De Britse schrijver Danny King werd geboren op 5 maart 1969 in Slough, Berkshire. Zie ook alle tags voor Danny King op dit blog.
Uit: The Pornographer Diaries
„Real, no joking naked ladies nudey mag. And it was amazing. Big round boobs and big hairy fannies that were so real I didn’t need to use my imagination any more. Whole glossy pages of pink, bare flesh with just a hint of bird shit and mildew that was suddenly more fascinating and exhilarating than hunting Christmas presents or finding my big sister’s diary. See, just lately I’d been finding women’s bodies fascinating – not girls, not the little girls in my class, I still didn’t care about them, I was talking about women – my friends’ mums or even some of my mum’s friend and I had a recurring fantasy about my form tutor Miss Jenkins keeping me behind after school to sit on my head, but I was still in the process of putting all the pieces together. Nudey mags seemed to hold some interesting clues. I’d heard all about these magazines before of course. Gary Allison had told us that he’d seen one his dad’s stashed away in the shed and it was stacked full of pictures of ladies that had to take all their clothes off and stand in front of the camera while people took pictures of them. Barry had asked if they were covering themselves up with their hands or standing sideways or something and Gary had reassured us all that they were ‘standing facing the camera and you can see everything.’ At this point someone might as well have told me that the universe went on forever for all the ability I had to comprehend this. ‘Everything!’ David Tinnings exclaimed and normally we would’ve told him to fuck off and go and play with his flute but most of us were suddenly far to busy rearranging our trousers at this point. ‘Bring it in,’ Barry urged him. ‘No I can’t, it’s my dad’s, he’d kill me,’ Gary replied. ‘Yeah, Jimmy Hill. Your pants are on fire,’ Neil Barratt responded, then added, ‘He’s lying,’ for those of us who didn’t know what the fuck he was going on about. ‘I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘Then bring it in,’ the whole of the first year waded in.“
Danny King (Slough, 5 maart 1969)
De Canadese (Franstalige) schrijfster Nelly Arcan – pseudoniem van Isabelle Fortier – werd geboren in Lac-Mégantic op 5 maart 1973. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 maart 2011.
Uit: Whore
„Sometimes at night I dream about that elementary school, go back there again and again for my piano exams, and it’s always the same thing, I can’t find my piano and my sheet music is missing a page, I go back there knowing that I haven’t played a note for years and that being there again at my age as if it were no big deal is ridiculous, and something tells me that it would be better to turn back and avoid the humiliation of no longer knowing how to play in front of the Mother Superior, that anyway she couldn’t care less whether I play since it’s no big news that I’ll never be a pianist, that I’ll never do anything but tinkle, and in that little redbrick schoolhouse where every clearing of a throat thundered in the corners, you had to form lines to go from one class to another, with the smallest first and the tallest last, and I had to be the smallest, I don’t know why but that was what we had to do, the smallest took the lead and wasn’t squeezed in between the smaller ones and the taller ones, and when school started and it was time for the sister to set up the marching order for the year, I’d bend my knees under my dress just to be sure, because yes, I was small, but it wasn’t absolutely certain that I was the smallest, I needed to put a little more into it, scrunch down to make sure I got first place, and then I disliked grown-ups, one word from them was enough to make me cry, which explains why I didn’t want to have anything to do with any part of them but their bellies, since bellies can’t speak or ask for anything, especially the sisters’ perfect round balloons that you had the impulse to bounce with your fist. Though today I’m way past this need to be small, for several years I’ve even worn platform shoes to make me taller, not too tall, just enough to look my clients in the face.“
Nelly Arcan (5 maart 1973 –24 september 2009)
De Franse dichter en schrijver Jean Orizet werd geboren in Marseille op 5 maart 1937. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 maart 2011.
Adieu au siècle
Héritier d’un siècle épuisé
Je livre ici quelques images
Qui me pèseront sur le cœur
Pour le millénaire à venir
J’ai vu tout près de Bethléem
De très jeunes Palestiniens
se battre à coups de lance-pierres
contre les fusils des soldats
Sur les trottoirs de Calcutta
J’ai croisé des enfants sans mains
Qui mendient par le seul regard
Ils n’ont ni maison ni parents
Au Cambodge, en Afghanistan
Encore et toujours des enfants
Au pied broyé sur une mine
Laissée par des soldats enfuis
En Afrique ils meurent de faim
En Algérie on les égorge
Partout ils sont martyrisés
Les enfants de notre planète
Dans les bas-quartiers de Rio
Le monde est pour chaque habitant
Peur, saleté, misère et boue
Voir cela est désespérant
Faut-il toujours aller si loin
Chercher d’aussi tristes spectacles ?
À Paris, Bruxelles ou Saint-Ouen
J’assiste à la même débâcle
Je n’aime pas beaucoup l’odeur
Du siècle moisi dont j’hérite
Il sent la mort et la terreur
Il est trop lent ou va trop vite
Enfant des années à venir
Essaye d’être un peu plus sage
Que nous ne l’étions avant toi
Oublie la colère et la rage
Avec tous les ordinateurs
Et leurs écrans bleus de contrôle
Peut-être dénicheras-tu
Des réponses à ces questions-là :
Pourquoi tant de sauvagerie
Dans un monde aussi policé ?
Pourquoi ces misères criantes
Dans un monde aussi équipé ?
Héritier d’un siècle cruel
Je vous lègue, enfants, mes révoltes :
De simples mots sur du papier
Mais ils sont ma seule récolte.
Jean Orizet (Marseille, 5 maart 1937)
De Indiaans-Amerikaanse schrijfster Leslie Marmon Silko werd geboren op 5 maart 1948 in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Zie ook alle tags voor Leslie Marmon Silko op dit blog.
Uit; Ceremony
„The dreams had been terror at loss, at something lost forever; but nothing was lost; all was retained between the sky and the earth, and within himself. He had lost nothing. The snow-covered mountain remained, without regard to titles of ownership or the white ranchers who thought they possessed it. They logged the trees, they killed the deer, bear, and mountain lions, they built their fences high; but the mountain was greater than any or all of these things. The mountain outdistanced their destruction, just as love had outdistanced death. The mountain could not be lost to them, because it was in their bones; Josiah and Rocky were not far away. They were close; they had always been close. And he loved them then as he had always loved them, the feeling pulsing over him as strong as it had ever been. . . . The damage that had been done had never reached this feeling. This feeling was their life, vitality locked deep in blood memory, and the people were strong, and the fifth world endured, and nothing was ever lost as long as the love remained.“
Leslie Marmon Silko (Albuquerque, 5 maart 1948)