De Canadese schrijver Joseph Boyden werd geboren op 31 oktober 1966 in Willowdale, Ontario. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Joseph Boyden op dit blog.
Uit: Through Black Spruce
„Or my second option was to make up my mind that the cold, that nature, was just an unfortunate clash of weather systems. If I made my mind up this second way, that the physical world no longer held vengeance and evil just beyond the black shadow of spruce, then I’d try and make do with what I had.And when I realized what an idiot I was for ending up here all alone without the proper gear—just a jean jacket with a sweater under it and running shoes on my feet—I’d get angry, desperate for some sense of fairness in the world, and begin to panic.
Me, I preferred the first option, that Mother Nature was one angry slut. She’d try and kill you first chance she got.You’d screwed with her for so long that she was happy to eliminate you. But more than that, the first option allowed me to get angry right away, to blame some other force for all my troubles.The panic came much quicker this way, but it was going to come anyways, right?
And so me, I climbed out of my cockpit and onto the wing on that frigid afternoon in my jean jacket and running shoes, walked along the wing, fearful of the bush and the cold and a shitty death all around me.
I decided to make my way to the bank to collect some firewood and jumped onto the frozen creek. I sank to my chest in that snow, and immediately realized I was a drunken fool. The shock of fast-flowing ice water made my breath seize, tugging at my legs, pulling at my unlaced running shoes so that the last thing my feet felt was those shoes tumbling away with the current.
By the time I flopped back onto the wing, my stomach to my feet had so little feeling that I had to pull my way back to the cockpit with wet fingers, tearing the skin from them when they froze to the aluminum. My breath came in hitches.When I tried my radio, and my wife finally picked it up, she couldn’t understand me. She thought I was a kid fooling around on his father’s CB and hung up on me.
Like I said, panic came quick. I could waste more time and the last of my energy calling back, hoping to get Helen to understand it was me and that I needed help now, but how to tell her exactly where I was? They might be able to find me tomorrow in daylight, but not now with the night closing in. And so I did what I knew I had to do. I crawled out of the cockpit again, onto my other wing, and threw myself off it, hoping not to find more water under the snow.“
Joseph Boyden (Willowdale, 31 oktober 1966)
De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en literatuurcriticus Bruce Bawer werd geboren op 31 oktober 1956 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2010
Amsterdam Days
for Tor André
Now, when I remember Amsterdam,
The images bring joy. The homebound tram
Appearing, its number – 17 – alight,
At the Dam’s far end, on a drizzly winter night
When, across the surface, streetlamps shone
And made a seascape of the cobblestone.
And there we stood, the two of us, alone
Together, tired, huddling in the rain,
Yearning for that flat on Bellamyplein.
Mornings, we’d cuddle in bed together, snug,
Or gulp down coffee on that dark brown rug
While Sarah Brightman and John Gielgud (“that
Nice old man”) sang “Gus: The Theater Cat.”
Then we’d head out into the damp Dutch day,
Ever conscious that we couldn’t stay,
That Holland wasn’t home to you or me,
And that these days would soon be memory.
And that was good: we longed to settle down
Together, in a home that was our own,
To sink roots in a land, not live like strays.
Yet how sweet the memory of those rootless days! –
Hovering between one life and another,
Unsettled in everything but in each other.
As to the ultimate meaning of it all
As to the ultimate meaning of it all,
We know just what we know. We can’t know more.
Somewhere far away there stands a door.
Somewhere there hangs a solitary key.
The end is near. The end is always near.
The end is all around us, every day,
In every cell of your body, in the rosy
Cheeks of your children playing in the yard,
In the strong bronze arm of your lover, safe in bed,
And in the house on fire, where the body
Of someone you love burns like a Christmas log.
And yet love happens, blooming as if from air.
Bruce Bawer (New York, 31 oktober 1956)
De Engelse dichter John Keats werd geboren op 31 oktober 1795 in Finsbury Pavement in London. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor John Keats op dit blog.
On the Sea
It keeps eternal whisperings around
Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
Often ’tis in such gentle temper found,
That scarcely will the very smallest shell
Be moved for days from where it sometime fell.
When last the winds of Heaven were unbound.
Oh, ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
Or fed too much with cloying melody—
Sit ye near some old Cavern’s Mouth and brood,
Until ye start, as if the sea nymphs quired!
Ode To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats (31 oktober 1795 – 23 februari 1821)
Ben Whishaw als John Keats in de film Bright Star uit 2009
De Engelse schrijver Nick Stone werd geboren op 31 oktober 1966 in Cambridge. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 31 oktober 2010
Uit: King of Swords
“Jenny had been the head veterinarian at the zoo ever since it had opened, nine years before. Primate Park had been the brainchild of Harold and Henry Yik, two brothers from Hong Kong, who’d opened the place in direct competition to Miami’s other primate-only zoo, Monkey Jungle. They’d reasoned that while Monkey jungle was a very popular tourist attraction, its location—South Dade, inland and well away from the beach and hotels—meant it was only doing about z 5 per cent of the business it could have done, had it been closer to the tourist dollars. So they’d built Primate Park from scratch in North Miami Beach—right next to a strip of hotels—making it bigger and, so they thought, better than the competition. At its peak they’d had twenty-eight species of monkey, ranging from the expected—chimps, dressed up in blue shorts, yellow check shirts and red sun visors, doing cute, quasi-human tricks like playing mini-golf, baseball and soccer; gorillas, who beat their chests and growled; baboons, who showed off their bright pink bald asses and bared their fangs—along with more exotic species, like dusky titi monkeys, rodent-like lemurs, and the lithe, intelligent brown-headed spider monkeys. Yet Primate Park hadn’t really caught on as an alternative to Monkey Jungle. The latter had been around for close to forty years and was considered a local treasure, one of those slightly eccentric Miami landmarks, like the Ancient Spanish Monastery, South Beach’s Art Deco district, Vizcaya, the Biltmore, and the giant Coppertone sign. The new zoo was seen as too cold, too clinical, too calculating. It was all wrong for the town. Miami was the kind of place where things only worked by accident, not because they were supposed to. The general public stayed away from the new zoo. The Yik brothers started talking about bulldozing Primate Park and converting it into real estate.”
Nick Stone (Cambridge, 31 oktober 1966)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 31e oktober ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.