De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.
Uit: Little Dorrit
“Thirty years ago, Marseilles lay burning in the sun, one day.
A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France then, than at any other time, before or since. Every thing in Marseilles, and about Marseilles, had stared at the fervid sky, and been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white walls, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their load of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.
There was no wind to make a ripple on the foul water within the harbor, or on the beautiful sea without. The line of demarcation between the two colors, black and blue, showed the point which the pure sea would not pass; but it lay as quiet as the abominable pool, with which it never mixed. Boats without awnings were too hot to touch; ships blistered at their moorings; the stones of the quays had not cooled, night or day, for months. Hindoos, Russians, Chinese, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Genoese, Neapolitans, Venetians, Greeks, Turks, descendants from all the builders of Babel, come to trade at Marseilles, sought the shade alike—taking refuge in any hiding-place from a sea too intensely blue to be looked at, and a sky of purple, set with one great flaming jewel of fire.
The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant line of Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist, slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea; but it softened nowhere else. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hillside, stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, drooped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted laborers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew, was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and the cicala, chirping his dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.”
De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en vertaalster Lioba Happel werd geboren op 7 februari 1957 in Aschaffenburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Lioba Happel op dit blog.
L’art pour l’art mijn lieve herfst
wie door je heen loopt
gooit geen stenen meer
in de tuin van de buren in de lucht
De herfst is overal, zelfs in maart
In de zomer overwintert hij
hier! achter wilgen klimmen de
eeuwen met catastrofes
geciseleerde klimop mene tekels en
wie rond het landhuis gaan
uit Syrië uit Eritrea
met rammelende kastanjes in hun handen wie
geen huis meer hebben bidden god
die groot is stel de velden aan de winden
bloot en niemand is in de herfst alleen
L’art pour l’art mijn lieve herfst
wie door je heen loopt gooit geen steen
Vertaald door Frans Roumen
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e februari ook mijn blog van 7 februari 2019 en eveneens mijn blog van 7 februari 2016 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.