. They were clearly in a different class from the ragged infantry, and it was obvious that they also saw themselves as some kind of elite force.

Kariluoto came hurrying to the spot. He greeted the new officer enthusiastically:

‘How’s it going? What’s your objective?’

‘Äänisjärvi. Loimola’s certainly a bit closer. Are you the company commander? I was told that I’d run into troops from your regiment here and was ordered to make contact.’

 

Väinö Linna (20 december 1920  – 21 april 1992)

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver Gernot Wolfgruber werd geboren op 20 december 1944 in Gmünd. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 december 2008.

 

Uit: Auf freiem Fuß

 

„Es war alles zu selbstverständlich. Ich bin gar nicht auf den Gedanken gekommen, dass es nicht selbstverständlich sein könnte. Weil es sich von selbst verstand, brauchte ich nichts zu verstehen. Es sprach alles dafür: ich würde einen Beruf erlernen, würde Lehrling werden. Reden waren da nicht notwendig. Mein Bruder war schon Lehrling, Elektriker, im vierten Jahr. Ich würde auch einer werden. Oder Hilfsarbeiter. Aber für einen Hilfsarbeiter war ich zu gescheit. Und das ganze Gesindel waren Hilfsarbeiter. Wir waren anständige Leute. Alle Brüder meiner Mutter hatten einen Beruf erlernt. Sie lebten nicht mehr. Aber es wurde oft von ihnen gesprochen. Die Handelsschule wäre theoretisch noch eine Möglichkeit gewesen. Vielleicht wäre ich gegangen, wenn es eine im Ort gegeben hätte. Aber die nächste war dreißig Kilometer entfernt. Und meine Mutter sagte, ich weiß nicht, ob wir uns das leisten können. Ich hatte auch kein Interesse.”

 

Gernot Wolfgruber (Gmünd, 20 december 1944)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 20e december ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.