De Engelse dichteres, schrijfster en essayiste Penelope Fitzgerald werd geboren op 17 december 1916 in Lincoln. Zie ook alle tags voor Penelope Fitzgerald op dit blog.
Uit: Worlds Apart
“Ernst paid the rent punctiliously. He cleaned the room and took his washing to the launderette, where Hester glimpsed him once or twice, sitting in quiet correctness, watching the shirts and a recurrent two pairs of dark socks as they whirled round in foaming circles before him. He always had a book in his hand. It wasn’t as though he had no friends, or nothing to do. He appeared to have both, and went out often in the evenings, and always on Sundays, as he told her to “gatherings”. These gatherings seemed to be at the place where he worked, and to consist of the people he worked with, which struck Hester almost as a definition of loneliness. She showed him the shelf in the passage where Rod used to keep a few things. In fact there were probably one or two of them left. It would have been ludicrous to clear everything away, as though there’d been a death in the house. “You can use that if you like, Ernst. There isn’t much space upstairs, I know, if you’ve got a lot of books.” He had to stretch to reach the shelf. It was summer, he had taken off hisjacket and, as he reached up, a little of his white shirt pulled out of his trousers, but was replaced so neatly that it was almost magical, as though he had the gift of never making an awkward gesture. “Your husband must have been taller than I am,” he said, with the rueful smile of the less tall. Tilly came through the passage, walking as though in a dream, with each foot exactly in line, the toe of one trackshoe touching the heel of the other. She was singing to herself as she passed on into the kitchen. “What is she doing?” Ernst asked. “Oh, they’re all walking about like that at her school.You know how it is, it’ll be something else in a week or so. Do you have a family?” But that struck her as not quite the right question. “I mean, back in Poland?” That was worse. Where else, after all, could his family be? “If I had had a family, I should not have left them behind me,” he said. If that’s meant as a reproach I shan’t like it, Hester thought. But it could hardly have been one, because he was still smiling. “I was only wondering if you had any plans.., that’s to say, if you had any idea how long you will be staying here?” “I’m afraid I can’t say. It is possible that I may be able to arrange a re-entry permit.” “And then you’ll go home?” He looked puzzled. “I shall go back.”
Penelope Fitzgerald (17 december 1916 – 28 april 2000)
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De Franse schrijver Alphonse Boudard werd geboren op 17 december 1925 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Alphonse Boudard op dit blog.
Uit: Cinoche
“Ils ont le don, une fée s’est penché sur leur berceau… la fée fric ! mes pensées dans le club…et aussi je les imagine déjà cadavres…qu’ils crèveront tous tard ou bientôt…qu’ils seront enfin de vraies charognes et que là on sera tous enfin fraternels. La belle affaire, je gamberge bancal, sinistros. En tout cas j’ai pas l’intention de divertir ces branques chochottes. Je leur réponds monosyllabes…ils vont me trouver abruti, tant mieux. Ils finissent par m’oublier, je les intrigue plus, ils me gomment…reprennent leurs sujets favoris…Enfin, ils y arrivent dans le vacarme…s’efforcent…le dernier yatch sur le quai Suffren…une merveille ! Confort, vitesse, etc., il appartient à l’héritier d’un gros industriel du Nord. Un garçon plein de talent, un écrivain lui aussi. Après avoir sabré toutes les plus jolies starlettes, il est maintenant en ménage avec un travelo…viré sa cuti…il pédale…mais on sait bien que chez lui, n’est-ce pas l’érotisme est une ascèse…C’te bonne paire !
Bien des gens, à ma place s’es jouiraient d’être admis à les écouter…là carré au plein du fauteuil …plein pinacle, le verre de scotch en pogne. J’en profite pas…ça s’estompe de ma mémoire. Il reste juste le bruit, la fureur musicale…et puis tout de même qu’en finale, ils se mettent à parler du prolétariat…qu’ils lui préparent verbal son bonheur futur. là, ils peuvent plus s’arrêter une fois sur ce chapitre. ça dure jusqu’à l’heure où précisément le prolétaire en question se lève, se lave fissa et fonce vers le métro, le bus dans l’aube polluée…pour aller se gaver de poésie réaliste à l’usine! »
Alphonse Boudard (17 december 1925 – 14 januari 2000)
De Amerikaanse schrijver John Kennedy Toole werd geboren op 17 december 1937 in New Orleans. Zie ook alle tags voor John Kennedy Toole op dit blog.
Uit: Een samenzwering van idioten (Vertaald door Paul Syrier)
`Hallo, hoe gaat ’t ermee?’ vroeg juffrouw Inez. `Hoe voel je je, liefje?’ `Niet zo best,’ antwoordde mevrouw Reilly naar waarheid. “t Is toch wat.’ Juffrouw Inez boog zich over de vitrine en vergat haar taartjes. ‘Ik voel me zelf ook niet zo best. Mijn voeten.’ `Goh, ik wou dat ik die bof had. Ik heb arteritus in mijn elleboog.’ `Nee toch!’ zei juffrouw Inez met oprechte deelneming. ‘Dat heeft mijn arme ouwe papa ook. Die zetten we altijd in een heet bad vol Berlijns water.’ `Mijn zoon zit al de hele dag in ons bad. Ik kan ternauwernood mijn eigen badkamer nog in.’ `Ik dacht dat ie getrouwd was, meid.’ Ignatius? Olala,’ zei mevrouw Reilly bedroefd. `Meissie, geef je me twee dozijn van die luxemix?’ `Maar ik dacht dat u me had verteld dat ie getrouwd was,’ zei juffrouw Inez terwijl ze de cakejes in een doos deed. `Hij heeft niet eens het vooruitzicht. Die vriendin die hij had is ervandoor gegaan.’ `Nou ja, hij heeft nog alle tijd.’ `Dat zal wel,’ zei mevrouw Reilly onverschillig. ‘0 ja, kun je me ook een half dozijn wijncakes geven? Ignatius wordt heel vervelend als de cake opraakt.’ `Uw zoon is wel gehecht aan zijn cake, hè?’ `0, god, die elleboog doet zo’n zeer,’ antwoordde mevrouw Reilly. In het middelpunt van de menigte die zich voor het warenhuis had gevormd ging de jagerspet, het groene epicentrum van het oploopje, met heftige bewegingen op en neer. `Ik stel me in verbinding met de burgemeester!’ schreeuwde Ignatius. `Laat die jongen met rust,’ klonk een stem in de menigte. `Pak die strippers in Bourbon Street liever eens aan,’ voegde een oude man eraan toe. ‘Dit is een goeie jongen. Hij staat op zijn moeder te wachten.’ `Dank u,’ zei Ignatius uit de hoogte. ‘Ik hoop dat u allen zult willen getuigen tegen dit ongehoorde optreden.’ `Kom mee,’ zei de agent met slinkend zelfvertrouwen tegen Ignatius. De menigte begon agressief te worden, en er was nergens een verkeersagent te bekennen. ‘We gaan naar het bureau.’ `Die brave jongen mag niet eens bij Holmes op zijn moeder staan wachten.’ Dit was de oude man weer. ‘Geloof mij maar, de stad is niet meer wat ze geweest is. “
John Kennedy Toole (17 december 1937 – 26 maart 1969)
New Orleans, St. Louis Cathedral in de kersttijd
De Oostenrijkse schrijver Albert Drach werd op 17 december 1902 in Mödling geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Albert Drach op dit blog.
Uit: Das Goggelbuch
„Seiner Meinung nach sei Siegfried selber ein Nibelunge erst geworden durch Beraubung und Ermordung des früheren Inhabers seines späteren Hortes. Dieser Sonnenjüngling aber mußte hinwiederum Gold und Namen eines Nibelungen jenen lassen, die nach Überlistung seiner Gattin und Auskundschaftung seiner verwundbaren Stelle sich zu treuer Mord- und Raubbrüderschaft verbanden, bis sie selbst bei der Überlisteten die Hölle gut geheizt gefunden hätten und ihr heldenmütiges Vertrauen auf deren Arglosigkeit ihrerseits mit dem Untergang bezahlten. In gegenwärtiger Zeit gebe freilich ein Titel viel, ein Kleid aber weit mehr. Die Eigentracht sei allerdings gebürtigem Adel vorbehalten.
Dem Volksmann bleibe so nur übrig, sich in eine schon vorhandene Livree zu kleiden, in die er passe. Ein Diener könne auch immerhin die Sprosse des Herrn erklettern, wenn jener diesem lange die Leiter halte, dabei unmerklich schüttle, bis, freilich in zunächst geringfügigen, aber zuletzt sehr fühlbaren Brocken, die sich, spät wieder aufgeweicht, zu einem stattlichen Laib wiedergeknetet, Nibelungenhort und -namen schließlich in die Dienerschürze glitten. Mit dieser hochfahrenden Hoffnung Seifenblasen von sich pfeifend, greift Goggel nach dem strafenden Stein, der dem gegenwärtigen Spiegel zugunsten des künftigen unrecht gibt, indem er denselben in eine Lage versetzt, aus der er eines Widerspruchs nicht mehr fähig ist.
Sodann greift er sich ans Kinn mit Behagen. Sein Bart sticht ihn nicht, denn er hat keinen. Abgehend äußert er sich noch zu seinem räudigen Rüden, welcher Wonnemund heißt, er sei ein zumeist läufiges Luder (wiewohl doch gar nicht weiblich), doch mit mutlos hängender Zunge. Mithin verabfolge er ihm einen Tritt. Aber er tut dies vielleicht, weil der Hund unter ihm steht, wie er selbst den Tritten seines Herrn ausgesetzt bleibt. Über letzteren denkt er gleichfalls nach, und zwar wie folgt: fein wie ein Fruchtbaum, der bei sanftem Schütteln gute Zehrung fallen läßt; man dürfe sein Geschäft aber nicht grob machen, andernfalls falle krachend ein Ast, und wehe dem, der dann unten stehe.”
Albert Drach (17 december 1902 – 27 maart 1995)
De Amerikaanse dichter en hervormer John Greenleaf Whittier werd geboren in Haverhill, Massachusetts op 17 december 1807. Zie ook alle taggs voor John Greenleaf Whittier op dit blog.
The Christmas Of 1888
Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,
The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn,
And on a wintry waste
Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown,
Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down,
The waning moon half-faced!
In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth,
What sign was there of the immortal birth?
What herald of the One?
Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came,
A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame,
Up rolled the round, bright sun!
And all was changed. From a transfigured world
The moon’s ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curled
Up the still air unblown.
In Orient warmth and brightness, did that morn
O’er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born,
Break fairer than our own?
The morning’s promise noon and eve fulfilled
In warm, soft sky and landscape hazy-hilled
And sunset fair as they;
A sweet reminder of His holiest time,
A summer-miracle in our winter clime,
God gave a perfect day.
The near was blended with the old and far,
And Bethlehem’s hillside and the Magi’s star
Seemed here, as there and then,–
Our homestead pine-tree was the Syrian palm,
Our heart’s desire the angels’ midnight psalm,
Peace, and good-will to men!
Forgiveness
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been
Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong;
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men,
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among
The green mounds of the village burial-place;
Where, pondering how all human love and hate
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late,
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands folded over a still heart,
Pass the green threshold of our common grave,
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart,
Awed for myself, and pitying my race,
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave,
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!
John Greenleaf Whittier (17 december 1807 – 7 september 1892)
Het bureau van de dichter in zijn huis in Amesbury, Massachusetts, nu museum
De Canadese schrijver Thomas Chandler Haliburton werd geboren op 17 december 1796 in Windsor, Nova Scotia. Zie ook alle tags voor Thomas Haliburton op dit blog.
Uit: The Clockmaker
„I was always well mounted. I am fond of a horse, and always piqued myself on having the fastest trotter in the Province. I have made no great progress in the world, I feel doubly, therefore, the pleasure of not being surpassed on the road. I never feel so well or so cheerful as on horseback, for there is something exhilarating in quick motion; and, old as I am, I feel a pleasure in making any person whom I meet on the way put his horse to the full gallop, to keep pace with my trotter. Poor Ethiope ! you recollect him, how he was wont to lay back his ears on his arched neck, and push away from all compe-tition. He is done, poor fellow ! the spavin spoiled his speed, and he now roams at large upon my farm at Truro.’ Mohawk never failed me till this summer. I pride myself, (you may laugh at such childish weakness in a man of my age,) but still, I pride myself in taking the conceit out of coxcombs I meet on the road, and on the ease with which I can leave a fool behind, whose nonsense disturbs my solitary musings. On my last journey to Fort Lawrence, as the beautiful view of Colchester had just opened upon me, and as I was contemplating its richness and exquisite scenery, a tall thin man, with hollow cheeks and bright twinkling black eyes, on a good bay horse, somewhat out of condition, overtook me ; and drawing up, said, I say, stranger, I guess you started early this morning, didnt you ? I did, sir, I replied. You did not come from Halifax, I presume, sir, did you ? in a dialect too rich to be mistaken as genuine Yankee. And which way may you be travelling ? asked my inquisitive com-panion. »
Thomas Haliburton (17 december 1796 – 27 augustus 1865)
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De Poolse dichter en militair Władysław Broniewski werd geboren op 17 december 1897 in Plock. Zie ook alle tags voor Władysław Broniewski op dit blog.
Out of the anger
I would love you (shit, dammit!),
if there wasn’t this uncertainty,
if not the fact that my heart is being eaten
by anger, longing and soppiness.
I would be faithful like the dog Lassie,
I’d gladly sleep on the mat,
but you have such personality
that I wouldn’t wish any lover.
I would love you (bloody hell!),
I’d love (goddammit!),
but something has crushed me,
and I don’t know what’s happening to me:
I greet a photograph – like a fool,
with a photograph (shit!) I reckon with,
I go to sleep and don’t doze off
until I confess it my sins,
and (shit!) those sins are really small,
so the sinner is annoyed (dammit!):
that I, for instance, was drinking yesterday
or that Miss X – not necessarily.
So what (dammit!) that I’m faithful,
one that loves even your footmarks?
My dear – October has passed,
My dear (shit!), November is passing.
My dear, whole life is passing…
Dear! Dear! – I repeat while sobbing.
What gives me live, and what kills me,
is that I (dammit!) still love you.
Vertaald door Magdalena
Władysław Broniewski (17 december 1897 – 10 februari 1962)
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De Braziliaanse schrijver Érico Veríssimo werd geboren op 17 december 1905 in Rio Grande do Sul. Zie ook alle tags voor Érico Veríssimo op dit blog.
Uit: Mexico (Vertaald door Linton Barrett)
“I am only an office worker tired of bureaucracy and the world around him. But wait! I want you to understand me. I love this country, I like Washington. It is an enchanting city, a placid garden of tourists, diplomats and office workers — correcte, charmante et ridicule. A model of organization, a perfection of city planning. Everything here functions accurately, “On time and the hour,” as Dona Maurfcia, my late grandmother, used to say. Listen, my bard, listen. Yesterday I gave a talk at the weekly luncheon of the Happy Bears’ Club.
Were there such organizations in your day? No? Great times, those! Well, my Bears roared, told stories, put grotesque paper hats on their heads, applauded my speech with handclapping and whistling. Extremely cordial, not a doubt of that, highly entertciined ! And when the question-and-answer period came, what do you think they inquired about? I’d hoped they would ask how Brazilians live, how they love, dance, sing, dream and die. But not at all ! They wanted me to give them statistics on the exportation of coffee, the per capita income of the population, the figures on rainfall. The gentleman beside me, his lips touched with vanilla ice-cream, wanted to know what our government is doing to combat soil erosion. I replied that ViUa-Lobos had written a s3miphony with the title of Erosion, and that we all hoped that would solve the problem definitely. You don’t suppose the man took my answer seriously and wanted technical details? WeU, he did, poet. I am constantly surrounded by old ladies. Clean, gay, neat, respectable, elegant, thirsty for information and animated by the purest civic sentiments. They belong to a thousand clubs, a thousand committees, a thousand fraternal societies. They get things done, they organize things, they want to know things. I collaborate with them, I give them lectures on all subjects, even — and principally — on those I am not acquainted with. I answer their questions with filial patience. But they are smothering me. Bin, ah, they are driving me mad! Hurrah for our Brazilian old women! Hail to Dona Maurfcia with her checked shawl, her embroidered slippers, her tapioca cakes, her crocheted napkins, her asthma and her silences ! She never belonged to any club. She never went to a lecture, God bless her!”
Érico Veríssimo (17 december 1905 – 28 november 1975)
Portret door Tania Hanaler, 2016
Zie voor bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 17 december 2008 en ook deel 2 en eveneens mijn blog van 17 december 2007 en mijn blog van 17 december 2006.