De Amerikaanse schrijver Herman Wouk werd geboren op 27 mei 1915 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: The Caine Mutiny

 

“Mr. Keefer,” said the judge advocate, “at any time prior to 18 December were you informed that Maryk suspected Queeg of being mentally ill?”

“Yes.”

“Describe how you learned this fact.”

“At Ulithi, about two weeks before the typhoon, Maryk showed me a medical log he’d kept on Queeg’s behavior. He asked me to come with him to the New Jersey to report the situation to Admiral Halsey.”

“What was your reaction to the medical log?”

“I was dumfounded to learn that Maryk had kept it.”

“Did you consent to go with him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was stunned. And I–that is, he was my superior officer and also my close friend. I didn’t consider refusing.

“Did you believe that the log justified the relief of Queeg?”

“No. when we arrived aboard the New, Jersey, I told him as forcibly as I could that in my opinion the log would not justify the action, and that both of us would be liable to a charge of combining, to make a mutiny.”

“What was his response?”

“He followed my advice. We returned to the Caine and no further reference was made by either of us to the log or to Queeg’s mental condition.”

“Did you inform the captain of Maryk’s log?”

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“It would have been disloyal and contrary to the best interests of the ship to stir up my captain against my executive officer. Maryk had evidently abandoned his intention to pursue the matter. I considered the matter closed.”

 

Herman Wouk (New York, 27 mei 1915)
Time Magazine Cover van 5 september 1955

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Cheever werd geboren op 27 mei 1912 in Quincy, Massachusetts. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: Bullet Park

 

„–”How is your horrid country?”

–”You can look all over the world but you won’t find neighbors as kind and thoughtful as the people in Bullet Park.”

–He possesses for a moment the curious power of being able to frighten himself.

–”Oh, I wish it would never get dark—never. I suppose you know all about that lady who was mistreated and strangled on Maple Street last month. She was my age and we had the same first name. We had the same horoscope and they never found the murderer…”

–I heard her swear and a moment later I heard the noise of falling glass, and why is this sound so portentous, so like a doomcrack bell?

–He turned on a light and saw how absorbed his son was in the lisping clown.

—society had become so automative and nomadic that nomadic signals or means of communication had been established by the means of headlights, parking lights, signal lights and windshield wipers. Hang the child murderer. (Headlights.) Reduce the state income tax. (Parking lights.) Abolish the secret police. (Emergency signal.) The bishop had suggested that churchgoers turn on their windshield wipers to communicate their faith in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

–The place had long ago gone to seed and had then been abandoned. The water traps were dry, the windmill had lost its sails and the greens were bare concrete but most of the obstacles were intact and on summer nights men and boys still played the course although there were no trespassing signs all over the place.

–”I was feeling good too but we have a problem here and we can’t evade it just because the veal birds smell good.”

–The man explained that he was after draft evaders because he had spent a year and a half in a POW camp in Germany, eating rats and mice. He wanted the younger generation to learn what it was all about.“

 

John Cheever (27 mei 1912 – 18 juni 1982)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Dashiell Samuel Hammett werd geboren in Saint Mary’s County (Maryland), op 27 mei 1894. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: The Thin Man

 

„I was leaning against the bar in a speakeasy on Fifty-second Street, waiting for Nora to finish her Christmas shopping, when a girl got up from the table where she had been sitting with three other people and came over to me. She was small and blonde, and whether you looked at her face or at her body in powder-blue sports clothes, the result was satisfactory. “Aren’t you Nick Charles?” she asked.

I said: “Yes.”

She held out her hand. “I’m Dorothy Wynant. You don’t remember me, but you ought to remember my father, Clyde Wynant. You–”

“Sure,” I said, “and I remember you now, but you were only a kid of eleven or twelve then, weren’t you?”

“Yes, that was eight years ago. Listen: remember those stories you told me? Were they true?”

“Probably not. How is your father?”

She laughed. “I was going to ask you. Mamma divorced him, you know, and we never hear from him–except when he gets in the newspapers now and then with some of his carryings on. Don’t you ever see him?”

My glass was empty. I asked her what she would have to drink, she said Scotch and soda. I ordered two of them and said: “No, I’ve been living in San Francisco.”

She said slowly: “I’d like to see him. Mamma would raise hell if she found it out, but I’d like to see him.”

“Well?”

“He’s not where we used to live, on Riverside Drive, and he’s not in the phone book or city directory.”

 

Dashiell Hammett (27 mei 1894 – 10 januari 1961)

 

 

De Belgische Franstalige schrijver Georges Eekhoud werd in Antwerpen geboren op 27 mei 1854. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: L’autre vue ou Voyous de velours

 

„Apres l’homme domestique ou l’ouvrier, il m’aurait plu de voir un nouveau Barye s’attaquer á l’homme fauve, préférer le truand au peinard, comme il célébra le tigre et le loup plutôt que le boeuf et le chien .

Et quel musicien transposerait en son art leurs insidieuses modulations, le timbre de leur voix gutturales, ces intonations imprévues, cette façon de redoubler, en s’appelant les uns les autres, la derniere voyelle de leur noms, par un coup de gosier semblable á un sanglot et qui me donne chaque

fois la chair de poule : Palu …hul, Bugu…hutte ! Zwolu hue !..

Mais le verbe lui-même parviendrait-il á s’assimiler le fluide de ces enfants de la libre aventure ; le fumet de cette venaison humaine ? Par exemple, á certaines heures oú ils me paraissaient tellement saturés de vie et de jeunesse, que je m’évoque jusqu’au graillon de leur baiser et la saumure de leur salive !

L’autre jour, je m’imaginais être cet artiste absolu : poete, sculpteur, peintre et musicien, le tout á la fois . Que dis-je ? Un instant je crus même avoir usurpé la suprême béatitude réservée aux seuls dieux .

La force physique, l’adresse, la résistance musculaire fournissent le theme principal des causeries de mes inséparables et le prétexte á leurs jeux . Ce jour donc, ils m’entraînerent dans leur gymnase, pompeusement intitulé Arenes athlétiques . Représentez-vous, au fond d’un étroit boyau du quartier des Marolles, ironiquement appelé rue de la Philanthropie, un asez vaste hangar, ancien atelier de charron, ou magasin de chiffonniers, dans lequel on pénetre par un bouge ne différant des autres taudis de la ruelle que par les photographies des célébrités foraines accrochées aux parois .

Sur la lice jonchée de tan et de sciure de bois, dont l’odeur résineuse se mêle á des émanations humaines, s’éparpillent des halteres et des poids . A travers la buée opaque et rousse, á peine combattue par une fumeuse lampe á pétrole, je démêle les habitués de l’endroit, des apprentis pour la

plupart, venus en grand nombre á cause du samedi soir.“

 

Georges Eekhoud (27 mei 1854 – 29 mei 1927)

 

 

 

De Tsjechisch-Israëlische schrijver, criticus en componist Max Brod werd geboren in Praag op 27 mei 1884. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: Beinahe ein Vorzugsschüler oder Pièce Touchée

 

„Für die Palästinawanderung der vielen Tausenden, ja Zehntausenden von Prager Zionisten hatte die großmütige englische Regierung damals genau zehn Einwanderungserlaubnisse oder Zertifikate bereitgestellt, nicht mehr und nicht weniger. Sie hätte alle retten können; sie wußte, daß die Deutschen sich zum Einmarsch in Prag rüsteten, wußte, daß jeder Jude, der zurückblieb, verloren war – sie machte auch einige schwache Rettungsansätze und brachte noch manch einzelnen in letzter Minute in Sicherheit –, im ganzen aber zog sie es vor, den überwiegenden Rest der jahrhundertalten Gemeinde Prag an Hitlers Schlachtmesser zu liefern.“

 

Max Brod (27 mei 1884 – 20 december 1968)

 

 

De Engelse schrijver Arnold Bennett werd geboren in Hanley, Staffordshire, op 27 mei 1867. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: The Price Of Love

 

“THE dramatic moment of the birthday feast came A nearly at the end of the meal when Mrs. Mal- don, having in mysterious silence disappeared for a space to the room behind, returned with due pomp bearing a parcel in her dignified hands. During her brief absence Louis, Rachel, and Julian—hero of the night—had sat mute and somewhat constrained round the debris of the birthday pudding. The constraint was no doubt due partly to Julian’s characteristic and notorious grim temper, and partly to mere anticipation of a solemn event. Julian Maldon in particular was self-conscious. He hated intensely to be self-conscious, and his feeling towards every witness of his self-consciousness partook always of the homicidal. Were it not that civilization has the means to protect itself, Julian might have murdered defenseless aged ladies and innocent young girls for the simple offense of having seen him blush. He was a perfect specimen of a throw-back to original ancestry. He had been born in London, of an American mother, and had spent the greater part of his life in London. Yet London and his motherseemed to count for absolutely nothing at all in his composition. At the age of seventeen his soul, quitting the exile of London, had come to the Five Towns with a sigh of relief as if at the assuagement of a long nostalgia, and had dropped into the district as into a socket. In three months he was more indigenous than a native. Any experienced observer who now chanced at a week-end to see him board the Manchester express at Euston would have been able to predict from his appearance that he would leave the train at Knype. He was an undersized man, with a combative and suspicious face. He regarded the world with crafty pugnacity from beneath frowning eyebrows.“

 

Arnold Bennett (27 mei 1867 – 27 maart 1931)

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Richard von Schaukal werd geboren op 27 mei 1874 in Brünn. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Traurige Mär

 

Ich gab mein Herz einem blonden Kind,

sie nahm’s und lachte.

Ich wusste nicht wie die Kinder sind,

ich freute mich und dachte:

“Nun legt sie’s zärtlich in den Schrein

und wird es waren”.

Sie aberwärf’s in den Tag hinein,

der Stunden wagen fuhr polternd drein:

Da ward es überfaren.

 

Richard von Schaukal (27 mei 1874 – 10 oktober 1942)

De Poolse schrijver, journalist, ontdekkingsreiziger en globetrotter Ferdynand Ossendowski werd geboren op 27 mei 1876 in Dvina. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: Beasts, Men And Gods

 

„”Stop!” whispered my old Mongol guide, as we were one day crossing the plain near Tzagan Luk. “Stop!”

He slipped from his camel which lay down without his bidding. The Mongol raised his hands in prayer before his face and began to repeat the sacred phrase: “Om! Mani padme Hung!” The other Mongols immediately stopped their camels and began to pray.

“What has happened?” I thought, as I gazed round over the tender green grass, up to the cloudless sky and out toward the dreamy soft rays of the evening sun.

The Mongols prayed for some time, whispered among themselves and, after tightening up the packs on the camels, moved on.

“Did you see,” asked the Mongol, “how our camels moved their ears in fear? How the herd of horses on the plain stood fixed in attention and how the herds of sheep and cattle lay crouched close to the ground? Did you notice that the birds did not fly, the marmots did not run and the dogs did not bark? The air trembled softly and bore from afar the music of a song which penetrated to the hearts of men, animals and birds alike. Earth and sky ceased breathing. The wind did not blow and the sun did not move. At such a moment the wolf that is stealing up on the sheep arrests his stealthy crawl; the frightened herd of antelopes suddenly checks its wild course; the knife of the shepherd cutting the sheep’s throat falls from his hand; the rapacious ermine ceases to stalk the unsuspecting salga. All living beings in fear are involuntarily thrown into prayer and waiting for their fate. So it was just now. Thus it has always been whenever the King of the World in his subterranean palace prays and searches out the destiny of all peoples on the earth.”

 

Ferdynand Ossendowski (27 mei 1876 – 3 januari 1945)

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Moritz August von Thümmel werd geboren op 27 mei 1738 in Schönefeld. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 mei 2009

 

Uit: Reise in die mittäglichen Provinzen von Frankreich im Jahre 1785-1786

 

„Freund! Ich bin nun gerettet – wie ein Fisch, der den Köder vom Faden gebissen hat, und mit dem Angelhaken in der Gurgel davon schwimmt. Hätte ich, zu einem Bettler herab gesunken, mein Land verlassen müssen, wo ich als König regierte, bänger hätte mir [313] kaum um das Herz seyn können, als da mir nun die Wohnung der Unschuld und Freude im Rücken – und, abgeschnitten von allem, was mir lieb war, die ganze weite freudenlose Welt vor mir lag. Ach! nichts begleitete mich, als mein trauriger Schatten. – Mir fehlte Margots sonorische Stimme – ich vermißte den Nachtrab meines treuen schwatzhaften Johann, und mein zerstreuter Blick, der selbst manchmal sich nach meinem guten asthmatischen Mops umsah, kehrte betroffen über seinen Verlust zurück. Und o wie viele andere stachlichte Empfindungen – die ich aus Zärtlichkeit gegen mich nicht berühren mag – kletteten sich nicht an dieses belastende Gefühl von Trennung und Einsamkeit! Es war mir, als ob an jedem Pflasterstein, über den ich auf meinem Wege fortschritt, ein Theil meines Eigenthums hängen blieb, so daß ich es mit jeder Minute kleiner, unbedeutender werden, und zuletzt in ein Nichts verschwunden sah.

Ich konnte es nicht über mich gewinnen, auf der Chaussee fort – bei der steinernen Bank vorbei zu gehen, auf der sich meine Eigenliebe, und, wie Du weißt, ganz ohne Noth, brüstete, und aus einem Mißverständnisse, das ich mir noch nicht vergeben kann, in so lebhafte Bewegung gerieth. In solchen Umständen, lieber Eduard, ist es sehr bequem, wenn man neben der Landstraße noch einen Rasenweg findet.“

 

Moritz August von Thümmel (27 mei 1738 – 26 oktober 1817)