János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Pascal Rannou, Gerhard von Halem

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook alle tags voor János Arany op dit blog.

Uit: Toldi (Fragment)

But no, he does not care how it sifts the road
from end to end – through a tower of dust erected
by the wind, proud weapons glitter, proud troops
ascend. A cloud of sighs rises from his heart like
those hazy troops. And bending forward, he stares
and stares as though heart and soul were fixed
in his eyes.

‘Neat Hungarian cavaliers, shining knights! How beat
and bitter am I to see you. Where are you bound? How
far? Into battle? To gather flowers for a wreath of
glory? Are you riding against Tatars, Turks? To bid
them good night forever? Ah, if I too, I too were
only riding. Neat Hungarian cavaliers, shining knights!’

These were the thoughts that furrowed into Miklós
Toldi’s soul. His head churned, and his heart was
wrung with sadness because he too was the son of a
knight. György, his false brother, was reared as
a companion of the royal heir. He lives it up in
the royal court while Miklós mows and rakes with
the hired hands.

Here they come, the mounted men of the Palatine
Laczfi, and at the head of his proud troops Endre
Laczfi himself. He sits with martial bearing on
his fallow horse, braids of gold on his robe. In
his train dashing young men ride in fancy saddles
on stamping stallions. Miklós stares and stares,
not knowing his eyes are sore for staring so hard.

 
János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882)
Portret door Barabás Miklós, 1856

Lees verder “János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Pascal Rannou, Gerhard von Halem”

János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Pascal Rannou, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook alle tags voor János Arany op dit blog.

Uit: Toldi (Fragment)

First Canto

‘He took in one hand an enormous rail
and pointed at the road to Buda.’
Ilosvai

The sun shrivels up the sparse alkali flats,
parched herds of grasshoppers are grazing about –
not a new blade in all the the stubble, not a handbreadth
in green in all the broad meadows. A dozen laborers
or so are snoring under the stack – all their work
is going fine, but the big haywagons loiter there,
empty or only half loaded with hay.

A lanky sweep dandles its skinny neck into the well
and spies for water – imagine a giant gnat sucking
the blood of old earth. Thirsty oxen mill around
the through, making war on an armyt of flies. But
lazybone Laczkó hangs on the hands, and who’s to scoop
the water up?

As far as the eye can see on bleak earth and sky,
one workman alone on his feet. A whopping side-
rail sways on his browny shoulder ligthly, and still
not a trace of beard on his chin. He stares far,
far down the road as though to depart this village
and land for other fields. A live warning, you
would have thought him, planted at the crossroad on
a shallow hill.

Dear little brother, why stand in the blazing sun?
Look, others are snoring under the hay. The kuvasz,
too, is lolling there his tounge dangling out, not
for all the world would he go a-mousing. Or have you
never seen a whirlwind like this? It kicks up the
dust for a fight, lickd the road at breakneck speed,
a smoke-stack belching on the run.

János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882)

Beeld in Boedapest

Lees verder “János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Pascal Rannou, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem”

János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem, Pascal Rannou

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook alle tags voor János Arany op dit blog.

 

Cosmopolitan poetry

I have no shame, no regret
That born Hungarian, I write
As one, that I can never let
My words beyond this soil take flight.
No ‘Wonder of two worlds,’ my song
If charm it has, is due to them,
My people; I am theirs, belong
To one land wholly, root and stem.

Let tongues of the mighty propagate
Their own language, sovereignty
Their god, a roaring flood in spate
That washes all, destructively.
But let the poet of a small nation
Placed in destruction’s very path,
Find at home his true station,
Death, else, the aftermath.

Or is our glory here so small
It needs must sink into the grave
Along with the nation? Do you call
Us inferior, that neighbours gave
No heed to us? Is there no test
Worthy of our strength at home,
Subject for song, no native quest?
Must we crave Albion’s loan?

Be a „world poet;” if you can,
Stir up the whole lazy west.
The cradle that rocked me Hungarian
Is one that I must still call blessed.
A thousand threads bind me – I deal
With motherland, with this one spot.
I sing of no abstract ideal,
Voice such, I’d rather not.

And what becomes of this sad mistake?
His race, his nationality
Have left a mark he cannot shake:
Will the great poet despise them, he?
I have scanned the pages of the best,
Contemporaries of mine as well;
All were mirrors, each confessed
People and land he alone could tell.

Pray do not think that a people stricken
Are extinguished, blotted out suddenly,
While poet and homeland in harmony quicken
With a national, endless melody.
And were you to picture some future danger,
Or should its semblance in fact appear,
Would you desert like any stranger
The holy flag, its peril near?

Oh, with a worthier lute to sing
As Homer did, a land reborn,
No longer a poet sorrowing
For a land of griefs now left forlorn.
But should its fate indeed be death,
Then let me be an Ossian dwelling
In a place that fades, no mongrel breath
Intoning, but a live song swelling.

Vertaald door Madeline Mason

 

János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882)

Portret door Miklós Barabás, 1894

Lees verder “János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem, Pascal Rannou”

János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem, Pascal Rannou

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2010.

 

In der Einsamkeit

 

Der Puls der Uhr tickt träge an der Wand,
unmeßbar dehnt die Zeit sich immer länger.
Es wacht die Sorge um das Vaterland
und zieht die Furchen auf den Stirnen enger.
Wie lange noch muß diese Welt gebären?
Wie grausam, Schicksal, kann dein Uhrwerk sein.
Ich kann den Zahnradgang der Räder hören,
doch sind nicht Zifferblatt noch Zeiger dein.

 

Sie kommt, sie kommt, auch Gott kann sie nicht halten,
wie Felsgeröll, das in den Abgrund fällt:
Ob Leben, Tod, Fluch oder Segen walten,
wer kann es sagen, wer auf dieser Welt?
Unschlüssig ist das Volk, die Denker mürbe,
der Zweifel drückt sie wie ein finstrer Bann.
Wenn doch die Frucht in deinem Schoße stürbe…
O Zeit, verweil, erbarm dich, halte an!

 

Oh unerträglich dieses Zweifels Qualen!
Man spürt des Würfelns fürchterliche Pein,
gern dehnten wir die Zeit, bevor sie fallen,
die Würfel, – sie entscheiden unser Sein.
Ein Schritt in qualmende Unendlichkeiten,
wo ineinanderwirbeln Sein und Tod.
Wir klammern uns an unsre Elendszeiten,
halt noch ein wenig, Strohhalm in der Not!

 

Wart noch – doch welches Zagen, welche Reue!
Fort, Angstgesichter, euch will ich nicht sehn!
Vernunft und wahre Patriotentreue,
macht das nicht Mut uns, alles zu bestehn?
Und kämpfen ohne Hoffnung, ohne Glauben
an einen Sieg, den keiner vor sich sieht?
Nein – betet, laßt die Kräfte euch nicht rauben
und stimmet an gestählt das Siegeslied.

 

Laß, Himmel, nicht Millionen von Gebeten
so ungehört zergehn in deinem Schoß!
Ist so viel Blut der Opfer denn vonnöten,
sinnlos versickernd, wo man es vergoß?
Wo tote Märtyrer dort in der stillen
Scholle verfaulen, muß das Leben neu
entstehn und immer weitre Kreise füllen!
Mein Land, vertrau der Zukunft und sei treu.

 

Nicht immer ist der Mensch des Schicksals Meister,
oft ist’s ein Weiser, manchmal auch ein Narr,
und ist die Hand ermattet, sind die Geister
der unheilvollen Nacht des Mitleids bar.
So läßt der Mensch sich wie eine Maschine
oft träge weitertreiben. Doch so wie
er zu sich kommt in seinem besten Sinne,
erwacht auch neue, höhre Harmonie.

 

Der Zeiten Flut läßt sich zurück nicht drängen,
sie zwingt und stößt uns vorwärts ohne Halt.
Nur an den Rändern bleiben Algen hängen,
und wendet rückwärts sich des Stroms Gewalt.
Getrost, uns trägt der Hauptstrom in die Weite,
und scheitert mancher auch an hartem Riff,
doch fliegend, mit den Ersten Seit an Seite
gebläht die Segel, vorwärts jagt das Schiff.

 

 

Vertaald door Annemarie Bostroem

 

 

János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882) 

Monument in Boedapest

 

Lees verder “János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem, Pascal Rannou”

Pascal Rannou, János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem

De Franse schrijver en letterkundige Pascal Rannou werd geboren op 2 maart 1958 in Laval. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

 

Uit: Noire la neige

 

«Lavaida !… Non, Alvaida !… Zut, Valaida !…» Trois frimousses pouffent de rire et se cachent derrière leurs pupitres relevés. Maîtresse n’en peut plus. «Bon sang ! A-t-on idée de donner à trois soeurs des prénoms si semblables ! Je m’y perds, moi ! Lavaida !» Le pupitre se baisse et l’aînée apparaît, joli visage long et bien dessiné, petit nez mutin et tresses bouclées.
«Oui, m’dame !
– Viens donc me faire cette division, que les autres comprennent !»
Le groupe se tait, car Lavaida est la plus avancée, et son intelligence impose le respect. L’école est une baraque de planches et de tôles, située dans les bas quartiers de Chicounago, faubourg de Chattanooga. C’est même curieux qu’il y ait une école. Quand elle a ouvert, les blancs du coin ont haussé les épaules : «Une école pour nègres ! Ça sert à rien, sont incapables d’apprendre à lire… tout juste bons à tapiner et à brailler leur damné blues», a éructé Jim Crow. Sûr que si les blancs avaient dû cracher au bassinet, il y aurait eu des manifs, et même des lynchages. Mais l’école est financée par un couple de philanthropes, des blancs, Mr et Mrs Lawson, un pasteur presbytérien et sa femme qui se sont un peu enrichis en étant les premiers, dans le Tennessee, à proposer des spectacles de cinéma ambulant. Le public se rassemble dans ces granges qu’on appelle Odeon Nickel, puisqu’on y entre pour quelques sous, et assiste le plus souvent debout aux projections. Les plus chanceux s’asseyent sur des bottes de paille, les enfants s’accroupissent au premier rang. Vers 1910, le cinéma est encore balbutiant, mais le public en raffole. Le pasteur noir, Mr Cooke, et parfois aussi Ma’, quand les tournées familiales lui en laissent le temps, accompagnent au piano les images muettes : films burlesques ou sentimentaux, actualités ou dessins animés. Quand Ma’ joue, on a le droit d’y aller. On est accroupies auprès d’elle, et le rythme sautillant des ragtimes nous ravit.“

 

Rannou

Pascal Rannou (Laval, 2 maart 1958)

 

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

 

Auf dem Friedhof

Hier ist das stille Gräberfeld,
wo Pietät die Wache hält,
sie schützt den Schlaf der Toten.
Die Hügel grünen in der Au,
die Nachwelt zahlt den Zoll genau
auf wohlbestelltem Boden.

Wohl ein Jahrhundert ist es jetzt,
seitdem man hier die Bäumchen setzt,
die mit den Blütenkerzen.
Grabkreuze werden aus dem Wald,
sie mehren sich erstaunlich bald,
so wie gebrochne Herzen.
Vertaald door Géza Engl

 

Dieses Leben

Ein Gelage ist dies Leben:
Auch du mußt dein Glas erheben,
Freud und Leid gilt es zu grüßen,
sei’s vom Sauren, sei’s vom Süßen.

Trinke wie aus tiefster Brust,
Lust folgt Leid und Leid folgt Lust.
Viele schlürften wild das Naß,
wenige wie ich mit Maß.

Die mit mir beim Wein gesessen,
liegen drunten schon indessen,
ich, der stets den Rausch vermieden,
halt den Platz, der mir beschieden.

Blick ich auf die Trümmerreste,
scheinen öd mir solche Feste!
Trank ich denn nicht zur Genüge,
daß ich nicht dort unten liege?
Vertaald door Annemarie Bostroem

Arany

János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882)
Standbeeld in Boedapest

 

De Russische dichter Jevgeni Baratynski werd geboren op 2 maart 1800 in Sint Petersburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

 

The Skull

 

Departed brother, who has disturbed your sleep

And trampled on the sanctity of the tomb?

Into your house, all dug up, I stepped down —

I took your skull in my hands, dusty and yellow.

 

The remnants of your hair — it wore them still.

I saw the slow course of decay upon it.

Horrible sight! How powerfully it struck

The sensible inheritor of that ruin.

 

Along with me a crowd of mindless youths

Above the open pit laughed mindlessly.

If only then, if only in my hands

Your head had burst forth into prophecy!

 

If only it had taught us — rash, in bloom,

And menaced hourly by the hour of death —

The truths that lie within the ken of tombs,

Uttering them in its impassive voice!

 

What am I saying? A hundred times is blessed

That law which has embalmed its lips in silence.

And righteous is that custom which demands

Respect for the solemn sleep of the departed.

 

Let the living live! Let the dead decay in peace!

O man, worthless creation of the Almighty,

Recognize finally that you were made

Neither for wisdom nor for omniscience!

 

We need our passions as we need our dreams.

They are the law and nourishment of our being:

You will not bring under the selfsame laws

The noise of the world and the silence of the graveyard.

 

Wise men will not extinguish natural feelings.

The answer they search for no grave shall supply.

Let life bestow its joys upon the living —

And death itself will teach them how to die.

 

 

Vertaald door Ilya Bernstein

 

Baratynski

Jevgeni Baratynski (2 maart 1800 – 11 juli 1844)

 

De Russisch-joodse schrijver Sholom Aleichem werd geboren in Pereyslav bij Kiev op 2 maart 1859. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

 

Uit: Wandering Stars (Vertaald door Aliza Shevrin)

 

After the meal, and after Sholom-Meyer’s little speech, and after the cantor’s wife had cleared the table and the cantor said grace, the director felt it was time to get to the matter for which they had come. First he lifted his top hat, revealing a large bald pate, smoothed his fringe of pomaded hair, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Then he began speaking. By nature he was a man of few words, but once he got going, it was hard for him to stop himself. His tongue would carry him off God knew where, so that he often ended up saying things he didn’t intend. Sholom-Meyer, his right-hand man, knowing his weakness, would try to take over, but the director would persist in speaking in his own style.

“You must understand, dear cantor,” Shchupak began, “that this is the way it is. Listen, I myself was once a cantor’s chorister. Actually I carried the slop pot. I mean I sang. I had a true soprano voice and caught more than a few slaps — I helped out on the pulpit. Then I went out on my own, sang at weddings, circumcisions, and pidyon habens chanting a kol m’koydesh that I had actually composed by myself. You should see this book full of my songs with my portrait on the cover. My kol m’koydesh goes like this, just listen.”

 

He began to warble:

 

Kol m’koydesh [Tzipkele my wife],

Sh’vii [may the devil take you],

K’rui lo [this very night!]

 

Albert Shchupak was into his role. He was preparing to sing kol m’koydesh in another key when Sholom-Meyer signaled him with a kick under the table that the sooner he stopped the better. Then Sholom-Meyer began explaining in plain words to the cantor exactly why they had come.“

 

Sholem_Aleichem_Kiev

Sholom Aleichem (2 maart 1859 – 13 mei 1916)
Standbeeld in Kiev

 

De Britse schrijfster Olivia Manning werd geboren op 2 maart 1908 in Portsmouth. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

 

Uit: The Balkan Trilogy (The spoilt city)

 

„„One morning, while the city quivered like a mirage in the August heat, Harriet came face to face with Bella in the Calea Victoriei. Bella gave a smile and hurried into a shop. So she had not gone to Sinai after all, but had remained here, like everyone else, the prisoner of uncertainty and fear.

The Rome Conference had broken down. This time no one imagined that that was the end of the matter. There would be another conference. When it was announced, there was no stir and no more talk of defiance. The new Cabinet had announced complete fealty to the Führer and the Führer required a peaceful settlement. A settlement of any kind could only mean Rumania’s loss. Around the cafés and bars this fact was beginning to be accepted with a half-humorous resignation. What else was there to do? Yakimov, inspired by the tenor of conversation about him, had thought up a little joke. “Quel débâcle!” he said whenever opportunity arose: “As you walk cracks appear on the pavement,” and even Hadjimoscos had not the heart to snub him.

The young men still stood with their banners on the palace pavement, supported now by an admiring crowd. As for the King, having made his speech, his declaration of constancy, he had retired into silence, and a song was being sung which David did his best to put into English verse:

 

“They can have Bes
sarabia. We don’t like corn.

The best wheaten bread’s the stuff in our New Dawn.

Let them have the Dobrudja. Ma’s palace, anyway,

Has been sold to the nation for a million million lei.

 

Who wants Transylvania? Give it ’em on a plate.

Let them take what they damn well like. I’ll not abdicate”

The last phrase “Eu nu abdic” was the slogan of the moment. Jokes were told and the point was “Eu nu abdic”. Riddles were asked and the answer was always “Eu nu abdic”. However recondite, it was the smartest retort to any request or inquiry. It always raised a laugh.“

 

Olivia_manning

Olivia Manning (2 maart 1908 – 23 juli 1980)

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Gerhard Anton von Halem werd geboren op 2 maart 1752 in Oldenburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2009.

Eifersucht

 

Du, Eifersucht, wärst Amors Kind?
So sei von mir bewundert.
Dein Vater, sagt man, ist blind;
Du hast der Augen hundert.

 

Von Halem

Gerhard Anton von Halem (2 maart 1752 – 4 januari 1819)

 

Godfried Bomans, Multatuli, Thom Wolfe, John Irving, Michael Salinger, Pascal Rannou, János Arany, Jevgeni Baratynski, Sholom Aleichem, Olivia Manning, Gerhard von Halem

De Nederlandse schrijver Godfried Bomans werd geboren in Den Haag op 2 maart 1913. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2008.

Uit: Erik of Het klein insectenboek

“’Kom, kom, kom,’ sprak de worm, die zich nu werkelijk in de vreemdste bochten begon te kronkelen van ingenomenheid, ‘weest u toch niet beschaamd. Wij kunnen niet allemaal een worm zijn. Nu, wat is het?’ ‘Ik zou graag willen weten hoe u zich zo…’ Erik zocht naar het juiste woord om den worm niet te kwetsen, ‘zo opgeruimd kunt voelen, terwijl u toch eigenlijk – blind bent.’ ‘Ik kan mij uw verlegenheid van zo even wel begrijpen,’ sprak de worm, een hevigen kronkel makend, ‘de vraag is dom. Maar dat hindert niets, want van zijn domheden leert men. De zaak is dat u de rollen omdraait, mijn waarde. Het is juist een groot voorrecht om blind te zijn, een teken van uitverkiezing. Hoeveel dieren zijn er blind? Ik kan ze op mijn ringen natellen, zo weinig zijn het er. Wij, wormen, hebben geen ogen nodig. U wel. Dat is een teken van zwakte.(…) En zo praatte het dier voort, terwijl het zich van louter vergenoegdheid in steeds ingewikkelder bochten wrong.”

bomans

Godfried Bomans (2 maart 1913 – 22 december 1971)
Portret door Kees Verwey, 1953

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Multatuli (pseudoniem van Eduard Douwes Dekker werd geboren in Amsterdam op 2 maart 1820. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007  en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2008.

Uit: De geschiedenis van Woutertje Pieterse

Wouter liep, liep… en wist niet waarheen. Naar huis kon-i niet. Daar toch werd hy te streng bewaakt. Wat niet moeielyk viel, want de ruimte was bekrompen.

Hy koos eenzame straten, en kwam eindelyk aan ’n poort die hy zich herinnerde meer gezien te hebben. Maar den naam wist-i niet, en ik ook niet. ’t Was ’n platte lage poort in welks buurt het altyd zoo naar asch rook, en waar-i eens dien sprong had gedaan, toen hy met Fransje Halleman was weggebleven van de katechizatie, die meende dat Wouter niet durfde wegblyven en van de poort springen. Maar Wouter durfde wèl, en deed het, juist omdat Fransje Halleman getwyfeld had aan z’n durven.

Aan dat wegblyven had hy te danken dat-i zoo byzonder goed thuis was in Habakuk, wiens profetiën hy twaalfmaal moest afschryven tot straf. Die sprong bezorgde hem bovondien ’n barometer in z’n verstuikten grooten teen, die uit edele wraak hem later altyd waarschuwde als ’t regenen zou.

In zekeren zin was Habakuk te beschouwen als Wouter’s overgang van de kinderlektuur tot de boeken waarin van ‘groote menschen’ wordt verteld. Sedert eenigen tyd namelyk voelde hy zich geschokt in z’n eerbied voor brave Hendrikken, en hy walgde van de papieren perzikken der naarstigheid. Andere perzikken kende hy niet, omdat die zoo niet voorkomen in ’n burgerhuishouden.

Niets was natuurlyker dan dat-i vurig verlangde met z’n grootere makkers op de school te kunnen meespreken over de wonderen die er gebeuren in de werkelyke wereld, waar men in ’n koets rydt, steden verwoest, prinsessen trouwt, en ’s avonds opblyft na tienen, a
l is er niemand jarig. Ook bedient men zichzelf aan tafel in die wereld, en heeft maar te kiezen wat men gebruiken wil. Zoo meenen de kinderen.”

Multatuli_statue

Multatuli (2 maart 1820 – 19 februari 1887)
Standbeeld in Amsterdam

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en journalist Thom Wolfe werd geboren op 2 maart 1930 in Richmond, Virginia. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007.

 

Uit: The Nanny Maffia

 

“Champagne for your little boy’s birthday party?

“You’re damned right,” she says. “For all the nannies. I’m not kidding! If we ever tried to give a party for Bobby and his little friends without champagne for the nannies, we might was well, you know, forget about it.

“Bobby’s nanny is mad enough as it is. All she can do is drop what are supposed to be very subtle hints about the V——’s party for little Sarah. Do you know what Van gave each kid as a party favor? An electric truck. I’m talking about a real electric truck. Of course, they’re nothing much really. They’re smaller than a Jaguar. By a little bit. The kid can get inside of it and drive it! They cost five hundred dollars, five hundred dollars! Can you imagine that? We had to carry the damn thing home. You should have seen us trying to get it in the cab. Of course, Van is absolutely petrified of the nannies.

“Well, I was damned if we were going to do anything like that. Robert had to take the whole afternoon off Tuesday to go to Schwarz. This was precisely the afternoon the Swedes came in with some bond thing, of course. The Swedes wear the worst clothes. They all look like striped cardboard. They think they’re very European. Anyway, Robert got some kind of bird with a tape recorder in it, I don’t know. The kids can talk into it and it records it and says it back. Something like that. You know. Well, I don’t care, I think it’s going to be a perfectly cute party favor, but our Mrs. G— is not going to be happy with it, I’m sure of that.”

 

tom_wolfe

Thom Wolfe (Richmond, 2 maart 1930)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Irving werd geboren op 2 maart 1942 in Exeter, New Hampshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2008.

 

Uit: The Lion Guy

 

Imagine a young man on his way to a less-than-thirty-second event–the loss of his left hand, long before he reached middle age.
As a schoolboy, he was a promising student, a fair-minded and likable kid, without being terribly original. Those classmates who could remember the future hand recipient from his elementary-school days would never have described him as daring. Later, in high school, his success with girls notwithstanding, he was rarely a bold boy, certainly not a reckless one. While he was irrefutably good-looking, what his former girlfriends would recall as most appealing about him was that he deferred to them.
Throughout college, no one would have predicted that fame was his destiny. “He was so unchallenging,” an ex-girlfriend said.
Another young woman, who’d known him briefly in graduate school, agreed. “He didn’t have the confidence of someone who was going to do anything special” was how she put it.
He wore a perpetual but dismaying smile–the look of someone who knows he’s met you before but can’t recall the exact occasion. He might have been in the act of guessing whether the previous meeting was at a funeral or in a brothel, which would explain why, in his smile, there was an unsettling combination of grief and embarrassment.”

 

Irving

John Irving (Exeter, 2 maart 1942)

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en performer Michael Salinger werd geboren op 2 maart 1962 in Cleveland, Ohio. Hij begon met zijn optredens in het midden van de jaren tachtig bij bijeenkomsten als de Pearl Road Auto Wrecking Junkstock festivals. Vijf keer was hij coach en captain van het Cleveland Slam team bij de National Poetry Slam competitie. Zijn gedichten zijn verschenen in talrijke literaire tijdschriften. In 2004 verscheen de bundel They call it Fishing not Catching.

 

911

hate is extremely flammable
its vapors may cause flash fire
hate is harmful if inhaled
keep hate away from heat, sparks and flame
do not breath the vapors of hate
wash thoroughly after using hate
if you accidentally sallow hate
get medical attention

prejudice is an eye and skin irritant
its vapors too are harmful
do not get prejudice in eyes
or on clothing
prejudice is not recommended for use
by persons with heart conditions
if prejudice is swallowed induce vomiting
if prejudice comes in contact with skin
remove clothing and wash skin
if breathing is affected, get fresh air immediately

violence is harmful if absorbed through the skin
keep violence out of the reach of children
do not remain in enclosed areas
where violence is present
remove pets and birds from the vicinity of violence
cover aquariums to protect from violence
drift and run off from sites of violence
may be hazardous
this product is highly toxic
exposure to violence may cause
injury or death.

Salinger

Michael Salinger (Cleveland, 2 maart 1962)

 

De Franse schrijver en letterkundige Pascal Rannou werd geboren op 2 maart 1958 in Laval. Hij doceert aan het Lycée Lavoisier de Mayenne en aan de universiteit van Rennes. Hij schrijft romans, essays, gedichten en kritieken en bijdragen aan o.a. Ar Men en Peuple Breton.

 

Uit: Noire la neige (2008)

 

“Chattanooga… Pitchipoï… Chattanooga… Pitchipoï… J’entends le bruit du train dans ma mémoire. Les pistons, les soupapes et les tuyaux de forge de la locomotive. Chattanooga… Pitchipoï… J’entends le bruit du train qui a rythmé ma vie. Et l’oeil de la locomotive illumine la nuit, traverse les collines, serpente autour des lacs. J’ai six ans. Penchée à la fenêtre, je respire les parfums de la nuit, l’été, dans la montagne. L’odeur des pins, des fleurs et des prairies, odeur de liberté. Ma’ passe une main dans mes cheveux crépus. «Il est temps de dormir, tes soeurs dorment déjà. Demain tu danseras, c’est promis. Tu montreras aux gens les pas que tu sais faire.» Chattanooga… Pitchipoï… Je repose la tête sur le bras de Ma’. Je me sens bien, la nuit. La nuit est noire, comme moi, on peut s’y réfugier, se confondre avec elle. La nuit est belle comme Ma’, qui est pourtant plus noire qu’elle, plus noire que moi. Chattanooga… Pitchipoï… J’entends le bruit du train qui m’emmène au pays de l’éternel hiver. Quand ils m’ont arrêtée, je n’ai pas su pourquoi, et je suis dans ce train, coincée entre une paroi et des femmes de tous âges, qui gémissent et qui pleurent, qui étreignent leur enfant. Un vent cruel siffle par la lucarne, des barbelés rayent le ciel qu’éclaire une lune froide. Un peu de paille, un seau qui passe et qu’on renverse, on est souillées, comment dire à cette mère que l’enfant qu’elle serre est mort depuis longtemps, elle ne me croirait pas. »

 

Pascal_Rannou

Pascal Rannou (Laval, 2 maart 1958)

 

De Hongaarse dichter János Arany werd geboren op 2 maart 1817 in Nagyszalonta. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007.

In fruchtloser Stunde

 

Blick ich in die große Nacht hinein,

Erde schlief in ihrem Schatten ein:

Meteore fallen hier und dort,

Die Gedanken kommen, gehen fort.

 

Seifenblasen scheinen sie zu sein,

glitzernd, wie der fernen Sterne Schein:

Doch nur bruchstückhaft ist beider Bahn,

sie zerplatzen, eh sie ganz sich nahn.

 

 

Vertaald door Annemarie Bostroem

 

 

Meine Hoffnung

 

Meine Hoffnung ist ein Nachen

ohne Ruder, ohne Mast.

Sturm und Woge jagt den schwachen

Kahn umher, ohn’ Ruh und Rast.

 

Muß ins Ungewisse treiben

immer, wie es will der Wind.

Er kann meinen Schmerz betäuben,

wiegt er mich doch wie ein Kind!

 

Bin von Freiheitsluft umfächelt,

wenn ein Regenbogen blinkt,

meiner Phantasie zulächelt

und in ihrem Meer versinkt.

 

Drum voran auf wilder Welle,

treib der Freiheit zu mein Boot,

ob ich auch am Riff zerschelle,

wo sich treffen Traum und Tod!…

 

 

Vertaald door Martin Remané

 

Arany

János Arany (2 maart 1817 – 22 oktober 1882)
Portret door Barabás Miklós

 

De Russische dichter Jevgeni Baratynski werd geboren op 2 maart 1800 in Sint Petersburg. Zie ook mijn blog van 2 maart 2007.

Waterfall

Crash, crash from a dizzying height,
Gray torrent, never cease!
Marry your lingering roar
With the lingering echo of a valley.

I hear the North wind whistle
Rocking the creaking pines,
And your rebellious thunder
Chimes with the thundering storm.

Why do I pay you heed
With such wild expectation?
Why does my breast tremble
With some premonition?

As if entranced, I stand
Above your steaming depths,
And my heart seems to comprehend
Your wordless utterance.

Crash, crash from a dizzying height,
Gray torrent, never cease!
Marry your lingering roar
With the lingering echo of a valley.

Baratynsky

Jevgeni Baratynski (2 maart 1800 – 11 juli 1844)

 

De Russisch-joodse schrijver Sholom Aleichem werd geboren in Pereyslav bij Kiev op 2 maart 1859 als Sjalom Jakov Rabinovitsj. Sholems moeder overleed toen hij 13 jaar was. Hij nam het pseudoniem Sholom Aleichem aan, wat een veel gebruikte groet is, die “vrede zij met u”  betekent.Na zijn schoolopleiding, die hij met zeer goede cijfers afrondde, vertrok hij van huis om werk te zoeken. Drie jaar lang was hij de leraar van een rijke koopmansdochter, Olga Loev, met wie hij op 12 mei 1883 trouwde. Het echtpaar kreeg zes kinderen, onder wie de schilder Norman Raeben.  Vanaf 1891 leefde Sholom Aleichem in Odessa, maar vanwege de pogroms die zuidelijk Rusland teisterden in het begin van de twintigste eeuw emigreerde hij met zijn familie in 1905. Eerst vestigde de familie zich in Zwitserland, maar vanaf 1914 in New York City. Daar overleed hij op 57-jarige leeftijd. Het werk van Sjolem Aleichem is veel vertaald. De musical Fiddler on the Roof kwam op Broadway in 1964 en was daar zeer succesvol. In het Nederlands werd de Nederlandse versie Anatevka gespeeld in 1966. Deze musical is gebaseerd op de figuur Tevje de Melkboer (Tewje der Milchiger), die vaak humoristische gesprekken voert met God.

 

Uit: Wandering Stars

 “It was a beautiful morning. A warm sun bathed Holeneshti in its golden rays. Once she reached the market, Leah was like a fish in water—she was in her element. The sheer size of the Holeneshti market was something to behold. The Moldavian peasants had brought in sheep’s milk and cheese, and great quantities of vegetables from their gardens—corn, greens, and cucumbers, all selling for a song, as well as onions, garlic, and bitter herbs. With all these plentiful choices before her, Leah quickly negotiated a basketful. And the fish! A heaven-sent bargain! She had not planned to buy fish, but suddenly there they were. But please imagine what fish—tiny, skinny, scrawny little things, all bone, barely a mouthful, but so cheap it would be a shame to turn them down. No one would believe it! Yes, Leah, was having a lucky day at the market. Of the one ruble she had brought, quite a bit was still left. With so much still unspent, she thought she would surprise the cantor with a gift—ten fresh eggs. Yisroyeli will appreciate that, she thought. It would be enough to make ten throat-soothing honey gogl-mogls. The High Holidays would be here soon—He’ll need them to keep his throat in good shape. And how about candies for my Reizel? She loves sweets, confections, snacks—bless her, what a delight that girl is. I only wish I could buy her new shoes. The old ones are worn through and through—useless.”

 

Aleichem

Sholom Aleichem (2 maart 1859 – 13 mei 1916)

 

De Britse schrijfster Olivia Manning werd geboren op 2 maart 1908 in Portsmouth – 23 juli 1980. Ze verbleef tussen 1939 en 1945 op de Balkan, het toneel van haar belangrijkste werk, de trilogie The great fortune (1960), The spoilt city (1962) en Friends and heroes (1965). In The rain forest (1974) gaf zij een beeld van de nadagen van een Britse kolonie.

 

Uit: The Balkan Trilogy (The spoilt city)

 

Were you in England recently, sir?” Guy asked.

“Less than a month ago. You’d find it much changed, I think. Changed for the better, I mean.”

While Wheeler, with knotted brows, concentrated on the task of getting the car-key off the ring, Sir Brian talked in a leisurely way of a new sense of comradeship which he said was breaking down class-consciousness in England and drawing people together. “Your secretary calls you ‘Brian’ and the liftman says: ‘We’re all in it together.’ I like it. I like it very much.” Once or twice, while talking, he gave a slightly mischievous side-glance at Wheeler, so the others warmed to him, feeling he was one of them and on their side against the established prejudices of the Legation.

Wheeler, not listening, gave a sigh. The key had come off the ring. He gazed at it, perplexed, then set himself the more difficult task of getting it on again.

“After the war we shall see a new world,” Sir Brian said and smiled at the three young people, each of whom watched him with rapt, nostalgic gaze. “A classless world, I should like to think.”

Harriet thought how odd it was to be standing in this melancholy light, listening to this important person who had flown in that afternoon and would fly out again that night—an unreal visitant to a situation that must seem unreal to him. Yet, real or not, the other men would be left to the risk of imprisonment, torture and death.”

 

Manning

Olivia Manning (2 maart 1908 – 23 juli 1980)
Zelfportret

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Gerhard Anton von Halem werd geboren op 2 maart 1752 in Oldenburg. Hij werkte o.a. als jurist en ambtenaar. Von Halem was een vertegenwoordiger van de late Verlichting en stond in contact met o.a. Christoph Martin Wieland, Gottfried August Bürger en Johann Heinrich Voß. Behalve gedichten en essays over allerlei onderwerpen schreef hij een driedelige geschiedenis van het hertogdom Oldenburg.

 

 

Prädestination und freier Wille

 

Was streiten wir denn für und für?

Ihr Herren Streiter, möchten wir

Zur Einigung uns neigen!

Wohl dem, der sich’s zu Herzen nimmt!

Wir sind zur Torheit vorbestimmt

Und frei, um sie zu zeigen…

 

Halem

Gerhard Anton von Halem (2 maart 1752 – 4 januari 1819)