André Brink, Eduard Escoffet, G. K. Chesterton, Bernard Clavel, Leah Goldberg

De Zuid-Afrikaanse schrijver André Brink werd geboren op 29 mei 1935 in Vrede. Zie ook alle tags voor André Brink op dit blog.

Uit: Philida

“Here come shit. Just one look, and I can see it coming. Here I walk all this way and God know that is bad enough, what with the child in the abbadoek on my back, and now there’s no turning back, it’s just straight on to hell and gone. This is the man I got to talk to if I want to lay a charge, they tell me, this Grootbaas who is so tall and white and thin and bony, with deep furrows in his forehead, like a badly ploughed wheat field, and a nose like a sweet potato that has grown past itself.
It’s a long story. First he want to find out everything about me, and it’s one question after another. Who am I? Where do I come from? What is the name of my Baas? What is the name of the farm? For how long I been working there? Did I get a pass for coming here? When did I leave and how long did I walk? Where did I sleep last night? What do I think is going to happen to me when I get home again? And every time I say something, he first write it down in his big book with those knobbly hands and his long white fingers. These people got a thing about writing everything down. Just look at the back pages of the black Bible that belong to Oubaas Cornelis Brink, that’s Francois Gerhard Jacob’s father.
While the Grootbaas is writing I keep watching him closely. There’s something second-hand about the man, like a piece of knitting gone wrong that had to be done over, but badly, not very smoothly. I can say that because I know about knitting. On his nose sit a pair of thick glasses like a bat with open wings, but he look at me over them, not through them. His long hands keep busy all the time. Writing, and dipping the long feather in the ink, and sprinkling fine sand on the thick paper, and shifting his papers this way and that on top of the table that is really too low for him because he is so tall. He is sitting, I keep standing, that is how it’s got to be.

In the beginning I feel scared, my throat is tight. But after the second or third question I start feeling better. All I can think of is: If it was me that was knitting you, you’d look a bit better, but now whoever it was that knitted you, did not cast you off right. Still, I don’t say anything. In this place it’s only him and me and I don’t want to get on his wrong side. I got to tell him everything, and that is exactly what I mean to do today, without keeping anything back.”

 

 

De Catalaanse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Eduard Escoffet werd geboren op 29 mei 1979 in Barcelona. Zie ook alle tags voor Eduard Escoffet op dit blog.

 

Wenn ich dich seh

wenn ich dich seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh
wenn ich dich seh: jetzt; wenn ich dich nicht seh: jetzt
wenn ich dich seh: körper und körper; wenn ich dich nicht
………………………….eh: körper und körper
wenn ich dich seh: du das haus das gewicht; wenn ich dich nicht seh:
…………………………. du das haus das gewicht
wenn ich dich seh und es regnet; wenn ich dich nicht seh und es regnet
wenn ich dich seh: die dinge die du mir sagst; wenn ich dich nicht seh:
…………………………. die dinge die du mir sagst
wenn ich dich seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür; wenn ich dich
nicht seh versenke ich das wort in den stein die tür
wenn ich dich seh und wenn ich dich nicht seh; wenn ich dich nicht seh und
………………………….wenn ich dich seh
wenn ich dich seh, wenn ich dich seh und sterbe wenn ich dich seh;
wenn ich dich nicht seh, wenn ich dich nicht seh und sterbe wenn ich dich
…………………………. nicht seh
wenn ich dich seh: tat und tat; wenn ich dich nicht seh: nichts
wenn ich dich seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht dreht sich im kreis;
wenn ich dich nicht seh: dieses licht dieses blendende licht
…………………………. dreht sich im kreis
wenn ich dich seh und es schließt; wenn ich dich nicht seh
…………………………. und es schließt die rose

 

Vertaald door Àxel Sanjosé

 

 

De Engelse dichter, letterkundige, schrijver en journalist Gilbert Keith Chesterton werd geboren in Londen op 29 mei 1874. Zie ook alle tags voor G. K. Chesterton op dit blog.

Uit: Father Brown. The Essential Tales (The Blue Cross)

“There was a short railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short market gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a sceptic in the severe style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver “with blue stones” in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella. When he did the last, Valentin even had the good nature to warn him not to take care of the silver by telling everybody about it. But to whomever he talked, Valentin kept his eye open for someone else; he looked out steadily for anyone, rich or poor, male or female, who was well up to six feet; for Flambeau was four inches above it.”

 

 

De Franse schrijver Bernard Charles Henri Clavel  werd geboren op 29 mei 1923 in Lons-le-Saunier. Zie ook alle tags voor Bernard Clavel op dit blog.

Uit: l’Hiver

“Il y a chaque année, à partir du début décembre, dans la vitrine de ce magasin qu’on appelle “Le Grand Bazar”, un train électrique fabuleux. Tout y est, une gare, des signaux lumineux qui fonctionnent, une énorme locomotive, au moins sept ou huit wagons, un passage à niveau avec des barrières qui se lèvent et retombent. Tout, absolument ! Il faut jouer des coudes pour approcher la devanture.
J’attends toujours le 25 décembre avec une grande impatience. Bien longtemps avant ce jour merveilleux, en m’appliquant beaucoup, j’écris au Père Noël. Puis nous portons ma lettre à la poste, maman et moi, et je m’efforce d’être sage pour mériter ce que j’ai demandé.

Une année, je devais avoir cinq ou six ans, je fis une lettre particulièrement longue (au moins dix lignes) et appliquée ; à peine une douzaine de fautes d’orthographe. J’avais apporté à l’écrire énormément de soin, car je demandais un train électrique. J’avais précisé, pour que le Père Noël ne se trompe pas : “Celui qui est dans la vitrine du Grand Bazar”. Maman avait soupiré : “Tu es trop exigeant. Le Père Noël n’est pas assez riche. Si tous les enfants font comme toi, le pauvre homme sera bien embarrassé !”. Mais j’avais tenu bon, et ma lettre était partie.”

 

 

De Hebreeuwse dichteres, schrijfster en letterkundige Leah Goldberg werd geboren in Königsberg (Pruisen) op 29 mei 1911. Zie ook alle tags voor Leah Goldberg op dit blog.

 

About Myself

My seasons are etched in my verse
As a tree’s are in its rings
As my years are in furrowed skin.

I have no hard words—
To hamper my visions.
My images
Are as clear as a church’s window.
Through them
One can see
The changes in the light outside
How my loves
Like dead birds fall
From the sky.

 

Vertaald door Haim Watzman

 

 

Will there ever come days

To Y., with pride and gratitude.

Is it true – will there ever come days of forgiveness and mercy?
And you’ll walk in the field, and it will be an innocent’s walk.
And your feet on the medick’s small leaves will be gently caressing,
And sweet will be stings, when you’re stung by the rye’s broken stalks!

And the drizzle will catch you in pounding raindrops’ folly
On your shoulders, your breast and your neck, while your mind will be clean,
You will walk the wet field, and the silence will fill you –
As does light in a dark cloud’s rim

And you’ll breathe in the furrow in breaths calm and even,
And the pond’s golden mirror will show you the Sun up above,
And once more all the things will be simple, and present, and living,
And once more you will love – yes, you will, yes, once more you will love!

You will walk. All alone. Never hurt by the blazing inferno
Of the fires on the roads fed by horrors too awful to stand,
And in your heart of hearts you’ll be able to humbly surrender,
In the way of the weeds, in the way of free men.

 

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 29e mei ook mijn twee blogs van 29 mei 2011.