Henry Handel Richardson, Xavier Orville, Jacob Balde, Wolf von Aichelburg, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher

De Australische schrijfster Henry Handel Richardson (eig. Ethel Florence) werd geboren op 3 januari 1870 in Melbourne. Zie ook alle tags voor Henry Handel Richardson op dit blog.

Uit:The Getting of Wisdom

“And Laura? … In Laura’s case, no kindly Atropos snipped the thread of her aspirations:these, large, vague, extemporary, one and all achieved fulfilment; then withered off to make room for more. But this, the future still securely hid from her She went out from school with the uncomfortable sense of being a square peg, which fitted into none of the round holes of her world; the wisdom she had got, the experience she was richer by, had, in the process of equipping her for life, merely seemed to disclose her unfitness. She could notthen know that, even for the squarest peg, the right hole may ultimately be found; seeming unfitness prove to be only another aspect of a peculiar and special fitness. But, of the after years, and what they brought her, it is not the purport of this little book to tell. It is enough to say: many a day came and went before she grasped that, oftentimes, just those mortals who feel cramped and unsure in the conduct of everyday life, will find themselves to rights, with astounding ease, in that freer, more spacious world where no practical considerations hamper, and where the creatures that inhabit dance to their tune: the world where are stored up men’s best thoughts, the hopes, and fancies; where the shadow is the substance, and the multitude of business pales before the dream.”

Henry Handel Richardson (3 januari 1870 – 20 maart 1946)
Henry Handel Richardson afdeling in het Chiltern Athenaeum Museum

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Henry Handel Richardson, Xavier Orville, Jacob Balde, Wolf von Aichelburg, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher

De Australische schrijfster Henry Handel Richardson (eig. Ethel Florence) werd geboren op 3 januari 1870 in Melbourne. Zie ook alle tags voor Henry Handel Richardson op dit blog.

Uit: Australia Felix

“That had been the hardest job of any: keeping the party together. They had only been eight in all–a hand-to-mouth number for a deep wet hole. Then, one had died of dysentery, contracted from working constantly in water up to his middle; another had been nabbed in a manhunt and clapped into the “logs.” And finally, but a day or two back, the three men who completed the nightshift had deserted for a new “rush” to the Avoca. Now, his pal had gone, too. There was nothing left for him, Long Jim, to do, but to take his dish and turn fossicker; or even to aim no higher than washing over the tailings rejected by the fossicker.
At the thought his tears flowed anew. He cursed the day on which he had first set foot on Ballarat.
“It’s ‘ell for white men–‘ell, that’s what it is!”
“‘Ere, ‘ave another drink, matey, and fergit yer bloody troubles.”
His re-filled pannikin drained, he grew warmer round the heart; and sang the praises of his former life. He had been a lamplighter in the old country, and for many years had known no more arduous task than that of tramping round certain streets three times daily, ladder on shoulder, bitch at heel, to attend the little flames that helped to dispel the London dark.”

Henry Handel Richardson (3 januari 1870 – 20 maart 1946)

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J.R.R. Tolkien, Marie Darrieussecq, Alex Wheatle, Cicero, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher

De Engelse schrijver J.R.R. Tolkien werd geboren op 3 januari 1892 in Bloemfontein, Zuid-Afrika. Zie ook alle tags voor J.R.R. Tolkien op dit blog.

Uit: The Lord of the Rings

Roads Go Ever On

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.”

J.R.R. Tolkien (3 januari 1892 – 2 september 1973)

Lees verder “J.R.R. Tolkien, Marie Darrieussecq, Alex Wheatle, Cicero, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher”

Henry Handel Richardson, Wolf von Aichelburg, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher, Charles Palissot de Montenoy

De Australische schrijfster Henry Handel Richardson (eig. Ethel Florence) werd geboren op 3 januari 1870 in Melbourne. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2010.


Uit: The Way Home


When, having braved the bergs and cyclones of the desolate South Pacific, and rounded the Horn; having lain becalmed in the Doldrums, bartered Cross for Plough, and snatched a glimpse of the Western Isles: when the homeward-bound vessel is come level with Finisterre and begins to skirt the Bay, those aboard her get the impression of passing at one stroke into home waters. Gone alike are polar blasts and perfumed or desert-dry breezes; gone opalescent dawns, orange-green sunsets, and

nights when the very moon shines warm, the black mass of ocean sluggish as pitch. The region the homing wanderer now enters is quick with associations. These tumbling crested marbled seas, now slate-grey, now of a cold ultramarine, seem but the offings of those that wash his native shores; and they are peopled for him by the saltwater ghosts of his ancestors, the great navigators, who traced this road through the high seas on their voyages of adventure and discovery. The fair winds that belly the sails, or the head winds that thwart the vessel’s progress, are the romping south-west gales adrip with moisture, or the bleak north-easters which scour his island home and make it one of the windy corners of the world. Not a breath of balmy softness remains.

There is a rawness in the air, a keener, saltier tang; the sad-coloured sky broods low, or is swept by scud that flies before the wind; trailing mists blot out the horizon. And these and other indelible memories beginning to pull at his heartstrings, it is over with his long patience. After tranquilly enduring the passage of some fifteen thousand watery miles, he now falls to chafing, and to telling off the days that still divide him from port and home.“



Henry Handel Richardson (3 januari 1870 – 20 maart 1946)



Lees verder “Henry Handel Richardson, Wolf von Aichelburg, Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher, Charles Palissot de Montenoy”

Elsa Asenijeff, John Gould Fletcher, Henry Handel Richardson, Charles Palissot de Montenoy, Douglas Jerrold, Heinrich Wilhelm von Gerstenberg, Hermann von Weinsberg, Jacob Balde S.J.

De Oostenrijkse schrijfster Elsa Asenijeff (eig. Elsa Maria von Packeny) werd geboren op 3 januari 1867 in Wenen. Zij stamde uit een grootburgerlijke familie. Na haar huwelijk met de Bulgaarse diplomaat Nestoroff in 1890 leefde zij enige jaren in diens vaderland. Toen haar zoon Asan stierf nam zij diens naam aan als pseudoniem. In 1896 scheidde zij en studeerde zij een paar semesters filosofie en nationale economie in Leipzig. In 1898 ontmoette zij de schilder en beeldhouwer Max Klinger. Zij werd voor lange tijd zijn geliefde en model. In 1900 werd hun dochter Desirée geboren. Het paar ging in 1914 uit elkaar. De rest van haar leven bracht Asenijeff in psychiatrische ziekenhuizen door.


Uit: Tagebuchblätter einer Emancipierten


„Nun sind endlich die Ferien zu Ende und ich bin wieder in Leipzig. Bereits immatrikuliert. Das alte, verhängnisvolle Erkenntnisfieber schüttelt mich. Wollen sehen, ob es anhält. Möchte wissen, ob irgend etwas anhalten kann bei uns Stimmungsmenschen von heute. Wir sind doch schändliche Lotterleute, wir Modernen. So ohne Rückgrat; immer platscht die Gallerte nach irgend einer Seite auseinander. Wie ich nur so albern sprechen kann. Ich bin doch ein Weib, in uns steckt noch viel gesunde Kraft, viel Wollen. Doch auch viele Müdigkeit, auch in uns. Hass, Zorn gegen all das, was das Leben so schmutzig macht. Unser moralisches Reinlichkeitsgefühl empört sich dagegen. Wir haben nicht mehr das gute Gewissen der Barbaren. (Obwohl wir noch selbst solche sind.) Ja, das gute Gewissen! Das ist alles! Morde einen im guten Gewissen und du bist ein Held. (Jeder brave Krieger denkt so.) Nur uns Frauen, die wir die Leben-Gebenden sind, schaudert davor. Und der Spekulant, der sich hinaufschwindelt zur Höhe seiner Millionen – was half ihm? Dass er vom Luxus des guten Gewissens absah. Es gibt aber heute Menschen, die schon so gut sind, dass vieles Unedle unserer heutigen Gesellschaft sie quält. Mit der krankhaften Feinheit ihres Empfindens zittern sie in seelischem Unbehagen vor allem Rohen unserer Zeit. Der Anarchist, welcher tötet, der Krieger, welcher tötet, der Räuber, welcher tötet, sind ihnen ein gleiches Grauen. Ach! wann wird endlich Menschenblut heilig sein! Welcher, in dessen Händen die Macht ist, wird der Edle sein, der alles Lebende auf edle Weise schützt! Und Schacher und Wucher und Weiberraub und Sklaverei und Hinterlist und Wortbruch – all’ das sind wir, wir Menschen, die so gerne in schönen Gefühlen leben! Aber ein Trost: unser gequältes Gewissen. Sobald wir unser Böse-Sein in zarter Empfindsamkeit tadeln, lugt unsere mahnende Sehnsucht schon nach Besserung aus.“



Elsa Asenijeff (3 januari 1867 – 5 april 1941)
Geschilderd door Max Klinger, 1903/04


De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver John Gould Fletcher werd geboren op 3 januari 1886 in Little Rock, Arkansas. Van 1903 tot 1907 bezocht hij Harvard University.  Voor een groot deel van zijn leven woonde Fletcher in Engeland, waar hij omging met Amy Lowell, Ezra Pound en andere dichters van het Imagisme. In 1939 ontving hij de Pulitzer Prize voor Collected Poems. In de jaren 1920 en 1930 – hij was terug in de VS – werd hij actief in de groep genaamd Southern Agrarians. Deze groep verwierp de moderniteit enm de industrialisatie. In 1947 publiceerde hij een geschiedenis van de staat Arkansas.




At the first hour, it was as if one said, “Arise.”
At the second hour, it was as if one said, “Go forth.”
And the winter constellations that are like patient ox-eyes
Sank below the white horizon at the north.

At the third hour, it was as if one said, “I thirst”;
At the fourth hour, all the earth was still:
Then the clouds suddenly swung over, stooped, and burst;
And the rain flooded valley, plain and hill.

At the fifth hour, darkness took the throne;
At the sixth hour, the earth shook and the wind cried;
At the seventh hour, the hidden seed was sown;
At the eighth hour, it gave up the ghost and died.

At the ninth hour, they sealed up the tomb;
And the earth was then silent for the space of three hours.
But at the twelfth hour, a single lily from the gloom
Shot forth, and was followed by a whole host of flowers.


John Gould Fletcher (3 januari 1886 – 20 mei 1950)


De Australische schrijfster Henry Handel Richardson (eig. Ethel Florence) werd geboren op 3 januari 1870 in Melbourne. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009.


Uit: Australia Felix


“In a shaft on the Gravel Pits, a man had been buried alive. At work in a deep wet hole, he had recklessly omitted to slab the walls of a drive; uprights and tailors yielded under the lateral pressure, and the rotten earth collapsed, bringing down the roof in its train. The digger fell forward on his face, his ribs jammed across his pick, his arms pinned to his sides, nose and mouth pressed into the sticky mud as into a mask; and over his defenceless body, with a roar that burst his ear-drums, broke stupendous masses of earth.

His mates at the windlass went staggering back from the belch of violently discharged air: it tore the wind-sail to strips, sent stones and gravel flying, loosened planks and props. Their shouts drawing no response, the younger and nimbler of the two — he was a mere boy, for all his amazing growth of beard — put his foot in the bucket and went down on the rope, kicking off the sides of the shaft with his free foot. A group of diggers, gathering round the pit-head, waited for the tug at the rope. It was quick in coming; and the lad was hauled to the surface. No hope: both drives had fallen in; the bottom of the shaft was blocked. The crowd melted with a “Poor Bill — God rest his soul!” or with a silent shrug. Such accidents were not infrequent; each man might thank his stars it was not he who lay cooling down below. And so, since no more washdirt would be raised from this hole, the party that worked it made off for the nearest grog-shop, to wet their throats to the memory of the dead, and to discuss future plans.”



Henry Handel Richardson (3 januari 1870 – 20 maart 1946)


De Franse dichter en schrijver Charles Palissot de Montenoy werd geboren in Nancy op 3 januari 1730. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009.


Uit: Petites Lettres Sur De Grands Philosophes



Depuis quelques années, madame, il s’ est formé dans cette capitale une association entre plusieurs gens de lettres, les uns d’ un mérite reconnu, les autres d’ une réputation plus contestée, qui travaillent à ce fameux dictionnaire de toutes les connaissances : ouvrage qui en suppose beaucoup à ceux qui le rédigent. Personne n’ a peut-être plus de vénération que moi pour les mains laborieuses qui construisent ce pénible monument à la gloire de l’ esprit humain.

Tous ces messieurs se disent philosophes, et quelques-uns le sont.

Mais parmi ceux même d’ entre eux à qui l’ on accorde le plus de talens, on est fâché d’ avouer qu’ il s’ en trouve qui ont presque rendu le mérite et la raison haïssables dans leurs écrits.

Ils ont annoncé la vérité, ou ce qu’ ils ont pris pour elle, avec un faste qu’ elle n’ eut jamais. On vit à la

tête de quelques productions philosophiques, un ton d’ autorité et de décision, qui, jusqu’ à présent,

n’ avait appartenu qu’ à la chaire. On transporta à des traités de morale, ou à des spéculations métaphysiques, un langage que l’ on eût condamné, par-tout ailleurs, comme celui du fanatisme. j’ ai vécu, disait l’ un ; j’ écris de Dieu, disait fastueusement l’ autre ; jeune homme, prends et lis, écrivait-il encore ; ô homme ! écoute, voici ton histoire, s’ écriait un troisième.“



Charles Palissot de Montenoy (3 januari 1730 – 15 juni 1814)


De Engelse schrijver Douglas William Jerrold werd geboren op 3 januari 1803 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009.


Uit: Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures


It has happened to the writer that two, or three, or ten, or twenty gentlewomen have asked him–and asked in various notes of wonder, pity, and reproof –

“What could have made you think of Mrs. Caudle?

“How could such a thing have entered any man’s mind?”

There are subjects that seem like rain drops to fall upon a man’s head, the head itself having nothing to do with the matter.  The result of no train of thought, there is the picture, the statue, the book, wafted, like the smallest seed, into the brain to feed upon the soil, such as it may be, and grow there.  And this was, no doubt, the accidental cause of the literary sowing and expansion–unfolding like a night-flower–of MRS. CAUDLE.

But let a jury of gentlewomen decide.

It was a thick, black wintry afternoon, when the writer stopt in the front of the playground of a suburban school.  The ground swarmed with boys full of the Saturday’s holiday.  The earth seemed roofed with the oldest lead, and the wind came, sharp as Shylock’s knife, from the Minories.  But those happy boys ran and jumped, and hopped, and shouted, and–unconscious men in miniature!–in their own world of frolic, had no thought of the full-length men they would some day become; drawn out into grave citizenship; formal, respectable, responsible.  To them the sky was of any or all colours; and for that keen east wind–if it was called the east wind–cutting the shoulder- blades of old, old men of forty –they in their immortality of boyhood had the redder faces, and the nimbler blood for it.

And the writer, looking dreamily into that playground, still mused on the robust jollity of those little fellows, to whom the tax-gatherer was as yet a rarer animal than baby hippopotamus.  Heroic boyhood, so ignorant of the future in the knowing enjoyment of the present!  And the writer still dreaming and musing, and still following no distinct line of thought, there struck upon him, like notes of sudden household music, these words–CURTAIN LECTURES.“



Douglas Jerrold (3 januari 1803 – 8 juni 1857)
Portret door Sir Daniel Macnee


De Duitse dichter, schrijver en criticus Heinrich Wilhelm von Gerstenberg werd geboren op 3 januari 1737 in Tondern, Schleswig. Hij studeerde rechten in Jena en nam daarna dienst in het Deense leger. Na de veldtocht tegen de Russen verbleef hij twaalf jaar in Kopenhagen, waar hij Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock ontmoette. Van 1775 tot 1783 was hij vertegenwoordiger van Denemarken in Lübeck. Als criticus formuleerde hij de uitgangspunten van de Sturm und Drang en trachtte hij zijn lezers enthousiast te krijgen voor het werk van Shakespeare.


Der Knabe


Du Amme mußt das Mädchen strafen;

Ich leide sie, das sag ich dir,

Nicht in dem Bette mehr bey mir.

Nur immer seh ich hin nach ihr,

Und kann dafür nicht schlafen!



An den Maler


Diese Spröde male mir,

Wie sich Amor neben ihr

Auf ein duftend Veilchen setzt,

Wie er seine Pfeile wetzt,

Wie er ihre Brust verletzt,

Wie er schnell ihr Herz bekehrt,

Und sie schnell mich küssen lehrt:

Aber ach! das kannst du nicht! –

Ach! das kann ja Amor nicht!



Heinrich Wilhelm von Gerstenberg (3 januari 1737 – 1 november 1823)



De Duitse schrijver en jurist Hermann von Weinsberg werd geboren op 3 januari 1518 in Keulen. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009.


Uit: Liber Senectutis


Anno 1587 den 1. janvarii uff donnerstag newjars tag genant bin ich nach miner swacheit alß ich noch allerding gesont ware zum andern auß dem hauß in die kirch s. Jacob gangen und da die hoemiß gehoirt, godt gelobt und gedanckt und vor alle waß selich und gut were gebitten, denselben tag fort still gewest biß uff den abendt, do die portion mit gebrait gebessert wein geschenckt frolich gewest und daß newe jar mit ihesu besneidung angefangen.

Dieweil ich aber ihn etlichen verlitten jaren den haußgnosen zu Weinsbergh uff dissen tag ein neu jar in minem leben geschenckt, deß sie nach minem absterben zu gutter ermanung und warnong zum besten sulten gedencken, so wult ich es dißmail nit gern achter weghenlaissen und glichfalß ein newjar schencken. Waß es aber sin sult dar umb hab ich mich bekommert. Und hab gedacht daß nach minem abscheiden zwischn den haußgnoissen zu Weinsbergh nitzs erlichen nutzer und leiblicher were dan eindragt, derhalb ich innen gern etwaß zun neuwen jar willen geben, dar bei sie an die eindracht gedachten und die fest underhilten, es heischt aber eindragt zu latin concordia seu unanimitas, einhertzigheit da die hertzer aller hausgnoissen eineß sinß, meinong, und sitten im gutten, erlichen, und nutzsten weren.”



Hermann von Weinsberg (3 januari 1518 – 23 maart 1597)
1540, 22 jaar oud, kunstenaar onbekend


De Duitse dichter en schrijver Johann Jacob Balde S.J. werd geboren op 3 januari 1604 in Ensisheim in de Elzas. Zie ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 3 januari 2009.


Ehrenpreiß (Fragment)


Ach! wie lang hab ich schon begert

Maria dich zuloben:

Nit zwar als wie du wirst verehrt

Im hohen Himmel oben.

Diß wer umbsonst/ mein gringe Kunst

Wirdt an der Harpffen hangen:

Und dises Lied mit gantzem Gmüt

Tieff in dem Baß anfangen.



Demütig sey von mir gegrüßt/

Nimb gnädig an diß grüssen:

Von der sovil der Gnaden flüßt/

Was jmmer her thut fliessen.

Der dich erwöhlt hat/ und gewölt/

An deinen Brüsten saugen:

So schön er ist/ so schön du bist/

Er scheint dir auß den Augen.


Jacob Balde (3 januari 1604 – 9 augustus 1668)