Charles Dickens, Christine Angot, Peter Carey, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Gay Talese

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.


Uit: Bleak House

Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral determination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest corner, the ground floor room of which we nearly filled. Besides ourselves, there were in this damp offensive room a woman with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, stained with clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man, fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl, doing some kind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face toward the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome. . . .

“Well, my friends,” said Mrs. Pardiggle; but her voice had not a friendly sound, I thought; it was much too business-like and systematic. “How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you, you couldn’t tire of me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to my word.”

“There ain’t,” growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his hand as he stared at us, “any more of you to come in, is there?”


Patrick Kennedy als Richard en Carey Mulligan als Ada in de BBC-serie “Bleak House”, 2005.


“No, my friend,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool and knocking down another. “We are all here.”

“Because I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?” said the man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.

“You can’t tire me, good people,” said Mrs. Pardiggle to these latter. “I enjoy hard work, and harder you make mine, the better I like it.”

“Then make it easy for her!” growled the man upon the floor. “I wants it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my place. I wants a end of being frawed like a badger. Now you’re a-going to pollpry and question according to custom I know what you’re a-going to be up to.”


Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)


De Franse schrijfster Christine Angot werd geboren op 7 februari 1959 in Châteauroux. Zie ook alle tags voor Christine Angot op dit blog.


Uit: Les Petits

“La première fois que Billy a vu Hélène, c’était dans le couloir d’un hôtel. Ça sentait l’herbe dans sa chambre, il voit quelqu’un qui regarde, il lui demande si elle est flic. Elle répond non, qu’elle a senti l’herbe, qu’elle fume aussi, et qu’elle est à l’hôtel avec sa fille.

Il est de passage à Paris avec un groupe de reggae pour y faire des concerts. Elle aussi, elle part dans quelques jours à Dubaï pour l’ouverture d’une boutique, elle rentre d’Australie, où elle vivait avec son mari. Ils sont séparés, mais elle travaille avec lui et il ouvre une boutique à Dubaï. Il fait des bijoux pour Nicole Kidman ou Lenny Kravitz. Il fait partie d’un truc Krishna. Il a été condamné pour des histoires de crimes sexuels, et il y a eu un problème avec leur fille, Mary, qui a deux ans. C’est ça qui justifie son départ d’Australie.

Il y a des procès en cours. Elle a le dossier du fichage avec une photo. Il a un style à la Bruce Springsteen, blanc, cheveux gris, cinquante-soixante ans. Elle a environ trente ans. Son divorce n’est pas officialisé. Elle a juste un papier australien, qui stipule la garde de sa fille et une pension de trois mille dollars mensuels. Elle ne s’entend pas avec sa famille, c’est pour ça qu’elle est à l’hôtel.”


Christine Angot (Châteauroux, 7 februari 1959)


De Australische schrijver Peter Carey werd geboren op 7 februari 1943 in Bacchus Marsh (Victoria). Zie ook alle tags voor Peter Carey dit blog.


Uit: Parrot and Olivier in America

„My childhood was neither blessed nor tainted by the celerifere, and I would not have mentioned it at all, except—here it is before us now.
Typically, the Austrian draftsman fails to suggest the three dimensions.
Could there be a vehicle more appropriate for the task I have so recklessly set myself, one that you, by-the-by, have supported by taking this volume in your hands? That is, you have agreed to be transported to my childhood where it will be proven, or if not proven then strongly suggested, that the very shape of my head, my particular phrenology, the volume of my lungs, was determined by unknown pressures brought to bear in the years before my birth.
So let us believe that a grotesque and antique bicycle has been made available to us, its wooden frame in the form of a horse, and of course if we are to approach my home this way, we must be prepared to push my uncle’s hobby across fallen branches, through the spinneys. It is almost useless in the rough ground of the woods, where I and the Abbe de La Londe, my beloved Bebe, shot so many hundreds of larks and sparrows that I bruised my little shoulder blue.
“Careful Olivier dear, do be careful.”
We can ignore nose bleeding for the time being, although to be realistic the blood can be anticipated soon enough—spectacular spurts, splendid gushes—my body being always too thin-walled a container for the passions coursing through its veins, but as we are making up our adventure let us assume there is no blood, no compresses, no leeches, no wild gallops to drag the doctor from his breakfast.”


Peter Carey (Bacchus Marsh, 7 februari 1943)


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Emma Lanier McLaughlin werd geboren op 7 februari 1974 in Elmira, New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Emma McLaughlin op dit blog.


Uit: Over You (samen met Nicola Kraus)

“Hi! Mrs. Stetson? I’m Max. I’m here to see Bridget.”

“The tutor?”

“Yes! The tutor, yes.” Max embraces the cover. Unsure what the mothers have been told, upon arrival she always follows their lead. Mrs. Stetson flips the towel over her shoulder. “Her friend Shannon just called to let me know you were coming, which was strange. Do you tutor many of the kids at Stuyvesant?”

“I tutor all over the city, actually. I work by referral, so, yeah.”

“Can you see if you can get Bridge to come down for some food? I really think she should eat something. She skipped dinner. She’s been locked in her room since I got home. Probably on the phone with her boyfriend.”

Bridget’s mother holds the door open, and Max steps into the front hall, where a day’s worth of the family’s bags and shoes have been discarded.

“I brought some snacks.” Max points to her bag. Bridget’s mother looks at it, the imposing red leather, the iconic H clasp, and then to Max, her impeccable knockoff and professional attire working to their opposite desired effect. There is a beat of distrust as the two walk to the staircase leading to the second floor.”


Emma McLaughlin (Elmira, 7 februari 1974)


De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver A. den Doolaard werd geboren op 7 febrauri 1901 in Hoenderloo. Zie ook alle tags voor A. den Doolaard op dit blog.


Uit: Oriënt-Express

„Nog nooit was het koren zoo snel gesikkeld als dien zomer in Macedonië.

Elken dag maakte de zon zijn zengenden tocht over het gebarsten landschap, van de Belasjitsabergen in het oosten, over de ondraaglijk glinsterende Vardar naar den witten Korab aan de Westgrens; en nimmer ontmoette hij wolken die het langer uithielden als wasem waar de wind in blaast. En toch sikkelden de boeren bij Veles, Bitolj en Kroutchevo als verwachtten zij van dag tot dag, van uur tot uur een onweer dat garven en golvende aren met één slag vernietigen zou. Ook werd er dit jaar geoogst zonder gezang en de maaiers zegden maar weinig zoolang de bindsters achter hen liepen. Het was of rond alle monden de angst hing dat zij zich zouden verspreken, en er werd gewerkt als nooit te voren.

Het snelst van allemaal misschien oogstten de drie broers Drangov in het dorp Radovo bij Gostivar: Damian, Kosta en Kroum. En sinds Damian verdwenen was werkten de twee voor drie. Eergisteren waren de bachi-bozouks, de Turksche veldwachters naar Damian komen vragen; maar Kosta en Kroum deden of ze te suf en te moe waren om te antwoorden en ook de stompen van de geweerkolven namen ze zwijgend in ontvangst. De veldwachters wilden ook Milja ondervragen, Damian’s vrouw, doch toen ze zagen dat ze zwaar zwanger was, gingen ze zwijgend weg: niet uit menschelijkheid, maar wegens het gebod van den Profeet.

Kosta en Kroum sloegen hun witte sikkels in de rogge, die ruischend aan hun voeten neerviel. De zon stond heet in hun nek en de stoppels staken treiterend door het leer van hun opanken. De hitte pijnigde hen van hoofd tot voeten, en daarom sloegen ze nijdig op de rogge los. Achter hen liepen de drie garvenbindsters: Stans, Mentcha en Marouchka. Drie witte hoofddoeken, drie paar roode kousen, drie roodgele schorten, zes snelle handen vol kussentjes van eelt, en breede roode vingers met eelt in de buiging der kootjes.“


A. den Doolaard (7 februari 1901 – 26 juni 1994)


De Amerikaanse schrijver en journalist Gay Talese werd geboren op 7 februari 1932 in Ocean City. Zie ook alle tags voor Gay Talese op dit blog.


Uit: Frank Sinatra Has a Cold

“He is the champ who made the big comeback, the man who had everything, lost it, then got it back, letting nothing stand in his way, doing what few men can do: he uprooted his life, left his family, broke with everything that was familiar, learning in the process that one way to hold a woman is not to hold her. Now he has the affection of Nancy and Ava and Mia, the fine female produce of three generations, and still has the adoration of his children, the freedom of a bachelor, he does not feel old, he makes old men feel young, makes them think that if Frank Sinatra can do it, it can be done; not that they could do it, but it is still nice for other men to know, at fifty, that it can be done.

But now, standing at this bar in Beverly Hills, Sinatra had a cold, and he continued to drink quietly and he seemed miles away in his private world, not even reacting when suddenly the stereo in the other room switched to a Sinatra song, “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.”

It is a lovely ballad that he first recorded ten years ago, and it now inspired many young couples who had been sitting, tired of twisting, to get up and move slowly around the dance floor, holding one another very close. Sinatra’s intonation, precisely clipped, yet full and flowing, gave a deeper meaning to the simple lyrics — “In the wee small hours of the morning/while the whole wide world is fast asleep/you lie awake, and think about the girl….” — it was like so many of his classics, a song that evoked loneliness and sensuality, and when blended with the dim light and the alcohol and nicotine and late-night needs, it became a kind of airy aphrodisiac.”


Gay Talese (Ocean City, 7 februari 1932)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e februari ook mijn blog van 7 februari 2011 deel 1 en deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.