De Engelse schrijver Jonathan Coe werd geboren op 19 augustus 1961 in Birmingham. Zie ook alle tags voor Jonathan Coe op dit blog.
Uit: Middle England
“Prevents accidents, I suppose,” said Benjamin. His father grunted sceptically. Benjamin turned on the radio, tuned as usual to Radio Three. He was in luck: the slow movement of Faure’s Piano Trio. The melancholy, unassuming contours of the melody not only seemed a fitting accompaniment to the memories of his mother that were filling his mind today (and, presumably, Colin’s), but also seemed to mirror, in sound, the gentle curves of the road, and even the muted greens of the landscape through which it carried them. The fact that the music was recognizably French made no difference: there was a commonality here, a shared spirit. Benjamin felt utterly at home in this music. “Turn that racket off, can’t you?” Colin said. “Can’t we listen to the news?” Benjamin let the last thirty or forty seconds of the movement play out, then switched to Radio Four. It was the PM programme and immediately they were plunged into a familiar world of gladiatorial combat between interviewer and politician. In one week’s time there would be a general election. Colin would vote Conservative, as he had done in every British election since 1950, and Benjamin, as usual, was undecided, except in the sense that he had decided not to vote. Nothing they were likely to hear on the radio in the next seven days would make any difference. Today’s big story seemed to be that the prime minister, Gordon Brown, fighting for re-election, had been caught on microphone describing a potential supporter as “a sort of bigoted woman,” and the media were making the most of it. “The prime minister has shown his true colours,” a Conservative MP was saying, gleefully. “Anyone who expresses these legitimate concerns is simply a bigot, in his view. And that’s why we can never have a serious debate about immigration in this country.” “But isn’t it true that Mr. Cameron, your own leader, is every bit as reluctant—” Benjamin turned the radio off without explanation. For a while they drove in silence. “She couldn’t stand politicians,” Colin said, bringing some subterranean train of thought to the surface, and not needing to specify who he meant by “she.” He spoke in a low voice, thick with regret and repressed emotion. “Thought they were all as bad as each other. All on the fiddle, every one of them. Fiddling their expenses, not declaring their interests, holding down half a dozen jobs on the side…” Benjamin nodded, while remembering that in fact it was Colin himself, not his late wife, who was obsessed with the venality of politicians. It was one of the few subjects on which this habitually taciturn man could become talkative, and perhaps it would be better to let this happen now, to stop him from being distressed by more painful thoughts. But Benjamin rebelled against the idea.”
De Amerikaanse dichter Li-Young Lee werd geboren op 19 augustus 1957 in Jakarta, Indonesië. Zie ook alle tags voor Li-Young Lee op dit blog.
Alleen eten
Ik heb de laatste jonge uien van het jaar geplukt.
De tuin is nu kaal. De grond is koud,
bruin en oud. Wat is er nog over van de dagvlammen
in de esdoorns in de hoek van mijn
oog. Ik draai me om, een rode kardinaal verdwijnt.
Bij de kelderdeur was ik de uien,
drink dan uit het ijzige metalen kraantje.
Eens, jaren geleden, liep ik naast mijn vader
tussen de afgewaaide peren. Ik kan me niet herinneren
wat we zeiden. We hebben misschien in stilte gewandeld. Maar
ik zie nog steeds hoe hij naar links boog – een hand steunend
op de knie, en krakend een rotte peer op tilde en
voor mijn ogen hield. Daarin draaide een horzel
waanzinnig rond, geglazuurd in langzaam, glinsterend sap.
Het was mijn vader die ik vanmorgen
vanuit de bomen naar me zag zwaaien. Ik riep
hem bijna, totdat ik dichtbij genoeg kwam
en de schop geleund zag staan, waar ik hem had
achtergelaten, in de flikkerende, diepgroene schaduw.
De witte rijst stoomt, bijna klaar. Zoete doperwtjes
gebakken in uien. Garnalen gestoofd in sesam
olie en knoflook. En mijn eigen eenzaamheid.
Wat wil ik, een jonge man, nog meer.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 19e augustus ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 19 augustus 2019 en ook mijn blog van 19 augustus 2017 deel 2.