Uit: Glaube, Liebe, Hoffnung
„Präparator Da sind Sie ja, Sie Betrügerin Sie! Sie Hochstaplerin Sie! Ihr Vater ist ja gar kein Zollinspektor. Wenn Sie mir das gleich gesagt hätten, daß der kein Zollinspektor ist, sondern bloß so ein Versicherungsinspektor, ja glaubens denn, ich hätte Ihnen hernach eine Existenz verschafft?
Elisabeth Aber das hab ich doch niemals behauptet –
Präparator unterbricht sie: Jawohl haben Sie das behauptet!
Elisabeth Nein! Nie!
Präparator schlägt mit seinem Spazierstock auf der Prantl ihren Schreibtisch, daß die Geschäftspapiere nur so herumflattern und brüllt: Zollinspektor! Zollinspektor! Zollinspektor!
Die Prantl rettet ihre Geschäftspapiere und kreischt: Halt! Halt! Stille.
Präparator verbeugt sich chevaleresk zur Prantl und zur Frau Amtsgerichtsrat hin: Entschuldigens meine Herrschaften, daß ich so aus heiterem Himmel, aber neben einem Versicherungsinspektor ist ja sogar noch ein lumpiger Oberpräparator eine Kapazität und diese gefährliche Person dort hat mir mein gutes bares Geld herausgelockt.
Elisabeth unterbricht ihn: Ist ja garnicht wahr!
Die Prantl Ruhe!
Die Prantl droht mit dem Zeigefinger: Fräulein, Fräulein – wer schreit hat unrecht.
Präparator schreit: Unrecht! Jawohl!!“
Ödön von Horváth (9 december 1901 – 1 juni 1938)
Scene uit een opvoering in Neurenberg, 2013
Uit: Paradise Lost (Book I)
So stretched out huge in length the Arch-Fiend lay,
Chained on the burning lake; nor ever thence
Had risen, or heaved his head, but that the will
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven
Left him at large to his own dark designs,
That with reiterated crimes he might
Heap on himself damnation, while he sought
Evil to others, and enraged might see
How all his malice served but to bring forth
Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy, shewn
On Man by him seduced, but on himself
Treble confusion, wrath, and vengeance poured.
Forthwith upright he rears from off the pool
His mighty stature; on each hand the flames
Driven backward slope their pointing spires, and, rowled
In billows, leave i’ the midst a horrid vale.
Then with expanded wings he steers his flight
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air,
That felt unusual weight; till on dry land
He lights—if it were land that ever burned
With solid, as the lake with liquid fire,
And such appeared in hue as when the force
Of subterranean wind transports a hill
Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side
Of thundering Ætna, whose combustible
And fuelled entrails, thence conceiving fire,
Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds,
And leave a singèd bottom all involved
With stench and smoke. Such resting found the sole
Of unblest feet. Him followed his next Mate;
Both glorying to have scaped the Stygian flood
As gods, and by their own recovered strength,
Not by the sufferance of supernal power.
John Milton (9 december 1608 – 8 november 1674)
Portret van de 62-jarige door William Faithorne, 1670
Oh hyacinthine rattlesnake
how without warning you did strike
a tongue ablaze, she-dragon-like
a diamond grows in secret ache
My heart, my heart grows violet still
clear glass more see-through by it made
how could I salve with words, well-willed
when in the rock-face wall they fade
Bittersweet green, the poison spreads
within my soul its wingèd span
my last refrain I sing with dread:
In autumn grass the stars aflame
and gone out, gone to wait on game
and in a self-snare caught, a man
Crystalline lute of moonlit night
how bitterly the autumn sounds
before the Milky Way’s hid white
descend, be with the prisoner, bound
With left hand over frets to dart
and with the right to stroke the strings —
a crystal dagger in my heart
where nightingales do roost and sing
The lunar song translucent seeps
and lucid pours down the abyss
a silver fish unfathomed deep
The night is clear and bright this time
my soul a revenant sublime
wailing and crying tears of bliss
Vertaald door Václav Z J Pinkava
Jan Křesadlo (9 december 1926 – 13 augustus 1995)
Hail, frosty evening, ringing, calling,
Hail, crunching crisp, soft spread of snow,
No snowstorm blows, the wind has fallen,
And freely the light sledges go.
Like phantoms, birches whitely hover,
Under night-time’s azure quilt,
In the heavens, the stars shiver,
Frozen utterly, frost-chilled.
The moist moon from on high is shedding
A shaft, transparent and aglow,
And with silver cloaks is spreading
The blueing acres of the snow.
With sledges cleave the snow, good horses!
Gay copper bells, ring out with zest!
Forests and fields fly in swift courses, —
Till blood is boiling in the breast!
To a singer:
Know then, young brother, that hearts in men’s breasts,
As if stone-made, are hard, unresponsive,
Always upon them weak verse will be smashed,
Without rousing in them holy conscience.
From steel one must forge, temper flexible verse,
With patience rework it and ply it,
Then when you strike, it will sound like a bell,
From the cold stones the sparks will go flying.
Maksim Bahdanovič (9 december 1891 – 25 mei 1917)
Het Maksim Bahdanovič Museum in Minsk
Uit: Johnny Got His Gun
„He froze all over stiff and rigid like a dead cat. There was something wrong about this pricking and pulling and friction heat. He could feel the things they were doing to his arm and yet he couldn’t rightly feel his arm at all. It was like he felt inside his arm. It was like he felt through the end of his arm. The nearest thing he could think of to the end of his arm was the heel of his hand. But the heel of his hand the end of his arm was high high high as his shoulder.
Jesus Christ they’d cut his left arm off.
They’d cut it right off at the shoulder he could feel it plain now.
Oh my god why did they do a thing like that to him?
They couldn’t do it the dirty bastards they couldn’t do it. They had to have a paper signed or something. It was the law. You can’t just go out and cut a man’s arm off without asking him without getting permission because a man’s arm is his own and he needs it. Oh Jesus I have to work with that arm why did you cut it off? Why did you cut my arm off answer me why did you cut my arm off? Why did you why did you why did you?
He went down into the water again and fought and fought and then came up with his belly jumping and his throat aching. And all the time that he was under the water fighting with only one arm to get back he was having conversation with himself about how this thing couldn’t possibly happen to him only it hadSo they cut myarm off. How am I going to work now? They don’t think of that. They don’t think of anything but doing it their own way. Just another guy with a hole in his arm let’s cut it off what do you say boys? Sure cut the guy’s arm off. It takes a lot of work and a lot of money to fix up a guy’s arm. This is a war and war is hell and what the hell and so to hell with it. Come on boys watch this. Pretty slick hey? He’s down in bed and can’t say anything and it’s his tough luck and we’re tired and this is a stinking war anyhow so let’s cut the damn thing off and be done with it.“
Dalton Trumbo (9 december 1905 – 10 september 1976)
Affiche voor de gelijknamige film uit 2009