Arthur Laurents, Owen Wister, Béatrix Beck, Willard Motley

De Amerikaanse schrijver, scenarioschrijver en regisseur Arthur Laurents is geboren in New York op 14 Juli 1918.Zie ook alle tags voor Arthur Laurents op dit blog.

Uit: West Side Story

“A-RAB: Great Daddy-O!
RIFF: so everybody dress up sweet and sharp and meet Tony and me at ten.
Oh, when the Jets fall in at the cornball dance
We’ll be the sweetest dressin’ gang in pants!
And when the chicks dig us in our Jet black ties,
They’re gonna flip, gonna flop, gonna drop like flies!
(They dance together a little wild )
RIFF: Hey, Cool! Easy. Sweet. See ya. And walk tall!
(He runs off)
A-RAB: We always walk tall!
BABY JOHN: We’re Jets!
ACTION: The greatest!

When you’re a Jet
You’re the top cat in town
You’re the gold-medal kid
With the heavyweight crown!
When you’re a Jet
You’re the swingingest thing
Little boy, you’re a man
Little man, you’re a king

Arthur Laurents (14 juli 1918 – 5 mei 2011)
Scene uit de film “West Side Story” uit 1961


De Amerikaanse schrijver Owen Wister werd geboren op 14 juli 1860 in Germantown, Pennsylvania. Zie ook alle tags voor Owen Wister op dit blog.

Uit: The Virginian

“The old man seemed to vibrate. “Tell you there ain’t been no other! Call me a Mormon,3 would you?”
“Why, that — “
“Call me a Mormon? Then name some of my wives. Name two. Name one. Dare you!”
” — that Laramie wido’ promised you — “
” — only her docter suddenly ordered Southern climate and — “
“Shucks! You’re a false alarm.”
” — so nothing but her lungs came between you. And next you’d most got united with Cattle Kate, only — “
“Tell you you’re a false alarm!”
” — only she got hung.”
“Where’s the wives in all this? Show the wives! Come now!”
“That corn-fed biscuit-shooter4 at Rawlins yu’ gave the canary — “
“Never married her. Never did marry — “
“But yu’ come so near, uncle! She was the one left yu’ that letter explaining how she’d got married to a young cyard-player the very day before her ceremony with you was due, and — “
“Oh, you’re nothing; you’re a kid; you don’t amount to — “
” — and how she’d never, never forget to feed the canary.”
“This country’s getting full of kids,” stated the old man, witheringly. “It’s doomed.” This crushing assertion plainly satisfied him. And he blinked his eyes with renewed anticipation. His tall tormentor continued with a face of unchanging gravity, and a voice of gentle solicitude: — “

Owen Wister (14 juli 1860 – 21 juli 1938)

De Franse schrijfster van Belgische origine Béatrix Beck werd geboren in Villars-sur-Ollon op 14 juli 1914. Zie ook alle tags voor Béatrix Beck op dit blog.

Uit: L’Enfant chat

“J’ai beau pédaler lentement, ma passagère est terrifiée, malgré les sangles qui la maintiennent sur son siège. En tournant la tête je vois ses griffes enfoncées dans la tête de son koala, sa gueule hagarde sous le bonnet-chat azur confectionné au crochet par Wendy qui regrettait de devoir faire, “à cause des oreilles”, un ouvrage démodé. Cette presque adolescente, peut-être nubile déjà, porte sans amertume des nippes, à condition qu’elles soient au goût du jour. Ne pas se laisser distancer par les temps qui courent. Etre dans le vent, d’où qu’il souffle.
Quand j’arrête devant l’école, S grince : “Conne !”, ce qui est un comble.
Je feins de n’avoir rien entendu.”

Béatrix Beck (14 juli 1914 – 30 november 2008)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Willard Frances Motley werd geboren op 14 juli 1909 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Willard Motley op dit blog.

Uit: Knock On Any Door

“On Halsted Street, Nick heard a loud and continuous honking of automobile horns. He turned and saw a wedding procession. Streamers of colored tissue paper were wrapped around the cars. On the backs of the car were big, unevenly lettered signs:


The cars stopped before a photographer’s shop. The wedding party went across the sidewalk in front of Nick. The bride wasn’t young; she was fat and wore a lacy white veil that trailed to widened-out hips. The bridesmaids wore pink and blue and green dresses made out of stuff that looked like curtains. The men were in tuxedos with flowers in the buttonholes and the women held their arms. Nick walked past them. He looked back at the dresses that swept against the dirty sidewalks, the hands holding them up a little and the men dressed like a dead man he had seen once.

Nick walked on, looking at everything. There were Italian stores crowded together, with spaghetti, olives, tomato puree for sale. He saw baskets with live snails in them: 10 cents a pound. Nick, think of people eating them, spat on the sidewalk. At the corner of 12th Street, taxi drivers stood in groups, smoking and talking. The streets were crowded with people. All kinds of people. Negroes in flashy clothes-high-waisted pants, wide-brimmed hats, loud shirts. Women dragging kids by the hand. Young Mexican fellows with black hair and blue sportshirts worn outside their pants and open at the neck. Kids, lots of kids. “

Willard Motley (14 juli 1909 – 15 maart 1965)