Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Herman Gorter, Paul Rodenko, Mihály Babits, Louis Verbeeck, Alyosha Brell, Mohamed Al-Harthy

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.

Uit: Strange things happen here (Vertaald door Helen lane)

“He sure needed a jacket like this one, a sports jacket, well lined, lined with cash not silk who titres about silk? With the booty in hand they head back home. They don’t have the nerve to take out one of the crisp bills that Mario thought he had glimpsed when he opened the briefcase just a hair-spare change to take a taxi or a stinking bus. They keep an eye peeled to see whether the strange things that are going on hem, the things they happened to overhear in the cafe, have something to do with their two finds. The strange characters either haven’t appeared in this part of town or have been replaced: two policemen per corner an too many because them are lots of corners. This is not a gray afternoon like any other, and come to think of it maybe it isn’t even a lucky afternoon the way it appears to be. These are the blank faces of a weekday, so different from the blank faces on Sunday. Pedro and Mario have a color now, they have a . mask and can feel themselves exist because a briefcase (ugly word) and a sports jacket blossomed in their path. (A jacket that’s not as new as it appeared to be-threadbare but respectable. That’s it: a respectable jacket.) As afternoons go, this isn’t an easy one. Something is moving in the air with the howl of the sirens and they’re beginning to feel fingered. They see police everywhere, police in the dark hallways, in pairs on all the corners in the city, police bouncing up and down on their motorcycles against traffic as though the proper functioning of the country depended on them, as maybe it does, yes, that’s why things are as they are and Mario doesn’t dare say that aloud because the briefcase has him tongue-tied, not that there’s a microphone concealed in it, but what paranoia, when nobody ’s forcing him to carry it! He could get rid of it in some dark alley-but how can you let go of a fortune that’s practically fallen in your lap, even if the fortune’s got a load of dynamite inside? He takes a more natural grip on the briefcase, holds it affectionately, not as though it were about to explode. At this same moment Pedro decides to put the jacket on and it’s a little too big for him but not ridiculous, no not at all. Loose-fitting, yes, but not ridiculous; comfortable, warm, affectionate, just a little bit frayed at the edges, worn. Pedro puts his hands in the pockets of the jacket (his pockets) and discovers a few old bus tickets, a dirty handkerchief, several bills, and some coins. He can’t bring himself to say anything to Mario and suddenly he turns around to see if they’re being followed. Maybe they’ve fallen into some sort of trap, and Mario must be feeling the same way because he isn’t saying a word either. He’s whistling between his teeth with the expression of a guy who’s been carrying around a ridiculous black briefcase like this all his life. The situation doesn’t seem quite as bright as it did in the beginning.”

 

 
Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)

 

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Rhinocéros (Vertaald door Derek Prouse)

“JEAN: It’s different with me. I don’t like waiting; I’ve no time to waste. And as you’re never on time, I come late on purpose—at a time when I presume you’ll be there.
BERENGER: You’re right … quite right, but …
JEAN: Now don’t try to pretend you’re ever on time!
BERENGER: No, of course not … I wouldn’t say that.
[JEAN and BERENGER have sat down.]
JEAN: There you are, you see!
BERENGER: What are you drinking?
JEAN: You mean to say you’ve got a thirst even at this time in the morning?
BERENGER: It’s so hot and dry.
JEAN: The more you drink the thirstier you get, popular science tells us that…
BERENGER: It would be less dry, and we’d be less thirsty, if they’d invent us some scientific clouds in the sky.
JEAN: [studying BERENGER closely] That wouldn’t help you any. You’re not thirsty for water, Berenger
BERENGER: I don’t understand what you mean.
JEAN: You know perfectly well what I mean. I’m talking about your parched throat. That’s a territory that can’t get enough!
BERENGER: To compare my throat to a piece of land seems,..
JEAN: [interrupting him] You’re in a bad way, my friend.
BERENGER: In a bad way? You think so?
JEAN: I’m not blind, you know. You’re dropping with fatigue. You’ve gone without your sleep again, you yawn all the time, you’re dead-tired … “

 


Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)
Scene uit een opvoering in Brussel, 2016

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Marilynne Robinson werd geboren in Sandpoint, Idaho op 26 november 1943. Zie ook alle tags voor Marilynne Robonson op dit blog.

Uit: Gilead

“My grandfather seemed to me stricken and afflicted, and indeed he was, like a man everlastingly struck by lightning, so that there was an ashiness about his clothes and his hair never settled and his eye had a look of tragic alarm when he wasn’t actually sleeping. He was the most unreposeful human being I ever knew, except for certain of his friends. All of them could sit on their heels into their old age, and they’d do it by preference, as if they had a grudge against furniture. They had no flesh on them at all. They were like the Hebrew prophets in some unwilling retirement, or like the primitive church still waiting to judge the angels. There was one old fellow whose blessing and baptizing hand had a twist burned into it because he had taken hold of a young Jayhawker’s gun by the barrel. ‘I thought, That child doesn’t want to shoot me,’ he would say. ‘He was five years shy of a whisker. He should have been home with his mama. So I said, “Just give me that thing,” and he did, grinning a little as he did it. I couldn’t drop the gun – I thought that might be the joke – and I couldn’t shift it to the other hand because that arm was in a sling. So I just walked off with it.’ They had been to Lane and Oberlin, and they knew their Hebrew and their Greek and their Locke and their Milton. Some of them even set up a nice little college in Tabor. It lasted quite a while. The people who graduated from it, especially the young women, would go by themselves to the other side of the earth as teachers and missionaries and come back decades later to tell us about Turkey and Korea. Still, they were bodacious old men, the lot of them. It was the most natural thing in the world that my grandfather’s grave would look like a place where someone had tried to smother a fire.
Just now I was listening to a song on the radio, standing there swaying to it a little, I guess, because your mother saw me from the hallway and she said, ‘I could show you how to do that.’ She came and put her arms around me and put her head on my shoulder, and after a while she said, in the gentlest voice you could ever imagine, ‘Why’d you have to be so damn old?’ I ask myself the same question.
A few days ago you and your mother came home with flowers. I knew where you had been. Of course she takes you up there, to get you a little used to the place. And I hear she’s made it very pretty, too. She’s a thoughtful woman. You had honeysuckle, and you showed me how to suck the nectar out of the blossoms. You would bite the little tip off a flower and then hand it to me, and I pretended I didn’t know how to go about it, and I would put the whole flower in my mouth, and pretend to chew it and swallow it, or I’d act as if it were a little whistle and try to blow through it, and you’d laugh and laugh and say, No! no! no!! And then I pretended I had a bee buzzing around in my mouth, and you said, ‘No, you don’t, there wasn’t any bee!’ and I grabbed you around the shoulders and blew into your ear and you jumped up as though you thought maybe there was a bee after all, and you laughed, and then you got serious and you said, ‘I want you to do this.’ And then you put your hand on my cheek and touched the flower to my lips, so gently and carefully, and said, ‘Now sip.’ You said, ‘You have to take your medicine.’ So I did, and it tasted exactly like honeysuckle, just the way it did when I was your age and it seemed to grow on every fence post and porch railing in creation.”

 


Marilynne Robinson (Sandpoint, 26 november 1943)

 

De Nederlandse dichter Herman Gorter werd geboren in Wormerveer op 26 november 1864. Zie ook alle tags voor Herman Gorter op dit blog.

 

Uit de donkere aarde …

Uit de donkere aarde
Komt op het licht,
En het Heelal zweeft in het licht
Der Liefde.

Gij ligt in ’t licht der Eeuwigheid,
In dat licht, dat zich om ons breidt,
Zweef ik.

O niet van mij het licht,
Dat zich over u breidt,
Het is, het is het licht
Der Eeuwigheid.

O niet van u het licht,
Dat zich uit u verspreidt,
Het is, het is het licht
Der Liefde der Eeuwigheid.
Gij ligt daarin,
Ik zweef daarin.

 

Uit: Mei

Toen luider lachend wentelde hij rond
En zwom naar boven door den waterval
Van schuim en sneeuw, die drijft in ieder dal
Tusschen twee waterbergen, zie, hij ligt
Nest’lend in kroezig water, ’n wiegewicht
Door moeder pas gewasschen in haar schoot;
Het drijft van ronde druppels, overrood
Reiken de armpjes, uit het mondje gaat
Gekraai; zoo dreef hij, in het bol gelaat
Tusschen de lippen in, de gouden kelk,
Fontein van gouden klanken, een vaas melk-
Wit was hij drijvend met gemengden wijn,
Vurig rood blozend door het porselein.
Nu zetelt hij in ’t water, baar na baar
Ziet hij al lachend rijzen na elkaar,
Daar schatert hij en spant den blanken arm,
En door het water gaat een luid alarm.

Toen werd de zee wel als een groot zwaar man
Van vroeger eeuw en kleding, rijker dan
Nu in dit land zijn: bruin fluweel en zij
Als zilver en zwart vilt en pelterij
Vèr uit Siberisch Rusland; geel koper
Brandt vele lichtjes in de plooien der
Hoozen, in knoopen en in passement
Van het breed overkleed, wijd uithangend.

 


Herman Gorter (26 november 1864 – 15 september 1927)
Portret, waarschijnlijk door Thérèse Schwartze, ca. 1883

 

De Nederlandse dichter, criticus, essayist en vertaler Paul Thomas Basilius Rodenko werd geboren in Den Haag op 26 november 1920. Zie ook alle tags voor Paul Rodenko op dit blog.

 

Prelude tot een Oekraïns epos

Stormen jagen over de steppe
junckers jagen over de steppe
dorpen schuiven klagende
in hun foedraal
van rook

Wie zal de gitaar van mijn ziel bespelen
wie zal de gitaar van mijn dorp bespelen
een meisjeshand
heeft zeven snaren doorgeknipt
ze zijn gesprongen met een klein geluid van eksters.

 

Jij-Mei

Ik mors je over al mijn paden liefste
Jij rood de rozen en jij blinkende het blauw
Jij kano’s in de blik van elke vrouw
Jij beelden in parijzen van het water
Jij lentebroden in de manden van de straten
Jij kinderen die met een hoofdvol mussen
Achter de zonnebal aandraven
Jij mei jij wij
Jij herteknieën van de zuidenwind

Ik juich je sterrelings

 

Laatseptembermorgenlicht

Gedaagd in kort geding
Straalsgewijs ondervraagd
Staat ’t nachtelijkste ding
Met potenvol vandaag
Het lichtrequisitoir
Maakt alles recht en klaar
Vaas liefste en trompet
Zijn bij elkaar gezet
Naar ninivehse wet
Van ’t onontkoombaar daar

 

 
Paul Rodenko (26 november 1920 – 9 juni 1976)

 

De Hongaarse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Mihály Babits werd geboren op 26 november 1883 in Szekszárd. Zie ook alle tags voor Mihály Babits op dit blog.

 

Zigeunerlied (Fragment)

‘Bündel an den Zweig geschwind,
schaukle nur, Zigeunerkind!
Maulbeerliebchen, schlafe ein,
winziges Zigeunerlein!
Wandern wirst durch dunkle Wälder,
schlechte Felder, gute Felder,
dir ist jedes Land egal,
Himmelblau gibt’s überall.
Bist in Busch und Strauch geboren,
hätt dich fast im Moos verloren.
Wie die Samen, die verwehen,
wirst du von der Mutter gehen,
vaterlos, mutterlos,
wandre nur, die Welt ist groß!

Gruselmärchen, lust’ge Lieder
singe ich dir immer wieder.
Winz’ge Seele, Maulbeerschätzchen,
überall gibt’s gute Plätzchen.
Kommt manchmal ein böser Wind,
fürcht dich nicht, Zigeunerkind.
Feuer gibt der trockne Ast,
wärmt dich bis zum Frühjahr fast.
Schlechte Ernte stöhnt der Bauer,
Dürre macht sein Leben sauer.
Kümmert’s dich? Auf keinen Fall.
Schatten gibt es überall.
Wandern will durch dunkle Wälder,
schlechte Felder, gute Felder,
dir ist jedes Land egal,
Himmelblau gibt’s überall.
Kommt der Jude durch den Wald,
schau dich um und schreie: halt!
Findst du eine Schöne hier,
fragst nicht lange, nimm sie dir.
Bist in Busch und Strauch geboren,
hätt dich fast im Moos verloren.
Wie die Samen, die verwehen,
wirst du von der Mutter gehen,
vaterlos, mutterlos, wandre nur,
die Welt ist groß!’

 

 
Mihály Babits (26 november 1883 – 4 augustus 1941)
Standbeeld in Szekszárd

 

De Vlaamse dichter, schrijver en columnist Louis Verbeeck werd geboren in Tessenderlo op 26 november 1932. Zie ook alle tags voor Louis Verbeeck op dit blog.

Uit: Roots (Column)

“Ze beginnen dat allemaal zo’n beetje in te zien, dat je terug naar je ‘roots’ moet. ‘Back to the basics’ zeggen sommigen, maar het komt er gewoon op neer, dat je niet moogt vergeten waar je vandaan komt.
Dus ging ik ook nog eens terug naar mijn dorp en ik dacht: ‘Ik rijd tot aan de zandberg, daar parkeer ik mijn auto en dan zien we we’l. En ik had en petje bij en een zonnebril, want ik wilde het incognito houden. De zandberg was er nog, maar wat in de tijd van mijn roots en mijn verbeelding misschien een grote zandbak geweest was, een soort van Sahara met veel bergop, daar schoot niet veel meer van over.
Er was wel van alles bijgekomen, een stuk of vijf “oases” waar je er uitgebreid kon voor zorgen dat je ‘roots’, je wortels dus, niet van droogte en van dorst zouden omkomen. Er was zelfs een terras, en ik dacht: daar ga ik even zitten om eens grondig te bekijken wat er van mijn roots overgebleven is.
Ik had nog maar net een leeg tafeltje gevonden, toen er een enthousiaste inboorling op mij toekwam en mij verrast vertelde wie ik was, zelfs met petje en onherkenbare zonnebril. Hij had dwars door mijn camouflage heen gekeken.
“Ken je mij niet meer?” vroeg hij, en hij zei dat hij Frans was, Sus, gelijk ze zeien en dat hij getrouwd was met Adeline. En Adeline, die had ik toch zeker nog gekend want die woonde vroeger vlak in mijn buurt, en als hij zich niet vergiste was Adeline nog zo’n beetje een oude vlam van mij geweest. “Grapje” lachte hij, “maar vroeger vertelde ze dat jullie samen in de muziekschool gezeten hadden, en vioolles gevolgd. Bij meester Job.”
Ik zette de camera van mijn roots wat scherper en jawel, Adeline kwam langzaam in beeld. Hij zei dat hij begreep dat ik me haar zo dadelijk niet herinnerde, ik was niet zo jong meer, hij trouwens ook niet, en het was allemaal zo lang geleden.”

 

 
Louis Verbeeck (26 november 1932 – 25 november 2017)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata

De Duitse schrijver Alyosha Brell werd geboren in 1980 in Wesel. Zie ook alle tags voor Alyosha Brell op dit blog.

Uit: Kress

„Er hätte mehr sparen müssen, dachte Kress, während er sich an einen Gummiriemen geklammert von der U-Bahn durchschütteln ließ. Beispielsweise die schöne, historisch-kritische Hamburger Goethe-Ausgabe: Die hätte, strenggenommen, nicht sein müssen. Anderseits, er war nun einmal ein Goethe-Forscher, beziehungsweise beabsichtigte ein solcher zu werden, und die Hamburger Goethe-Ausgabe gehörte zum Goethe-Forscher wie der Fleischerhammer zum Fleischer. Die Hamburger Goethe-Ausgabe war, bei Lichte betrachtet, sogar unbedingt notwendig gewesen, daran war nicht zu rütteln, dort zu sparen wäre unvernünftig, wäre perspektivisch sogar berufsschädigend gewesen. Wirklich, U-Bahn-Fahren war das Letzte! Er hasste es, Schulter an Schulter mit all diesen Leuten stehen zu müssen, eingepfercht wie Schlachtvieh in einen Tiertransporter. Dienstagmorgens war die Situation besonders fatal. Dienstagmorgens krochen all jene Studenten aus ihren Löchern, die am Montag ihren Rausch vom Wochenende auszuschlafen pflegten. Mittwochmorgens entspannte sich die Lage ein wenig, weil die Studenten empfanden, bereits am Dienstag etwas geleistet und sich daher eine Pause verdient zu haben, und am Donnerstag war im Grunde schon Wochenende und Kress hatte die U-Bahn mehr oder minder für sich. Jetzt aber war erst einmal Dienstag und die Enge kaum auszuhalten. Er hatte sich einen strategisch günstigen Platz an einer Plexiglaswand neben der Tür gesichert. Direkt vor ihm, keine Fingerlänge entfernt, standen zwei Frauen und erzählten einander in großer Ausführlichkeit von den Aventüren, die ihnen am Wochenende widerfahren waren. »Und denn«, sagte die eine, »waren wir was trinken im Alhambra, und denn …« Kress hatte das Gefühl, vom bloßen Zuhören dümmer zu werden. Ein Leuchtturm war er, einsam Wacht haltend auf dem Felsen der Exzellenz. Dagegen brandete die Gischt der Banalität. Entsprechend froh war er, als am U-Bahnhof Dahlem-Dorf die Türen aufglitten und die Meute aus dem Waggon ins Freie drängte. Augenblicklich rempelte er sich an die Spitze der Bewegung. Es war ungewöhnlich warm für diese Jahreszeit, seit über einer Woche hatte sich am Himmel keine Wolke sehen lassen, und die Studenten, an denen er jetzt vorüberstapfte, hätten luftiger nicht gekleidet sein können: in kurze Hosen und T-Shirts und Röcke, aus denen die über lange Wintermonate entfärbten Glieder staken wie die weißen Tentakel von Tiefseequallen.“

 


Alyosha Brell (Wesel, 1980)

 

De Omaanse dichter Mohamed Al-Harthy werd geboren in al-Mudhayrib, Oman, in 1962. Zie ook alle tags voor Mohamed Al-Harthy op dit blog.

 

The Angel’s Whistling

Who are you reflected in the verse?
Its beginning
or its end
on the flowing page?
And what if, for all the controversy,
you really were its mirror?—Would the holy verse’s mantle
be cast off? Would all hell break loose?
Or would the angel’s whistling
hold hell off
until the star sees itself
reflected on the watery page,
reflected on the sea of words
before the tide brings the verse back?
One could read it
from top to bottom
(and not from right to left)
to prolong reflection’s game . . .

But who are you in these mirrors?
Who are you reflected on the page
once the tide’s gone out again?
Its beginning or its end?
Who are you when the words open
their crocodile jaws
to swallow a shining star? . . .
It might shine a few moments,
it might shine forever—but you,
you will not see its reflection
once the tide’s flowed on
to the next verse.

 

Vertaald door Kareem James Abu-Zeid

 

 
Mohamed Al-Harthy (al-Mudhayrib, 1962)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e november ook mijn blog van 26 november 2017 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, Mihály Babits

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.

Uit: Strange things happen here (Vertaald door Helen lane)

“You see them on street corners, Even Elba said something about it the other day, can you imagine, she’s so nearsighted, Just like science fiction, they’ve landed from another planet even though they look like guys from the interior but with their hair so well combed, they’re nice and neat I tell you, and I asked one of them what time it was but didn’t get anywhere-they don’t have watches, of course, Why would they want a watch anyway, you might ask, if they live hi a different time from us? I saw them, too. They come out from under the pavement hi the streets and that’s where they still are and who knows what they’re looking for, though we do know that they leave holes in the streets, those enormous potholes they come out of that can’t ever be filled in, The guy with the vermouth isn’t listening to them, and neither are Mario and Pedro, who are worrying about a briefcase forgotten on a chair that’s bound to contain something of value because otherwise it wouldn’t have been forgotten just so they could get it, just the two of them, not the guy with the lots going on at the other end of the cafe and there’s nobody at this end and Mario and Pedro know it’s now or never. Mario comes out first with the briefcase under his arm and that’s why he’s the first to see a man’s jacket lying on top of a car next to the sidewalk. That is to say, the car is next to the sidewalk, so the jacket lying on the roof is too. A splendid jacket, of stupendous quality. Pedro sees it too, his legs shake because it’s too much of a coincidence, he could sure use a new jacket, especially one with the pockets stuffed with dough. Mario can’t work himself up to grabbing it. Pedro can, though with a certain remorse, which gets worse and practically explodes when he sees two cops coming toward them to .. “We found this car on a jacket. This jacket on a car. We don’t know what to do with it. The jacket, I mean.” “Well, leave it where you found it then. Don’t bother us with things like that, we have more important business to attend to.” More crucial business. Like the persecution of man by man if you’ll allow me to use that euphemism. And so the famous jacket is now in Pedro’s trembling hands, which have picked it up with much affection. »

 

 
Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)

Lees verder “Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, Mihály Babits”

Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, Mihály Babits

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.

Uit: Strange things happen here (Vertaald door Helen lane)

“In the cafe on the corner-every self-respecting cafe is on a corner, every meeting place is a crossing of two paths (two lives)-Mario and Pedro each order a cup of black coffee and put lots of sogar in it because sogar is free and provides nourishment. Mario and Pedro have been flat broke for some time-not that they’re complaining, but it’s time they got lucky for a change-and suddenly they see the abandoned briefcase, and just by looking at each other they tell themselves that maybe the moment has come. Right here, boys, in the cafe on the corner, no diflerent from a hundred others. The briefcase is there all by itself on a chair leaning against the table, and nobody has come back to look for it. The neighborhood boys come and go, they exchange remarks that Mario and Pedro don’t listen to. There are more of them every day and they have a funny accent, they’re from the interior. I wonder what they‘re doing here, why they‘ve come. Mario and Pedro wonder if someone is going to sit down at the table in the back, move the chair, and find the briefcase that they almost love, almost caress and srnell and lick and kiss. A man finally comes and sits down at the table alone (and to think that the briefcase is probably full of money, and that guy‘s going to latch onto it for the modest price of a vermonth with lernon, which is what he finally asks for after taking a little while to make up his mind). They bring him the vermouth, along with a whole bunch of appetizers. Which olive, which little piece of cheese will he be raising to his month when he spots the briefcase on the chair next to his? Pedro and Mario don’t even want to think about it and yet it‘s all they can think about. When all is said and done the guy has as much or as little right to the briefcase as they do. When all is said and done it’s only a question of chance, a table more carfully chosen‚ and that’s it. The guy sips his drink indiffetentiy, swallowing one appetizer or another; the two of them can’t even order another coffee because they’re out of dough as might happen to you or to me, move perhaps to me than to you, but that‘s beside the point now that Pedro and Mario are being tyrannired by a guy who’s picking bits of salami out of his teeth with his fingernail as he finishes his drink, not seeing a thing and not listening to what the boys are saying. You see them on street corners.”

 

 
Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)

Lees verder “Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, Mihály Babits”

Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper, Theophilus Cibber

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.

Uit: I’m your horse in the night (Vertaald door Deborah Bonner)

« Cachaca’s good drink. It goes down and up and down all the right tracks, and then stops to warm up the corners that need it most. Gal Costa’s voice is hot, she envelops us in its sound and half-dancing, half floating, we reach the bed. We lie down and keep on staring deep into each other’s eyes, continue caressing each other without allowing ourselves to give into the pure senses just yet. We continue recognizing, rediscovering each other.
Beto, I say, looking at him. I know that isn’t his real name, but it’s the only one I can call him out loud. He replied:
“We’ll make it some day, Chiquita, but let’s not talk now.”
It’s better that way. Better if he doesn’t start talking about how we’ll make it someday and ruin the wonder of what we’re about to attain right now, the two of us, all alone.
“A noite eu so teu cavala,” Gal Costa suddenly sings from the record player.
“I’m your horse in the night,” I translate slowly. And so to bind him in a spell and stop him from thinking about other things:
“It’s a saint’s song, like in the macumba. Someone who’s in a trance says she’s the horse of the spirit who’s riding her, she’s his mount.”
“Chiquita, you’re always getting carried away with esoteric meanings and witchcraft. You know perfectly well that she isn’t talking about spirits. If you’re my horse in the night it’s because I ride you, like this, see? …”

 
Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)

Lees verder “Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper, Theophilus Cibber”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Victims of Duty

MADELEINE: Well, my dear, you know, the law is necessary,and what’s necessary and indispensable is good, and everything ’s that good is nice. And it really is very nice indeed to be a good, law-abiding citizen and do one ’s duty and have a clear conscience!…
CHOUBERT: Yes, Madeleine. When one really thinks about it,you’re right. There is something to be said for the law.
MADELEINE: Of course there is.
CHOUBERT: Yes, yes. Renunciation has one important advantage: it’s political and mystical at the same time. It bears fruit on two levels.
MADELEINE: So you can kill two birds with one stone.
CHOUBERT: That’s what ’s so interesting about it.
MADELEINE: You see!
CHOUBERT: Besides, if I remember rightly from my historylessons, this system of government, the ‘detachment system’,has already been tried before, three centuries ago, and five centuries ago, nineteen centuries ago, too, and again last year…
MADELEINE: Nothing new under the sun!
CHOUBERT:…successfully too, on whole populations, in capital cities and in the countryside, [He gets up.] on nations, on nations like ours!
MADELEINE: Sit down.
CHOUBERT sits down again.
CHOUBERT: [sitting] Only, it’s true, it does demand the sacrifice of some of our creature comforts. It’s still rather a nuisance.
MADELEINE: Oh, not necessarily! …Sacrifice isn’t always so difficult. There’s sacrifice and sacrifice. Even if it is a bit of a nuisance right at the start, getting rid of some of our habits, once we’re rid of them, were rid of them, and you never really give them another thought!”

 
Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)
David Sinaiko (Choubert) en Felicia Benefield (Madeleine) in een uitvoering in San Francisco, 2008

Lees verder “Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Victims of Duty

«A petit bourgeois interior. CHOUBERT is sitting inan armchair near the table reading a newspaper. MADELEINE, his wife, is sitting at the table darningsocks. Silence
MADELEINE: [ pausing in her work ] Any news in the paper?
CHOUBERT: Nothing ever happens. A few comets and a cosmicdisturbance somewhere in the universe. Nothing to speak of.The neighbors have been fined for letting their dogs make amess on the pavement…
MADELEINE: Serve them right. It’s horrible when you step onit.
CHOUBERT: And think of the people on the ground floor,opening their windows in the morning to see that ! Enough toput them in a bad mood for the rest of the day.
MADELEINE: They’re too sensitive.
CHOUBERT: It’s the times we live in; all nerves. Nowadaysmen have lost the peace of mind they had in the past. [Silence]Oh, and here’s an official announcement.
MADELEINE: What’s it say?
CHOUBERT: It’s quite interesting. The Government’s urging allthe citizens of the big towns to cultivate detachment.Accord-ing to this, it’s our last hope of finding an answer to theeco-nomic crisis, the confusion of the spirit and the problemsof existence.
MADELEINE: We’ve tried everything else, and it hasn’t doneany good, but I don’t suppose it’s anyone’s fault.
CHOUBERT: For the time being the Government’s merelyrecom-mending this ultimate solution in a friendly manner.They can’t fool us; we know how a recommendation has a wayof turning into an order.
MADELEINE: You’re always so anxious to generalize!
CHOUBERT: We know how suggestions suddenly come to look like rules, like strict laws.» 



Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)
Scene uit ‘Victims of Duty’, Cutting Ball Theater, San Francisco, 2008

Lees verder “Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck, William Cowper”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

 

Uit: La Cantatrice chauve

“SCÈNE l

Intérieur bourgeois anglais, avec des fauteuils anglais. Soirée anglaise. M. Smith, Anglais, dans son fauteuil et ses pantoufles anglais, fume sa pipe anglaise et lit un iournal anglais, près d’un feu anglais. Il a des lunettes anglaises, une petite moustache grise, anglaise. A côté de lui, dans un autre fauteuil anglais, Mme Smith, Anglaise, raccommode des chaussettes anglaises. Un long moment de silence anglais. La pendule anglaise frappe dix-sept coups anglais.

Mme SMITH

Tiens, il est neuf heures. Nous avons mangé de la soupe, du poisson, des pommes de terre au lard, de la salade anglaise. Les enfants ont bu de l’eau anglaise. Nous avons bien mangé, ce soir. C’est parce que nous habitons dans les environs de Londres et que notre nom est Smith.

M. SMITH, continuant sa lecture, fait claquer sa langue.

Mme SMITH

Les pommes de terre sont très bonnes avec le lard. L’huile de la salade n’était pas rance. L’huile de l’épicier du coin est de bien meilleure qualité que l’huile de l’épicier d’en face, elle est même meilleure que l’huile de l’épicier du bas de la côte. Mais je ne veux pas dire que leur huile à eux soit mauvaise.

M. SMITH, continuant sa lecture, tait claquer sa langue.

Mme SMITH

Pourtant, c’est toujours l’huile de l’épicier du coin qui est la meilleure…

M. SMITH, continuant sa lecture, fait claquer sa langue.

Mme SMITH

Mary a bien cuit les pommes de terre, cette fois-ci. La dernière fois elle ne les avait pas bien fait cuire. Je ne les aime que lorsqu’elles sont bien cuites.

M. SMITH, continuant sa lecture, tait claquer sa langue.

Mme SMITH

Le poisson était frais. Je m’en suis léché les babines. j’en ai pris deux fois. Non, trois fois. Ça me fait aller aux cabinets. Toi aussi tu en as pris trois fois. Cependant la troisième fois, tu en as pris moins que les deux premières fois, tandis que moi j’en ai pris beaucoup plus. j’ai mieux mangé que toi, ce soir. Comment ça se fait? D’habitude, c’est toi qui manges le plus. Ce n’est pas l’appétit qui te manque.”

 

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)

Cover

Lees verder “Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Luisa Valenzuela, Louis Verbeeck”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Theophilus Cibber, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Fragments of a Journal

„Two possible attitudes:
To imagine, because imagining means foreseeing. What we imagine is now true, what we imagine will be realized. Science fiction is becoming, or has already become, realistic literature.
A second possible attitude: to consider reality as something beyond reality, to be aware of it not as surrealistic but as unfamiliar miraculous, a-real. Reality of the unreal, unreality of the real.

(When I shall no longer exist, God will say: ‘I do a lot of things that everybody understands. There’s nobody left not to understand them.’)

I am constantly relapsing into literature. The fact of having been able to describe these images, of having put them into words more or less satisfactorily, flatters my vanity. I reflect that it may be well written. It may give pleasure to readers or critics. I say this, I tell myself this and then I relapse into literature. The fact of being conscious of it does not save me. The fact of being conscious that I am conscious of literary values only makes things worse. I have to make a choice, though: vanity, the road to failure, or the other thing. One’s not always lucky enough to get the knock-out blow, one’s not always lucky enough to be desperate about life; I forget it, I seek consolation and amusement, I enjoy myself, I write my ‘private diary.’ I have tremendous vitality; nothing can exhaust it. Only dreams or nightmares can keep one awake. And yet it seems to me that some of the previous pages had nothing to do with words and writing. If I’ve relapsed into ‘literature,’ is it because the Administrator of the Comédie Française has just rung me up from Paris to tell me he’s interested in my latest play? It doesn’t take much to restore my unbalance. Let’s eat an apple.

Living is so painful. Longing so keenly to live is a neurosis; I cling to my neurosis, I have got used to it, I love my neurosis. I don’t want to be cured of it. That’s why I get these terrors, that panic at nightfall.“

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)

1964 in Parijs

Lees verder “Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Theophilus Cibber, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 november 2006en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2008 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2009.

 

Uit: The Bold Soprano

 

„SCENE: A middle-class English interior, with English armchairs. An English evening. Mr. Smith, an Englishman, seated in his English armchair and wearing English slippers, is smoking his English pipe and reading an English newspaper, near an English fire. He is wearing English spectacles and a small gray English mustache. Beside him, in another English armchair, Mrs. Smith, an Englishwoman, is darning some English socks. A long moment of English silence. The English clock strikes 17 English strokes.

MRS. SMITH: There, it’s nine o’clock. We’ve drunk the soup, and eaten the fish and chips, and the English salad. The children have drunk English water. We’ve eaten well this evening. That’s because we live in the suburbs of London and because our name is Smith.

MR. SMITH [continues to read, clicks his toungue.]

MRS. SMITH: Potatoes are very good fried in fat; the salad oil was not rancid. The oil from the grocer at the corner is better quality than the oil from the grocer across the street. It is even better than the oil from the grocer at the bottom of the street. However, I prefer not to tell them that their oil is bad.

MR. SMITH [continues to read, clicks his tongue.]

MRS. SMITH: However, the oil from the grocer at the corner is still the best.

MR. SMITH [continues to read, clicks his tongue.]

MRS. SMITH: Mary did the potatoes very well, this evening. The last time she did not do them well. I do not like them when they are well done.

MR. SMITH [continues to read, clicks his tongue.]

MRS. SMITH: The fish was fresh. It made my mouth water. I had two helpings. No, three helpings. That made me go to the w.c. You also had three helpings. However, the third time you took less than the first two times, while as for me, I took a great deal more. I eat better than you this evening. Why is that? Usually, it is you who eats more. It is not appetite you lack.

MR. SMITH [clicks his tongue.]

MRS. SMITH: But still, the soup was perhaps a little too salt. It was saltier than you. Ha, ha, ha. It also had too many leeks and not enough onions. I regret I didn’t advise Mary to add some aniseed stars. The next time I’ll know better.“

 

 

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)

 

Lees verder “Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher”

Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, William Cowper, Louis Verbeeck, Luisa Valenzuela, René Becher

De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2008.

 

Uit: La cantatrice chauve

 

SCENE II

Les Smith et Mary

 

MARY, entrant. – Je suis la bonne. J’ai passé un après-midi très agréable. J’ai été au cinéma avec un homme et j’ai vu un film avec des femmes. A la sortie du cinéma, nous sommes allés boire de l’eau-de-vie et du lait et puis on a lu le journal.

 

MME SMITH. – J’espère que vous avez passé un après-midi très agréable, que vous êtes allée au cinéma avec un homme et que vous avez bu de l’eau-de-vie et du lait.

 

M.SMITH. – Et le journal !

 

MARY. – Mme et M. Martin, vos invités, sont à la porte. Ils m’attendaient. Ils n’osent pas entrer tout seuls. Ils devaient dîner avec vous, ce soir.

 

MME SMITH. – Ah oui. Nous les attendions. Et on avait faim. Comme on ne les voyait plus venir, on allait manger sans eux. On n’a rien mangé, de toute la journée. Vous n’auriez pas dû vous absenter !

 

MARY. – C’est vous qui m’avez donné la permission.

 

M.SMITH. – On ne l’a pas fait exprès !

 

MARY éclate de rire. Puis, elle pleure. Elle sourit. – Je me suis acheté un pot de chambre.

 

MME SMITH. – Ma chère Mary, veuillez ouvrir la porte et faites entrer M. et Mme Martin, s’il vous plaît. Nous allons vite nous habiller.

 

Mme et M. Smith sortent à droite. Mary

Ouvre la porte à gauche par laquelle

Entrent M. et Mme Martin.

 

SCENE IV

Les mêmes, moins Mary.

 

MARY. – Pourquoi êtes-vous venus si tard ! Vous n’êtes pas polis. Il faut venir à l’heure. Compris ? Asseyez-vous quand même là, et attendez, maintenant.

Elle sort.

 

Ionesco

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Marilynne Robinson werd geboren in Sandpoint, Idaho op 26 november 1943. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 november 2008.

 

Uit: Gilead

 

I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren’t very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you’ve had with me and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don’t laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother’s. It’s a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I’m always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsinged after I’ve suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.
It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you’re a grown man when you read this–it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then–I’ll have been gone a long time. I’ll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I’ll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.
I don’t know how many times people have asked me what death is like, sometimes when they were only an hour or two from finding out for themselves. Even when I was a very young man, people as old as I am now would ask me, hold on to my hands and look into my eyes with their old milky eyes, as if they knew I knew and they were going to make me tell them. I used to say it was like going home. We have no home in this world, I used to say, and then I’d walk back up the road to this old place and make myself a pot of coffee and a friend-egg sandwich and listen to the radio, when I got one, in the dark as often as not. Do you remember this house? I think you must, a little. I grew up in parsonages. I’ve lived in this one most of my life, and I’ve visited in a good many others, because my father’s friends and most of our relatives also lived in parsonages. And when I thought about it in those days, which wasn’t too often, I thought this was the worst of them all, the draftiest and the dreariest. Well, that was my state of mind at the time. It’s a perfectly good old house, but I was all alone in it then. And that made it seem strange to me. I didn’t feel very much at home in the world, that was a face. Now I do.
And now they say my heart is failing. The doctor used the term “angina pectoris,” which has a theological sound, like misericordia. Well, you expect these things at my age. My father died an old man, but his sisters didn’t live very long, really. So I can only be grateful. I do regret that I have almost nothing to leave you and your mother. A few old books no one else would want. I never made any money to speak of, and I never paid any attention to the money I had. It was the furthest thing from my mind that I’d be leaving a wife and child, believe me. I’d have been a better father if I’d known. I’d have set something by for you.”

 

marilynne-robinson

Marilynne Robinson (Sandpoint, 26 november 1943)

 

De Engelse dichter William Cowper werd geboren op 26 november 1731 in Berkhamstead, Herford. Zie ook mijn blog van 26 november 2006 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2008.

 

Light Shining out of Darkness 

 

God moves in a mysterious way

His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

 

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up His bright designs,

And works His sovereign will.

 

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust Him for His grace;

Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

 

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,

But sweet will be the flower.

 

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan His work in vain:

God is His own interpreter,

And he will make it plain. 

 

william_cowper

William Cowper (26 november 1731 – 25 april 1800)

 

De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Louis Verbeeck werd geboren in Tessenderlo op 26 november 1932. Hij is vooral bekend van zijn cursiefjes. Verbeek studeerde Germaanse filologie aan de Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. Verschillende bundels van zijn cursiefjes werden als boek uitgegeven, en hij las ze voor op de radio. Hij presenteerde ook programma’s bij Omroep Limburg. Bovendien schreef hij verschillende kleinkunstliedjes voor Miel Cools, De Vaganten e.a.

 

Lief

 

Mijn lief heeft mij verlaten
ze gaf me plots de bons,
ze vloog naar de Karpaten
en stuurde mij een spons,

 

een spons voor al mijn tranen,
een waterval van Coo,
een smart voor achttien kranen
en slechts één lavabo. 

 

Mijn traanzakjes vol pijlen
en géén die erop let,
ik moet nog leren zeilen
want ik dobber in mijn bed

 

Louis Verbeeck

Louis Verbeeck (Tessenderlo, 26 november 1932)

 

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zij publiceerde haar eerste werk toen zij 17 jaar was. Toen zij twintig was trouwde zij met een Franse zakenman, trok naar Parijs en begon zij te werken voor de Franse radio. Ook leerde zij in die tijd mensen kennen uit de groepen rond Tel Quel en de Noeveau Roman. Ook schreef zij in Parijs haar eerste roman Hay que sonreír. Zij moest Argentinie in 1979 verruilen voor de Verenigde Staten, waar ze als journaliste werkte. Ze schreef daarnaast vanaf 1967 verhalenbundels en romans.

 

Uit: Feuer am Wort (Vertaald door Helga Lion, Erika Pfeiffer e.a.)

 

“Am Samstag Abend sucht eine Frau alles Mögliche, nur nicht Arbeit. Und an einem Tisch nahe der Theke sitzend, so wie man mir s empfohlen hat, warte ich. In diesem Lokal ist die Theke die Schlüsselstelle, hat man mir eingebläut, so können dich die Männer taxieren, wenn sie in Richtung Klo gehen. Denn sie können sich diesen Luxus sehr wohl leisten. Von ihrem Drang getrieben, stoßen sie die Schwingtür kraftvoll auf, eine Wolke von Ammoniakduft schlägt uns entgegen, und sie kommen erleichtert wieder hervor, bereit, den Tanz wieder aufzunehmen. Als Prinz mag er ja seine Schwächen haben, doch für einen Frosch, das weiß er, ist er ganz große Klasse. Dennoch ist er traurig. Das Mädchen, das ihn küsste, ist nicht mehr von dieser Welt. Damals wollte der Prinz keine Zeugin seiner Verwandlung hinterlassen, aber jetzt tut es ihm Leid. Es gibt nun niemanden mehr im Schloss, der ihm von seiner Vergangenheit erzählen könnte, dabei ist es so wichtig für ihn, immer wieder vom Teich zu hören und vom unaufhörlichen Quaken: Denn auf die Stimme kommt es an. Für die Liebe – besser gesagt, für die Fortpflanzung – braucht man ein kräftiges Vibrato in der exakten Tonhöhe der eigenen Spezies. Und sie war so, sie lag genau auf seiner Wellenlänge und wusste sofort, was er von ihr wollte. Sie verstand ihn, und ohne lang zu überlegen gab sie seinem Flehen nach und küsste ihn. Wegen dieser spontanen Handlung kam sie nicht mehr dazu, die Geschichte zu erzählen.”

luisavalenzuela

Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata:

 

De Duitse schrijver René Becher werd geboren in 1977 in Bayreuth. Hij studeerde germanistiek, geschiedenis en boekwetenschappen in Mainz en Düsseldorf. Daarna studeerde hij aan het  Deutsche Literaturinstitut Leipzig. In 2004 won hij een prijs bij de Berliner open mike. Hij publiceerde in bloemlezingen en literaire tijdschriften. In het voorjaar van 2008 verscheen Etzadla, een verhaal, bij de

Ploettner Verlag Leipzig. 

 

Uit: Etzadla

 

»‘Aufgepasst, Sportsfreund, etzadla stinkt’s!’
Und Vater bewegte sein Rad an der heimischen Kläranlage vorbei, ich kam doch kaum hinterher. Scheiße! Vater musste lachen, hielt sich den ärmel vor die Nase, seine roten Haare, sie bewegten sich im Wind. Und Vater schwieg sich aus. Möchte fast sagen: Vater schwieg wie ein Grab. Sagte nur: „Schau halt, echter Nelkenwurz.“ Und schlug in seinem Wald- und Wiesenbuch nach, weil ihm die eigenen Worte dafür fehlten.
Er verschränkte die Arme hinter dem Kopf, vor uns der Gabentisch, das Schweizermesser, es steckte in einem Hartkäsestück.
Der aufgeschraubte, stoßfeste Freund, Vater trank daraus. Eine Fritfliege vor dem offenen stinkenden Vatermund, verschwand wieder, machte sich auf und davon.  …

über den hell erleuchteten Marktplatz unseres an sich recht schönen Städtchens. Der Flötist mit den Scheuklappen, der vor dem Warenhaus sitzt, eine Schande, eine Lachnummer, nicht der Rede wert. Krankhafte Töne, ich sehe nicht, höre nicht und diene nicht. Ein Katzenviech auf dem Fensterbrett, klopft mit dem Schwanz einen viel zu schnellen Takt. Ein Mann mit Krückstock verteilt in einer schattigen Ecke fruchtige Bonbons an Kinder. Eine alte Frau versohlt einen schmutzigen Ausläufer. Wie Vater mich doch öfter versohlt hat, wenn ich nicht spurte, wie er dann meinte, griff nach einem Hausschlappen, einer kleinen Schaufel, je nachdem, was grad zur Hand und.  …

Vater grüßte. Die Leute grüßten zurück. Vater kannte diese Menschen. Er stieg vom Rad und sagte: ‘Du bist doch der’, und bekam zur Antwort:’Immer noch.’ ‘Mit dem Herrn Sohnemann unterwegs?’ Und sie traten auf meinen Schatten und erzählten mir Geschichten, die ich mir einfach nicht merken konnte.“

 

Becher

René Becher (Bayreuth, 1977)