De Amerikaanse schrijver en slam poet Jack McCarthy werd geboren op 23 mei 1939 in Massachusetts. Zie ook alle tags voor Jack McCarthy op dit blog.
Uit: The Saga of 57
„an oratorio for 4 voices, 2 microphones, and 54 years
J: The vast majority of the lines in this piece have been culled from your own beautifully punctuated reminiscences. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to do this, and thank you for giving me such great material to work with.
The story of 57 starts when we were fourteen. Who ever came up with the idea of sending boys away to boarding school when they turned fourteen? Must have been some kid’s father. Driving the young males out of the herd.
B: At some point, most of us surely felt that we were sinking, and looked for a life preserver. But the school was expecting us to swim. Huc venite pueri ut viri sitis—and we did.
A: Some of us had to survive summer school just to get in the door.
B: The 32-hour train ride to Exeter was the loneliest, most heart rending event in my life.
A: My father removed his wristwatch and handed it to me and I still wear it today. It would take four days to travel from San Antonio to Exeter.
B: I never studied as hard or as diligently as I did that summer.
A: I flunked Spanish, but they admitted me on my sweet smile and my use of the word sir.
B: The night before Decision Day I went to Phillips Church to ask for divine intervention. Mr. Adkins came out of his house and told me he was going to pass me. I knew at that moment that I was accepted. Effort counted as much as knowledge.
J: That was a well-kept secret!
B: The rest of us arrived right after Labor Day, that saddest of holidays.“
Jack McCarthy (Massachusetts, 23 mei 1939)
De Amerikaanse schrijver, journalist en radiopresentator Mitchell David Albom werd geboren op 23 mei 1958 in Passaic, New Jersey. Zie ook alle tags voor Mitch Allborn op dit blog.
Uit: Tuesdays With Morrie
„Connie opened the door and let me in. Morrie was in his wheelchair by the kitchen table, wearing a loose cotton shirt and even looser black sweatpants. They were loose because his legs had atrophied beyond normal clothing size–you could get two hands around his thighs and have your fingers touch. Had he been able to stand, he’d have been no more than five feet tall, and he’d probably have fit into a sixth grader’s jeans.
“I got you something,” I announced, holding up a brown paper bag. I had stopped on my way from the airport at a nearby supermarket and purchased some turkey, potato salad, macaroni salad, and bagels. I knew there was plenty of food at the house, but I wanted to contribute something. I was so powerless to help Morrie otherwise. And I remembered his fondness for eating.
“Ah, so much food!” he sang. “Well. Now you have to eat it with me.”
We sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by wicker chairs. This time, without the need to make up sixteen years of information, we slid quickly into the familiar waters of our old college dialogue, Morrie asking questions, listening to my replies, stopping like a chef to sprinkle in something I’d forgotten or hadn’t realized. He asked about the newspaper strike, and true to form, he couldn’t understand why both sides didn’t simply communicate with each other and solve their problems. I told him not everyone was as smart as he was.
Occasionally, he had to stop to use the bathroom, a process that took some time. Connie would wheel him to the toilet, then lift him from the chair and support him as he urinated into the beaker. Each time he came back, he looked tired.“
Mitchell Albom (Passaic, 23 mei 1958)
West Main Ave, Passaic, ansichtkaart
De Nederlandse schrijfster en columniste Lydia Rood werd geboren op 23 mei 1957 in Velp. Zie ook alle tags voor Lydia Rood op dit blog.
Uit: Dr. Oetker is dood, es lebe Herr Maggi (column)
„Duits in een reclame, dat deden we niet. Over het Engels struikel je, Engels is cool. Maar de oosterburen hadden te veel op hun geweten. Bezetting, WK 1974, de fiets van oma. Nog altijd kun je oudjes tegenkomen die moeten overgeven als ze Duits horen.
Vandaar dat Dr. Ötker hier steevast Dr. Oetker werd genoemd, met de oe van zoet, en Maggi klinkt als mag-ie, en wordt nooit uitgesproken met de G van Goebbels.
Maar onlangs hoorde ik twee Duitse uitingen in één reclameblokje. De vertrouwde dokter heet tegenwoordig Utker. En door de kamer schalde de uitsmijtregel van Opel in het Duits. ‘Wir leben Autos!’
Het heeft zin om die pay-off onvertaald te laten. Het Duits wekt de associatie met lieben, maar leven lijkt van geen kant op houden van.
Het kan nu. Duits is weer salonfähig.
De ommezwaai blijkt ook uit ons reisgedrag. Duitsland is intussen vakantieland nummer 2.
Frankrijk staat nog aan kop. Maar de beheersing van het Frans onder de Nederlandse vakantiegangers taant. Daar profiteert Duitsland van. En dat kan doordat de oudjes die gaan braken bij het horen van Duits bijna uitgestorven zijn. Zo is de een zijn Tod maar weer eens de ander zijn Brot.
Alleen ‘Dr. Ötlul’ – dat klinkt niet.“
Lydia Rood (Velp, 23 mei 1957)
De Zweedse schrijver Pär Fabian Lagerkvist werd geboren in Växjö op 23 mei 1891 in Stockholm. Zie ook alle tags voor Pär Lagerkvist op dit blog.
Uit: Barabbas
“Supposing he really were the only god? That it were to him one should pray and none other? Supposing there were only one mighty god who was master of heaven and earth and who proclaimed his teaching everywhere, even down here in the underworld? A teaching so remarkable that one could not grasp it? “Love one another… love one another.”… No, who could understand that…?”
(…)
„–And you? Do you also believe in this loving god?
Barabbas made no reply.
–Tell me. Do you?
Barabbas shook his head.
–You don’t? Why do you bear his name on your disk then?
Barabbas was silent as before.
–Is he not your god? Isn’t that what the inscription means?
–I have no god, Barabbas answered at last, so softly that it could barely be heard. But Sahak and the Roman both heard it. And Sahak gave him a look so full of despair, pain and amazement at his incredible words that Barabbas felt it pass right through him, right into his inmost being, even though he did not meet the other’s eyes.
The Roman too was surprised.
–But I don’t understand, he said. Why then do you bear this “Christos Iesus” carved on your disk?
–Because I want to believe, Barabbas said, without looking up at either of them.“
Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 23 mei 2009.
De Franse dichter en schrijver Jean Markale (eig. Jacques Bertrand) werd geboren in Parijs op 23 mei 1928.
De Zwitserse schrijfster Annemarie Schwarzenbach werd geboren op 23 mei 1908 in Zürich.