De Engelse dichter Andrew Marvell werd geboren in Winestead, Yorkshire op 31 maart 1621 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor Andrew Marvell op dit blog.
The Character Of Holland (Fragment)
Holland, that scarce deserves the name of Land,
As but th’Off-scouring of the Brittish Sand;
And so much Earth as was contributed
By English Pilots when they heav’d the Lead;
Or what by th’ Oceans slow alluvion fell,
Of shipwrackt Cockle and the Muscle-shell;
This indigested vomit of the Sea
Fell to the Dutch by just Propriety.
Glad then, as Miners that have found the Oar,
They with mad labour fish’d the Land to Shoar;
And div’d as desperately for each piece
Of Earth, as if’t had been of Ambergreece;
Collecting anxiously small Loads of Clay,
Less then what building Swallows bear away;
Transfursing into them their Dunghil Soul.
How did they rivet, with Gigantick Piles,
Thorough the Center their new-catched Miles;
And to the stake a strugling Country bound,
Where barking Waves still bait the forced Ground;
Building their watry Babel far more high
To reach the Sea, then those to scale the Sky.
Andrew Marvell (31 maart 1621 – 16 augustus 1678)
De Engelse schrijver en essayist John Fowles werd geboren in Leigh-on-Sea (Essex) op 31 maart 1926. Zie ook alle tags voor John Fowles op dit blog.
Uit: The Journals
“Oxford, 6 October
Reread some early poems. All bad. It is like seeing oneself in a film walk naked through a crowded street.
But then to feel oneself unfolding, like a flower.
7 October
Lunch with Guy Hardy and Basil Beeston and a serious Pole.1 In the Kemp. I cannot concentrate on those with whom I happen to be. Always there are more interesting people at the next table. Beautiful women to be watched. G and BB seem so set up in the world – they sit on a terrace by the sea and I drift past, watching them, jealous, unhappy. Yet I have the jewel. I may drift to even-more-to-be-coveted terraces, and land.
*
Immortality is a convention, a white elephant. A futility. There is no logic in planning for it. No enjoyment, no beauty can come out of it. All life should be designed to be contained within life. Within the closed circle. Outside the theatre, the bouquets won’t be seen. The turnip who gains fame in his life, and lives, has an immense superiority over the poet who becomes famous after his death, and obscurely exists. Immortality is the gravestone of the spirit. What use is the gravestone?“
John Fowles (31 maart 1926 – 5 november 2005)
De Engelse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Edward FitzGerald werd geboren in Woodbridge, Suffolk, op 31 maart 1809. Zie ook alle tags voor Edward FitzGerald op dit blog.
From Omar Khayyam
I
A BOOK of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread–and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness–
O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
Look to the blowing Rose about us–‘Lo,
Laughing,’ she says, ‘into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.’
And those who husbanded the Golden grain
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn’d
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
Edward FitzGerald (31 maart 1809 – 14 juni 1883)
De Schotse dichter, schrijver en journalist Andrew Lang werd geboren op 31 maart 1844 in Selkirk. Zie ook alle tags voor Andrew Lang op dit blog.
Ballade Of The Bookworm
Far in the Past I peer, and see
A Child upon the Nursery floor,
A Child with books upon his knee,
Who asks, like Oliver, for more!
The number of his years is IV,
And yet in Letters hath he skill,
How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!
The Books I loved, I love them still!
One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three
They commonly bestowed of yore)
The Love of Books, the Golden Key
That opens the Enchanted Door;
Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er
And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill,
And there is all ALADDIN’S store, –
The Books I loved, I love them still!
Take all, but leave my Books to me!
These heavy creels of old we bore
We fill not now, nor wander free,
Nor wear the heart that once we wore;
Not now each River seems to pour
His waters from the Muses’ hill;
Though something’s gone from stream and shore,
The Books I loved, I love them still!
ENVOY.
Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,
We bow submissive to thy will,
Ah grant, by some benign decree,
The Books I loved–to love them still.
Andrew Lang (31 maart 1844 – 20 juli 1912)
Portret door Sir William Blake Richmond, 1855
De Franse schrijver, dichter en journalist Robert Brasillach werd geboren in Perpignan op 31 maart 1909. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert Brasillach op dit blog.
Paysage de prison
Voici nos biens qui surgissent des brumes,
Voici Paris dans la nuit qui s’allume.
Voici la ville où dorment nos trésors.
Tout est caché derrière les barreaux,
Les arbres roux sont ceux du parc de Sceaux.
Ceux que l’on aime y respirent encor.
Comme un signal au bout de la jetée,
Comme un fanal sur la phare agité,
Voici la Tour, grande fille de fer.
Elle surmonte au-dessus des nuages
Nos diamants, notre or et nos images,
Les cargaisons englouties depuis hier.
O ma jeunesse au fond de ce brouillard,
Reviendras-tu avant qu’il soit trop tard
Pour conjurer les tempêtes encor ?
Ce n’est qu’à toi que je crois et confie
En cet automne où court sans fin la pluie
Mon pauvre coeur menacé par la mort.
Robert Brasillach (31 maart 1909 – 6 februari 1945)