De Duitse dichter, componist en musicus Bodenski (eig. Michael Boden) werd geboren op 6 november 1965 in Potsdam. Zie ook alle tags voor Bodenski op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2010‘.
Traum Vom Tod
Ich hab heut Nacht vom Tod geträumt
Er stand auf allen Wegen
Er winkte und er rief nach mir so laut
Er sprach mein Leben sei verwirkt
Ich sollt mich zu ihm legen
Ein frühes Grab sei längst für mich gebaut
Ich floh soweit das Land mich trug
Soweit die Vögel fliegen
Doch mir zur Seite spürte ich den Tod
Sein Schatten folgte meiner Spur
Ich sah ihn bei mir liegen
Und seine Hände waren blutig rot
Da wußte ich es weht der Wind
Und Regen fällt hernieder
Auch wenn schon längst kein Hahn mehr nach mir kräht
Weil ich schon längst vergessen bin
Singt man mir keine Lieder
Nur Unkraut grünt und blüht auf jedem Feld
Ich hab heut Nacht vom Tod geträumt
Es gibt kein ewig Leben
Für Mensch und Tier und Halm und Strauch und Baum
… das war mein Trau
Bodenski (Potsdam, 6 november 1965)
De Nederlandse schrijver, dichter en predikant Johannes Petrus Hasebroek werd geboren in Leiden op 6 november 1812. Zie ook alle tags voor Johannes Petrus Hasebroek op dit blog.
Uit: Waarheid en droomen (De stamboom)
“In onze dagen van gelijkheid, nu alle hoeden uit hetzelfde stuk vilt worden gesneden, is het nog iets, dat den boezem doet zwellen, de glanzende helmkap aan te zien, die op den naam, dien gij voert als een kroon van eere drukte! In onze dagen van industrieelen wedstrijd en commercieele worsteling, is het nog iets schoons, bij het openvallen van de bloedige bladen onzer oude historie, op een blinkend blad te kunnen wijzen en zeggen: Deze was mijn grootvader! – En waarom het niet erkend, dat zulke herinneringen meer dan een poëtische speling, dat zij in onze eeuw van nuttigheid, ook nog nuttig kunnen zijn om in hem, in hem, bij wien ze opkomen, adellijke gevoelens op te wekken? Of gelooft gij niet, dat de eikenkrans, die den naam der Dedels en Fagels onzer dagen omringt, te fleuriger blinkt, omdat hij gewassen is aan een edelen stam, die honderden jaren telt?
Zoo zij het dan verre van mij, als een onzinnige Jacobijn, op de teekenen van verjaarde grootheid te spuwen, en over alle gekroonde helmen de roode muts te willen trekken. Mijn liefde voor antiquiteiten moet u het tegendeel gewaarborgd hebben. Maar dit gaat echter niet zoo ver, dat ik mij mijns deftigen burgelijken geslachts schamen, of daaraan ergeren zou; dat ik de asch mijner vaderen in het graf nog zou willen beschimpen, omdat zij niet in een familiekelder rust; en dat ik op hun zark niet zou willen neêrknielen, omdat er niet dan hun eenvoudige naam op straat uitgebeiteld.
Ik moet mijzelven beter recht doen; ik ben op mijn geslacht zoo trotsch, dat ik het niet met het geslacht van eenigen Baroen op de wereld zou willen ruilen: want mijn stamboom is van de edelste, die men zien kan!”
Johannes Petrus Hasebroek (6 november 1812 – 29 maart 1896)
Portret door Louis Chantal, 1847
De Amerikaanse schrijver James Jones werd geboren op 6 november 1921 in Robinson, Illinois. Zie ook alle tags voor James Jones op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2009 en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2010
Uit:From Here to Eternity
“Thats a lie.” Tommy was sitting pushed way back in the chair. “I am evil, and I know it. You dont have to make it easy for me. You don’t have to protect me.”
“Hell, buddy, I wouldnt make it easy for you. You dont mean nothing to me.”
“I know I’m evil,” Tommy said. “I know I’m evil.”
“Who made you believe that?” Prew said. “Who taught you that? Your mother?”
“No,” Tommy said. “No, no, no. My mother was a saint You dont understand. My mother was a saint.”
“Shut up, Tommy,” Hal said narrowly.
Prew swung on him. “If you guys like being queer, why dont you be queer with each other? Instead of all a time trying to cut each other’s throat? If you believed that crap about true love you been putting out, why do you get your feelings hurt so easy? Somebody’s always hurtin your feelings. Why do you always pick up somebody who aint queer? Because if you’re with another queer, you dont feel evil enough, thats why.”
“Stop!” Hal said. “This quivering hulk of jelly can say whatever he wants to say. But I am none of these things. I stand as a rebel against society. I hate its falseness and I’ll never knuckle down to it. It takes courage to stand by what you believe.”
Burt Lancaster en Deborah Kerr in de film uit 1953
“I dont like it very much myself,” Prew grinned. He could feel the warmness and the fumes, rising in his head, the urge, urge, urge, the smash, smash, smash, six o’clock, six o’clock, six o’clock. “Its never done much for me, society. What has it given me? It aint done near as much for me as it has done for you. Look at this place, look at it.
“But I dont hate it like you hate it. You hate it because you hate yourself. You aint rebelling against society, you’re rebelling against yourself. You aint rebelling against anything, you’re just rebelling.”
He stabbed at the tall man with his finger.”
James Jones (6 november 1921 – 9 mei 1977)
De Georgische diichter en schrijver Galaktion Tabidze werd geboren op 6 november 1891 in Chqvishi, in de buurt van Vani. Zie ook alle tags voor Galaktion Tabidze en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2010.
Last Train
Like the chariot of time, this car
cannot be stopped, it will soon leave.
And hope, like Fortune’s fickle star
is fading far and fast from me.
I know this voyage’s real name.
Why even bother, now, to grieve?
When have I received from a train
either solace, or sympathy?
The train—like lava—rumbles, dozing.
Conductors call out: All aboard, please!
You must depart, sir, doors are closing.
Conductors call out: All aboard, please!
Ah. Now iron starts to move.
Choked with tears, I’m chasing after,
calling last words to my love:
the last we will speak to each other.
Lord, why curse me with such fortune,
Each time losing hope anew?
For the art of valediction,
Will no one but a poet truly do?
Uncertainty
There is inside your heart
a bitter, brutal death,
a place of deep upset
where the lyre cannot breathe.
Once a boiling fire,
now your blood is frozen.
And your eye has no tear,
your heart — no compassion.
And when asked: “What occured,
what does your heart yearn for?”
He raises his arms skyward
yet gives to men no answer.
Vertaald door Christopher Michel
Galaktion Tabidze (6 november 1891 – 17 maart 1959)
Cover
De Noorse schrijver Jonas Laurits Idemil Lie werd geboren op 6 november 1833 in Eiker bij Drammen. Zie ook alle tags voor Jonas Lie op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2010.
Uit: One of Life’s Slaves (Vertaald door J. Muir)
“For a nurse is an esteemed person. Indeed, she is on the expectancy list to become respected.
After having nursed her mistress’s child, and been a correspondingly unnatural mother to her own, she ends by sleeping on down, and being considered in every way, until a new nurse for a new heir deposes her from her dynasty.
Should she prefer to give her own little baby the only treasure she possesses, her healthy breast, should she really be so blind to her own interests, why then the case is different, and (to use Dr. Schneibel’s words) not altogether unmerited, only a result of the social economy to which she does not know how to be intelligently subordinate, and which will reduce her, with the inexorable logic of the laws of civilisation, to a useless superfluity, which Society’s organism rejects. Or, vulgarly speaking, she is left with shame, contempt and poverty resting upon both her and her illegitimate offspring. As a private individual, she is in a sense right; but socially, as a member of society—-!
At first poor Barbara was quite blind on this point, utterly obstinate, rigid as a mountain pony that could not be got to stir. Dr. Schneibel was standing for the third time at the tinsmith’s, with his stick under his nose, while his gig waited down in the road. Each time he had added to both wages and arguments, and had again and again pointed out how bad it would be both for her and her boy if she continued so obstinate. He appealed to her own good sense. How could she expect to bring him up in such poor, narrow circumstances, and with allm this toiling and moiling? She would only need to give up a part of her large wages to the tinsmith, and they would look well after the boy.
Besides she could often come out and see him, at least once a month!—he could promise her that on the Veyergangs’ behalf, and it was very kind of them now they lived such a long way out of town.
Dr. Schneibel talked both kindly and severely, both good-naturedly and sharply: he was almost like a father.”
Jonas Lie (6 november 1833 – 5 juli 1908)
Met zijn echtgenote Thomasine, 1903
De Deense schrijver Johannes Jörgensen werd geboren in Svendborg op 6 november 1866 geboren. Zie ook alle tags voorJohannes Jørgensen op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 6 november 2010.
Uit: St. Francis and His Brethren (Vertaald doorT. O’Conor Sloane)
“My dearest brother, let us for God’s sake give your cloak to this poor woman!”
And Brother Giles at once took off his beautiful cloak and gave it to the woman, and it seemed to him — thus he told it afterwards — that this alms seemed to ascend to heaven. But he himself felt in his heart an inexpressible joy.
There were now four living together in the hut at Portiuncula. In this first year they had little need for a house and home, for they spent most of their time in missionary trips.
What Francis had up to this time done alone, the four did together or in couples. Thus Francis associated himself with Giles, whom he had quickly learned to love, and whom, with an expression borrowed from his reading of romance, he called his ” Knight of the Round Table,” and with him started on a trip through the near environs — to the Mark of Ancona, the region between the Apennines and the Adriatic Sea. On his return, Francis had the happiness to receive three new disciples, Sabbatino, Morico, and John — the last named acquired the title of Capella, “of the hat,” because he was the first to wear a hat in violation of the rule of the order. All seven started out again, and Francis now chose Rieti in the Sabine Mountains as the goal for his mission.
In contrast to the regular ecclesiastical eloquence, Francis and his friends were to the last degree simple in their preaching. His sermons had more of the flavor of exhortations than of elaborated discourses — they were artless words, which came from the heart and went to the heart. His preaching always came back to three points: fear God, love God, convert yourself from bad to good. And when Francis was through, Brother Giles would add: “What he says is true! Listen to him and do as he says!”
Johannes Jørgensen (6 november 1866 – 29 mei 1956)
Sint Franciscus in extase door Caravaggio, 1595