Bret Easton Ellis, Jürgen Theobaldy, Georges Perec, Abe Kōbō, Jan Frederik Helmers, Reinhard Kaiser

De Amerikaanse schrijver Bret Easton Ellis werd geboren op 7 maart 1964 in Los Angeles. Zie ook alle tags voor Bret Easton Ellis op dit blog.

Uit: American Psycho

“It was a vision so clear and real and vital to me that in its purity it was almost abstract. This was what I could understand, this was how I lived my life, what I constructed my movement around, how I dealt with the tangible. This was the geography around which my reality revolved: it did not occur to me, ever, that people were good or that a man was capable of change or that the world could be a better place through one’s taking pleasure in love or kindness. Nothing was affirmative, the term “generosity of spirit” applied to nothing, was a cliche, was some kind of bad joke. Sex is mathematics. Individuality no longer an issue. What does intelligence signify? Define reason. Desire-meaningless. Intellect is not a cure. Justice is dead. Fear, recrimination, innocence, sympathy, guilt, waste, failure, grief, were things, emotions, that no one really felt anymore. Reflection is useless, the world is senseless. Evil is its only permanence. God is not alive. Love cannot be trusted. Surface, surface, surface was all that anyone found meaning in…this was civilization as I saw it, colossal and jagged…
(…)

“I stare into a thin, web-like crack above the urinal’s handle and think to myself that if I were to disappear into that crack, say somehow miniaturize and slip into it, the odds are good that no one would notice I was gone. No… one… would… care. In fact some, if they noticed my absence, might feel an odd, indefinable sense of relief. This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is crock. Some people truly do not need to be here.”

 

 
Bret Easton Ellis (Los Angeles, 7 maart 1964)

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Robert Harris

De Britse schrijver en journalist Robert Dennis Harris werd geboren op 7 maart 1957 in Nottingham. Harris studeerde aan Selwyn College, Universiteit van Cambridge, Engels literatuur. Daarna werkte hij als BBC-verslaggever, als politiek redacteur bij de krant The Observer en als columnist voor de Daily Telegraph. Momenteel werkt hij als vaste columnist voor de Sunday Times. Zijn eerste roman “Fatherland” werd gepubliceerd in 1992. “Vaderland” speelt in 1964 in het Berlijn speelt van een nazi-Duitsland, dat, volgens de fictie van de auteur, de Tweede Wereldoorlog niet heeft verloren. Het verscheen reeds in Duitse vertaling bij de Zwitserse Haffmans Verlag in 1992, maar in Duitsland zelf, kon aanvankelijk door de als problematisch ervaren thematiek geen uitgever voor het boek gevonden worden. Pas in 1996 werd de roman in München uitgegeven door de Heyne Verlag.  “Vaderland” was de eerste bestseller van Robert Harris, vertaald in 30 talen en met een oplage van meer dan zes miljoen stuks. Ook in zijn andere romans nam Harris historische gebeurtenissen als basis voor actie en mengde hij fictie en realiteit. Zo gaat het in “Imperium” over het levensverhaal van Cicero. Harris streeft naar zoveel mogelijk feitelijke juistheid. “Ghost”, een roman over de ghost writer van een politicus werd beschouwd als een afrekening met de voormalige Britse premier Tony Blair, waarmee Harris lange tijd bevriend was. De regisseur Roman Polanski verfilmde de roman in 2010 met Ewan McGregor als de ghostwriter en Pierce Brosnan in de rol van de politicus Adam Lang.

Uit: Fatherland

“Thick cloud had pressed down on Berlin all night, and now it was lingering into what passed for the morning. On the city’s western outskirts, plumes of rain drifted across the surface of Lake Havel like smoke.
Sky and water merged into a sheet of gray, broken only by the dark line of the opposite bank. Nothing stirred there. No lights showed.
Xavier March, homicide investigator with the Berlin Kriminalpolizei — the Kripo — climbed out of his Volkswagen and tilted his face to the rain. He was a connoisseur of this particular rain. He knew the taste of it, the smell of it. It was Baltic rain from the north, cold and seascented, tangy with salt. For an instant he was back twenty years, in the conning tower of a U-boat, slipping out of Wilhelmshaven, lights doused, into the darkness.
He looked at his watch. It was just after seven in the morning.
Drawn up on the roadside before him were three other cars. The occupants of two were asleep in the drivers’ seats. The third was a patrol car of the Ordnungspolizei — the Orpo, as every German called them. It was empty.
Through its open window came the crackle of static, sharp in the damp air, punctuated by jabbering bursts of speech. The revolving light on its roof lit up the forest beside the road: blue-black, blue-black, blue-black.
March looked around for the Orpo patrolmen and saw them sheltering by the lake under a dripping birch tree. Something gleamed pale in the mud at their feet. On a nearby log sat a young man in a black tracksuit, SSinsignia on his breast pocket. He was hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands pressed against the sides of his head — the image of misery.
March took a last draw on his cigarette and flicked it away. It fizzed and died on the wet road.
As he approached, one of the policemen raised his arm.

 
Robert Harris (Nottingham, 7 maart 1957)