John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook alle tags voor John Steinbeck op dit blog.

Uit: Cannery Row

“On the black earth on which the ice plants bloomed, hundreds of black stink bugs crawled. And many of them stuck their tails up in the air. “Look at all them stink bugs,” Hazel remarked, grateful to the bugs for being there.
“They’re interesting,” said Doc.
“Well, what they got their asses up in the air for?”
Doc rolled up his wool socks and put them in the rubber boots and from his pocket he brought out dry socks and a pair of thin moccasins. “I don’t know why,” he said. “I looked them up recently–they’re very common animals and one of the commonest things they do is put their tails up in the air. And in all the books there isn’t one mention of the fact that they put their tails up in the air or why.”
Hazel turned one of the stink bugs over with the toe of his wet tennis shoe and the shining black beetle strove madly with floundering legs to get upright again. “Well, why do you think they do it?”
“I think they’re praying,” said Doc.
“What!” Hazel was shocked.
“The remarkable thing,” said Doc, “isn’t that they put their tails up in the air–the really incredibly remarkable thing is that we find it remarkable. We can only use ourselves as yardsticks. If we did something as inexplicable and strange we’d probably be praying–so maybe they’re praying.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Hazel.”
(…)

“Hazel used his trick. “They got no starfish there?”
“They got no ocean there” said Doc.
“Oh!” said Hazel and he cast frantically about for a peg to hang a new question on. He hated to have a conversation die out like this. He wasn’t quick enough. While he was looking for a question Doc asked one. Hazel hated that, it meant casting about in his mind for an answer and casting about in Hazel’s mind was like wandering alone in a deserted museum. Hazel’s mind was choked with uncataloged exhibits. …”

 

 
John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)
Affiche voor de film “Cannary Row” uit 1982

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Irwin Shaw, Vera Friedlander, N. Scott Momaday, Peter De Vries, Johannes Meinhold, Traugott Vogel

De Amerikaanse schrijver Irwin Shaw werd geboren op 27 februari 1913 als Irwin Gilbert Shamforoff in New York. Zie alle tags voor Irwin Shaw op dit blog.

Uit: The Young Lions

“When I went into the Army, I made up my mind that I was putting myself at the Army’s disposal. I believe in the war. That doesn’t mean I believe in the Army. I don’t believe in any army. You don’t expect justice out of an army, if you’re a sensible, grown-up human being, you only expect victory. And if it comes to that, our Army is probably the most just one that ever existed. . . . I expected the Army to be corrupt, inefficient, cruel, wasteful, and it turned out to be all those things, just like all armies, only much less so than I thought before I got into it. It is much less corrupt, for example, than the German Army. Good for us. The victory we win will not be as good as it might be, if it were a different kind of army, but it will be the best kind of victory we can expect in this day and age, and I’m thankful for it.”
(…)

“This time it is not a simple, understandable war, within the same culture. This time it is an assault of the animal world upon the house of the human being. I don’t know what you saw in Africa and Italy, but I know what I saw in Russia and Poland. We made a cemetery a thousand miles long and a thousand miles wide. Men, women, children, Poles, Russians, Jews, it made no difference. It could not be compared to any human action. It could be compared to a weasel in a henhouse. It was as though we felt that if we left anything alive in the East, it would one day bear witness against us and condemn us. And, now, we have made the final mistake. We are losing the war.”

 

 
Irwin Shaw (27 februari 1913 – 16 mei 1984)
Scene uit de gelijknamige film uit 1958 met Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando en Dean Martin

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Cynan Jones

De Welshe schrijver Cynan Jones werd geboren op 27 februari 1975 in Aberystwyth, Wales. Jones publiceerde zijn eerste roman “The Long Dry” in 2006. Tussen 2011 en 2014 publiceerde hij nog drie romans: “Everything I Found on the Beach”(2011), “Bird, Blood, Snow”(2012), en “The Dig”. In 2016 volgde nog “Cove”.Zijn werk is vertaald in diverse talen en zijn korte verhalen zijn verschenen in een aantal bloemlezingen en publicaties, zoals Granta en New Welsh Review. “The Long Dry” werd bekroond met een 2007 Betty Trask Award. “The Dig”, zijn meest recente roman, won in 2014 de Jerwood Fiction Uncovered Prize en de 2015 Wales Book of the Year Fiction Prize. Die roman stond ook op de longlist voor de 2014 Kirkus Prize in de VS. In 2014, Jones haalde de krantenkoppen voor het ontbreken van interpunctie in het grootste deel van de toespraak in zijn roman The Dig (en een paar andere korte verhalen). Het spreken en de ideeën van zijn personages werd gemarkeerd door middel van aanhalingstekens totdat John Freeman, redacteur bij het tijdschrift Granta, de aanhalingstekens verwijderde om een grotere directheid te bereiken. De auteur was het met hem eens over het effect van deze onconventionele werkwijze en schreef de rest van het boek op deze manier, met uitzondering van een gesprek tussen de hoofdpersoon en zijn moeder. In die passage gebruikte Jones de traditionele aanhalingstekens “to create a sense of a more conventional, staid dialogue.”

Uit: The Dig

“The black lamb looked tired and beaten under the lamp.
It had not put on weight and he could make out the fingers of its ribs with the bloated milk-full stomach behind them. It was folded in the bottom of the box, but not with the folded comfortable way of a sleeping cat, more with the weak compliance of something sick beyond will.
Daniel picked up the small black lamb. His father would have simply dashed its head on the barn floor. He was not a hard man, but a pragmatist; but that kind of will wasn’t in Daniel. Despite the lamp the lamb felt cold, as if it could generate no heat of its own, and it was too light for itself and hung limply. It was as if he’d picked a jumper from the floor. It had a completely will-less passivity.
I don’t expect this of you, he said. I just want you to understand it. Sometimes you have to choose between a quick misery or a slow misery. He heard his father talking, saw him take the useless lamb from the box. You have to understand it as an option. There was a movement and the lamb hung dead from his father’s hand, a thin spittle of blood reaming from its mouth.
He heard the voice again. Heard his father, that there were the two miseries, and somewhere in him a vicious voice told him that his wife had no fear now of the worse, drawn-out misery that might have come. Hers had been the quick misery, the head dashed against the barn floor. He thought of his father stricken, becalmed by the stroke. He ignored the vicious little voice, as if it was something overheard he had no wish to know.
He rubbed the lamb, trying to bring some warmth into its muscles, the wrinkles of the loose skin riding under his hand like rolls of sock. There was the superstition that every flock should have a black lamb to sacrifice should the Devil come and it was to Daniel like the lamb was a victim of this.
He felt the lamb’s heartbeat under his hands. It was faint. A bare registry.
You need to live, he thought.
He picked up the lamb and carried it into the house.
He put it down in the porch and took off his boots and then went in and found a box and came back for the lamb.“

 
Cynan Jones (Aberystwyth, 27 februari 1975)