De Hongaars-Duitse schrijver Ödön von Horváth werd geboren op 9 december 1901 in Fiume. Zie ook alle tags voor Ödön von Horváth op dit blog.
Uit: Jugend ohne Gott
“Was schreibt denn da der N? »Alle Neger sind hinterlistig, feig und faul.« – Zu dumm! Also das streich ich durch! Und ich will schon mit roter Tinte an den Rand schreiben:
»Sinnlose Verallgemeinerung!« – da stocke ich. Aufgepaßt, habe ich denn diesen Satz über die Neger in letzter Zeit nicht schon mal gehört? Wo denn nur? Richtig: er tönte aus dem Lautsprecher im Restaurant und verdarb mir fast den Appetit.
Ich lasse den Satz also stehen, denn was einer im Radio redet, darf kein Lehrer im Schulheft streichen. Und während ich weiterlese, höre ich immer das Radio: es lispelt, es heult, es bellt, es girrt, es droht – und die Zeitungen drucken es nach, und die Kindlein, sie schreiben es ab.
Nun hab ich den Buchstaben T verlassen, und schon kommt Z. Wo bleibt W? Habe ich das Heft verlegt? Nein, der W war ja gestern krank – er hatte sich am Sonntag im Stadion eine Lungenentzündung geholt, stimmt, der Vater hats mir ja schriftlich korrekt mitgeteilt. Armer W! Warum gehst du auch ins Stadion, wenns eisig in Strömen regnet?
Diese Frage könntest du eigentlich auch an dich selbst stellen, fällt es mir ein, denn du warst ja am Sonntag ebenfalls im Stadion und harrtest treu bis zum Schlußpfiff aus, obwohl der Fußball, den die beiden Mannschaften boten, keineswegs hochklassig war. Ja, das Spiel war sogar ausgesprochen langweilig – also: warum bliebst du? Und mit dir dreißigtausend zahlende Zuschauer?
Warum?
Wenn der Rechtsaußen den linken Half überspielt und zentert, wenn der Mittelstürmer den Ball in den leeren Raum vorlegt und der Tormann sich wirft, wenn der Halblinke seine Verteidigung entlastet und ein Flügelspiel forciert, wenn der Verteidiger auf der Torlinie rettet, wenn einer unfair rempelt oder eine ritterliche Geste macht, wenn der Schiedsrichter gut ist oder schwach, parteiisch oder parteilos, dann existiert für den Zuschauer nichts auf der Welt außer dem Fußball, ob die Sonne scheint, obs regnet oder schneit. Dann hat er alles vergessen.”
Ödön von Horváth (9 december 1901 – 1 juni 1938)
Cover
De Engelse dichter en schrijver John Milton werd geboren op 9 december 1608 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor John Milton op dit blog.
Uit: Paradise Lost (Book I)
“If thou beest he–but O how fallen! how changed
From him who, in the happy realms of light
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine
Myriads, though bright!–if he whom mutual league,
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope
And hazard in the glorious enterprise
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined
In equal ruin; into what pit thou seest
From what height fallen: so much the stronger proved
He with his thunder; and till then who knew
The force of those dire arms? Yet not for those,
Nor what the potent Victor in his rage
Can else inflict, do I repent, or change,
Though changed in outward lustre, that fixed mind,
And high disdain from sense of injured merit,
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend,
And to the fierce contentions brought along
Innumerable force of Spirits armed,
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring,
His utmost power with adverse power opposed
In dubious battle on the plains of Heaven,
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost?
All is not lost–the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield:
And what is else not to be overcome?
That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee, and deify his power
Who, from the terror of this arm, so late
Doubted his empire–that were low indeed;
That were an ignominy and shame beneath
This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of Gods,
And this empyreal sybstance, cannot fail;
John Milton (9 december 1608 – 8 november 1674)
Paradise Lost illustratie: De val van de engelen
De Tsjechische psycholoog, schrijver en dichter Jan Křesadlo (pseudoniem van Václav Jaroslav Karel Pinkava) werd geboren op 9 december 1926 in Praag. Zie ook alle tags voorJan Křesadlo op dit blog.
The Offering
With green-tinged light, behold, the west was blazing,
in slowly waning, dying conflagration,
after the sun’s great disc had settled, lazing,
in its gold-purple furnace of cremation,
out-spanned in splendid vaulted meditation,
hovering, still, inviting breathless gazing:
Yet by-and-by the outspread molten glory
began to fade and greener grew each storey.
And in that green, a castle silhouetting,
arching like backs of dragons or related
monsters, drawn-out, sinuous, outward setting
in droves against clouds green and corrugated,
above the panoply of roofs grey-slated—
feasting the eye, as dark clouds drew their netting
over the stage where bristling gothic spires
and battlements stemmed the horizon’s fires.
Infiltrating the skies, with jackdaws ridden,
flurries of bats began to make impression,
leaving their hideaways and dens, well-hidden
and setting off in one prolonged procession,
in their perambulating intercession
then swiftly dwindling, by far distance bidden,
winged coenobites heading for far places:
Their cordon whirled in strands and braided traces…
Vertaald door VZJ Pinkava
Jan Křesadlo (9 december 1926 – 13 augustus 1995)
Praag, tijdens de Advent
De Wit-Russische (Belarussische) dichter, journalist en criticus Maksim Bahdanovič werd geboren op 9 december 1891 in Minsk. Zie ook alle tags voor Maksim Bahdanovič op dit blog.
TO THE CRITIC
(Triolet)
No statues did Cellini hew
But only statuettes.
And yet he was an artist true;
No statues did Cellini hew.
In vain the triolet
(D’you hear, sharp critic?) you eschew:
No statues did Cellini hew
But only statuettes.
TRIOLET
For me this long-drawn absence from you
Is blacker far than your black braids.
Why has this evil time then made
For me this long-drawn absence from you?
Grown white where bitter tear-drips strayed,
A triolet thus I started on you:
For me this long-drawn absence from you
Is blacker far than your black braids.
Maksim Bahdanovič (9 december 1891 – 25 mei 1917)
De Amerikaanse schrijver en sceenwriter James Dalton Trumbo werd geboren op 9 december 1905 in het plaatsje Montrose in Colorado. Zie ook alle tags voor Dalton Trumbo op dit blog.
Uit: Johnny Got His Gun
“My arm. My arm they’ve cut my arm off. See that stump there? That used to be my arm. Oh sure I had an arm I was born with one I was normal just I like you and I could hear and I had a left arm like I anybody. But what do you think of those lazy bastards cutting it off?
How’s that
I can’t hear either. I can’t hear. Write it down. Put it on a piece of paper. I can read all right. But I can’t hear. Put it down on a piece of paper and hand the paper to my right arm because I have no left arm.
My left arm. I wonder what they’ve done with it. When you cut a man’s arm off you have to do something with it. You can’t just leave it Iying around. Do you send it to hospitals so guys can pick it to pieces and see how an arm works? Do you wrap it up in an old newspaper and throw it onto the junk heap? Do you bury it? After all it’s part of a man a very important part of a man and it should be treated respectfully. Do you take it out and bury it and say a little prayer? You should because it’s human flesh and it died young and it deserves a good sendoff.
*****
Then things quieted down all of a sudden. Everything went still inside his head. The lights before his eyes snapped out as quickly as if somebody had shut them off with a switch. The pain went away too. The only feeling he had was the strong throb of blood in his brain swelling and contracting his head. But it was peaceful. It was painless. It was such a relief that he came out of his drowning. He could think.”
Dalton Trumbo (9 december 1905 – 10 september 1976)