De Ierse schrijver. Brian Moore werd geboren in Belfast op 25 augustus 1921.

Uit: The Luck of Ginger Coffey

 

“Fifteen dollars and three cents. He counted it and put it in his trouser-pocket. Then picked his Tyrolean hat off the dresser, wondering if the two Alpine buttons and the little brush dingus in the hatband weren’t a shade jaunty for the place he was going. Still, they might be lucky to him. And it was a lovely morning, clear and crisp and clean. Maybe that was a good augury. Maybe today his ship would come in.

James Francis (Ginger) Coffey then risked it into the kitchen. His wife was at the stove. His daughter Paulie sat listless over Corn Flakes. He said “Good morning,” but his only answer came from Michel, the landlady’s little boy, who was looking out the window.

“What’s up, lad?” Coffey asked, joining Michel. Together, man and boy, they watched a Montreal Roads Department tractor clambering on and off the pavement as it shunted last night’s snowfall into the street.

“Sit down, Ginger, you’re as bad as the child,” his wife said, laying his breakfast on the kitchen table.

He tried her again. “Good morning, Veronica.”

“His mother was just in,” said she, pointing to Michel. “Wanting to know how long we were going to keep the place on. I told her you’d speak to her. So don’t forget to pop upstairs and give our notice the minute you have the tickets.”

“Yes, dear.” Flute! Couldn’t a man get a bite of breakfast into him before she started that nattering? He knew about telling Madame Beaulieu. All right.

A boiled egg, one slice of toast and his tea. It was not enough. Breakfast was his best meal; she knew that. But in the crying poverty mood that was on her these last weeks, he supposed she’d take his head off altogether if he asked her for a second egg. Still, he tried.

“Would you make us another egg?” he said.

“Make it yourself,” she said.

He turned to Paulie. “Pet, would you shove an egg on for me?”

“Daddy, I’m late.”

 

 

Brian Moore (25 augustus 1921 – 10 januari 1999)

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Charles Wright werd geboren op 25 augustus 1935 in Pickwick Dam, Tennessee.

 

Last Supper 

I seem to have come to the end of something, but don’t know what,

Full moon blood orange just over the top of the redbud tree.

Maundy Thursday tomorrow,

then Good Friday, then Easter in full drag,

Dogwood blossoms like little crosses

All down the street,

lilies and jonquils bowing their mitred heads.

 

Perhaps it’s a sentimentality about such fey things,

But I don’t think so. One knows

There is no end to the other world,

no matter where it is.

In the event, a reliquary evening for sure,

The bones in their tiny boxes, rosettes under glass.

 

Or maybe it’s just the way the snow fell

a couple of days ago,

So white on the white snowdrops.

As our fathers were bold to tell us,

it’s either eat or be eaten.

Spring in its starched bib,

Winter’s cutlery in its hands. Cold grace. Slice and fork.

 

 

Charles Wright (Pickwick Dam,  25 augustus 1935)

 

De Engelse schrijver Martin Amis werd geboren op 25 augustus 1949 in Cardiff, South Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

Uit: Lolita Reconsidered

 

“Without apeing the explicatory style of Nabokov’s famous Lectures (without producing height-charts, road maps, motel bookmatches, and so on),it might still be as well to establish what actually happens in Lolita: morally. How bad is all this–on paper, anyway? Although he distances himself with customary hauteur from the world of ‘coal sheds and alleyways’, of panting maniacs and howling policemen, Humbert Humbert is without question an honest-to-God, open-and-shut sexual deviant, displaying classic ruthlessness, guile and (above all) attention to detail. He parks the car at the gates of schoolyards, for instance, and obliges Lo to fondle him as the children emerge. Sixty-five cents secures a similar caress in her classroom, while Humbert admires a platinum classmate. Fellatio prices peak at four dollars a session before Humbert brings rates down ‘drastically by having her earn the hard and nauseous way permission to participate in the school’s theatrical programme’. On the other hand he performs complementary cunnilingus when his stepdaughter is laid low by fever: ‘I could not resist the exquisite caloricity of unexpected delights–Venus febriculosa–though it was a very languid Lolita that moaned and coughed and shivered in my embrace.’

 

Humbert was evidently something of a bourgeois sadist with his first wife, Valeria. He fantasized about ‘slapping her breasts out of alignment’ or ‘putting on [his] mountain boots and taking a running kick at her rump’ but in reality confined himself to ’twisting fat Valechka’s brittle wrist (the one she had fallen upon from a bicycle)’ and saying, ‘Look here, you fat fool, c’est moi qui décide.’ The weakened wrist is good: sadists know all about weakspots.”

 

Martin Amis (Cardiff, 25 augustus 1949)

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver, theoloog en cultuur-filosoof Johann Gottfried von Herder werd geboren in Mohrungen op 25 augustus 1744. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

 

In Mitte der Ewigkeit

 

Ein Traum, ein Traum ist unser Leben

auf Erden hier.

Wie Schatten auf den Wegen schweben

und schwinden wir.

Und messen unsre trägen Tritte

nach Raum und Zeit;

und sind (und wissen’s nicht) in Mitte

der Ewigkeit . . .

 

 

Verklärung

 

Lebensfunke, vom Himmel entglüht,

Der sich loszuwinden müht!

Zitternd, kühn, vor Sehnen leidend,

Gern und doch mit Schmerzen scheidend!

End’, o end’ den Kampf, Natur!

Sanft ins Leben

Aufwärts schweben,

Sanft hinschwinden laß mich nur.

 

Horch!, mir lispeln Geister zu:

»Schwester-Seele, komm zur Ruh!«

Ziehet was mich sanft von hinnen?

Was ist’s, was mir meine Sinnen,

Mir den Hauch zu rauben droht?

Seele, sprich, ist das der Tod?

 

Die Welt entweicht!

Sie ist nicht mehr!

Engel-Einklang um mich her!

Ich schweb’ im Morgenrot!

Leiht, o leiht mir eure Schwingen;

Ihr Brüder-Geister, helft mir singen:

»O Grab, wo ist dein Sieg?

Wo ist dein Pfeil, o Tod?«

 

Johann Gottfried von Herder (25 augustus 1744 – 18 december 1803)
Borstbeeld in Weimar, Herzogin Anna Amalia Bibliothek

 

De Duitse schrijver Maxim Biller werd geboren op 25 augustus 1960 in Praag. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

Uit: Liebe Heute

 

“Große, grüne, wogende Blätter

Er wartete auf sie drei Monate lang. Er sortierte seine Fotos, brachte Ordnung in seine Bücher und räumte ein paar Möbel um, und dann wartete er weiter. Dann las er alle Briefe, die er jemals bekommen hatte, und warf die meisten weg, und er kaufte eine große Karte von Indien und hängte sie über sein Bett. Nein, er kaufte keine Karte von Indien, aber er wollte es wirklich tun, währen
d er wartete. Er wartete und wartete und fing an, eine Geschichte darüber zu schreiben, wie er auf sie wartete, aber er wußte nicht, wie sie endete, und dann hörte er wieder auf damit. Zum Schluß machte er gar nichts mehr; er wartete nicht einmal mehr. Er schlief immer weniger, er aß nur noch Brot und Tomaten und gelben

Supermarktkäse, und dann kam sie endlich, sie saßen zusammen bei ihm auf der Couch, und sie sagte: »Es war eine lange Zeit.« »Ja«, sagte er, obwohl er sich fest vorgenommen hatte, so wenig wie möglich zu sagen, »es war eine sehr lange Zeit.« Sie hatte abgenommen auf ihrer Reise, und er fand nicht, daß sie besser aussah als vorher. Sie war müde, aber sie war immer müde, deshalb war sie weggefahren, um nicht mehr müde zu sein, und jetzt kam sie noch müder zurück. Und sie war älter geworden. Älter oder ernster oder härter, das wußte er nicht so genau. Ein grauer Schimmer lag auf ihrer sonnengegerbten Haut, wie ihn sonst nur ältere Frauen hatten, ihr Lächeln war viel zu ernst und überlegen, und ihre Wangenknochen traten noch stärker hervor als früher. Sie stand auf und ging raus, und als sie zurückkam, hatte sie eine bunte Tüte in der Hand.

»Das ist für dich«, sagte sie.

»Danke, meine Liebe«, sagte er. Er machte die Tüte auf. Es war ein kleiner, schwarzer, dicker Elefant aus Mahagoni drin.

»Möchtest du etwas trinken?« sagte er.

»Wasser.«

»Ich hab Wein für dich gekauft.«

»Nein. Wasser«, sagte sie.

Er stand langsam auf und streifte mit seinem Bein ihr Bein. Es war bis auf den flüchtigen Begrüßungskuß ihre erste Berührung seit drei Monaten.

»Wirklich nur Wasser?« rief er aus der Küche, aber sie antwortete nicht. »Kalt oder normal?« rief er wieder, und sie rief leise zurück: »Normal.«

 

Maxim Biller (Praag, 25 augustus 1960)

 

Zie voor alle bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2008.

De Ierse schrijver. Brian Moore werd geboren in Belfast op 25 augustus 1921 in een groot katholiek doktersgezin. Zijn middelbare schooltijd herinnerde hij zich als een ramp. In de Tweede Wereldoorlog trad hij in dienst van het Britse Ministerie voor Oorlogstransporten en was actief in onder meer Algerije, Italië en Frankrijk. In 1948 vestigde hij zich in Canada en verwierf het Canadese staatsburgerschap. Vanaf de jaren 1950 begon hij te schrijven, waarvoor hij zich altijd afzonderde van zijn gezin en vrienden. In 1964 hertrouwde hij met zijn tweede vrouw, Jean Denney, bij wie hij zich veel gelukkiger voelde. Een jaar later verhuisden ze naar Californië, waar hij in 1999 overleed. Zijn meest verkochte roman, The Lies of Silence (1990) is een thriller die speelt in Belfast. Moore maakte zich zorgen over de waanzin en ‘dodelijke ziekte’ waar Noord-Ierland volgens hem aan leed.

Uit: Catholics

 

“The fog lifted. The island was there. The visitor walked to the end of the disused pier and saw it across three miles of ocean, riding the sea like an overturned fishing boat. Morning sunlight moved along a keel of mountain, above valleys black as tarred boat sides.

He thought of Rome. Surprisingly, the order itself had little descriptive information. In the Lungotevere Vaticano he had been handed an out-of-print book: Weir’s Guide to Religious Monuments.

Muck Abbey, Kerry, Ireland. On a small island off the rocky panoramic coastline of the Atlantic Ocean known as “The Ring of Kerry.” The monastery, (Albanesian order), founded 1216, rebuilt 1400–1470, has a dependency, or cell, on the mainland, the priory of Holy Cross, at Mount Coom near the village of Cahirciveen. This priory, sacked by Cromwellian troops, was, in Penal times, a site for clandestine Mass, conducted in the open air on a “Mass rock” altar. The abbey itself (on Muck Island) escaped Cromwellian despoliation and sits on the western slope of the island overlooking a splendor of sea. From the abbey tower the visitor looks down on gray waves that curl on barren rock. The monks fish and gather kelp.

He had telephoned again before breakfast. The pretty girl at the desk in his hotel cranked up an incredibly old-fashioned device to call exchange. “We’re wanting Muck Island. No, Sheilagh, it’s all right, it’s for that priest who spoke to the island last night.

“There now, Father.” He took the receiver. A bell rang and rang.

“Muck Island One,” said a crackly voice, out in the Atlantic.

The visitor gave his name. He said he had been asked to call and check on the weather.

“What was your name again, now?”

“Kinsella. Father James Kinsella.” He had learned his lesson.

“Ah, Father Kinsella. We’ll send a boat for you, to be sure. Go down to the pier now, and Padraig will be along shortly.”

Gulls, searching the remains of fish, skimmed overhead, dipped to the brackish waters beneath. Behind him, at the end of the road that led to the pier, were three roofless concrete boat sheds, floored with weeds, smelling of urine and sheep droppings. A very old car, which he had thought abandoned, sat in one of the sheds. Yesterday, when he first drove down here searching the fog for a sight of the island, he had looked in at the car. A purple silk stole lay on the front seat. At the hotel, after dinner, he asked who had built this pier. No, the monks had not built it, the Irish government built it, years ago, before the fishing became polluted. At that time, there were some twenty families living on the island. “They’ve nearly all come out since. Scattered now, to the four ends of the world.”

 

Brian Moore (25 augustus 1921 – 10 januari 1999)

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Charles Wright werd geboren op 25 augustus 1935 in Pickwick Dam, Tennessee. Hij volgde opleidingen aan het Davidson College en de University of Iowa. In 1983 ontving hij de National Book Award voor Country Music: Selected Early Poems en de Pulitzer Prize for Poetry voor Black Zodiac in 1998. Voor zijn vertaling van Eugenio Montale’s The Storm and Other Poems kreeg hij in 1979 de PEN Translation Prize. Wright doceert ook Engels aan de University of Virginia in Charlottesville..

 

Werk o.a: Chickamauga, Buffalo Yoga, Negative Blue, Appalachia, The World of the Ten Thousand Things: Poems 1980-1990, Zone Journals and Hard Freight

 

After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard

 

East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.

Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
up from the damp grass.
Into the world’s tumult, into the chaos of every day,
Go quietly, quietly.

 

 

 

Chickamauga

 

Dove-twirl in the tall grass.
End-of-summer glaze next door
On the gloves and split ends of the conked magnolia tree.
Work sounds: truck back-up-beep, wood
tin-hammer, cicada, fire horn.
History handles our past like spoiled fruit.
Mid-morning, late-century light
calicoed under the peach trees.
Fingers us here. Fingers us here and here.
The poem is a code with no message:
The point of the mask is not the mask but
the face underneath,
Absolute, incommunicado,
unhoused and peregrine.
The gill net of history will pluck us soon enough
From the cold waters of self-contentment
we drift in
One by one
into its suffocating light and air.
Structure becomes an element of belief,
syntax
And grammar a catechist,
Their words what the beads say,
words thumbed to our discontent.

 

Charles Wright (Pickwick Dam,  25 augustus 1935)

 

De Engelse schrijver Martin Amis werd geboren op 25 augustus 1949 in Cardiff, South Wales. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

Uit: House of Meetings

 

“Now that wouldn’t be a bad opening sentence for the narrative proper, and I am impatient to write it. But not yet. “Not yet, not yet, my precious!” This is what the poet Auden us
ed to say to the lyrics, the sprawling epistles, that seemed to be lobbying him for premature birth. It is too early, now, for the war between the brutes and the bitches. There will be war in these pages, inevitably: I fought in fifteen battles, and, in the seventh, I was almost castrated by a secondary missile (a three-pound iron bolt), which lodged itself in my inner thigh. When you get a wound as bad as that, for the first hour you don’t know whether you’re a man or a woman (or whether you’re old or young, or who your father was or what your name is). Even so, an inch or two further up, as they say, and there would have been no story to tell–because this is a love story. All right, Russian love. But still love.

The love story is triangular in shape, and the triangle is not equilateral. I sometimes like to think that the triangle is isosceles: it certainly comes to a very sharp point. Let’s be honest, though, and admit that the triangle remains brutally scalene. I trust, my dear, that you have a dictionary nearby? You never needed much encouragement in your respect for dictionaries. Scalene, from the Greek, skalenos: unequal.

It’s a love story. So of course I must begin with the House of Meetings.

I’m sitting in the prow-shaped dining room of a tourist steamer, the Georgi Zhukov, on the Yenisei River, which flows from the foothills of Mongolia to the Arctic Ocean, thus cleaving the northern Eurasian plain—a distance of some two and a half thousand versts. Given Russian distances, and the general arduousness of Russian life, you’d expect a verst to be the equivalent of—I don’t know—thirty-nine miles. In fact it’s barely more than a kilometer. But that’s still a very long ride. The brochure describes the cruise as “a journey to the destination of a lifetime”—a phrase that carries a somewhat unwelcome resonance. Bear in mind, please, that I was born in 1919….”

 

Martin Amis (Cardiff, 25 augustus 1949)

 

 

De Duitse dichter, schrijver, theoloog en cultuur-filosoof Johann Gottfried von Herder werd geboren in Mohrungen op 25 augustus 1744. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

In Mitte der Ewigkeit

 

Ein Traum, ein Traum ist unser Leben
auf Erden hier.
Wie Schatten auf den Wegen schweben
und schwinden wir.
Und messen unsre trägen Tritte
nach Raum und Zeit;
und sind (und wissen’s nicht) in Mitte
der Ewigkeit . . .

 

 

 

Der Mond

 

Und grämt dich, Edler, noch ein Wort
Der kleinen Neidgesellen?
Der hohe Mond, er leuchtet dort,
Und läßt die Hunde bellen
Und schweigt und wandelt ruhig fort,
Was Nacht ist, aufzuhellen.

 

Johann Gottfried Herder (25 augustus 1744 – 18 december 1803)

 

De Duitse schrijver Maxim Biller werd geboren op 25 augustus 1960 in Praag. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 augustus 2007.

 

Uit: The Mahogany Elephant

 

“He waited for her for three months. He sorted out his photos, rearranged his books, moved the furniture around, and then he went on waiting. After that, he read all the letters he had ever received and threw most of them away, and then he bought a large map of India and hung it above his bed. Or, rather, he didn’t buy a map of India, but that was what he really wanted to do while he was waiting. He waited and waited, and began to write a story about waiting for her, but he didn’t know how it would end, so he stopped. Finally, he did nothing at all; he didn’t even wait anymore. He was sleeping less and less, eating nothing but bread and tomatoes and yellow supermarket cheese, and then, at last, she came back. They sat together on his sofa, and she said, “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes,” he said, although he had firmly made up his mind to say as little as possible. “It’s been a very long time.”

She had lost weight on her travels, and he didn’t think she looked better than before. She was tired, but then she was always tired; she’d gone away to recover from feeling tired all the time, and now that she was back she was still tired. And she’d grown older. Older or harder or more serious—he wasn’t sure which. There was a gray tinge to her tanned skin, the kind you usually see only on older women. Her smile was much too grave and thoughtful, and her cheekbones were even more prominent than before.

She rose to her feet and left the room. When she came back, she had a bright-colored bag in her hand.

“This is for you,” she said.

“Thank you, my love,” he said. He opened the bag. There was a small, fat black mahogany elephant in it. He put the elephant in his pocket.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

“Some water.”

“I bought wine for you.”

“No, water,” she said.

He stood up slowly and grazed her leg with his. Apart from the fleeting kiss when she arrived, it was their first physical contact in three months.

“Really just water?” he called from the kitchen, but she didn’t reply. “Chilled or room temperature?” he asked, and she called quietly back, “Room temperature.”

 

Maxim Biller (Praag, 25 augustus 1960)