Alessandro Baricco, Stefan Themerson, Jozef Slagveer, Paavo Haavikko, Robert Burns, Vladimir Vysotsky

De Italiaanse schrijver Alessandro Baricco werd geboren op 25 januari 1958 in Turijn. Zie ook alle tags voor Alessandro Baricco op dit blog.

Uit: City (Vertaald door Ann Goldstein)

“It was Shatzy’s voice. It came from outside the door. The bathroom door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Music of flushing. Tap on. Tap off. Pause. Door opens.
“They’ve been waiting half an hour for you.”
“I’m coming.”
Some people from the local TV station had come to Gould’s house. They wanted to do a feature for the Friday evening special. Title: Portrait of a Child Genius. They had set up the camera in the living room. What they had in mind was a half-hour interview. They counted on working up a sad story of a boy condemned by his intelligence to solitude and success. Its brilliance lay in their having found someone whose life was a tragedy not because he was terribly unfortunate but, on the contrary, because he was terribly fortunate. If it wasn’t exactly brilliant at least it seemed like a good idea.
Gould sat on the sofa, in front of the camera. Poomerang was beside him, also sitting. Diesel didn’t fit on the sofa, so he sat on the floor, although it took him a while to get there. And then it wasn’t clear how he would ever get up. Anyway. They arranged the microphones and turned on the spots. The interviewer smoothed her skirt over her crossed legs.”

Alessandro Baricco (Turijn, 25 januari 1958)


De Pools-Britse dichter, schrijver, filmmaker, componist en filosoof Stefan Themerson werd geboren in Płock op 25 januari 1910. Zie ook alle tags voor Stefan Themerson op dit blog.

Uit:The Mystery of the Sardine

“You don’t want to see the mystery. And this place is full of mysteries, Madame. One would need a Simenon to unravel all the coincidences. . . . Pardon? Sherlock Holmes? Oh, no, Madame. Your Sherlock Holmes is a puppet made of papier mache, Madame. One could rewrite his stories to show that he always points out the wrong suspect and lets the real criminal go scot-free. No, no. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand a thing. Especially women. And if you don’t like Simenon, Madame, then perhaps Zola? Maupassant? Mauriac? Or, pourquoi pas? Racine? Corneille? Unless you prefer your Father Brown, Chesterton I mean, or do you find the comparison outrageous? Yet, wouldn’t he—Simenon, I mean—wouldn’t he be the best man to explain why she didn’t cry?”

Stefan Themerson (25 januari 1910 – 6 september 1988)
Hier met zijn vrouw, de beeldend kunstenaar Franciszka Themerson


De Surinaamse dichter en journalist Jozef Hubert Maria Slagveer werd geboren in Totness op 25 januari 1940. Zie ook alle tags voor Jozef Slagveer op dit blog.

daggebed van de establishment

ik dank u
dat ik het beter heb
dan mijn buurman
ik dank u

ik dank u
dat er rijkdom
en armoede is
en dat dit verschil
zo mag blijven
voor mezelf
en mijn kindskinderen
ik dank u

ik dank u
dat ik niet pinaar
zoals mijn bediende
(maar ze moeten er
ook zijn heer
voor het verschil
tussen rijk en arm)
ik ben u dankbaar
uw naam is groot

Jozef Slagveer (25 januari 1940 — 8 december 1982)


De Finse dichter, toneelschrijver en uitgever Paavo Juhani Haavikko werd geboren in Helsinki op 25 januari 1931. Zie ook alle tags voor Paavo Haavikko op dit blog.

Uit: Trees, Their Legacy Of Green

Faulkner, Early in the Morning

The old man is tired of talking

incessantly about himself.
Who has answered all the letters
saying nothing.
No Chekov.
Who forgot his name.
When a man dies, he once again goes
to his car, to his wife, to work.
The motor won’t start, the wife won’t
wake up, it’s much too early.

He is dead.


Many books remain unread when
it is not clear
where so and so sleeps, where he gets his money,
with whom he sleeps,

how he gets away with life, the only

I indulge in,

Life & Works & Love, abstractions –
read no further
where they end.

Paavo Haavikko (25 januari 1931 – 6 oktober 2008)


De Schotse dichter Robert Burns werd geboren op 25 januari 1759 in Alloway, Ayrshire. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Burns op dit blog.

A Bottle And Friend

There’s nane that’s blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.


To A Kiss

Humid seal of soft affections,
Tend’rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love’s first snow-drop, virgin kiss.

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion’s birth, and infants’ play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.

Sorrowing joy, adieu’s last action,
Ling’ring lips, — no more to join!
What words can ever speak affection
Thrilling and sincere as thine!

Robert Burns (25 januari 1759 – 21 juli 1796)
Standbeeld in Ayr (Detail)


De Russische zanger, acteur en dichter Vladimir Semjonovitsj Vysotsky werd geboren op 25 januari 1938 in Moskou. Zie ook alle tags voor Vladimir Vysotsky op dit blog.

The crystal house

If I am rich like the king of the sea,
Shout to me only: “Catch the spoon-bait!”
And I will pour out my above and underwater world
Without even thinking!

The crystal house in the mountain is for her.
I grew up myself in chains, alone like a dog.
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!

If I hadn’t compared some other girl with you,
Just put me to death, shoot me.
Look how I admire you,
Like Raphael’s Madonna!

The crystal house in the mountain is for her.
I grew up myself in chains, alone like a dog.
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!

If I am poor and lonely like a dog,
And my house is totally empty –
Cause you’ll help me, God!
And you won’t give me a crumpled life…

The crystal house in the mountain is for her.
I grew up myself in chains, alone like a dog.
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!
My springs are of silver,
And my mines are of gold!

Vladimir Vysotsky (25 januari 1938 – 25 juli 1980)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 25e januari ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.