De Duitse schrijver Hermann Kant werd op 14 juni 1926 in Hamburg geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Hermann Kant op dit blog.
Uit: Lebenslauf, zweiter Absatz
„Ein ärgerer Auftrag war nicht zu denken: Ich sollte im Hause Buttewegg einen Kurzschluß beseitigen. Aber was sage ich da, einen, es ging um den Kurzschluß im Hause Buttewegg, es ging um den berüchtigten Fehler, der bereits drei angesehene Elektromeister um ein Stück ihres Rufs gebracht hatte.
Zu sagen, die ganze Stadt habe von diesem Schaden gewußt und darüber gesprochen, wäre eine unzulässige, wenn auch verständliche Übertreibung, aber soviel kann ich behaupten: In den besseren Kreisen von Paren munkelte man über den periodisch auftretenden technischen Defekt bei Butteweggs in gerade jenem Ton, den man sonst nur für Berichte über menschliches Versagen in Reserve hielt, für Geschichten um Alimenteklagen zum Beispiel oder um die Frau des Apothekers, die ihres Mannes Kakteensammlung verkaufte, weil sie dringend zu Geld kommen mußte, seit ihr Gatte ein Schloß an die Lade mit dem Morphium gehängt hatte.
Schuld an der Publizität seiner Sache war Theodor Buttewegg selbst. Was auch immer einen Kunden in sein Kontor geführt oder einen Bekannten zu einem Plausch an der Straßenecke veranlaßt haben mochte – unausweichlich sah er sich alsbald über die Tatsache ins Bild gesetzt, daß die Familie Buttewegg seit Monden einer mit unberechenbarer Tücke auf- und abtretenden Zwangsverdunkelung ausgeliefert war.
»Gerade«, konnte Buttewegg dann sagen, »gerade hab ich den Finger auf den Durchstecher im Wirtschaftsbuch der Haushälterin gelegt, da passiert es wieder, alles dunkel, und über dem Ärger der Kerzenansteckerei entfällt mir natürlich der verräterische Punkt, aber kaum bin ich bei diesem Flackerlicht der fraudulenten Ökonomin fast wieder auf die Schliche gekommen, was soll ich Ihnen sagen, kehrt der Strom in die Lampe zurück, und ich kann durch das Comptoir eilen, die Kerzen zu löschen!«
Hermann Kant (Hamburg, 14 juni 1926)
De Britse schrijver Peter Mayle werd geboren in Brighton op 14 juni 1939. Zie ook alle tags voor Peter Mayle op dit blog.
Uit: A Year in Provence
« The final “bon appetit” died away and a companionable near-silence descended on the restaurant as the food received its due attention. While we ate, my wife and I thought of previous New Year’s Days, most of them spent under impenetrable cloud in England. It was hard to associate the sunshine and dense blue sky outside with the first of January but, as everyone kept telling us, it was quite normal. After all, we were in Provence.
We had been here often before as tourists, desperate for our annual ration of two or three weeks of true heat and sharp light. Always when we left, with peeling noses and regret, we promised ourselves that one day we would live here. We had talked about it during the long gray winters and the damp green summers, looked with an addict’s longing at photographs of village markets and vineyards, dreamed of being woken up by the sun slanting through the bedroom window. And now, somewhat to our surprise, we had done it. We had committed ourselves. We had bought a house, taken French lessons, said our good-byes, shipped over our two dogs, and become foreigners.
In the end, it had happened quickly-almost impulsively-because of the house. We saw it one afternoon and had mentally moved in by dinner.”
Peter Mayle (Brighton, 14 juni 1939)
De Amerikaans-Poolse schrijver Jerzy Kosiński werd geboren in Łódź op 14 juni 1933. Zie ook alle tags voor Jerzy Kosiński op dit blog.
Uit: Being There (script door Jerzy Kosinski en Robert C. Jones)
“INT. POTTING ROOM – AFTERNOON
The Potting Room is filled with the tools of the gardener, everything arranged in an orderly fashion. Rows of small pots are on tables, young plants sprouting from some of them. A small, 1940’s table model black-and-white TV rests on a shelf. It is playing, tuned to the BOSTON POPS ORCHESTRA. Attached to the front of the screen is a wheel containing colored gels. The wheels spins, creates an early form of color TV. As Chance enters, his attention is on the television set. He watches it as he oils the tines of the pitchfork and puts it away. Chance turns off the TV and leaves the room, but the sound of the Boston Pops continues.
INT. CHANCE’S ROOM – AFTERNOON
A room adjacent to the Potting Room. A large screen remote control color television set dominates the room. It is on, tuned to the Boston Pops. In contrast to the new TV, the rest of the room is sparsely but tastefully decorated with expensive furniture of the twenties. There are no books, magazines, newspapers or reading matter of any kind to be seen. Chance comes in, watches the TV with a detached gaze as he removes his apron. He changes the channel with the remote control as he puts his apron and the pitchfork rag into a laundry bag. He takes off his suit jacket, hangs it in the closet where it is accompanied by several others, all of like quality. Chance changes the channel once again. «
Jerzy Kosiński (14 juni 1933 – 3 mei 1991)
De Amerikaanse schrijfster en abolitioniste Harriet Beecher Stowe werd geboren in Litchfield, Connecticut, op 14 juni 1811. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Harriet Beecher Stowe op dit blog.
Uit: Uncle Tom’s Cabin
“Well, Tom’s got the real article, if ever a fellow had,” rejoined the other. “Why, last fall, I let him go to Cincinnati alone, to do business for me, and bring home five hundred dollars. Tom, says I to him, I trust you because I think you’re a Christian—I know you wouldn’t cheat. Tom comes back sure enough—I knew he would. Some low fellows, they say, said to him—Tom, why don’t you make tracks for Canada? Ah, master trusted me and I couldn’t—they told me about it. I am sorry to part with Tom, I must say. You ought to let him cover the whole balance of the debt; and you would, Haley, if you had any conscience.”
“Well, I’ve got just as much conscience as any man in business can afford to keep—just a little, you know, to swear by, as ’twere,” said the trader, jocularly; “and, then, I’m ready to do anything in reason to ‘blige friends; but this yer, you see, is a leetle too hard on a fellow—a leetle too hard.” The trader sighed contemplatively, and poured out some more brandy.
“Well, then, Haley, how will you trade?” said Mr. Shelby, after an uneasy interval of silence.
“Well, haven’t you a boy or gal that you could throw in with Tom.”
“Hum!—none that I could well spare—to tell the truth, it’s only hard necessity makes me willing to sell at all. I don’t like parting with any of my hands, that’s a fact.”
Here the door opened, and a small quadroon boy, between four and five years of age, entered the room. There was something in his appearance remarkably beautiful and engaging. His black hair, fine as floss silk, hung in glossy curls about his round, dimpled face, while a pair of large, dark eyes, full of fire and softness, looked out from beneath the rich, long lashes, as he peered curiously into the apartment. A gay robe of scarlet and yellow plaid, carefully made and neatly fitted, set off to advantage the dark and rich style of his beauty, and a certain comic air of assurance, blended with bashfulness, showed that he had been not unused to being petted and noticed by his master.”
Harriet Beecher Stowe (14 juni 1811 – 1 juli 1896)
Het museum „Uncle Tom’s Cabin Historic Site” in Dresden, Ontario, Canada
De Franse dichter René Char werd geboren op 14 juni 1907 in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, Vaucluse. Zie ook mijn blog van 14 juni 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor René Char op dit blog.
Plein
Pervenche des mers et leur affidée,
Au métier des veines s’étend mon lacis.
Je trouble les faibles, j’irrite les forts.
La grotte où je tisse a la dimension
D’un pressoir à fruits exprimant sa soif.
Je suis la bonté, la pieuvre du cœur.
Tu as bien fait de partir, Arthur Rimbaud!
Tes dix-huit ans réfractaires à l’amitié, à la malveillance, à la sottise des poètes de Paris ainsi qu’au ronronnement d’abeille stérile de ta famille ardennaise un peu folle, tu as bien fait de les éparpiller aux vents du large, de les jeter sous le couteau de leur précoce guillotine. Tu as eu raison d’abandonner le boulevard des paresseux, les estaminets des pisse-lyres, pour l’enfer des bêtes, pour le commerce des rusés et le bonjour des simples.
Cet élan absurde du corps et de l’âme, ce boulet de canon qui atteint sa cible en la faisant éclater, oui, c’est bien là la vie d’un homme! On ne peut pas, au sortir de l’enfance, indéfiniment étrangler son prochain. Si les volcans changent peu de place, leur lave parcourt le grand vide du monde et lui apporte des vertus qui chantent dans ses plaies.
Tu as bien fait de partir, Arthur Rimbaud! Nous sommes quelques-uns à croire sans preuve le bonheur possible avec toi.
René Char (14 juni 1907 – 19 februari 1988)