Alice Sebold, Christopher Brookmyre, Amelie Fried, Jennifer Egan

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Alice Sebold op 6 september 1962 in Madison, Wisconsin. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010.


Uit: Lucky

This is what I remember. My lips were cut. I bit down on them when he grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth. He said these words: “I’ll kill you if you scream.” I remained motionless. “Do you understand? If you scream you’re dead.” I nodded my head. My arms were pinned to my sides by his right arm wrapped around me and my mouth was covered with his left.

He released his hand from my mouth.

I screamed. Quickly. Abruptly.

The struggle began.

He covered my mouth again. He kneed me in the back of my legs so that I would fall down. “You don’t get it, bitch. I’ll kill you. I’ve got a knife. I’ll kill you.” He released his grip on my mouth again and I fell, screaming, on the brick path. He straddled me and kicked me in the side. I made sounds, they were nothing, they were soft footfalls. They urged him on, they made him righteous. I scrambled on the path. I was wearing soft-soled moccasins with which I tried to land wild kicks. Everything missed or merely grazed him. I had never fought before, was chosen last in gym.

Somehow, I don’t remember how, I made it back on my feet. I remember biting him, pushing him, I don’t know what. Then I began to run. Like a giant who is all powerful, he reached out and grabbed the end of my long brown hair. He yanked it hard and brought me down onto my knees in front of him. That was my first missed escape, the hair, the woman’s long hair.

“You asked for it now,” he said, and I began to beg.

He reached around to his back pocket to draw out a knife. I struggled still, my hair coming out painfully from my skull as I did my best to rip myself free of his grip. I lunged forward and grabbed his left leg with both arms, throwing him off balance and making him stagger. I would not know it until the police found it later in the grass, a few feet away from my broken glasses, but with that move, the knife fell from his hands and was lost.

Then it was fists.“


Alice Sebold (Madison, 6 september 1962)


De Schotse schrijver Christopher Brookmyre werd geboren op 6 september 1968 in Glasgow. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2008. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010.


Uit: Pandaemonium

‘We’re going to Hell for this.’
It is one of the soldiers who speaks, talking almost under his breath to the similarly sculpted muscular redoubt standing beside him. Their arms are bare from the shoulders down, dark green sleeveless slips the only clothing between the skin of their chests and sweat-streaked grey tabards of body armour. Their biceps are taut from the weight of their weapons, or maybe that’s just how it looks, because Merrick knows what those things feel like to hold; knows a weight in them that derives from more than simply mass and gravity. Those muscles are US military: built, trained and maintained. You could sling a feather duster across those forearms and the musculature would look just as pronounced, just as swollen and primed.
Merrick recalls a detached fragment he glimpsed surfing the digital channels, showing a poster from the Weimar Republic. It depicted an Aryan god of an athlete above the slogan: ‘A healthy body houses a healthy mind’. To which some seditionary artist had added: ‘but often a very small one’.
All of the soldiers in here look like gay porn. So much muscle on show, all of it glistening with moisture, fresh beads of sweat pooling for a moment, then suddenly swooping in rivulets in response to a slight movement, a shift in stance, and not infrequently a nervous shudder. It’s the heat: that’s why they’re dressed that way. It’s so hot in this place, so infernally hot, always. No amount of venting seems to make a difference. He’s stood right next to the giant fans at the base of the intake regulation shaft, walked beneath the coolant transit vessels in the heat-exchange orbital, several miles of insulated alloys thrusting through a circular tubeway engirthing the primary accelerator chase.“


Christopher Brookmyre (Glasgow, 6 september 1968)


De Duitse schrijfster Amelie Fried werd geboren op 6 september 1958 in Ulm. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010.


Uit: Rosannas Tochter

„Ein Gewitter zog auf an diesem Nachmittag. Eigentlich kein Wunder, dachte Nela. Wenn in meinem Leben etwas Bedeutsames passiert, gibt es Unwetter. Schon bei ihrer Geburt hatte es angeblich geblitzt und gedonnert, von ihrem ersten Schultag war sie klatschnass, mit aufgeweichter Schultüte und vor Nässe quietschenden Schuhen nach Hause gekommen, weil ihre Mutter vergessen hatte, sie abzuholen, und bei ihrer Hochzeit war ein regelrechter Hagelsturm niedergegangen, der innerhalb von Minuten die Autos der Hochzeitsgäste in einen Haufen Versicherungsfälle verwandelt hatte.
Es donnerte. Nela zuckte zusammen. Nein, sie hatte keine Angst, sie saß bei Gewitter nur gern an einem sicheren Ort und hielt sich die Ohren zu.
Also kuschelte sie sich aufs Sofa, zog sich eine Decke über den Kopf und zählte den Abstand zwischen Blitz und Donner. Jede Sekunde ein Kilometer, hatte sie an jenem ersten Schultag gelernt. Mit beruhigenden Worten hatte die Lehrerin das ängstliche Gemurmel der
Kinder gedämpft. Dann hatte sie allerhand über Gewitter erzählt, unter anderem, wie gering die Wahrscheinlichkeit ist, vom Blitz getroffen zu werden, aber das hatte Nela nicht beruhigen können. Auf Wahrscheinlichkeit gab sie bis heute nichts, sie glaubte an Zufälle, glückliche – und unglückliche.
Unruhig sah sie auf die Uhr. Hoffentlich kam Josch bald nach Hause.
Heute war die Nachricht eingetroffen, auf die sie so lange gewartet hatte, eine sensationelle Nachricht, und sie brannte darauf, ihm davon zu erzählen.
Meist kam Josch erst um zehn, elf Uhr abends aus seiner Kanzlei; und manchmal wurde er schon frühmorgens zum Flughafen gerufen, wo er die Abschiebung irgendeines armen Kerls verhindern sollte, der hier auf ein besseres Leben gehofft hatte. Es war nicht leicht, einen ruhigen Moment mit ihrem Mann, dem streitbaren Rechtsanwalt, zu finden, aber heute hatte er ihr fest versprochen, um sieben da zu sein.“


Amelie Fried (Ulm, 6 september 1958)


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Jennifer Egan werd geboren in Chicago op 6 september 1962. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2007 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2008. Zie ook mijn blog van 6 september 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 september 2010.


Uit: A Visit From the Goon Squad

“It began the usual way, in the bathroom of the Lassimo Hotel. Sasha was adjusting her yellow eye shadow in the mirror when she noticed a bag on the floor beside the sink that must have belonged to the woman whose peeing she could faintly hear through the vaultlike door of a toilet stall. Inside the rim of the bag, barely visible, was a wallet made of pale green leather. It was easy for Sasha to recognize, looking back, that the peeing woman’s blind trust had provoked her: We live in a city where people will steal the hair off your head if you give them half a chance, but you leave your stuff lying in plain sight and expect it to be waiting for you when you come back? It made her want to teach the woman a lesson. But this wish only camouflaged the deeper feeling Sasha always had: that at, tender wallet, offering itself to her hand — it seemed so dull, so life-as-usual to just leave it there rather than seize the moment, accept the challenge, take the leap, fly the coop, throw caution to the wind, live dangerously (“I get it,” Coz, her therapist, said), and take the [expletive] thing.

“You mean steal it.”

He was trying to get Sasha to use that word, which was harder to avoid in the case of a wallet than with a lot of the things she’d lifted over the past year, when her condition (as Coz referred to it) had begun to accelerate: five sets of keys, fourteen pairs of sunglasses, a child’s striped scarf, binoculars, a cheese grater, a pocketknife, twenty-eight bars of soap, and eighty-five pens, ranging from cheap ballpoints she’d used to sign debit-card slips to the aubergine Visconti that cost two hundred sixty dollars online, which she’d lifted from her former boss’s lawyer during a contracts meeting. Sasha no longer took anything from stores — their cold, inert goods didn’t tempt her. Only from people.“


Jennifer Egan (Chicago, 6 september 1962)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 6e september ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.