Herinnering aan Gerard Reve, Hanz Mirck, Christoph Hein, Nnedi Okorafor, Barbara Kingsolver

Herinnering aan Gerard Reve

Vandaag is het precies 5 jaar geleden dat de Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Gerard Reve overleed. Zie over Reve o.a. ook mijn blog van 14 december 2006. en mijn blog van 9 april 2006 en ook mijn blog van 10 april 2006 en mijn blog van 14 december 2009 en mijn blog van 8 april 2010. Alle bijdragen over Reve zijn te vinden via de tag Gerard Reve.

 

In uw handen

Niemand die zeggen kan, wanneer en hoe.
Misschien wel met geheven glas,
terwijl hij proestend poogt iets uit te leggen
dat wordt weggespoeld
op bulderende branding van gelach.
Dan piept opeens zijn stem, als uit het stof,
en klauwt zijn lege hand naar ’t arme hart,
waar nu het mes in staat van God.
Een flits, van droevig speelgoed, droeve sneeuw
en droef lantarenlicht. Meer niet.
Ziezo, het is volbracht.
‘Zoals hij heeft geleefd, zo is hij ook gestorven.’
(1965)

 

 

Gerard Reve (14 december 1923 –  8 april 2006)

Jaren 1960

 

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John Fante, Glendon Swarthout, Martin Grzimek, Hégésippe Moreau, Johann Christian Günther

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Fante werd geboren in Colorado op 8 april 1909. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 april 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 april 2009en ook mijn blog van 8 april 2010

 

Uit: The Road to Los Angeles

 

I became a flunkie on a truck. All we did was move boxes of toilet tissue from the warehouse to the harbor grocery stores in San Pedro and Wilmington. Big boxes, three feet square and weighing fifty pounds apiece. At night I lay in bed thinking about it and tossing.
My boss drove the truck. His arms were tattooed. He wore tight yellow polo shirts. His muscles bulged. He caressed them like a girl’s hair. I wanted to say things that would make him writhe. The boxes were piled in the warehouse, fifty feet to the ceiling. The boss folded his arms and had me bring boxes down to the truck. He stacked them. Arturo, I said, you’ve got to make a decision; he looks tough, but what do you care?
That day I fell down and a box bashed me in the stomach. The boss grunted and shook his head. He made me think of a college football player, and lying on the ground I wondered why he didn’t wear a monogram on his chest. I got up smiling. At noon I ate lunch slowly, with a pain where the box bashed me. It was cool under the trailer and I was lying there. The lunch hour passed quickly. The boss came out of the warehouse and saw my teeth inside a sandwich, the peach for dessert untouched at my side.
“I ain’t paying you to sit in the shade,” he said.
I crawled out and stood up. The words were there, ready. “I’m quitting,” I said. “You and your stupid muscles can go to hell. I’m through.”
“Good,” he said. “I hope so.”
“I’m through.”
“Thank God for that.”
“There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“In my opinion you’re an overgrown sonofabitch.”
He didn’t catch me.
After that I wondered what had happened to the peach. I wondered if he had stepped on it with his heel. Three days passed and I went down to find out. The peach lay untouched at the side of the road, a hundred ants feasting upon it.“

 

 

John Fante(8 april 1909 – 8 mei 1983)

 

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