De Poolse schrijver dichter en journalist Ryszard Kapuściński werd geboren in Pinsk, Polen (thans Wit-Rusland), op 4 maart 1932. Zie ook alle tags voor Ryszard Kapuściński op dit blog.
Uit: The Shadow of the Sun (Vertaald door Klara Glowczewska)
„It is the smell of a sweating body and drying fish, of spoiling meat and roasting cassava, of fresh flowers and putrid algae–in short, of everything that is at once pleasant and irritating, that attracts and repels, seduces and disgusts. This odor will reach us from nearby palm groves, will escape from the hot soil, will waft above stagnant city sewers. It will not leave us; it is integral to the tropics.
And finally, the most important discovery–the people. The locals. How they fit this landscape, this light, these smells. How they are as one with them. How man and environment are bound in an indissoluble, complementary, and harmonious whole. I am struck by how firmly each race is grounded in the terrain in which it lives, in its climate. We shape our landscape, and it, in turn, molds our physiognomy. Among these palm trees and vines, in this bush and jungle, the white man is a sort of outlandish and unseemly intruder. Pale, weak, his shirt drenched with sweat, his hair pasted down on his head, he is continually tormented by thirst, and feels impotent, melancholic. He is ever afraid: of mosquitoes, amoebas, scorpions, snakes–everything that moves fills him with fear, terror, panic.
With their strength, grace, and endurance, the indiginous move about naturally, freely, at a tempo determined by climate and tradition, somewhat languid, unhurried, knowing one can never achieve everything in life anyway, and besides, if one did, what would be left over for others?
I’ve been here for a week. I am trying to get to know Accra. It is like an overgrown small town that has reproduced itself many times over, crawled out of the bush, out of the jungle, and come to a halt at the shores of the Gulf of Guinea. Accra is flat, single-storied, humble, though there are some buildings with two or more floors. No sophisticated architecture, no excess or pomp. Ordinary plaster, pastel-colored walls–pale yellow, pale green. The walls have numerous water stains. Fresh ones. After the rainy season, entire constellations of stains appear, collages, mosaics, fantastical maps, flowery flourishes. The downtown is densely built-up. Traffic, crowds, bustle–life takes place out in the street.“
Ryszard Kapuściński (4 maart 1932 – 23 januari 2007)
De Franse dichter en essayist Léon-Paul Fargue werd geboren op 4 maart 1876 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Léon-Paul Fargue op dit blog.
Uit: Silhouette
“L’INTRUS
…Elle dort. Elle s’est repliée avec soin. Elle subit l’empire de ses formes rondes et place
ses bras sous sa nuque comme pour soutenir son fragile et précieux sommeil. La
bouche est légèrement ouverte, la paupière frémit sous des atomes de fard qui la
chatouillent encore. Pareil au courant électrique, le rêve, parfois, traverse ce chef-d’œuvre
courbe dont la seule vue me comble et me déchire. J’ai dû bouger, enfreindre une loi, car
le visage s’émeut et glisse, sans s’animer pourtant, sans reprendre contact avec le réel.
Le sommeil, simplement, a manifesté quelque contrariété devant l’audace pesante de
l’intrus. J’admire le soin avec lequel ce repos a été dessiné, inscrit sur le drap fin,
combien la pose est réussie, tentante, en dépit de la sécurité qui a présidé au ravissant
évanouissement. Une femme qui dort est un tableau. Rien n’a été fait à la légère, et
même ce livre, qui a été posé à terre au dernier moment, attire le regard comme un objet
précieux, fier de sa place. Cette fleur qui se penche hors de son vase impose à sa tige
une rondeur polie, distinguée. La boite à cigarette, le flacon, le bâton de rouge, le
mouchoir mince et vaporeux, tous les objets épars sur la table de chevet sont pour moi
les accessoires d’un ballet interrompu, que la Belle au Bois Dormant prolonge dans un
rêve, et que je quitte à pas de loup pour ne pas le déchirer…”
Léon-Paul Fargue (4 maart 1876 – 24 november 1947)
In 1907
De Duits-sorbische dichter, schrijver en vertaler Kito Lorenc werd geboren op 4 maart 1938 in Schleife (Oost-Sachsen). Zie ook alle tags voor Kito Lorenc op dit blog.
Ostereiermalen
Zum Beispiel können wir ewig lange
dasitzen und Eier bemalen zu Ostern.
Feder, Wachs und Flamme – mythisches
Requisit, Tönung der Zwiebel, Farbe
des Grases, der Rinden verschieden
gefiltertes Schwarz, gekeltertes Grün –
wir zaubern, behende in Händen
wendend das Urei elementar, punktieren
mit Impulsen den Ei-Äquator,
ketten die Serien der Wolfszahnreihen
meridional, blendende Kompaßnadeln,
am magischen Kraftfeld gerichtet
hin zu den Blickpolen, wo die Rosetten
der Sonnen uns zweisam verstrahlen
unter den Augen, bezaubert vom Mysterium
der federführend Zeichnenden, der
Ackerbauer-Ahnen Myriaden. So
bannen wir die Wiederkehr der Zeiten,
die Symmetrie der Ereignisse,
das Gleichgewicht der Generationen,
die Proportionalität der Geschichte,
die starre Harmonie der Welt
(die Wölfe sollen nicht kommen,
die Sonnen sollen scheinen) –
und tun dann das einzig Vernünftige:
Wir haun ihn auf zu Ostern, diesen
steinzeitlichen Dämonenkult-Fetisch,
entkleiden ihn seiner schönen Schale
und verdauen den Inhalt.
Nun geschieht die erstaunliche Verwandlung –
es kommt zur Auferstehung des Eies:
Ungestümer pickt uns das Herz gegen die Rippen,
in unsern Hälsen hockt ein lockrer Hahnenschrei,
fröhlicher brechen wir aus den Eierschalen
hinter den Ohren, wir brechen aus
in das berühmte Ostergelächter:
Sehn wir nicht aus wie aus dem Ei gepellt –
wir, der einzig göttliche Hahnentritt
am Sonnendotter, raketenschnäblig schon
zerhacken wir die Schalen des Himmels,
Menschheit kriecht aus dem Ei.
Kito Lorenc (Schleife, 4 maart 1938)
De Franse dichter Jacques Dupin werd geboren in Privas, Ardèche, op 4 maart 1927. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2010 en ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2011.
Saccades (fragment)
Langue de pain noir et d’eau pure,
Lorsqu’une bêche te retourne
Le ciel entre en activité.
Nos bras amoureux noircissent,
Nos bras ouvriers se nouent.
Juste la force
De basculer dans le ravin
Notre cadavre successif
Et ma bibliothèque de cailloux.
Jacques Dupin (Privas, 4 maart 1927)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Thomas S. Stribling werd geboren op 4 maart 1881 in Clifton, Tennessee. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2010 en ook mijn blog van 4 maart 2011.
Uit: Birthright
„At Cairo, Illinois, the Pullman-car conductor asked Peter Siner to take his suitcase and traveling-bag and pass forward into the Jim Crow car. The request came as a sort of surprise to the negro. During Peter Siner’s four years in Harvard the segregation of black folk on Southern railroads had become blurred and reminiscent in his mind; now it was fetched back into the sharp distinction of the present instant. With a certain sense of strangeness, Siner picked up his bags, and saw his own form, in the car mirrors, walking down the length of the sleeper. He moved on through the dining-car, where a few hours before he had had dinner and talked with two white men, one an Oregon apple-grower, the
other a Wisconsin paper-manufacturer. The Wisconsin man had furnished cigars, and the three had sat and smoked in the drawing-room, indeed, had discussed this very point; and now it was upon him.
At the door of the dining-car stood the porter of his Pullman, a negro like himself, and Peter mechanically gave him fifty cents. The porter accepted it silently, without offering the amenities of his whisk-broom and shoe-brush, and Peter passed on forward.
Beyond the dining-car and Pullmans stretched twelve day-coaches filled with less-opulent white travelers in all degrees of sleepiness and dishabille from having sat up all night. The thirteenth coach was the Jim Crow car. Framed in a conspicuous place beside the entrance of the car was a copy of the Kentucky state ordinance setting this coach apart from the remainder of the train for the purposes therein provided.“
Thomas S. Stribling (4 maart 1881 – 8 juli 1965)