Stephen Spender, Bart Koubaa, Luc Dellisse, John Montague, Marcel Pagnol, Raphaële Billetdoux, Bodo Morshäuser

De Engelse dichter, essayist en schrijver Stephen Spender werd geboren op 28 februari 1909 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Stephen Spender op dit blog.

 

The Pylons

The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made,
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages

Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete
That trails black wire
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret-

The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook-

But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightning’s danger
There runs the quick perspective of the future-

This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek
So tall with prophecy
Dreaming of cities
Where ofien clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.

 

A footnote to Marx’s chapter “The working day”

“Heard say that four times four is eight
“And the king is the man what has all the gold.”
“Our king is a queen and her son’s a princess
“And they live in a palace called London, I’m told.”

“Heard say that a man called God who’s a dog
“Made the world with us in it,” “And then I’ve heard
“There came a great flood and the world was all drownded
“Except for one man, and he was a bird.”

“So perhaps all the maple are dead, and we’re birds
“Shut in steel cages by the devil who’s good,
“Like the miners in their pit cages
“And us in our chimneys to climb, as we should.”

 

Farewell To My Student

For our farewell. we went down to the foot-path
Circling the lake. You stood there, looking up at
White egrets nesting in high branches.
And I, apart, stood silent. searching for
Images to recall this moment.
The first, I thought. must be that pine tree
Which, with slashed bark, climbs vertically
Across the lines of waves beyond.
Second. your face, a bronze medallion,
Greek or Roman, against the lake.
Perhaps Bellini
Delved from antiquity such an image
Of a twenty-year-old Triton lifting up a conch
Against a background of blown waves.
And Seurat, centuries later, in the profile
Of a holidaying boy, against the Seine.
And then you turned to me and said
With glance a third thing to remember:
“You are gone already, your thoughts are far from here
Three thousand miles away,
Where you will be tomorrow. And I
Here. remembering today.”

Then ten years passed till, today. i write these lines.

 

 
Stephen Spender (28 februari 1909 – 16 juli 1995)
 

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Daniel Handler, Dee Brown, Berthold Auerbach, José Vasconcelos, Sophie Tieck, Michel de Montaigne, Ernest Renan

De Amerikaanse schrijver Daniel Handler werd geboren op 28 februari 1970 in San Francisco, Californië Zie ook alle tags Daniel Handler op dit blog.

Uit: Why We Broke Up

„These are the caps from the bottles of Scarpia’s Bitter Black Ale that you and I drank in Al’s backyard that night. I can see the stars bright and prickly and our breathing steamy in the cold, you in your team jacket and me in that cardigan of Al’s I always borrow at his house.
He had it waiting, clean and folded, when I went upstairs with him to give him his present before the guests arrived.
“I told you I didn’t want a present,” Al said. “The party was enough I told you, without the obligatory-”
“It’s not obligatory,” I said, having used the same vocabulary flash cards with Al when we were freshmen. “I found something. It’s perfect. Open it.”
He took the bag from me, nervous.
“Come on, happy birthday.”
“What is it?”
“Your heart’s desire. I hope. Open it. You’re driving me crazy.”
Rustle rustle rip, and he sort of gasped. It was very satisfying.
“Where did you find this?”
“Does it not,” I said, “I mean exactly, look like what the guy wears in the party scene in Una settimana straordinaria?”
He smiled into the slender box. It was a necktie, dark green with modern diamond shapes stitched into it in a line. It’d been in my sock drawer for months, waiting. “Take it out,” I said. “Wear it tonight.
Does it not, exactly?”
“When he gets out of the Porcini XL 10,” he said, but he was looking at me.
“Your absolute favorite scene in any movie. I hope you love it.”

 

 
Daniel Handler (San Francisco, 28 februari 1970)

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