De Duitse dichteres Luise Hensel werd geboren op 30 maart 1798 in Linum nabij Fehrbellin (Brandenburg). Zie ook alle tags voor Luise Hensel op dit blog.
Beim Lesen der heiligen Schrift
Immer muß ich wieder lesen
In dem alten, heil’gen Buch,
Wie der Herr so sanft gewesen,
Ohne Arg und ohne Trug;
Wie er ließ die Kindlein kommen,
Wie er hold auf sie geblickt
Und sie in den Arm genommen,
Und an seine Brust gedrückt;
Wie er Hülfe und Erbarmen
Allen Kranken gern erwies,
Und die Blöden und die Armen
Seine lieben Brüder hieß;
Wie er keinem Sünder wehrte,
Der mit Reue zu ihm kam,
Wie er freundlich ihn belehrte,
Ihm den Tod vom Herzen nahm.
Immer muß ich wieder lesen,
Les’ und weine mich nicht satt,
Wie der Herr so treu gewesen,
Wie er uns geliebet hat.
Hat die Herde mild geleitet,
Die sein Vater ihm verlieh’n;
Hat die Arme ausgebreitet,
Alle an sein Herz zu ziehn.
Laß mich knie’n zu deinen Füßen,
Herr, die Liebe bricht mein Herz;
Laß in Thränen mich zerfließen,
Untergehn in Wonn’ und Schmerz.
Luise Hensel (30 maart 1798 – 18 december 1878)
Oude ansichtkaart van het Luise Hensel Haus in Wiedenbrück
De Engelse schrijfster Anna Sewell werd geboren op 30 maart 1820 in Great Yarmouth, Norfolk. Zie ook alle tags voor Anna Sewell op dit blog.
Uit: Black Beauty
“What hare?” I said.
“Oh! I don’t know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;” and before long the dogs began their “yo! yo, o, o!” again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.
“Now we shall see the hare,” said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.
As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.
“His neck is broke,” said my mother.
“And serve him right, too,” said one of the colts.
I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.”
Anna Sewell (30 maart 1820 – 25 april 1878)
Scene uit de film “Black Beauty” uit 1994, met Andrew Knott
De Duitse dichter, schrijver en draaiboekauteur Herbert Asmodi werd geboren op 30 maart 1923 in Heilbronn. Zie ook alle tags voor Herbert Asmodi op dit blog.
Reiseempfehlung
Für Rudolf Noelte
Warum in die Ferne schweifen?
Abenteuer, Strapazen, Nervenkitzel
Und die Trophäen der Mannesbewährung?
Wieso zu den Kopfjägern?
Ferien auf den Stromschnellen
Des Colorado River?
Klettern im Himalaja?
Krokodile reiten auf Palau
Und Fallschirmspringen in Ashford?
Oder garantierte Einsamkeit
In den Mc-Kenzie-Bergen?
Wozu der Aufwand?
Bleiben Sie zuhause
Und schwimmen Sie gegen den Strom.
Sie werden staunen.
Der Dschungel beginnt doch vor der Haustür.
Was sind die Papuas
Gegen den Exotismus Ihrer Nachbarn.
In Nepal können Sie nicht tiefer stürzen,
Am Pol nicht ärger frieren,
In der Sahara nicht verlassener sein
Als dort, wo Sie wohnen.
Unter Ihren Landsleuten
Erleben Sie das blaue Wunder
Am Kaffeetisch.
Warum in die Ferne schweifen?
Ruhm ist in der kleinsten Hütte.
Dem Mutigsten winkt
Ein Gelber Stern.
Herbert Asmodi (30 maart 1923 – 3 maart 2007)
De Ierse dichter en toneelschrijver Sean O’Casey werd geboren in Dublin op 30 maart 1880. Zie ook alle tags voor Sean O’Caseyop dit blog.
Uit: Juno and the Paycock.
“Johnny: Is mother back from the doctor yet, with Mary?
Mrs Boyle enters; it is apparent from the serious look on her face that something has happened. She takes off her hat and coat without a word and puts them by. She then sits down near the fire, and there is a few moments’ pause.
Boyle: Well, what did the doctor say about Mary?
Mrs Boyle: (in an earnest manner and with suppressed agitation)
Sit down here Jack, I’ve something to say to you .. . about Mary.
Boyle:(awed by her manner) About … Mary?
Mrs Boyle: Close that door there and sit down here.
Boyle:(closing the door) More trouble in our native land is it?
(He sits down.) Well, what is it?
Mrs Boyle: It’s about Mary.
Boyle:Well, what about Mary – there’s nothing wrong with her, is there?
Mrs Boyle:I’m sorry to say there’s a gradle wrong with her.
Boyle:A gradle wrong with her! (Peevishly) First Johnny an’ now Mary; is the whole house goin’ to become a hospital! It’s not consumption, is it?
Mrs Boyle:No…. it’s not consumption … it’s worse.
Johnny:Worse! Well, we’ll have to get her into some place ower this, there’s no one to mind her here.
Mrs Boyle:We’ll all have to mind her now. You might as well know now, Johnny, as another time.”
Sean O’Casey (30 maart 1880 – 18 september 1964)
De Duitse schrijfster en vertaalster Christine Wolter werd geboren op 30 maart 1939 in Königsberg. Zie ook alle tags voor Christine Wolter op dit blog.
Uit: The Rooms Of Memory (Vertaald door Isabel Cole)
“I saw this only once, one single time that rain-heavy summer I spent in the Berlin apartment, and though it was nothing out of the ordinary, and surely nothing supernatural, it seized me like an apparition. In the paling evening sky over the trees of the park, in the gray pink broken only by a withered acacia’s rearing crown, birds wheeled. It was not a flock gathering for the autumn migration; the birds darted in all directions across the piece of sky, myriad solitary dark arcs. Are those swallows? I wondered, leaning my forehead against the pane, but even in the rose-gold glow it was too dark to make out the birds. Only their high wheeling flight was still visible and – perhaps because of the appalling silence all around – palpable.
It was a restless rising and sinking, black on vanishing bright, soundless. I watched it, I followed the teeming random motion, it drew me, I circled with it, leaning my face against the pane. That is me. I thought and did not think it; I thought next to nothing, only rose and fell, wheeling, mute, with a glassy sense of absence.
The last time: I did not really think this either, I saw it in the sky. I used to think it sometimes, at partings, on trips; it had been a dramatic, even melodramatic thought. Now everything was simply as it was.”
Christine Wolter (Königsberg, 30 maart 1939)
In 1989