De Deense schrijver Ib Michael (eig. Ib Michael Rasmussen) werd geboren op 17 januari 1945 in Roskilde. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 17 januari 2010.
Uit: Prince (Vertaald door Barbara Haveland)
„In Which the Ship Comes to Light It begins in mist. Far up on the top of the world, where no one sees, the ice splits with a crack that rings out over white fjords. The sea shows blue between the floes; the night that has lasted half the year, with the sun lying below the horizon, is over. The ice-foot creaks and groans, fissure chases fissure, as a mountain of glass – the size of the palace of fairy-tale, with turrets and crenellations and windows long hidden by the snow – breaks off and puts out to sea. The long day has returned. It rocks on seas that are running south, is tossed by storms which wash its sides smooth once more while its turrets taper into awls and drip under a sun that ascends the heavens, climbing a little higher with each day. The palace is buoyed up by a bed of aquamarine shadows. Little by little, as the heat makes itself felt, the ice grows brittle. The water starts to undermine it, outside and in, small lacunae appear, drop by drip it is whittled away. In certain lights it resembles a cathedral with stained-glass windows, round and tall, as the ice forms prisms and splits the light. Or it twirls gently in the current to reveal a mosque with onion domes. Everything is floating and the sun turns in its course. The cracks cut right through; with an echo of the fjord which, after more than half a century”s slumber set the iceberg free, it, too, calves. A shape comes to light at the heart of it, a darker pattern, suggestive of tattered cobwebs in the palace halls. Relentlessly the process of erosion continues. The salt of the sea, days of sunlight, the temperature steadily rising. As with other fairy-tale palaces this one is, in fact, porous; ever so slowly, as it nears human habitation, it is trickling away of its own accord. But the structure at its heart is still there, the cobwebs hanging now from beams; the palace has shifted shape and turrets no longer pierce the sky. By the time it leaves the Arctic Ocean and the North Atlantic winds take over it has become a shadow of itself; a crystal formation, all sharp edges.“
Ib Michael (Roskilde, 17 januari 1945)
Lees verder “Ib Michael, Raoul Schrott, Lukas Moodysson, Jörg Bernig, Frank Geerk, Anne Brontë”