Ko Un, Juan Filloy, Anne Hébert, Herman Melville

De Koreaanse dichter Ko Un werd geboren op 1 augustus 1933 in Gunsan. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2010.


Uit: Blüten des Augenblicks

19­­. April,
die erste­­ Schlan­­ge in diese­­m Frühling­­ tauch­­te auf
un­­d starb­­.
Ich, ich habe schon­­ zu lange­­ geleb­­t.

»Ich bin gekom­­men, Liebst­­e,
der stren­­ge Winter­­, er ist vorbe­­i.«
Das Grab seine­­r Frau lacht­­ leise­­.

An der Stelle, wo letzten Sommer

ein Tankwagen mit Wasser vorbeifuhr,

blühte in diesem Herbst eine Chrysantheme.


Ko Un (Gunsan, 1 augustus 1933)


De Argentijnse schrijver Juan Filloy werd geboren op 1 augustus 1894 in Córdoba. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2010.


Uit: Op Oloop (Vertaald door Lisa Dillman)

„0:00 A.M.

The clock struck ten.

He’d taken great care writing the invitations. Now all he had to do was address the last envelope, to his closest friend, Piet Van Saal. But he couldn’t. He felt as though two leaden talons had alighted on his shoulders, determined to wrench him from his task.

He sat there for quite some time, his head lolling against the headrest of his swivel chair. Laxity suited him. Then, slowly, demurely, he opened his eyes. And once again leaned toward the desk, trying to fool fate. He looked left and right, furtively–like a common criminal–and took up his pen. But he could get no further than the S of Senor. A fine, elegant capital S, like a meat hook. And on it he hung what remained of his body (fatigue) and soul (exasperation).

Thus, Op Oloop was convinced yet again that it was simply impossible for him to act contrary to his nature. “SUNDAY: WRITING, BETWEEN 7:00 AND 10:00 A.M.” That was the rule. When life is as ordered as a mathematical equation, you can’t just skip a digit whenever you feel like it. Op Oloop was entirely incapable of any impromptu act that might violate the pre-established norms of his routine, even such a trivial, graphical act as addressing an envelope he’d already begun while still within the allotted time.

“Oh well. I’ll see him in person,” he consoled himself. Op Oloop was method personified–an accomplished executioner of spontaneity: method made word; all his hopes, desires, feelings channeled into the vessel of method. He was method incarnate: undisturbed by even the tiniest rogue impulse, the littlest leap or bound–be it spiritual or carnal. How could he break that rhythm? How could he alter that flow?“


Juan Filloy (1 augustus 1894 – 15 juli 2000)


De Canadese dichteres en schrijfster Anne Hébert werd geboren op 1 augustus 1916 in Sainte-Catherine-de-Fossambault, Quebec. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2010.


La neige nous met en rêve

Sur de vastes plaines,

Sans traces ni couleur.

Veille mon cœur,

La neige nous met en selle

Sur des coursiers d’écume.

Sonne l’enfance couronnée,

La neige nous sacre en haute-mer,

Plein songe,

Toute voile dehors.

La neige nous met en magie.

Blancheur étale.

Plumes gonflées

Où perce l’œil de cet oiseau.

Mon cœur ;

Trait de feu sous des palmes de gel

Fille de sang qui m’émerveille.


La Mort m’accompagne

Comme une grande personne qui me tiendrait la main.

Même quand elle paraît séparée de moi,

Je sais que je me meus dans son rayonnement.

Elle est debout dans une chambre secrète,

Au plus profond de mes songes.

Son visage est absent,

Sa main qui me touche

N’est ni décharnée, ni hideuse,

Seulement un lien spirituel et majestueux.

Elle est voilée,

Comme un voile d’eau,

Ni linge ni suaire.

Elle se tient

comme dans une source,

La plus profonde source

Des plus profondes eaux.

Elle ne s’épouvante pas,

Parfois, je l’oublie ;

Et tout d’un coup je la sens là,

Ainsi qu’un enfant qui joue sur la grève

Et qui subitement découvre

La gravité de la mer.

« …passage de la lumière sur un paysage d’eau »


Anne Hébert (1 augustus 1916 – 22 februari 2000)


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Herman Melville werd geboren in New York op 1 augustus 1819. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 augustus 2010.


Uit: Moby Dick

„There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there.

Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?- Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling And there they stand- miles of them- leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets avenues- north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries- stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.“


Herman Melville (1 augustus 1819 – 28 september 1891)