De Nederlandse dichteres Ester Naomi Perquin werd geboren in Utrecht op 16 januari 1980. Zie ook alle tags voor Ester Naomi Perquin op dit blog.
Een troost
Mocht het helpen: we bestaan massaal niet. Kijk naar zomers
die nooit overgaan, roestvrijstalen keukenmessen, daarnaast
bewegen we getalenteerd, feilloos in het niet-bestaan.
Er is geen sprake van, dat valt eenvoudig aan te tonen.
Wij hebben A) geen tijd en B) geen materiaal.
We leven tussen de bepaling van een plaats
en een gedachte.
De duur hiervan is puur geluk. We zijn gemaakt, we
vielen te verwachten. In deze tuin, achter de ramen,
woekert de klimplant, pikken veren driftig
beestjes van een bast, zwelt het fruit.
En wij bestaan niet, kunnen bewijzen niet te bestaan.
De boom, de zee, de roos – elk woord dat past
loopt uit, hervormt zich mettertijd.
Wat groeit, groeit roekeloos.
Wij kennen de plaats noch de gedachte, zijn
het mooiste godsbewijs: in onze ogen
zie je de lengte van dagen,
in onze kamers de afwezigheid.
Meisjes
Zo handig in hun alledaagse praten
rusten zij aan zij, een rij van jonge huid
en zachte haren in die al te hete zon.
Duingras kietelt hun benen en hoog
klinkt de pas bedachte lach die meeuwen
steeds verschrikt doet overkomen.
Van kop tot teen onaangeraakt
liggen zij, met allemaal dezelfde stem
dezelfde moeder te bespreken.
Wat ze zoal zijn telt alle eeuwigheden
in hen op. Dat stil en zonbeschenen delen
van leeftijd, lichaam, zonnebrand.
Maar over het zand lijkt een vreemd,
steeds lager grommen aan te zwellen
en jaagt een rilling door de rij.
Elke seconde komen de jongens
op onverbiddelijke brommers
in grote golven dichterbij.
Legale activiteiten 2
Op de luchtplaats laten lopen en af en toe het geluid
van een geweerschot maken. Oefenen tot je
vlak boven hun hoofden een trage duif
in zijn vlucht kunt raken en ze
die duif laten begraven.
Of er eentje op zijn rug draaien en met viltstift
omtrekken op het matras en laten opstaan
om naar zichzelf te kijken.
Vragen of ze de omtrek niet op iemand
vinden lijken. Vragen wie dat was.
Ester Naomi Perquin (Utrecht, 16 januari 1980)
De Amerikaanse dichter Anthony Hecht werd geboren op 16 januari 1923 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Anthony Hecht op dit blog.
The Feast Of Stephen
III
Think of those barren places where men gather
To act in the terrible name of rectitude,
Of acned shame, punk’s pride, muscle or turf,
The bully’s thin superiority.
Think of the Sturm-Abteilungs Kommandant
Who loves Beethoven and collects Degas,
Or the blond boys in jeans whose narrowed eyes
Are focussed by some hard and smothered lust,
Who lounge in a studied mimicry of ease,
Flick their live butts into the standing weeds,
And comb their hair in the mirror of cracked windows
Of an abandoned warehouse where they keep
In darkened readiness for their occasion
The rope, the chains, handcuffs and gasoline.
IV
Out in the rippled heat of a neighbor’s field,
In the kilowatts of noon, they’ve got one cornered.
The bugs are jumping, and the burly youths
Strip to the waist for the hot work ahead.
They go to arm themselves at the dry-stone wall,
Having flung down their wet and salty garments
At the feet of a young man whose name is Saul.
He watches sharply these superbly tanned
Figures with a swimmer’s chest and shoulders,
A miler’s thighs, with their self-conscious grace,
And in between their sleek, converging bodies,
Brilliantly oiled and burnished by the sun,
He catches a brief glimpse of bloodied hair
And hears an unintelligible prayer.
Anthony Hecht (16 januari 1923 – 20 oktober 2004)
Met echtgenote Helen in 1997
De Duitse schrijver Reinhard Jirgl werd op 16 januari 1953 in Oost-Berlijn geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Reinhard Jirgl op dit blog.
Uit: Oben das Feuer, unten der Berg
„– Wa-bummp – Wa-bummp – Das-Schlagen meines Herzens – Wabummp – Wa-bummp– unaufhörliches Schlagen. Fürchterliches Herz.Wie es sich !wehrt, die Brusthöhle erschütternd mit seinen Hammerschlägengegen das-Aus. Unablässig zuckendes, stampfendes Herz.
Niemandem unterworfen außer dem vom-Gehirn diktierten Willen. !Wie Diekälte aus Nachtstunden ins=Fleisch 1dringt. Zugreift – Wabummp – das Fleisch wehrt sich noch. Wann wird es aufhören sich zu wehren. Sich ergeben. Fleisch an diesem Ort, wo Allesfleischliche verderben muß –Wa-bummp – – Wa-bummp – das-schlagende-Herz ist
Das Problem. Bevor du stirbst, töte dein Herz. Besser, die Menschen wären geboren ohne Herz. Noch besser, kein Mensch wäre jemals geboren. Ich hätte nicht.
Aber du hast mich zur-Welt-gebracht 1956 in dem unscheinbaren Straßendorf Kaltenfeld, 10 Kilometer südlich von hier, und mich verlassen müssen 3 Jahre später. Mutter. Vater. : MAN hat mich, die 3jährige, euch weggenommen. !Spione sollt ihr gewesen sein. Die Spione Irma und Alois Berger wurden der Spionage überführt und zu je 15 Jahren Zuchthaus verurteilt. (So las ich Vielejahre=später diese Druckzeilen über das Gericht’s Urteil auf altem dünngilben Zeitungspapier mit dem penetranten Geruch nach Vergangenheit…..) Lange habe ich damals gebraucht, um !diese=Zeilen mit euch=MutterVater=in-Verbindung zu bringen. : Spione wurden beim Spionieren ertappt & bestraft: die Spinne spinnt ihr Spinnennetz, die Schlange verspritzt ihr Schlangengift – die Tautologie macht aus euch 1 naturhaften Vorgang. Und neben der Meldung euer Schwarzweiß-Foto im Überkontrast so daß ihr Beide aussaht wie von den finstren Pestflecken der Heim=Tücke verseucht. Aber auch diese beiden Fotografien, die 1zigen die ich von euch, den mir Immerfremden, jemals gesehen habe, bekam ich erst in Späterenjahren zu-Gesicht, als Alles zuspät war für euch; u: war mir Die !Großeerleichterung: Denn nun würdet ihr mich nicht mehr wegholen.“
Reinhard Jirgl (Oost-Berlijn, 16 januari 1953)
De Deense dichteres, schrijfster en essayiste Inger Christensen werd geboren op 16 januari 1935 in de stad Vejle aan de oostkust van Jutland. Zie ook alle tags voor Inger Christensen op dit blog.
Uit: Alphabet (fragment)
all; in the end
the children of the wounded,
stillborn, dying,
many, continuously,
some, finally the
last ones; in my kitchen
I stand and peel
potatoes; the faucet
runs and nearly
covers the noise of the
children in the yard;
the children yell and
nearly cover the noise
of the birds in
the trees; the birds
sing and nearly
cover the murmur
of the leaves in the wind;
the leaves murmur
and nearly cover
the silence of the sky,
the sky which is light
and the light which since
then has nearly
resembled the fire
of the atom bomb.
Inger Christensen (16 januari 1935 – 2 januari 2009)
Vejle, raadhuis
De Amerikaanse schrijfster en essayiste Susan Sontag werd geboren op 16 januari 1933 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Susan Sontag op dit blog.
Uit: Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963
“12/27-29/56 New York
left Dec. 27 with David—D wearing Oxford grey pants. Subway to [Boston’s] South Station. 8:00 train. . . . In N.Y. 12:15. Took a cab to the Gov. Clinton [Hotel]. Checked in, washed, took cab via Empire State Bldg. to Golden Horn restaurant. Ate shish kebab. Cab to Metropolitan Museum. 3:00 -5:00 the Egyptian exhibits and the Etruscan Warrior. Rosie arrived. Bus back to hotel. Washed and changed. Left at 6:10—David clinging to TV, Rosie about to whisk him across the street to Penn Station + out to Flushing [where Rose McNulty’s family lived] for the night. Took cab to Hotel Taft. Herbert & Inge [Marcuse] there, Peter + Frances arrived a few minutes later. Walked to Parisienne restaurant. Rushed, lobster dinner. Walked back to Winter Garden [Theater]. Troilus and Cressida. Afterwards, with Tommy + school chum added, went across the street to the Taft bar for beer. Tommy + chum left, then Peter + Frances to drive back to Waterbury [Connecticut]. Walked with Inge + Herbert to subway at Columbus Circle. Goodnight. Back to hotel. Asleep by 2:00.”
(…)
12/31/57, “On Keeping a Journal”
Superficial to understand the journal as just a receptacle for one’s private, secret thoughts—like a confidante who is deaf, dumb, and illiterate. In the journal I do not just express myself more openly than I could to any person; I create myself. The journal is a vehicle for my sense of selfhood. It represents me as emotionally and spiritually independent. Therefore (alas) it does not simply record my actual, daily life but rather—in many cases—offers an alternative to it. . . . Why is writing important? Mainly, out of egotism, I suppose. Because I want to be that persona, a writer, and not because there is something I must say.”
Susan Sontag (16 januari 1933 – 28 december 2004)
Cover
De Australische schrijver en essayist Brian Castro werd geboren op 16 januari 1950 in Hongkong. Zie ook alle tags voor Brian Castro op dit blog.
Uit: Blindness and Rage (Fragment)
Canto 1
All my life, thought Lucien Gracq, I’d written my disasters:
predicted them, installed them, lived them.
For example: all his life he’d written to women
in mannered courtly love
hoping they would respond, but
would not take it too far – or go any further.
It always redounded, overflowing into minor tragedies.
His heart began palpitating,
he developed high blood pressure.
Writing had consequences, not least
a sedentary posture and excess of calories.
So he turned from prose and entered a more
emphatic breath, of which he was short
or was brought up short.
And then some lesser ailments:
the neurotic episodes of embarrassment
dying into each at three in the morning,
all screaming, negotiating unpleasantness,
and it seemed nothing was enjoyable –
experience reeking of threat, regret and hurt.
Could romantic love so easily disappear
without casting around for a new desire
to enhance the redemption of illusion
in the small cell of the free, alert
to the farewell wave of chance?
All his life he wished for unemployment
in order to attain a paradise,
an Eden of inspired work and experience,
but all his life Gracq laboured as a town-planner
in an Adelaide office unrolling ennui
and blueprints until now …
when time had already flown its coop.
I can’t bring myself to act, he thought,
since that would cut short
his precious melancholy.
Instead he could feel, enact through writing,
since he was in search of lost emotion –
words which slowed the heart and
humoured the day and held
the night with chimeras.
Brian Castro (Hongkong, 16 januari 1950)
De Braziliaanse schrijver, theaterproducent, talk show host, acteur, schilder en musicus José Soares werd geboren op 16 januari 1938 in Rio de Janeiro. Zie ook alle tags voor José Soares op dit blog.
Uit: Twelve Fingers: Biography of an Anarchist
“After months of fruitless treatment, Ivan Korozec moves his family to Sarajevo. Thanks to his contacts, he finds work at the print shop of a veteran anarchist, Nicolae Kulenovic. It is in the rear of that shop that, late at night, meet the adepts of the recently formed Ujedinjenje ili Smrt, “Union or Death,” also known as the Black Hand, a secret terrorist society dedicated to unification of the Serbian people. To have an idea of the political climate that prevailed in Bosnia in that period, it is desirable to know something of the history of that organization and of its founder, who was to play a major role in Dimitri’s future.
Union or Death, the Black Hand, was formed on May 9, 1911, by a group of ten men. Their objective: the creation of a unified Serbia that includes Bosnia and Herzegovina, free of Austro-Hungarian domination. The means for achieving those ends range from homicide to terrorism.
In merely a year, they already number over a thousand activists ready for anything. Several officers of the Serbian army belong to the group.
They use this seal (right) as their sign of identification.
The Black Hand trains its men in various methods of political sabotage and assassination. It is organized into cells of three or five members under the command of district committees, and their orders come from the Central Committee in Belgrade. To keep this hierarchy secret, its members know only what is necessary for carrying out their missions.
Upon being admitted, the initiates swear an oath at a solemn meeting: “I swear before God, on my honor and on my life, that I will obey orders and execute all missions without hesitation and without question. I also swear before God, on my honor and on my life, that I will take to the tomb the secrets of this organization.
The founder of the Ujedinjenje ili Smrt is the Serbian colonel Dragutin Dimitrijevic. Dragutin had become a specialist in coups d’état, conspiracies, and assassination. Recognizing the power of information, the fervent patriot always remained behind the scenes of power, never revealing his true position. A friend connected to the court of the king of Serbia said of him, “He was never seen anywhere, yet we knew he was behind everything that happened.”
José Soares (Rio de Janeiro, 16 januari 1938)
Cover braziliaanse uitgave
De Hongaarse schrijver en journalist Kálmán Mikszáth werd op 16 januari 1847 in Szklabonya (tegenwoordig Slowakije) geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Kálmán Mikszáth op dit blog.
Uit: St. Peter’s Umbrella (Vertaald door B. W. Worswick)
“It must be down that way if I wish it,” thundered out the judge.
Billeghi tried to get out of it, saying it was awkward for him, and out of his way. But it was of no use, when the judge ordered a thing, it had to be done. So one Wednesday they put the sacks of wheat into Billeghi’s cart, and on the top of them a basket containing Veronica and the goose, for the latter was, of course, part of the priest’s inheritance. The good folks of the village had made shortbread and biscuits for the little orphan to take with her on her journey out into the great world, and they also filled a basket with pears and plums; and as the cart drove off, many of them shed tears for the poor little waif, who had no idea where they were taking her to, but only saw that when the horses began to move, she still kept her place in the basket, and only the houses and trees seemed to move.
Not only the worthy Kapiczany had seen Glogova, the writer of these pages has also been there. It is a miserable little place in a narrow valley between bare mountains. There is not a decent road for miles around, much less a railway. Nowadays they say there is some sort of an old-fashioned engine, with a carriage or two attached, which plies between Besztercebanya and Selmeczbanya, but even that does not pass near to Glogova. It will take at least five hundred years to bring it up to that pitch of civilization other villages have reached.
The soil is poor, a sort of clay, and very little will grow there except oats and potatoes, and even these have to be coaxed from the ground. A soil like that cannot be spoken of as “Mother Earth,” it is more like “Mother-in-law Earth.” It is full of pebbles, and has broad cracks here and there, on the borders of which a kind of whitish weed grows, called by the peasants “orphans’ hair.” Is the soil too old? Why, it cannot be older than any other soil, but its strength has been used up more rapidly. Down below in the plain they have been growing nothing but grass for about a thousand years, but up here enormous oak-trees used to grow; so it is no wonder that the soil has lost its strength. Poverty and misery are to be found here, and yet a certain feeling of romance takes possession of one at the sight of it. The ugly peasant huts seem only to heighten the beauty of the enormous rocks which rise above us.”
Kálmán Mikszáth (16 januari 1847 – 28 mei 1910)
Portret door Nyilasy Sándor, ca. 1890
Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:
De Duitse schrijver Tino Hanekamp werd geboren in 1979 in Wippra in Saksen-Anhalt. Zie ook alle tags voor Tino Hanekamp op dit blog.
Uit:So was von da
„Es funktioniert nicht, quasi Fluch: Es kann nur eine geben. Mathilda hat mir die Liebe versaut. Keine Ahnung, wo sie jetzt ist. Wahrscheinlich lebt sie irgendwo in Spanien am Strand mit einem berühmten Surfer, so einem tiefenentspannten Typen, für den das Leben kein Rätsel ist und der hinterm Haus ein paar Hütten errichtet hat für streunende Hunde und Katzen. Ich hoffe, die putzigen Tierchen werden zu blutrünstigen Bestien und zerfetzen seinen Pimmel, eine Monsterwelle reißt seinen Olympionikenkörper raus aufs Meer und spült Mathilda zurück zu mir, bis vor meine Haustür, wo ich sie dann sanft aus dem Rinnstein heben werde. Ich werde sie auf meine muffige Matratze legen, ihr das nasse Haar aus dem Gesicht streichen und ihr verzeihen. Hey, wir machen alle mal Fehler.
Rubble mich mit dem Bademantel ab, während im Hinterhof Herrn Müllers Husten zu einem orkanartigen Getöse anschwillt. Wer braucht das Rauschen der Wellen, wenn er das Husten des Müllers hat? Er ist der letzte Bewohner des Hauses, der älter ist als dreißig. Seit Jahren wartet der Vermieter darauf, dass der Alte endlich abtritt, damit er aus dessen Vierzimmerwohnung drei Kämmerchen machen kann, um diese dann zu Wucherpreisen an Studenten, Agenturangestellte, Clubbetreiber und Künstlertypen zu vermieten. Aber Herr Müller hält durch. Er hustet nur sehr stark — St.-Pauli-Sinfonie. Um nicht vor lauter demütigender Barmherzigkeit den Notarzt zu rufen, gehe ich ins Wohnzimmer und lege Scott Walkers Erste auf, auf dass diese Überlebenslieder die Müller’schen Rasselgeräusche wohlklingend übertönen.
Mama, do you see what I see? / On your knees and pray for me / Mathilde’s come back to me.
Über Bücherberge und Dreckswäsche zum Kleiderständer. Das Hemd ist noch vorzeigbar, der Anzug sitzt wie angegossen, er ist auf mein Skelett geschneidert. Blick in den Spiegel, Armdrücken mit dem Selbsthass. Jeden Morgen eine Minute lang. Schneide ein paar Grimassen und setze mich mit dem Herrn Aurel an den Küchentisch, zu essen gibt’s hier nichts.“
Tino Hanekamp (Wippra, 1979)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 16e januari ook mijn blog van 16 januari 2017 en ook mijn blog van 16 januari 2016 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.
Zie voor bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 16 januari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 16 januari 2008 en eveneens mijn blog van 16 januari 2009.