Hafid Aggoune, Rense Sinkgraven, William Gibson, Siegfried Lenz, Urmuz

De Franse schrijver Hafid Aggoune werd geboren op 17 maart 1973 in Saint-Etienne. Zie ook alle tags voor Hafid Aggoune op dit blog.

 

Uit: Quelle nuit sommes-nous ?

“Je suis arrivé à Venise avec la totalité de mes livres et de mes vêtements, c’est-à-dire tout ce que je possède au monde et qui tient dans une valise et un long sac noir très lourd.
Très vite, je suis passé du siège de l’avion à un banc sur un vaporetto, approchant de la Giudecca au rythme du moteur, la fraîcheur de l’Adriatique me claquant au visage.
Je descends à Zitelle. De là, il faut traverser l’île par le calle Michel-Angelo et attendre.
Quatre personnes débarquent avec moi : deux hommes qui semblent rentrer du travail, une vieille femme et un enfant poussant un diable rempli de commissions.
Il suffit de prendre l’île dans sa largeur pour se retrouver de l’autre côté, dos à Venise.
La Giudecca est sans touriste.
L’île a d’abord été la terre d’exil des familles vénitiennes condamnées après le giudicato (jugement). Au Moyen âge, tous les juifs furent relégués ici, à l’écart. On leur a fait porter une marque distinctive, jaune.
Après la courte traversée de rues désertes, je me tiens debout sur le ponton, face à l’île de Sainte-Marie-des-Grâces.
J’attends.
Je sors un livre du sac noir qui en regorge, le premier qui vient, ouvert au hasard.
La page est un cliché en noir et blanc.
Un homme entouré d’objets nous regarde.
C’est l’atelier de Francis Bacon.

Ces choses éparses ressemblent à des fantômes l’accompagnant dans son quotidien. L’homme semble faire corps avec le chaos. Il appartient à son espace. Son art le compose, l’englobe. Il s’y noie comme l’alcool vous prend votre vie. C’est la passion. La peinture est son corps. Son corps est dans les tubes, prêt au cri sur la toile.
J’imagine toute cette poussière, la peau du temps sur le monde.”



Hafid Aggoune (
Saint-Etienne, 17 maart 1973)

Lees verder “Hafid Aggoune, Rense Sinkgraven, William Gibson, Siegfried Lenz, Urmuz”

Patrick Hamilton, Hans Wollschläger, Jean Ingelow, Karl Gutzkow, Ebenezer Elliott, Paul Green

De Engelse schrijver Patrick Hamilton werd geboren op 17 maart 1904 in Hassocks, Sussex. Zie ookalle tags voor Patrick Hamilton op dit blog.

 

Uit: Hangover Square

„It was, actually, only in the few moments following the sudden transition-the breaking down of the sound track, the change from the talkie to the silent film-that he now ever thought about, or indeed was conscious of-this extraordinary change which took place in his mind. Soon enough he was watching the silent film-the silent film without music-as though there had never been any talkie-as though what he saw had always been like this.

A silent film without music-he could have found no better way of describing the weird world in which he now moved. He looked at passing objects and people, but they had no colour, vivacity, meaning-he was mentally deaf to them. They moved like automatons, without motive, without volition of their own. He could hear what they said, he could understand their words, he could answer them, even; but he did this automatically, without having to think of what they had said or what he was saying in return. Therefore, though they spoke it was as though they had not spoken, as though they had moved their lips but remained silent. They had no valid existence; they were not creatures experiencing pleasure or pain. There was, in fact, no sensation, no pleasure or pain at all in this world: there was only himself-his dreary, numbed, dead self.

There was no sensation, but there was something to be done. Emphatically, most emphatically there was something to be done. So soon as he had recovered from the surprise-but nowadays it was hardly a surprise-of that snap in his head, that break in the sound track, that sudden burst into a new, silent world-so soon as he had recovered from this he was aware that something had to be done. He could not think what it was at first, but this did not worry him. He could never think of it at first, but it would come: if he didn’t nag at it, but relaxed mentally, it would come.“

 

Patrick Hamilton (17 maart 1904 – 23 september 1962)

Lees verder “Patrick Hamilton, Hans Wollschläger, Jean Ingelow, Karl Gutzkow, Ebenezer Elliott, Paul Green”