De Poolse dichter Adam Mickiewicz werd geboren op 24 december 1798 in Zaosie, nabij Nowogródek. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2009.

 

The Crossing

 

Monsters merge and welter through the water’s mounting
Din. All hands, stand fast! A sailor sprints aloft,
Hangs, swelling spider-like, among invisible nets,
Surveys his slowly undulating snares, and waits.

 

The wind! The ship’s a steed that champs and shies, breaks loose,
And lunges out upon the blizzard-white sea. It heaves
Its neck; it plunges, trampling waves; it cleaves the clouds
And scours the sky; it sweeps up winds beneath its wings.

 

My spirit like the swaying mast, plays in the stormy sky,
And like the swelling sails ahead, imagination fills,
Till suddenly I too cry out with the madly shouting crew.

 

With arms outspread I fall upon the plunging boards and feel
It is my breast that gives the ship new burst of speed,
And know, happy and light at last, what is a bird.

 

 

Vertaald door Richard A. Gregg

 

 

 

Baktschi Serai by Night

 

From out the mosques the pious wend their way;

Muezzin voices tremble through the night;

Within the sky the pallid King of Light

Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may,

 

And Heaven’s harem greets its star array.

One lone white cloud rests in the azure height–

A veiled court lady in some sorrow’s plight–

Whom cruel love and day have cast away.

 

The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees;

There–mountains, towering, black as demons frown,

Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down.

 

Like sword blades lightning flickers over these,

And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides

Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night bides.

 

Vertaald door Edna Worthley Underwood 

 

Adam Mickiewicz (24 december 1798 – 26 november 1855) 

Monument in Opole

 

De Turkse dichter Tevfik Fikret werd geboren op 24 december 1867 in Istanbul. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2009.

 

The Fog

 

Again the horizon has been covered by a persistent fog,

It is a white darkness that progressively enlarges.

Everything under it, looks  as if erased,

Like a dense collection of dust are the pictures formed.

Such a dusty and fearsome density that

no eyes can dare see through.

You deserve this deep and dark cover,

You deserve this covering, you, the land of cruel

You, the land of cruel, you, the bright stage…

 

To the never ending great lies

To the rights being exiled from the courts
To the people who have lost sensible feelings out of fear and suspicion

To the curious ears stretching up to the consciences of people

To the mouths locked out of fear of being listened

To the forgotten face of honor and shame

To the great, famous people who have been doubled up

by the heavy load of fear on their shoulders…

To the heads bowed down,

clear looking heads may be, but disgusting.

To those desolate children…

To those double faced laughters…

Cover yourself up, you, the disaster! Cover yourself up, you, the city!

Cover yourself up and sleep to the eternity

You, the bastard world!

 

 

Vertaald door Meral Akçay Çiblak

 

 

Tevfik Fikret  (24 december 1867 – 19 augustus 1915)

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Stephenie Meyer werd geboren in Connecticut op 24 december 1973. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2009.

 

Uit: Twilight

 

“You know Bella, Jacob?” Lauren asked—in what I imagined was an insolent tone—from across the fire.
“We’ve sort of known each other since I was born,” he laughed, smiling at me again.
“How nice.” She didn’t sound like she thought it was nice at all, and her pale, fishy eyes narrowed.
“Bella,” she called again, watching my face carefully, “I was just saying to Tyler that it was too bad none of the Cullens could come out today. Didn’t anyone think to invite them?” Her expression of concern was unconvincing.
“You mean Dr. Carlisle Cullen’s family?” the tall, older boy asked before I could respond, much to Lauren’s irritation. He was really closer to a man than a boy, and his voice was very deep.
“Yes, do you know them?” she asked condescendingly, turning halfway toward him.
“The Cullens don’t come here,” he said in a tone that closed the subject, ignoring her question.
Tyler, trying to win back her attention, asked Lauren’s opinion on a CD he held. She was distracted.
I stared at the deep-voiced boy, taken aback, but he was looking away toward the dark forest behind us. He’d said that the Cullens didn’t come here, but his tone had implied something more—that they weren’t allowed; they were prohibited. His manner left a strange impression on me, and I tried to ignore it without success.

Jacob interrupted my meditation. “So is Forks driving you insane yet?”
“Oh, I’d say that’s an understatement.” I grimaced. He grinned understandingly.
I was still turning over the brief comment on the Cullens, and I had a sudden inspiration. It was a stupid plan, but I didn’t have any better ideas. I hoped that young Jacob was as yet inexperienced around girls, so that he wouldn’t see through my sure-to-be-pitiful attempts at flirting.
“Do you want to walk down the beach with me?” I asked, trying to imitate that way Edward had of looking up from underneath his eyelashes. It couldn’t have nearly the same effect, I was sure, but Jacob jumped up willingly enough.“

 

 

Stephenie Meyer (Connecticut, 24 december 1973)

 

 

 

De Franse schrijfster en historica Dominique Manotti werd geboren op 24 december 1942 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 24 december 2009.

 

Uit: Lorraine connection

 

„Aïcha se précipite. Rolande s’agenouille, les cheveux d’Emilienne traînent sur le gerflex noirci, crevé, pas nettoyé depuis quand ? Elle en éprouve de la honte, enlève sa blouse, la glisse sous la tête de la blessée, morte peut-être, en tout cas, je ne la vois pas respirer. Elle se penche, tente un bouche-à-bouche, perçoit un souffle. Avec un geste tendre, elle déboutonne le col de la chemise, dégage les jambes coincées dans la chaise basculée. Une trace de brûlé sur le siège. Les filles se sont toutes levées, regards fixes, lèvres closes, appuyées contre les parois de tôle, le plus loin possible d’Emilienne. A quoi tu pensais tout à l’heure ? La peur ? Elle est là en son royaume. Réjane, la voisine de chaîne d’Emilienne, la voie chevrotante, les mains tremblantes, murmure :
– Il faudrait peut-être faire un massage cardiaque.
– Tu sais faire ?
– Non.
– Moi non plus.
L’une lui claque le visage, le tamponne avec un linge humide, l’autre lui masse les mains en pleurant.

Antoine Maréchal, en blouse bleue, les lunettes sur le nez, jongle avec les plannings et les feuilles de présence, dans le bureau du personnel. C’est le contremaître du secteur montage-finition-emballage, et c’est chaque jour un tour de force d’essayer de maintenir la production sur les chaînes avec un taux d’absentéisme qui tourne toujours entre 10 et 20 %. Plus de 20 % aujourd’hui, en ce début d’automne. Quelle merde, tous ces bougnoules et ces bonnes femmes. Le travail, savent pas ce que c’est. Le Directeur des ressources humaines, en personne, entre dans le bureau, la petite trentaine, en costard bien coupé, chaussures fines, cuir italien, gommeux incapable et sûr de lui, tout juste sorti de chez papa maman. Maréchal, la cinquantaine lourde, dans sa blouse et ses chaussures de sécurité, frissonne de haine contenue.“

 

 

Dominique Manotti (Parijs, 24 december 1942)