De Britse schrijver Evelyn Waugh werd geboren in Londen op 28 oktober 1903. Zie ook alle tags voor Evelyn Waugh op dit blog.
Uit: Brideshead Revisited
“Light streamed through the cracks in the shutters. Sebastian unbarred one, and folded it back; the mellow afternoon sun flooded in, over the bare floor, the vast, twin fireplaces of sculptured marble, the coved ceiling frescoed with classic deities and heroes, the gilt mirrors and scagliola pilasters, the islands of sheeted furniture. It was a glimpse only, such as might be had from the top of an omnibus into a lighted ballroom; then Sebastian quickly shut out the sun. “You see,” he said; “it’s like this.”
His mood had changed since we had drunk our wine under the elm trees, since we had turned the corner of the drive and he had said: “Well?”
“You see, there’s nothing to see. A few pretty things I’d like to show you one day–not now. But there’s the chapel. You must see that. It’s a monument of art nouveau.”
The last architect to work at Brideshead had sought to unify its growth with a colonnade and flanking pavilions. One of these was the chapel. We entered it by the public porch (another door led direct to the house); Sebastian dipped his fingers in the water stoup, crossed himself and genuflected; I copied him. “Why do you do that?” he asked crossly.
“Just good manners.”
“Well, you needn’t on my account. You wanted to do sight-seeing; how about this?”
The whole interior had been gutted, elaborately refurnished and redecorated in the arts-and-crafts style of the last decade of the nineteenth century. Angels in printed cotton smocks, rambler-roses, flower-spangled meadows, frisking lambs, texts in Celtic script, saints in armour, covered the walls in an intricate pattern of clear, bright colours. There was a triptych of pale oak, carved so as to give it the peculiar property of seeming to have been moulded in plasticine. The sanctuary lamp and all the metal furniture were of bronze, hand-beaten to the patina of a pock-marked skin; the altar steps had a carpet of grass-green, strewn with white and gold daisies.
“Golly,” I said.
“It was Papa’s wedding present to Mamma. Now, if you’ve seen enough, we’ll go.”
On the drive we passed a closed Rolls-Royce driven by a chauffeur; in the back was a vague, girlish figure who looked round at us through the window.
“Julia,” said Sebastian. “We only just got away in time.”
We stopped to speak to a man with a bicycle–“That was old Bat,” said Sebastian–and then were away, past the wrought-iron gates, past the lodges and out on the road heading back to Oxford.
“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian after a time. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice this afternoon. Brideshead often has that effect on me. But I had to take you to see Nanny.”
Why? I wondered; but said nothing (Sebastian’s life was governed by a code of such imperatives. “I must have pillar-box red pyjamas,” “I have to stay in bed until the sun works round to the windows,” “I’ve absolutely got to drink champagne to-night!”) except, “It had quite the reverse effect on me.”
After a long pause he said petulantly, “I don’t keep asking you questions about your family.”
“Neither do I about yours.”
De Hongaarse dichter en schrijver István Kemény werd geboren op 28 oktober 1961 in Boedapest. Zie ook alle tags voor István Kemény op dit blog.
Vaalgrauwe zwerver
De weg van de kogel van noodlot tot president
Wat lood niet kan doorstaan en hoe
Langzaam het is, groot, onhandig
En voorbestemd!
Ach kroegen waarin hij steken blijft
Ach dalen waar hij in rolt
Ach camouflages waarin hij zich camoufleert
Ach situaties waarin hij mens is
Ach schrijftafel waarop hij wekenlang rust
En waarvan zij ineens verdwijnt
Ach lucht door wie zij straks fluit
Geef haar niets te eten
Geef haar niets meer te drinken
Zij is lood. Moordende traagheid.
Vertaald door Eva Bodor en Mischa Andriessen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 28e oktober ook mijn blog van 28 oktober 2018 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.