De Amerikaanse schrijver Cormac McCarthy werd geboren op 20 juli 1933 in Providence, Rhode Island. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2007en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2008 en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010
Uit: Cities of The Plain
„Late that night lying in his bunk in the dark he heard the kitchen door close and heard the screendoor close after it. He lay there. Then he sat and swung his feet to the floor and got his boots and his jeans and pulled them on and put on his hat and walked out. The moon was almost full and it was cold and late and no smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. Mr Johnson was sitting on the back stoop in his duckingcoat smoking a cigarette. He looked up at John Grady and nodded. John Grady sat on the stoop beside him. What are you doin’ out here without your hat? he said.
I don’t know.
You all right?
Yeah. I’m all right. Sometimes you miss bein’ outside at night. You want a cigarette?
No thanks.
Could you not sleep either?
No sir. I guess not.
How’s them new horses?
I think he done all right.
Them was some boogerish colts I seen penned up in the corral.
I think he’s goin’ to sell off some of them.
Horsetradin’, the old man said. He shook his head. He smoked.
Did you used to break horses, Mr Johnson?
Some. Mostly just what was required. I was never a twister in any sense of the word. I got hurt once pretty bad. You can get spooked and not know it. Just little things. You don’t hardly even know it.
But you like to ride.
I do. Margaret could outride me two to one though. As good a woman with a horse as I ever saw. Way better’n me. Hard thing for a man to admit but it’s the truth.
You worked for the Matadors didn’t you?
Yep. I did.
How was that?
Hard work. That’s how it was.
I guess that ain’t changed.
Oh it probably has. Some. I was never in love with the cattle business. It’s just the only one I ever knew.
He smoked.“
De Tsjechische schrijver Pavel Kohout werd geboren op 20 juli 1928 in Praag in wat toen nog Tsjecho-Slowakije werd genoemd. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2008en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010
Uit: The Widow Killer (Vertaald door Neil Bernel)
„When the doorbell rang just after the siren, Elisabeth, baroness of Pomerania, was sure the caretaker had come to escort her down to the shelter; she donned the black fur coat she had just hung up, picked up her small emergency suitcase, unhooked the door chain, and realized that she had just let her murderer in.
Earlier, at the Vyšehrad cemetery, she had noticed a man with a bulging bag over his shoulder; it was common these days to see Czechs decorating the graves of their patron saints. His appearance reminded her of a repairman, and she could barely see him because his face was obscured by the sun. Now she saw eyes of glass: no color or expression. He calmly wedged a scuffed shoe into the crack; a lanky body bundled in a cotton jacket followed it through the door. And there, finally, she saw the long and strangely slim blade. A poultry knife! she thought.
The baroness knew she was going to die, but she did nothing to prevent it. She was the only occupant left on the top floor, and the roar of airplane motors would have drowned out her screams. Besides, she had no desire to live.
For a Catholic, suicide was unthinkable; divine punishment was the best she could hope for. This unjust war would only end when those who began it were destroyed. A Russian partisan had shot her husband; a Maquis had killed her son in Brittany. It seemed logical that now a man from the Czech Resistance had come for her.
The patrician house began to shake as the eerie ringing grew more and more insistent. With each approaching explosion the windowpanes, the chandelier crystals, and the goblets in the sideboard shuddered wildly.
Merciful God, Elisabeth of Pomerania prayed to herself, retreating into the salon as if he were her guest; a bomb, a knife—who cares, as long as it’s quick!
Her killer’s foot slammed the door shut behind him, while his free hand opened a satchel of straps.“
De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Elfriede Kern werd geboren op 20 juli 1950 in Bruck an der Mur. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2009 en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010
Uit: Tabula Rasa
„So ist eins zum anderen gekommen. Nach einiger Zeit st die jüngere Schwester weggegangen und ich habe das gutgeheißen. Sie hat loß ihre Haut retten wollen. Ich selbst habe alle Kontakte abgebrochen. Wie geht s Ihnen, haben die Leute gefragt, danke gut, hab ich gesagt und mich alsbald zum Gehen gewandt. Meine Tage und Nächte verlaufen jetzt vollkommen gleichförmig. Seit geraumer Zeit habe ich die Gewohnheit angenommen, nachts herumzustreifen und eines Tages ist mir der Hund zugelaufen. Da sind die Dinge in Gang gekommen. Es hat mir gefallen, daß ich einen Gefährten für meine nächtlichen Spaziergänge gehabt habe. Meine Gewohnheit, nachts herumzustreifen hat mit dem Hund weniger befremdlich gewirkt. Hunde brauchen Auslauf, das versteht jeder. Manchmal sind wir in den Stadtwald gegangen, manchmal haben wir den Fluß überquert und den Weg zur Grotte genommen.
Der Weg hat uns am Knabeninternat vorbeigeführt und ich habe jedesmal den Kopf gedreht und die Gesichter hinter den Fensterscheiben betrachtet. In diesem Haus drücken sich die Kinder nachts ihre Gesichter an den Scheibe platt, das hat mir zu denken gegeben. Hat man das Knabeninternat passiert, erreicht man einen Soldatenfriedhof, wo Tag und Nacht Lichter brennen. In der Folge stößt man auf eine steile Wiese und da, wo die Wiese an den allerdichtesten Wald grenzt, befindet sich eine Grotte mit einer lebensgroßen Heiligenfigur. Orte wie diesen gibt es nicht viele in unserer Stadt. Ich suche ihn regelmäßig auf und dort ist mir auch der Hund zugelaufen. Eines Tages hat es im Gebüsch geraschelt und ich habe erschreckt den Kopf gedreht. Anfangs habe ich nur einen schwarzen Schatten ausmachen können und weglaufen wollen. Ich habe auf meinen nächtlichen Streifzügen schon mehrere unangenehme Begegnungen gehabt und bin daher stets auf der Hut. Ich habe mich an den Rand der Grotte zurückgezogen und mich gänzlich still verhalten.“
De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas Louis Berger werd geboren op 20 juli 1924 in Cincinnati, Ohio. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2009en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010
Uit: Best Friends
” As of September 2000, his best friend’s ways with women were still a wonder to Sam Grandy, not because there could be any question of Roy Courtright’s physical or personal charms, but rather because Sam’s own temperament was such that he could not have pretended, let alone sustained, an intimate interest in more than one woman at a time.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with whether they believed me or not. I just can’t handle distractions in emotional matters. Do you tell ‘em all the same things Or if things are different in each case, how do you remember who’s who or what’s what ”
“I don’t have any trouble distinguishing one woman from the next,” Roy assured him. “Think of your male friends: Do you forget their names, where they live, what their tastes and opinions are ”
“You’re not telling me there’s no difference You don’t change men friends once a month. You don’t take them out, flatter them on their looks and clothes — ”
“Or go to bed with them,” said Roy.
“You know what I mean.”
“You can’t get away from the idea that it’s a sport for me to pursue females. Lust, not genuine emotion. If I go to bed with her, it’s a conquest by your theory, another scalp on the belt.” Roy quaffed some beer from a stein, a vessel he disliked using because of the lid that had to be thumb-blocked from falling against your cheek. “I just don’t think that way. I’ve never raped anyone, and I’m not attracted to the underaged. I assume everybody else is an adult in full possession of her faculties.”
“Since when,” asked Sam, “is lust not a genuine emotion ”
Roy sloshed the remaining beer in the stein, on the ceramic exterior of which appeared a pair of elks in glossy high relief. “Furthermore, I don’t have carnal knowledge of every woman I eat dinner with, or want to, for that matter.”
“Want to have dinner with, or want to boff.“
De Engelse dichter Thomas Lovell Beddoes werd geboren op 20 juli 1803 in Clifton. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 juni 2007 en ook mijn blog van 30 juni 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 juni 2009en ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010
Song from the Ship
To sea, to sea! The calm is o’er;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen Mermaids’ pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea, to sea! the calm is o’er.
To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons’ azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O’er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea!
The Royal Promenade and Triangle, Clifton
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2010.
De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Lotte Ingrisch (geb. Charlotte Gruber) werd geboren op 20 juli 1930 in Wenen. Zie ook mijn blog van 20 juli 2007.