De Amerikaanse schrijver John Rechy werd geboren op 10 maart 1934 in El Paso, Texas. Zie ook alle tags voor John Rechy op dit blog.
Uit: Bodies and Souls
« Jesse James grasped the iron bars of the main gate, as if looking into an opulent prison, A guard approached, and he let go. In substitute defiance, he pushed his cowboy hat forward, squinting up. His brown eyes fixed on the crotch of one of the female statues; he felt a stirring between his long, lean legs. “I didn’t say it looks like the house in Gone with the Wind, I said it reminds me,” Lisa upheld. She took another delicious lick, close to the last, of a Baskin-Robbins ice-cream cone, flavor of the week, vanilla-pistachio. Some of it dripped onto her chest; she captured the melting sweetness with a finger and poked it into her mouth. Her breasts were becoming roundly full; because she was slender, and shorter than the five-foot-six she claimed, they appeared lush. She was blessed with truly violet eyes—and thick dark eyelashes, although her hair, worn loose and to her shoulders, was brown, auburn in spring, streaked blond by summer. In Mundelein, Illinois, she had wanted to be a movie star; she no longer cared about that, or about anything else. “Doesn’t it remind you of Gone with the Wind?’ she asked Orin. Orin stood very straight glaring at the gutted mansion—as close as he could come to it from the sidewalk. There were times when he looked like a grown Huckleberry Finn—reddish blond hair, mischievous blue eyes, lanky angular body neither short nor tall, just slightly too thin, a fair, almost translucent complexion unmarred by freckles. Then unexpectedly a somber look might push away the boyish smile, extend the tilt of his eyes—suddenly haunted eyes—and dark semicircles would deepen under them; a moody beauty would emerge, along with the impression of darkness—despite the glowing hair, the clear eyes so moistly blue at times they seemed to weep without tears. Approaching twenty-five, he aged or grew younger in alternating moods. Now he stared intensely at the naked statues on the aging lawn. His fair eyebrows knotted. In answer to Lisa’s question, he shrugged and shook his head. “My God, you didn’t see it?” Lisa said. “I thought everybody had.” She took the last bite of her cone, not swallowing it, letting the cream thaw slowly in her mouth, preserving the wonderful flavor. What it was gone, she said, “I’d like to go through all thirty-one Baskin-Robbins flavors.” She tasted her lips for any lingering sweetness. “Wouldn’t it be something to change names, like the ice-cream flavor of the week? Could I change my name each day, Orin?” she asked. “Sure,” Orin said. »
John Rechy (El Paso, 10 maart 1934)