Uit: Memoirs of Hadrian (Vertaald door Grace Frick, in samenwerking met de schrijfster)
“The world for him was all of a piece; a hand served to confirm the stars. His news affected me less than one might think; a child is ready for anything. Later, I imagine, he forgot his own prophecy in that indifference to both present and future which is characteristic of advanced age. They found him one morning in the chestnut woods on the far edge of his domain, dead and already cold, and torn by birds of prey. Before his death he had tried to teach me his art, but with no success; my natural curiosity tended to jump at once to conclusions without burdening itself under the complicated and somewhat repellent details of his science. But the taste for certain dangerous experiments has remained with me, indeed only too much so. My father, Aelius Hadrianus Afer, was a man weighed down by his very virtues. His life was passed in the thankless duties of civil administration; his voice hardly counted in the Senate. Contrary to usual practice, his governorship of the province of Africa had not made him richer. At home, in our Spanish township of Italica, he exhausted himself in the settlement of local disputes. Without ambitions and without joy, like many a man who from year to year thus effaces himself more and more, he had come to put a fanatic application into minor matters to which he limited himself. I have myself known these honorable temptations to meticulousness and scruple. Experience had produced in my father a skepticism toward all mankind in which he included me, as yet a child. My success, had he lived to see it, would not have impressed him in the least; family pride was so strong that it would not have been admitted that I could add anything to it. I was twelve when this overburdened man left us. My mother settled down, for the rest of her life, to an austere widowhood; I never saw her again from the day that I set out for Rome, summoned hither by my guardian. My memory of her face, elongated like those of most of our Spanish women and touched with melancholy sweetness, is confirmed by her image in wax on the Wall of Ancestors. She had the dainty feet of the women of Gades, in their close-fitting sandals, nor was the gentle swaying of the hips which marks the dancers of that region alien to this virtuous young matron. I have often reflected upon the error that we commit in supposing that a man or a family necessarily share in the ideas or events of the century in which they happen to exist. The effect of intrigues in Rome barely reached my parents in that distant province of Spain, even though at the time of the revolt against Nero my grandfather had for one night offered hospitality to Galba. We lived on the memory of obscure heroes of archives without renown, of a certain Fabius Hadrianus who was burned alive by the Carthaginians in the siege of Utica, and of a second Fabius, an ill-starred soldier who pursued Mithridates on the roads of Asia Minor. Of the writers of the period my father knew practically nothing: Lucan and Seneca were strangers to him, although like us they were of Spanish origin. My great uncle Aelius, a scholar, confined his reading to the best known authors of the time of Augustus.”
Marguerite Yourcenar (8 juni 1903 – 17 december 1987)
Tell you what I like the best — ‘Long about knee-deep in June, ‘Bout the time strawberries melts On the vine, — some afternoon Like to jes’ git out and rest, And not work at nothin’ else!
Orchard’s where I’d ruther be — Needn’t fence it in fer me! — Jes’ the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath — Sort o’ so’s a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kind o’ has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len’thways on the grass Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they’s company!
Jes’ a-sort o’ lazin there – S’lazy, ‘at you peek and peer Through the wavin’ leaves above, Like a feller ‘ats in love And don’t know it, ner don’t keer! Ever’thing you hear and see Got some sort o’ interest – Maybe find a bluebird’s nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy ‘at’s ap’ to be Up some other apple tree! Watch the swallers skootin’ past Bout as peert as you could ast; Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other’s whistle is.
Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow — Er a hawk, – away up there, ‘Pearantly froze in the air! — Hear the old hen squawk, and squat Over ever’ chick she’s got, Suddent-like! – and she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you! — You jes’ bet yer life she do! — Eyes a-glitterin’ like glass, Waitin’ till he makes a pass!
Pee-wees wingin’, to express My opinion, ’s second-class, Yit you’ll hear ‘em more er less; Sapsucks gittin’ down to biz, Weedin’ out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o’ sass, In them baseball clothes o’ his, Sportin’ round the orchad jes’ Like he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade’s where glory is! That’s jes’ what I’d like to do Stiddy fer a year er two!
Plague! Ef they ain’t somepin’ in Work ‘at kind o’ goes ag’in’ My convictions! – ‘long about Here in June especially! — Under some ole apple tree, Jes’ a-restin through and through, I could git along without Nothin’ else at all to do Only jes’ a-wishin’ you Wuz a-gittin’ there like me, And June wuz eternity!
Lay out there and try to see Jes’ how lazy you kin be! — Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin’ of old chums ‘ats dead, Maybe, smilin’ back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o’gold and white and blue! — Month a man kin railly love — June, you know, I’m talkin’ of!
March ain’t never nothin’ new! — April’s altogether too Brash fer me! and May — I jes’ ‘Bominate its promises, — Little hints o’ sunshine and Green around the timber-land — A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two, — Drap asleep, and it turns in Fore daylight and snows ag’in! — But when June comes – Clear my th’oat With wild honey! — Rench my hair In the dew! And hold my coat! Whoop out loud! And th’ow my hat! — June wants me, and I’m to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I’ll get down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!
James Whitcomb Riley (7 oktober 1849 – 22 juli 1916) Greenfield, Indiana, de geboorteplaats van James Whitcomb Riley
Uit: Memoirs of Hadrian (Vertaald door Grace Frick, in samenwerking met de schrijfster)
“His
mind, however, was not wholly uncultivated; after his death they found
in his house a trunk full of mathematical instruments and books
untouched by him for twenty years. He
was learned in his way, with a knowledge half scientific, half peasant,
that same mixture of narrow prejudice and ancient wisdom which
characterized the elder Cato. But Cato was a man of the Roman Senate all
his life, and of the war with- Carthage, a true representative of the
stern Rome of the Republic. The almost impenetrable hardness of Marullinus came from farther back, and from more ancient times. He
was a man of the tribe, the incarnation of a sacred and awe-inspiring
world of which I have sometimes found vestiges among our Etruscan
soothsayers. He always went bareheaded, as I was criticized for doing
later on; his horny feet spurned all use of sandals, and his everyday
clothing was hardly distinguishable from that of the aged beggars, or of
the grave tenant farmers whom I used to see squatting in the sun. They
said that he was a wizard, and the village folk tried to avoid his
glance. But over animals he had singular powers. I have watched his
grizzled head approaching cautiously, though in friendly wise, a nest of
adders, and before a lizard have seen his gnarled fingers execute a
kind of dance. On
summer nights he took me with him to study the sky from the top of a
barren hill. I used to fall asleep in a furrow, tired out from counting
meteors. He would stay sitting, gazing upward and turning imperceptibly
with the stars. He must have known the systems of Philolaus and of
Hipparchus, and that of Aristarchus of Samos which was my choice in
later years, but these speculations had ceased to interest him. For him
the stars were fiery points in the heavens, objects akin to the stones
and slow-moving insects from which he also drew portents, constituent
parts of a magic universe in which were combined
the will of the gods, the influence of daemons, and the lot apportioned
to men. He had cast my horoscope. One night (I was eleven years old at
the time) he came and shook me from my sleep and announced, with the
same grumbling laconism that he would have employed to predict a good harvest
to his tenants, that I should rule the world. Then, seized with
mistrust, he went to fetch a brand from a small fire of root ends kept
going to warm us through the colder hours, held it over my hand, and
read in my solid, childish palm I know not what confirmation of lines
written in the sky.”
Marguerite Yourcenar (8 juni 1903 – 17 december 1987) Tentoonstelling Marguerite Yourcenar en Hadrianus in Bavay, 2016
Uit: Het achtste leven (Vertaald door Elly Schippers en Jantsje Post)
“Op de avond dat Aman zei dat hij met mij ‘normaal wilde worden; ging Brilka, de dochter van mijn dode zus en mijn enige nichtje, naar Wenen, naar een plaats die ze zich had voorgesteld als haar tweede thuis, als haar persoon-lijke utopie, en dat allemaal uit een gevoel van verbondenheid met een dode vrouw. Van die dode vrouw, mijn oudtante en dus Brilkis overoudtante, had ze in haar fan-tasie haar heldin gemaakt. Ze wilde in Wenen de rechten op de liederen van haar overoudtante zien te krijgen. En door de sporen van die geest te volgen hoopte ze ver-lossing te vinden en een definitief antwoord op de gapen-de leegte in zichzelf. Maar daar had ik toen nog geen idee van. Nadat ik op de bank was gaan zitten en mijn gezicht in mijn handen had verborgen, nadat ik mijn ogen had uitgewreven en Amans blik zo lang mogelijk had ontweken, wist ik dat ik weer zou moeten huilen, maar niet nu, niet op het moment dat Brilka door het raam van de trein het oude, nieuwe Europa voorbij zag glijden en voor het eerst sinds haar aankomst op het continent van de onverschil-ligheid glimlachte. Ik weet niet waar ze bij het verlaten van de stad met die kleine bruggetjes om moest glim-lachen, maar dat doet er niet meer toe. Het belangrijkste is dat ze glimlachte. Ik zou moeten huilen, dacht ik precies op dat moment. Om het niet te doen draaide ik me om, liep naar de slaap-kamer en ging op bed liggen. Lang hoefde ik niet op Aman te wachten; een verdriet als het zijne is heel snel te gene-zen als je ter genezing je lichaam aanbiedt — vooral als de zieke zevenentwintig is. Ik kuste mezelf wakker uit mijn doornroosjesslaap. En toen Aman zijn hoofd op mijn buik legde, verliet mijn twaalfjarige nichtje Nederland en passeerde ze in haar naar blikbier en eenzaamheid stinkende coupé de Duitse grens, terwijl haar nietsvermoedende tante hon-derden kilometers verderop liefde veinsde voor een zevenentwintigjarige schim. Ze doorkruiste Duitsland in de hoop verder te komen.”
Uit:Die Stille in Prag(Vertaald door Eva Profousová)
»Wie fühlt sich das an?« »Deine Brüste zu küssen?« »An meinem Herzen zu horchen!« »Lang.« »Wie: lang?« »Wie ein unendlich langer, fließender Song.« »Kein Techno?« »Genau die Art Song, die du haben willst.« »Ich will es auch mal hören.« Er streichelt sie. Oben. In der Mitte. Unten. Eine Weile lässt sie es zu. Sie
stöhnt. Noch einmal. Als er nach ihrer Pobacke fasst, bewegt sie das
Becken. Dann aber schiebt sie seine Hand auf die Bettdecke zurück. »Schluss.« »Woher weißt du, dass ich was wollte?« »Wir kennen das Spiel. Die Frau wird nur benutzt. Und ausgenutzt.« »Das musst ausgerechnet du sagen.« Vanda
steht auf und geht zu dem beleuchteten Aquarium, das auf einem
niedrigen Tisch steht, auf den in anderen Wohnungen eher der Fernseher
gestellt wird. Sie klopft an die Glasscheibe, um den kleinen dicken
Fisch zu begrüßen, der auf sie zugeschwommen kommt, und setzt sich auf
den Parkettfußboden. Sie ist nackt, und die beleuchteten Pflanzen und
Wasserbläschen im Aquarium werfen gelbe zitternde Lichtstreifen auf sie.
Vanda sieht aus wie ein kleines Wasserzebra, das sich im tiefen,
dunklen Ozean verlaufen hat. Sie ist nicht mehr die traurige, patzige
junge Frau mit den schwarz gefärbten Haaren und der frischen
Schultertätowierung, die Petr vor ein paar Stunden kennengelernt hat.
Aus dem Nebenzimmer kommt Malmö und stupst sie gähnend mit der Schnauze
an. Vanda krault sie zwischen den Ohren und Malmö streckt sich neben ihr
aus.“
iedereen wil wel naar huis, zei je. er wordt gekookt voor activisten, seks is er lekker lui, je bent er vrij van de krachten van de markt en zo. ik weet wat je denkt, de revolutie heeft haar kinderen verminkt
en we praten er niet meer over. fluisterend misschien. over wat er de afgelopen tijd gebeurd is. de anderen, alles wat na het opsommen komt. niemand zou een enzovoort moeten zijn. daarom zijn we allemaal gebroken. ook het huis is ingestort, en dat noemen we nieuwbouw. zo verstild klinkt dit individualisme, dat de luidruchtigste band met de productieve wereld het innigste is. als je luistert, hoor je haar zingen, het is een parodie en gaat van huisje, boompje, weesje
ik dacht: er is een leer die taai geworden is. ik kauwde erop, vroeg me af wie het werkgezin vormden, wat we tegenover de familie zetten die aan tafel zat, de ethiek van de arbeid, het professionele knechtschap, de vaderpolitiek
zaten we niet scheef, jij en ik, in deze geschiedenis. wie gingen ons voor. en hoe konden we ze leren kennen door de waas van onze isolatie
La guérison du Démoniaque door Sébastien Bourdon, 1660
Magdalene—The Seven Devils
“Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven devils had been cast out”,Luke 8:2.
The first was that I was very busy.
The second—I was different from you: whatever happened to you could not happen to me, not like that.
The third—I worried.
The fourth—envy, disguised as compassion.
The fifth was that I refused to consider the quality of life of the aphid, The aphid disgusted me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The mosquito too—its face. And the ant—its bifurcated body.
Ok the first was that I was so busy.
The second that I might make the wrong choice, because I had decided to take that plane that day, that flight, before noon, so as to arrive early and, I shouldn’t have wanted that. The third was that if I walked past the certain place on the street the house would blow up.
The fourth was that I was made of guts and blood with a thin layer of skin lightly thrown over the whole thing.
The fifth was that the dead seemed more alive to me than the living
The sixth—if I touched my right arm I had to touch my left arm, and if I touched the left arm a little harder than I’d first touched the right then I had to retouch the left and then touch the right again so it would be even.
The seventh—I knew I was breathing the expelled breath of everything that was alive, and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted a sieve, a mask, a, I hate this word—cheesecloth— to breath through that would trap it—whatever was inside everyone else that entered me when I breathed in.
No. That was the first one.
The second was that I was so busy. I had no time. How had this happened? How had our lives gotten like this?
The third was that I couldn’t eat food if I really saw it—distinct, separate from me in a bowl or on a plate.
Ok. The first was that. I could never get to the end of the list. The second was that the laundry was never finally done.
The third was that no one knew me, although they thought they did. And that if people thought of me as little as I thought of them then what was love?
The fourth was I didn’t belong to anyone. I wouldn’t allow myself to belong to anyone.
The fifth was that I knew none of us could ever know what we didn’t know.
The sixth was that I projected onto others what I myself was feeling.
The seventh was the way my mother looked when she was dying, the sound she made—her mouth wrenched to the right and cupped open so as to take in as much air… the gurgling sound, so loud we had to speak louder to hear each other over it.
And that I couldn’t stop hearing it—years later—grocery shopping, crossing the street—
No, not the sound—it was her body’s hunger finally evident—what our mother had hidden all her life.
For months I dreamt of knucklebones and roots, the slabs of sidewalk pushed up like crooked teeth by what grew underneath.
The underneath. That was the first devil. It was always with me And that I didn’t think you—if I told you—would understand any of this—
Marie Howe (Rochester, 1950) Christ Church, in Rochester, New York, de geboorteplaats van Marie Howe
De Amerikaanse dichteres Marie Howe werd geboren in 1950 in Rochester, New York, als oudste meisje van negen kinderen. Ze ging naar de Sacred Heart Convent School en behaalde haar undergraduate degree aan de University of Windsor. Ze werkte kort als dagbladjournaliste in Rochester en als lerares Engels in het middelbaar onderwijs in Massachusetts. Howe besteedde geen serieuze aandacht aan het schrijven van poëzie totdat ze 30 werd. Op aanraden van een docent in een schrijversworkshop schreef Howe zich in aan de Columbia University, waar ze studeerde bij Stanley Kunitz en waar zij haar M.F.A. behaalde in 1983. Zij heeft gedoceerd aan de Tufts University en het Warren Wilson College. Ze is momenteel werkzaam aan de faculteiten schrijven van Columbia University, het Sarah Lawrence College en New York University. Haar eerste bundel “The Good Thief”, werd door Margaret Atwood geselecteerd als de winnaar van de Open Competition of the National Poetry Series 1987. In 1998 publiceerde ze haar bekendste gedichtenboek, “What the Living Do”; het titelgedicht in de verzameling is een beklemmende klaagzang om haar broer met het even openharige als eenvoudige laatste vers: “I am living, I remember you.” Howe’s broer John stierf aan een AIDS-gerelateerde ziekte in 1989. In 1995 gaf Howe, samen met Michael Klein een verzameling essays, brieven en verhalen uit, getiteld “In the Company of My Solitude: American Writing from the AIDS Pandemic”. Haar gedichten zijn verschenen in literaire tijdschriften en tijdschriften zoals The New Yorker, The Atlantic, Poetry, Agni, Plowshares en Harvard Review. Haar meest recente bundel heer “ Magdalene” (2017).
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: I am living. I remember you.
The Boy
My older brother is walking down the sidewalk into the suburban
summer night:
white T-shirt, blue jeans— to the field at the end of the street.
Hangers Hideout the boys called it, an undeveloped plot, a pit
overgrown
with weeds, some old furniture thrown down there,
and some metal hangers clinking in the trees like wind chimes.
He’s running away from home because our father wants to cut his hair.
And in two more days our father will convince me to go to him— you know
where he is— and talk to him: No reprisals. He promised. A small parade
of kids
in feet pajamas will accompany me, their voices like the first peepers
in spring.
And my brother will walk ahead of us home, and my father
will shave his head bald, and my brother will not speak to anyone the next
month, not a word, not pass the milk, nothing.
What happened in our house taught my brothers how to leave, how to walk
down a sidewalk without looking back.
I was the girl. What happened taught me to follow him, whoever he was,
calling and calling his name.
