Dave Eggers, Jack Kerouac, Naomi Shihab Nye, Carl Hiaasen

De Amerikaanse schrijver Dave Eggers werd geboren op 12 maart 1970 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Dave Eggers op dit blog.


Uit: You Shall Know Our Velocity!

“When?” said Hand.

“A week from now,” I said.

“The seventeenth?”


“This seventeenth.”


“Can you get the week off?”

“I don’t know,” Hand asked. “Can I ask a dumb question?”


“Why not this summer?”


“Or next fall?”

“Come on.”


“I’ll pay for it if we go now,” I said. I knew Hand would say yes because for fivemonths we hadn’t said no. There had been some difficult requests but we hadn’t said no.

“And you owe me,” I added.

“What? For — Oh Jesus. Fine.”

“Good.””For how long again?” he asked.

“How long can you get off?” I asked.”

Probably a week.” I knew he would do it. Hand would have quit his job if theyrefused the time off. He had a decent arrangement now, as a security supervisor on acasino on the river under the Arch, but for a while, in high school, he’d been the NumberTwo-ranked swimmer in all of Wisconsin, and he expected that kind of glory goingforward. He’d never focused again like he’d focused then, and now he was a dabbler, withsome experience as a recording engineer, some in car alarms, some in weather futures(true, long story), some as a carpenter — we’d actually worked on one summer gigtogether, a porch on an enormous place — a gingerbread-looking place on Lake Geneva –but he left any job where he wasn’t learning or when his dignity was anywherecompromised.”


Dave Eggers (Chicago, 12 maart 1970)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Jack Kerouac werd geboren op 12 maart 1922 in Lowell, in de Amerikaanse staat Massachusetts. Zie ook alle tags voor Jack Karouac op dit blog.


Uit: On The Road

„Finally a car stopped at the empty filling station; the man and the two women in it wanted to study a map. I stepped right up and gestured in the rain; they consulted; I looked like a maniac, of course, with my hair all wet, my shoes sopping. My shoes, damn fool that I am, were Mexican huaraches, plantlike sieves not fit for the rainy night of America and the raw road night. But the people let me in and rode me north to Newburgh, which I accepted as a better alternative than being trapped in the Bear Mountain wilderness all night. “Besides,” said the man, “there’s no traffic passes through 6. If you want to go to Chicago you’d do better going across the Holland Tunnel in New York and head for Pittsburgh,” and I knew he was right. It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.

In Newburgh it had stopped raining. I walked down to the river, and I had to ride back to New York in a bus with a delegation of schoolteachers coming back from a weekend in the mountains-chatter-chatter blah-blah, and me swearing for all the time and the money I’d wasted, and telling myself, I wanted to go west and here I’ve been all day and into the night going up and down, north and south, like something that can’t get started. And I swore I’d be in Chicago tomorrow, and made sure of that, taking a bus to Chicago, spending most of my money, and didn’t give a damn, just as long as I’d be in Chicago tomorrow.

It was an ordinary bus trip with crying babies and hot sun, and countryfolk getting on at one Penn town after another, till we got on the plain of Ohio and really rolled, up by Ashtabula and straight across Indiana in the night. I arrived in Chi quite early in the morning, got a room in the Y, and went to bed with a very few dollars in my pocket. I dug Chicago after a good day’s sleep.“


Jack Kerouac (12 maart 1922 – 21 oktober 1969)

Jack Kerouac en Neal Cassidy


De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Naomi Shihab Nye werd geboren op 12 maart 1952 in St. Louis, Missouri. Zie ook alle tags voor Naomi Shihab Nye op dit blog.

Boy and Egg

Every few minutes, he wants

to march the trail of flattened rye grass

back to the house of muttering

hens. He too could make

a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh

it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it

to his ear while the other children

laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him,

so little yet, too forgetful in games,

ready to cry if the ball brushed him,

riveted to the secret of birds

caught up inside his fist,

not ready to give it over

to the refrigerator

or the rest of the day.


The phone rang in the middle of the Fairbanks night and was always a

wrong number for the Klondike Lounge. Not here, I’d say sleepily. Different

place. We’re a bunch of people rolled up in quilts. Then I’d lie awake

wondering, But how is it over there at the Klondike? The stocky building

nestled between parking lots a few blocks from our apartment like some

Yukon explorer’s good dream of smoky windows and chow. Surely the

comforting click of pool balls, the scent of old grease, flannel, and steam.

Back home in Texas we got wrong numbers for the local cable TV

company. People were convinced I was a secretary who didn’t want to

talk to them. They’d call four times in a row. Sir, I eventually told a

determined gentleman, We’ve been monitoring your viewing and are sorry to

report you watch entirely too much television. You are currently ineligible for

cable services. Try reading a book or something. He didn’t call back. For the

Klondike Lounge I finally mumbled, Come on over, the beer is on us.


Naomi Shihab Nye (St. Louis,12 maart 1952)


De Amerikaanse schrijver, journalist en columnist Carl Hiaasen werd geboren op 12 maart 1953 in Plantation, Florida. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 maart 2011.

Uit:Star Island

„On the fifteenth of March, two hours before sunrise, an emergency medical technician named Jimmy Campo found a sweaty stranger huddled in the back of his ambulance. It was parked in a service alley behind the Stefano Hotel, where Jimmy Campo and his partner had been summoned to treat a twenty-two-year-old white female who had swallowed an unwise mix of vodka, Red Bull, hydrocodone, birdseed and stool softener — in all respects a routine South Beach 911 call, until now.

The stranger in Jimmy Campo’s ambulance had two 35-mm digital cameras hanging from his fleshy neck, and a bulky gear bag balanced on his ample lap. He wore a Dodgers cap and a Bluetooth ear set. His ripe, florid cheeks glistened damply, and his body reeked like a prison laundry bag.

“Get out of my ambulance,” Jimmy Campo said.

“Is she dead?” the man asked excitedly.

“Dude, I’m callin’ the cops if you don’t move it.”

“Who’s with her up there — Colin? Shia?”

The stranger outweighed Jimmy Campo by sixty-five pounds but not an ounce of it was muscle. Jimmy Campo, who’d once been a triathlete, dragged the intruder from the vehicle and deposited him on the sticky pavement beneath a streetlight.

“Chill, for Christ’s sake,” the man said, examining his camera equipment for possible damage. Stray cats tangled and yowled somewhere in the shadows.

Inside the ambulance, Jimmy Campo found what he was looking for: a sealed sterile packet containing a coiled intravenous rig to replace the one that the female overdose victim had ripped from her right arm while she was thrashing on the floor.

The stranger struggled to his feet and said, “I’ll give you a thousand bucks.”


Carl Hiaasen (Plantation, 12 maart 1953)


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 12e maart ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn eerste blog van vandaag.