De Amerikaanse schrijver Don DeLillo werd op 20 november 1936 geboren in New York City als zoon van Italiaanse immigranten. Zie ook alle tags voor Don DeLillo op dit blog.
Uit:The Silence
“Martin was always on time, neatly dressed, clean shaven, living alone in the Bronx where he taught high school physics and walked the streets unseen. It was a charter school, gifted students, and he was their semi-eccentric guide into the dense wonders of their subject. “Halftime maybe I eat something,” Max said. “But I keep on watching.” “He also listens.” “I watch and I listen.” “The sound down low.” “Like it is now,” Max said. “We can talk.” “We talk, we listen, we eat, we drink, we watch.” For the past year Diane has been telling the young man to return to earth. He barely occupied a chair, seemed only fitfully present, an original cliché, different from others, not a predictable or superficial figure but a man lost in his compulsive study of Einstein’s 1912 Manuscript on the Special Theory of Relativity. He tended to fall into a pale trance. Was this a sickness, a condition? Onscreen an announcer and a former coach discussed the two quarterbacks. Max liked to complain about the way in which pro football has been reduced to two players, easier to deal with than the ever-shuffling units. The opening kickoff was one commercial away. Max stood and rotated his upper body, this way and that, as far as it would go, feet firmly in place, and then looked straight ahead for about ten seconds. When he sat, Diane nodded as if allowing the proceedings onscreen to continue as planned. The camera swept the crowd. She said, “Imagine being there. Planted in a seat somewhere in the higher reaches of the stadium. What’s the stadium called? Which corporation or product is it named after?” She raised an arm, indicating a pause while she thought of a name for the stadium. “The Benzedrex Nasal Decongestant Memorial Coliseum.” Max made a gesture of applause, hands not quite touching. He wanted to know where the others were, whether their flight was delayed, whether traffic was the problem, and will they bring something to eat and drink at halftime.”
Don DeLillo (New York City, 20 november 1936)
De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.
Een woord
Voor A.B.
Ze zei God. Hij lijkt er te zijn als ik Hem aanroep, maar aanroepen is ook moeilijk geweest. Pijnlijk.
En terwijl ze stil werd om nog een woord te vinden, werd ik overgeleverd. nog eens, aan mijn eigen lange worsteling
met diezelfde engel hier – nog steeds hier – aan de voet van de oude ladder van beklimming, in vuil stof
wegkwijnend nog steeds bij de onderste trede, en liet mijn greep varen lang voor de zegen.
De Amerikaanse schrijver Don DeLillo werd op 20 november 1936 geboren in New York City als zoon van Italiaanse immigranten. Zie ook alle tags voor Don DeLillo op dit blog.
Uit: The Silence
“They sat waiting in front of the superscreen TV. Diane Lucas and Max Stenner. The man had a history of big bets on sporting events and this was the final game of the football season, American football, two teams, eleven players each team, rectangular field one hundred yards long, goal lines and goal posts at either end, the national anthem sung by a semi-celebrity, six U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds streaking over the stadium. Max was accustomed to being sedentary, attached to a surface, his armchair, sitting, watching, cursing silently when the field goal fails or the fumble occurs. The curse was visible in his slit eyes, right eye nearly shut, but depending on the game situation and the size of the wager, it might become a full-face profanity, a life regret, lips tight, chin quivering slightly, the wrinkle near the nose tending to lengthen. Not a single word, just this tension, and the right hand moving to the left forearm to scratch anthropoidally, primate style, fingers digging into flesh. On this day, Super Bowl LVI in the year 2022, Diane was seated in the rocker five feet from Max, and between and behind them was her former student Martin, early thirties, bent slightly forward in a kitchen chair. Commercials, station breaks, pregame babble. Max, speaking over his shoulder, “The money is always there, the point spread, the bet itself. But consciously I recognize a split. Whatever happens on the field I have the point spread secured in mind but not the bet itself.” “Big dollars. But the actual amount,” Diane said, “is a number he keeps to himself. It is sacred territory. I am waiting for him to die first so he can tell me in his final breath how much money he has pissed away in the years of our something-or-other partnership.” “Ask her how many years.” The young man said nothing. “Thirty-seven years,” Diane said. “Not unhappily but in states of dire routine, two people so clutched together that the day is coming when each of us will forget the other’s name.” A stream of commercials appeared and Diane looked at Max. Beer, whiskey, peanuts, soap and soda. She turned toward the young man. She said, “Max doesn’t stop watching. He becomes a consumer who had no intention of buying something. One hundred commercials in the next three or four hours.” “I watch them.” “He doesn’t laugh or cry. But he watches.” Two other chairs, flanking the couple, ready for the latecomers.”
Don DeLillo (New York City, 20 november 1936)
De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ook alle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.
Imperatief
Het is zaak om te onthouden hoe Voorlopig dit allemaal echt is. Je zou dood wakker kunnen worden.
Of de vrouw van wie je houdt Zou kunnen besluiten dat je lelijk bent. Misschien geeft ze het eindelijk op te Proberen de manier te negeren Waarop je je tanden flost als je Televisie kijkt. Alles wat ik zeg Is dat er hier niets zeker is.
Ik bedoel, je wordt waarschijnlijk levend wakker, En zij zal waarschijnlijk elke daadwerkelijke Beslissing over je uiterlijk blijven uitstellen . Misschien is ze blij dat je tanden Zo schoon zijn. De ochtend zou Vol van alle liefde en vriendelijkheid kunnen zijn Die jij nodig hebt. Ga gewoon niet denken Dat je er iets van verdient.
De Amerikaanse schrijver Don DeLillo werd op 20 november 1936 geboren in New York City als zoon van Italiaanse immigranten. Zie ook alle tags voor Don DeLillo op dit blog.
Uit: Zero K
“When I got here I was met by two armed escorts. Took me through security, took me to the room, said next to nothing. That’s all I know. And the name, which sounds religious.” “Faith-based technology. That’s what it is. Another god. Not so different, it turns out, from some of the earlier ones. Except that it’s real, it’s true, it delivers.” “Life after death.” “Eventually, yes.” “The Convergence.” “Yes.” “There’s a meaning in mathematics.” “There’s a meaning in biology. There’s a meaning in physiology. Let it rest,” he said. When my mother died, at home, I was seated next to the bed and there was a friend of hers, a woman with a cane, standing in the doorway. That’s how I would picture the moment, narrowed, now and always, to the woman in the bed, the woman in the doorway, the bed itself, the metal canc. Ross said, “Down in an area that serves as a hospice I some-times stand among the people being prepared to undergo the process. Anticipation and awe intermingled. Far more palpable than apprehension or uncertainty. There’s a reverence, a state of astonishment. They’re together in this. Something far larger than they’d ever imagined. They feel a common mission, a destination. And I find myself hying to imagine such a place centuries back. A lodging, a shelter for travellers. For pilgrims.” “Okay, pilgrims. We’re back to the old-time religion. Is it possible for me to visit the hospice?” “Probably not,” he said. He gave me a small flat disk appended to a wristband. He said it was similar to the ankle monitor that kept police agencies informed of a suspect’s whereabouts, pending trial. I’d be allowed entry to certain areas on this level and the one above, nowhere else. I could not remove the wristband without alerting security. “Don’t be quick to draw conclusions about what you see and hear. This place was designed by serious people. Respect the idea. Respect the setting itself. Artis says we ought to regard it as a work-in-progress, an earthwork, a form of earth art, land art. Built up out of the land and sunk down into it as well. Restricted access. Defined by stillness, both human and environmental. A little tomblike as well. The earth is the guiding principle,” he said. “Return to the earth, emerge from the earth.” I spent time walking the halls. The halls were nearly empty, three people, at intervals, and I nodded to each, receiving only a single grudging glance. The walls were shades of green. Down one broad hall, turn into another. Blank walls, no windows, doors widely spaced, all doors shut. These were doors of related colours, subdued, and I wondered if there was meaning to be found in these slivers of the spectrum. This is what I did in any new environment. I tried to inject meaning, make the place coherent or at least locate myself within the place, to confirm my uneasy presence.”
Don DeLillo (New York City, 20 november 1936)
De Amerikaanse dichter, librettist en essayist Scott Cairns werd geboren op 19 november 1954 in Tacoma, Washington. Zie ookalle tags voor Scott Cairns op dit blog.
Uit: Idiot Psalms
3. Een psalm van Isaak, gefluisterd te midden van de Filistijnen, zachtjes.
Meester, zowel onzichtbaar als notoir …..traag met handelen, mocht u geneigd zijn ……Uw genereuze aandacht op dit moment te houden ……bij de bekrompen scène van deze, de ons toegewezen ……saaiheid, mocht U – zodra onze vriendelijke ……secretaris naar behoren genoteerd heeft wie van ons ……aanwezigheid veinzen, en wie verontschuldigd is, wie niet, ……vindt U het misschien leuk om te horen hoeveel we te zeggen hebben ……over zo weinig. Tussen deze andere middelmatigen, ……vangt Uw middelmatige dienaar een glimp op van hoe ……zijn slappe en magere aanbidding eruit zou kunnen zien ……vanwaar U eindeloos onze droefgeestigheid volgt. Heilige, vergeef, zie af en, zo U wilt, weer ……uit mijn hart het gevoel dat ik hier aan het verdrinken ben ……te midden van de roering, de discussies, de vele ……vragen, eindeloos herschikt, onze papieren stemmen.
De Amerikaanse schrijver Don DeLillo werd op 20 november 1936 geboren in New York City als zoon van Italiaanse immigranten. Zie ook alle tags voor Don DeLillo op dit blog.
Uit: Zero K
“Everybody wants to own the end of the world. This is what my father said, standing by the contoured windows in his New York office—private wealth management, dynasty trusts, emerging markets. We were sharing a rare point in time, contemplative, and the moment was made com-plete by his vintage sunglasses, bringing the night indoors. I studied the art in the room, variously abstract, and began to understand that the extended silence following his remark belonged to neither one of us. I thought of his wife, the sec-ond, the archaeologist, the one whose mind and failing body would soon begin to drift, on schedule, into the void. That moment came back to me some months later and half a world away. I sat belted into the rear seat of an armored hatchback with smoked side windows, blind both ways. The driver, partitioned, wore a soccer jersey and sweatpants with a bulge at the hip indicating a sidearm. After an hour’s ride over rough roads he brought the car to a stop and said some-thing into his lapel device. Then he eased his head forty-five degrees in the direction of the right rear passenger seat. I took this to mean that it was time for me to unstrap myself and get out. The ride was the last stage in a marathon journey and I walked away from the vehicle and stood a while, stunned by the heat, holding my overnight bag and feeling my body unwind. I heard the engine start up and turned to watch. The car was headed back to the private airstrip and it was the only thing moving out there, soon to be enveloped in land or sinking light or sheer horizon. I completed my turn, a long slow scan of salt flats and stone rubble, empty except for several low structures, pos-sibly interconnected, barely separable from the bleached landscape. There was nothing else, nowhere else. I hadn’t known the precise nature of my destination, only its remote-ness. It was not hard to imagine that my father at his office window had conjured his remark from this same stark ter-rain and the geometric slabs that blended into it. He was here now, they both were, father and stepmother, and I’d come to pay the briefest of visits and say an uncer-tain farewell. The number of structures was hard to determine from my near vantage. Two, four, seven, nine. Or only one, a central unit with rayed attachments. I imagined it as a city to be discovered at a future time, self-contained, well-preserved, nameless, abandoned by some unknown migratory culture. The heat made me think I was shrinking but I wanted to remain a moment and look. These were buildings in hiding, agoraphobically scaled.”
Uit: A Playwright’s Worries (Vertaald door Claudia Wilsch Case)
“Often when I am working on a new play, my characters suddenly start acting more erratically than I had planned. They upset my designs; they thwart my intentions and ideas. This moment is a struggle, but always a fortunate one, because it signals the adventure of a play that is yet to be written. Once it is finished, the process starts again: I have created something that can only reveal itself in practice. Until it is staged, a play remains unformed; the same is true of the playwright. Sometimes I even think that each performance is actually an attack on the playwright, and that I have no other choice but to answer with another play. When I give a play to a director, I tremble as I think of what is to come. On the one hand, it is a relief to know that from that point on, someone else’s imagination will propel the play, discovering things that I did not even know were there. On the other, I am anxious that a director might suddenly discover too much, might burden the characters with other people’s social tragedies, or impose deep meaning on an otherwise lighthearted play. Novels are protected by the covers of a book, but plays are offered no such security. It has been said that each reader stages his own version of a novel. However, we don’t mean that a reader clips different passages from the book and pastes the end at the beginning, or that he cuts characters or entire subplots that he thinks will only distract him from what is essential, or that he suddenly inserts a topical newspaper article in the middle. A reader also doesn’t cover the margins of a book with the titles of musical numbers that he feels an urgent need to listen to while reading. And even if such a reader existed, he wouldn’t think to pester other readers with his private enjoyment. A director is first and foremost a reader, the most influential reader a playwright has. All plays need a director who is sensitive to language, especially plays that don’t rely on a solidly constructed plot but instead use language to convey the action, plays where the characters are defined by the music of their language, plays where form and content cannot be separated, and plays where language itself determines the content. I don’t mean that plays should be celebrated obediently, or that directors should drown them in the kinds of musical sauces that have become popular recently, all the while believing they are taking the language particularly seriously. Both of these extremes signal an unwillingness by directors to confront language as an event onstage.”
Theresia Walser (Friedrichshafen, 20 november 1967)
Uit: Auch Miststücke können einem leidtun (Vertaald door Angelika Schneider)
„Bakowka ist ein Dorf, das an unsere Datschen-siedlung angrenzt. Ein richtiges Dorf mit Holzhäusern, aus Balken, die im Laufe der Zeit dunkel geworden sind. Das Dorf hat geschnitzte Fensterläden, Palisadenzäune, Vorgärten, ein ma-lerisches Flüsschen, Gänse, ausspuckende Männer und herumschreiende Frauen. Nach der Perestroika begann man, diese herum-schreienden Frauen >Farmerinnen< zu nennen. Sie brachten ihre selbstangebauten und -hergestellten Lebensmittel zu unserer Siedlung: Milch, Quark, Eier, Gemüse. Ich hatte schnell herausgefunden, bei wem man etwas kaufen konnte und bei wem nicht. Alles hängt vom >menschlichen Faktor< ab. Die sehnige Olga kaufte den Quark in der ganzen Gegend auf, er wurde bei ihr sauer, dann legte sie zweihundert Gramm frischen Quark obenauf und trug ihn aus. Die Leute probierten von oben — man wühlt ja nicht mit dem Finger bis in die Tiefe — und kauften voller Begeisterung die ganze Portion. In der Kü-che kippten sie den Quark in eine Schüssel. Dann kam das, was unten war, nach oben, stinkend und gesundheitsschädlich. Was kann man da sagen? Die kurzsichtige Olga kannte die Gesetze des Marktes nicht. Ein zweites Mal kaufte natürlich niemand mehr bei ihr. Und selbst wenn sie nun gute Sahne brachte und frische Eier, so jagte man sie doch mit deutlichen Worten von der Schwelle. Olga hatte so etwas wie Wett-bewerb nicht in ihre Rechnung mit einbezogen. Sie handelte nach dem Gesetz der Zieselmaus: raf-fen und ab in die Höhle. In der Datschensiedlung wohnten zwar Leute aus der Intelligenzija, doch Dummköpfe waren sie deshalb noch lange nicht. Man konnte sie einmal anschmieren, aber öfter auch nicht. Dann kam die dicke Irka, die polternd einen eisernen Karren hinter sich herzog. In diesem Kar-ren lagen alle Gemüse der Saison. Ihre Ware war nicht schlecht, doch ihre Preise hatten eine Null zu viel. Wenn ein Kilo Kartoffeln auf dem Markt zehn Rubel kostete, dann kostete es bei Irka hundert. »Na, nimm doch gleich tausend«, schlug ich vor. Irka sah mir misstrauisch ins Gesicht. »Na und?«, sagte ich weiter in naivem Ton. »Wenn einer Geld hat, was für einen Unterschied macht es da schon, wie viel er zahlt: ob hundert oder tausend?“
God is my father, With his big brown lovely eyes, The strict laws of my mother, To grow up good, nice and humble! Demanding school grades with only straight A’s!
God swims like a rolling fish, Diverse of dolphins
Yesterday, He sneezed within me, God and his kissable mouth, Smiling with a wide-open heart!
God never cheats, Never rapes, Never hates
Sings in Hindi, Persian and Russian, Latin, Swahili and Sindi! Can be understood in Semitic languages, Arabic and Hebrew!
God walks in kimonos, Sophisticated and elegant Smells like iris and talks like English
He is a little Chinese village-man, Rejecting the ism He reborn the angels, As they sing the symphony of cotton fields, A freedom’s journey, An escape from unformed yellow seeds
Crystal hands, crystal stars, Crystal green gardens, And my crystal laughter, Essentializes the whole poem of life.
“They are watching it on the screen with their after-dinner coffee cups beside them. It is Bosnia or Somalia or the earthquake shaking a Japanese island between apocalytic teeth like a dog; whatever were the disasters of that time. When the intercom buzzes each looks to the other with a friendly reluctance; you go, your turn. It’s part of the covenant of living together. They made the decision to give up the house and move into this townhouse complex with grounds maintained and security-monitored entrance only recently and they are not yet accustomed, or rather are inclined momentarily to forget that it’s not the barking of Robbie and the old-fangled ring of the front door bell that summons them, now. No pets allowed in the complex, but luckily there was the solution that theirs could go to their son who has a garden cottage. He, she–twitch of a smile, he got himself up with langhuor directed at her and went to lift the nearest receiver. Who, she half-heard him say, half-listening to the commentary following the images, Who. It could be someone wanting to convert to some religious sect, or the delivery of a summons for a parking offence, casual workers did this, moon-lighting. He said something else she didn’t catch but she heard the purr of the electronic release button. What he said then was, Do you know who a Julian-somebody might be? Friend of Duncan? He, she–they didn’t, either of them. Nothing unusual about that, Duncan, twenty-seven years old, had his own circle just as his parents had theirs, and these intersected only occasionally where interests, inculcated in him as a child by his parents, met. What does he want? Just said to speak to us. Both at the same instant were touched by a live voltage of alarm. What is there to fear, defined in the known context of a twenty-seven-year-old in this city–a car crash, a street mugging, a violent break-in at the cottage. Both stood at the door, confronting these, confronting the footsteps they heard approaching their private paved path beneath the crossed swords of Strelitzia leaves, the signal of the second buzzer, and this young man, come from? for? Duncan. He stared at the floor as he came in, so they couldn’t read him. He sat down without a word.”
Tho’ rapture wantons in your air, Tho’ beyond simile you’re fair, Free, affable, serene; Yet still one attribute divine Should in your composition shine– Sincerity, I mean.
Tho’ num’rous swains before you fall, ‘Tis empty admiration all, ‘Tis all that you require; How momentary are their chains! Like you, how unsincere the strains Of those who but admire!
Accept, for once, advice from me, And let the eye of censure see Maria can be true; No more for fools or empty beaux, Heav’n’s representatives disclose, Or butterflies pursue.
Fly to your worthiest lover’s arms, To him resign your swelling charms, And meet his gen’rous breast; Or if Pitholeon suits your taste, His muse with tattr’d fragments graced, Shall read your cares to rest.
Thomas Chatterton (20 november 1752 – 5 augustus 1770) Standbeeld in Bristol
A wave boils with its foam, freezing, And dissipates – just only once, A heart could not to live with treason. No treason! Love is one for us!
We may be angry, may be reasoned, Or false – but heart did not decline To black adultery, to treason: Our soul is one – our love is one.
In its monotony and emptiness, All life could usually be gone… And in this life as long as endless, Our love is one, yes, always one.
Helplessness
I look at a sea – the greedy one and fervent, Chained to the earth, on the depleted shore… Stand by a gulf – over the endless heavens, And could not fly to azure, as before.
I didn’t decide to join or slaves, or rebels, Have no a courage nor to live, nor – die… I feel my God – but cannot say my prayers, I want my love – but can’t find love of mine.
I send to sun my worship and my groan, I see a sheet of clouds, pale and cold… What is a truth? It seems to me, I know, – But for the truth I have not the right world.
Vertaald door Yevgeny Bonver
Zinaida Hippius (20 november 1869 – 9 september 1945)
Uit:Niels Holgersson’s wonderbare reis (Vertaald door Margaretha Meijboom)
“Hij las een paar regels, maar toen keek hij toevallig op. Daardoor viel zijn oog op den spiegel, en toen riep hij hardop: ‘Kijk, daar is er nog een!’ Want in den spiegel zag hij duidelijk een klein, klein kaboutertje, gekleed met een slaapmutsje en een leeren broek aan. ‘Die is precies gekleed als ik,’ zei de jongen, en sloeg de handen in elkaar van verbazing. Maar toen zag hij, dat de kabouter in den spiegel hetzelfde deed. Toen begon hij zich aan de haren te trekken en zich in de armen te knijpen en rond te draaien, en oogenblikkelijk deed hij daar in den spiegel het hem na. De jongen sprong een paar keer rond, om te zien of er een of ander klein kereltje achter hem stond. Maar hij vond niemand – en toen begon hij van schrik te beven. Want nu begreep hij, dat de kabouter hem betooverd had, en dat de kabouter, dien hij daar in den spiegel zag, niemand anders was dan hijzelf. *** De jongen kon maar niet gelooven, dat hij in een kabouter veranderd was. ‘’t Is zeker maar een droom – of verbeelding,’ dacht hij. ‘Als ik even wacht, word ik wel weer een mensch.’ Hij ging voor den spiegel staan, en sloot de oogen. Hij opende ze eerst na een paar minuten, en verwachtte toen, dat het weer over zou zijn. Maar dat was niet zoo: hij was en bleef even klein. Overigens was hij precies, zooals hij geweest was. Het lichte vlashaar en de zomersproeten op neus en lippen, de lappen op zijn leeren broek en de stoppen in zijn kousen, alles was precies eender; alleen was alles kleiner geworden. Neen, stil te staan en te wachten tot het overging, dat diende nergens voor; dat merkte hij wel. Hij moest wat anders probeeren. En het verstandigste wat hij doen kon, was, meende hij, den kabouter op te zoeken en zich met hem te verzoenen.”
Selma Lagerlöf (20 november 1858 – 16 maart 1940) Geïllustreerde uitgave
»Jetzt blicken wir uns in die Augen. Vor uns ziehen die gleichen Bilder aus der Vergangenheit vorüber.. . Vor zehn Jahren.. . Ich, eine blutjunge Anfängerin, gebe ihm, einem Analphabeten, einem Bürschchen, das gerade aus seinem tatarischen Dorf in die Stadt gekommen ist, Unterricht. Dieses Bürschchen ist heute Sekretär des Bezirkskomitees~.~
(…)
»Wieviel einfacher und leichter wäre für mich alles gewesen, wenn es die Gestapo gewesen wäre! Ich wußte ganz genau, wie sich ein Kommunist zu benehmen hatte, der ihr in die Hände fiel. Aber hier? Hier mußte man – ~ -~ sich erst einmal klarmachen, wer die Menschen waren, die. einen gefangen hielten. Waren es verkleidete Faschisten: oder waren es Opfer eines ungeheuren Betrugs, einer raffinierten Intrige? Und wie hatte sich ein Kommunist in seinem eigenen Gefängnis zu verhalten.. .?
„Katharina wuchs im Hochschwarzwald auf. Elf Bauernhöfe auf 1100 Meter Höhe, eine Kapelle, ein Lebensmittelgeschäft, das nur montags geöffnet hatte. Sie wohnten im letzten Gebäude, einem dreistöckigen Hof mit heruntergezogenem Dach. Es war das Elternhaus ihrer Mutter. Hinter dem Hof war der Wald und dahinter waren die Felsen und dahinter war wieder der Wald. Sie war das einzige Kind im Dorf. Der Vater war Prokurist einer Papierfabrik, die Mutter Lehrerin. Beide arbeiteten unten in der Stadt. Katharina ging nach der Schule oft zur Firma des Vaters, sie war damals elf Jahre alt. Sie saß im Büro, wenn er über Preise, Rabatte und Liefertermine verhandelte, sie hörte bei seinen Telefonaten zu, er erklärte ihr alles so lange, bis sie es verstand. In den Ferien nahm er sie mit auf Geschäftsreisen, sie packte seine Koffer, legte seine Anzüge raus und wartete im Hotel, bis er von den Terminen zurückkam. Mit dreizehn war sie einen halben Kopf größer als er, sie war sehr schmal, ihre Haut hell, ihre Haare fast schwarz. Ihr Vater nannte sie Schneewittchen, er lachte, wenn jemand sagte, er habe eine sehr junge Frau geheiratet. Zwei Wochen nach Katharinas vierzehntem Geburtstag schneite es das erste Mal in diesem Jahr. Es war sehr hell und sehr kalt. Vor dem Haus lagen die neuen Holzschindeln, der Vater wollte das Dach noch vor dem Winter ausbessern. Wie jeden Morgen fuhr sie mit der Mutter zur Schule. Vor ihnen war ein Lastwagen. Die Mutter hatte den ganzen Morgen nicht gesprochen. »Dein Vater hat sich in eine andere Frau verliebt«, sagte sie jetzt. Auf den Bäumen lag Schnee und auf den Felsen lag Schnee. Sie überholten den Lastwagen, auf der Seite stand »Südfrüchte«, jeder Buchstabe in einer anderen Farbe. »In seine Sekretärin«, sagte die Mutter. Sie fuhr zu schnell. Katharina kannte die Sekretärin, sie war immer freundlich gewesen. Der Vater hatte ihr nichts gesagt, nur daran konnte sie noch denken. Sie drückte ihre Fingernägel in die Schultasche, bis es weh tat. Der Vater zog in ein Haus in der Stadt. Katharina sah ihn nicht mehr. Ein halbes Jahr später wurden Bretter vor die Fenster des Hofs genagelt, das Wasser wurde aus den Rohren gelassen und der Strom abgestellt. Die Mutter und Katharina zogen nach Bonn, dort lebten Verwandte. Katharina brauchte ein Jahr, um sich den Dialekt abzugewöhnen. Für die Schülerzeitung schrieb sie politische Aufsätze. Als sie sechzehn war, druckte eine lokale Tageszeitung ihren ersten Text. Sie beobachtete sich bei allem, was sie tat.“
De Amerikaanse schrijver Don DeLillo werd op 20 november 1936 geboren in New York City als zoon van Italiaanse immigranten. Zie ook alle tags voor Don DeLillo op dit blog.
Uit: White Noise
“We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides — pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book. “No one sees the barn,” he said finally. A long silence followed. “Once you’ve seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn.” He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others. We’re not here to capture an image, we’re here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies.” There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides. “Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We’ve agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism.” Another silence ensued. “They are taking pictures oftaking pictures,” he said. He did not speak for a while. We listened to the incessant clicking of shutter release buttons, the rustling crank of levers that advanced the film. “What was the barn like before it was photographed?’ he said. “What did it look like, how was it different from the other barns, how was it similar to other barns?”
Uit: Leise Musik hinter der Wand (Vertaald door Angelika Schneider)
„In seiner Jugend hatte der Großvater gesungen: ›Gott, schütze den Zaren‹, als Erwachsener musste er singen: ›Wir stammen alle aus dem Volke‹. Aber was war schon dabei? Der Großvater hatte ein gutes Gehör und eine schöne Stimme und wurde sogar zum Vorsänger bestimmt. Die Eltern der Großmutter waren Großgrundbesitzer gewesen. Nach der Revolution sagte die Großmutter immer, dass sie Landwirte waren. Das war gelogen, aber nicht ganz. Ein gut ausgebildeter Großgrundbesitzer kannte sich mit Landwirtschaft aus, und so waren sie, in gewissem Maße, tatsächlich Landwirte. Den Familiennamen Scheremetjew verkürzten sie um ein Drittel, so entstand der Name Schermet. Ein guter Name, der in den Arbeiter- und Bauernstaat passte. Ariadna wurde auf den Nachnamen Schermet eingetragen, da der biologische Vater nicht anwesend war. Es hatte ihn natürlich einmal gegeben, aber man hatte ihn, da er aus dem einfachen Volk war, aus der Familie gedrängt. Der Vater hieß Alik. Jedes Mal, wenn sie sich zu Tisch setzten, hatte Alik den Platz des Großvaters eingenommen. Die Großmutter hatte sich darüber aufgeregt und gesagt: »Setzen Sie sich auf Ihren Platz«, worauf Alik verwundert die Brauen hochgezogen und gefragt hatte: »Ist es denn nicht völlig egal, wo man sich hinhockt?« Die Großmutter hatte schwer aufgeseufzt. Ihr war klar geworden, dass es in Aliks Familie keinerlei Traditionen gab und dass Alik selbst ohne anständige Herkunft, sozusagen ohne Stammbaum, war. Anständig essen konnte er auch nicht. Er wusste mit dem Besteck nicht richtig umzugehen und verschlang das Essen derart schnell, als hätte er Angst, dass man es ihm wegnähme. Zudem trank er den Tee aus der Untertasse, ja er schlürfte ihn geradezu wie aus einer Pfütze.“
Uit: Alle meine Feinde und andere Erzählungen (Vertaald door Angelika Schneider)
„Ich sagte zu ihr: »Heirate den bloß nicht.« »Er hat mich auch gar nicht gefragt«, beruhigte mich Lisa. Das hieß, das Kind würde bei mir aufwachsen. Und Lisa wäre frei wie der Wind. Aber ich fand eine Kinderfrau. Sie hieß Anna Fjodorowna Strelzowa. Anna Fjodorowna, Rufname: Anka. Sie erledigte alles schnell und zuverlässig, war einfach wie geschaffen für diese Dinge. Ich bin Künstlerin. Und nur das. Hausarbeit deprimiert mich, ja sie bringt mich um. Das, wofür ich einen ganzen Tag brauchen würde, erledigte Anka in vierzig Minuten. Wenn sie nur erschien, wurde es sonniger ringsum. Mit leichten, schnellen Bewegungen legte sie die Dinge an ihren Platz zurück. Sie schaffte Sauberkeit und Ordnung, schon allein durch ihre Anwesenheit Und erst ihre Krautwickel – das waren echte Kunstwerke. Es tat einem geradezu leid, sie aufzuessen. Klein, sorgfältig zubereitet, schön anzusehen, mit einer besonderen Soße übergossen. Meine Krautwickel wurden immer groß wie ein Handteller. Ich drehte schon durch bei dieser Vielzahl von Vorbereitungen: erst das Hackfleisch anbraten, die Kohlblätter blanchieren, Reis kochen, Zwiebeln andünsten … Wie viel lieber würde ich in dieser Zeit eine flirrende Birke malen, mit geflecktem Stamm … Aber das Kochen war nur die eine Hälfte. Die Hauptsache war die Enkelin. Anka liebte meine Enkelin mit überirdischer Hingabe, und diese erwiderte ihre Liebe. Mein ganzes Haus war vom Boden bis zum Dach angefüllt mit idealer, gegenseitiger Liebe. Nur Anka konnte die Kleine füttern, beschäftigen, trösten, heilen und ihr etwas beibringen. Eines Tages wurde meine Enkelin krank. Das Fieber wollte einfach nicht sinken. Das ging so eine ganze Woche lang. Das Mädchen lag apathisch da und lutschte am Daumen. Da versank Anka in eine Depression, ja sie wollte nicht mehr leben. Aber dann, von einem Tag auf den anderen, fiel das Fieber, und Anka fasste frischen Mut, ihre Augen funkelten wieder wie zwei grüne Edelsteine. Das Leben kehrte ins Haus zurück.“
I dreamt that I was innocent my naked skin in touch with reality and my soul was in search to hear your -worldly- murmur: Peace
I offered you my love wrapped in honesty (pure to catch up with you) shrunk with disbelief
I -asking you: Know me
with your gorgeousness as you played with the waves breaking one after another taking them into your hands touching them one after another
I wanted to be called with your name: just
what color was Peace? the one you chose to paint me? the one you narrowed into my heart and nested in my grave, what color was it?
I am longing in my grave to receive the flowers with your hand written note: rest-in-peace- Middle East
5.7
I don’t care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me… and the shoes however small… I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don’t need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.
I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.
Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.
And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.
And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.
The sounds of spring, Flying birds! The Mud, covering the ears! Number of points. Tears falling suffering, Not seeing Life, Living in self pity! Later to learn, To realize: It is called a journey of souls!
Rebecca
The whole world is a metaphor for something else! the sea, the sand, the voice of soft drinks. Quiet voices. The dark curly hair, long, black, soft playing with the rhythm remedy, remedy. Suddenly I saw her In front of me, standing brown and tall, and as I watched her walk through me, Her eyes asked: What’s up? Haven’t seen me before? and I fell in love with her mouth, with her sight. I blushed. My inspiration what to do? to do? Talk? Walk? Make love? The wind, the wind. Looking at her, The moon, the moon. The face, her face Spreading like a vine. Sublime idea! Cold dust, sweat. To write a poem, a world of words the shore of love. Shalom.
“Marais Van der Vyver shot one of his farm labourers, dead.
An accident. There are accidents with guns every day of the week: children playing a fatal game with a father’s revolver in the cities where guns are domestic objects, and hunting mishaps like this one, in the country. But these won’t be reported all over the world. Van der Vyver knows his will be. He knows that the story of the Afrikaner farmer – a regional Party leader and Commandant of the local security commando – he, shooting a black man who worked for him will fit exactly their version of South Africa. It’s made for them. They’ll be able to use it in their boycott and divestment campaigns. It’ll be another piece of evidence in their truth about the country. The papers at home will quote the story as it has appeared in the overseas press, and in the back-and-forth he and the black man will become those crudely-drawn figures on anti-apartheid banners, units in statistics of white brutality against the blacks quoted at United Nations – he, whom they will gleefully call ‘a leading member’ of the ruling Party.People in the farming community understand how he must feel. Bad enough to have killed a man, without helping the Party’s,the government’s, the country’s enemies, as well.They see the truth of that. They know, reading the Sunday papers, that when Van der Vyver is quoted saying he is ’terribly shocked’, he will ‘look after the wife and children’, none of those Americans and English, and none of those people at home who want to destroy the white man’s power will believe him. And how they will sneer when he even says of the farm boy (according to one paper, if you can trust any of those reporters), ‘He was my friend. I always took him hunting with me: Those city and overseas people don’t know it’s true: farmers usually have one particular black boy they like to take along with them in the lands: you could call it a kind of friend, yes, friends are not only your own white people, like yourself, you take into your house, pray with in church and work with on the Party committee. But how can those others”
