De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook alle tags voor Christopher Brookmyre op dit blog.
Uit: Want You Gone
“I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.
Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so it’s how I got here that really matters.
I’m going to tell you everything, and I’m not going to hold back to spare anyone’s feelings. I have to be totally honest if I’m looking for honesty in return. I’ll warn you up front, though. Much of what I’m about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. You’re not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isn’t always going to be flattering either, but it’s important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.
It doesn’t mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. It’s just how it was, you know?
There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply I’m pointing the finger, and I’m not. I know who’s to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So I’m not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun.
Because this isn’t about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.
THE READER
I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.
He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know he’s not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that won’t land long enough to be swatted.
I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. ‘We’re closing in,’ says one. ‘Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you,’ warns another. ‘Do you know who’s following you?’ asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bullseye: ‘Targeting benefit fraudsters’.
De Afro-Amerikaanse dichter Adrian Matejka werd geboren in Neurenberg, Duitsland, op 5 september 1971 en groeide op in Californië en Indiana. Zie ook alle tags voor Adrian Matejka op dit blog.
Sportief leven
Mensen hebben het altijd over als
& stel alsof die woorden meer waard zijn
dan geld, meer dan de striem die
een zijden kous maakt in de dij van een
vrouw. Meer dan het gebrom van een Thomas
Flyer motor. Dus ik kies de kant van mijn
pleziertjes. Twee kleine woorden, als & stel,
& niemand kan ze uitleggen. We krijgen
in deze wereld wat we krijgen zullen.
Eén man kan immers uit bed vallen
& doodgaan, terwijl een andere man van
een steiger valt & blijft leven. Een man kan
een kogel in de zijn hersens krijgen en zijn leven behouden
terwijl een andere stakker sterft
door een schot in het been. Het is allemaal geluk
& perspectief: plezier is het voor mij allebei.
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 6e september ook mijn blog van 6 september 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 6 september 2019 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2017 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2015 deel 2.
