Dave Eggers, Jack Kerouac, Naomi Shihab Nye, Carl Hiaasen, Edward Albee

De Amerikaanse schrijver Dave Eggers werd geboren op 12 maart 1970 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Dave Eggers op dit blog.

Uit: Zeitoun

“And when Abdulrahman first witnessed the sardines circling in the black he could not believe the sight, the beauty of the undulating silver orb below the white and gold lantern light. He said nothing, and the other fishermen were careful to be quiet, too, paddling without motors, lest they scare away the catch. They would whisper over the sea, telling jokes and talking about women and girls as they watched the fish rise and spin beneath them. A few hours later, once the sardines were ready, tens of thousands of them glistening in the refracted light, the fishermen would cinch the net and haul them in.
They would motor back to the shore and bring the sardines to the fish broker in the market before dawn. He would pay the men and boys, and would then sell the fish all over western Syria – Lattakia, Baniyas, Damascus. The fishermen would split the money, with Abdulrahman and Ahmad bringing their share home. Their father had passed away the year before and their mother was of fragile health and mind, so all funds they earned fishing went toward the welfare of the house they shared with ten siblings.
Abdulrahman and Ahmad didn’t care much about the money, though. They would have done it for free.
Thirty-four years later and thousands of miles west, Abdulrahman Zeitoun was in bed on a Friday morning, slowly leaving the moonless Jableh night, a tattered memory of it caught in a morning dream. He was in his home in New Orleans and beside him he could hear his wife Kathy breathing, her exhalations not unlike the shushing of water against the hull of a wooden boat. Otherwise the house was silent. He knew it was near six o’clock, and the peace would not last. The morning light usually woke the kids once it reached their second-story windows. One of the four would open his or her eyes, and from there the movements were brisk, the house quickly growing loud. With one child awake, it was impossible to keep the other three in bed.”

 

Dave Eggers (Chicago, 12 maart 1970)

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Dave Eggers, Jack Kerouac, Naomi Shihab Nye, Carl Hiaasen

De Amerikaanse schrijver Dave Eggers werd geboren op 12 maart 1970 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor Dave Eggers op dit blog.

 

Uit: You Shall Know Our Velocity!

“When?” said Hand.

“A week from now,” I said.

“The seventeenth?”

“Right.”

“This seventeenth.”

“Right.””Jesus.”

“Can you get the week off?”

“I don’t know,” Hand asked. “Can I ask a dumb question?”

“What?”

“Why not this summer?”

“Because.”

“Or next fall?”

“Come on.”

“What?”

“I’ll pay for it if we go now,” I said. I knew Hand would say yes because for fivemonths we hadn’t said no. There had been some difficult requests but we hadn’t said no.

“And you owe me,” I added.

“What? For — Oh Jesus. Fine.”

“Good.””For how long again?” he asked.

“How long can you get off?” I asked.”

Probably a week.” I knew he would do it. Hand would have quit his job if theyrefused the time off. He had a decent arrangement now, as a security supervisor on acasino on the river under the Arch, but for a while, in high school, he’d been the NumberTwo-ranked swimmer in all of Wisconsin, and he expected that kind of glory goingforward. He’d never focused again like he’d focused then, and now he was a dabbler, withsome experience as a recording engineer, some in car alarms, some in weather futures(true, long story), some as a carpenter — we’d actually worked on one summer gigtogether, a porch on an enormous place — a gingerbread-looking place on Lake Geneva –but he left any job where he wasn’t learning or when his dignity was anywherecompromised.”

 

Dave Eggers (Chicago, 12 maart 1970)

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Naomi Shihab Nye, Dave Eggers, Jack Kerouac, Carl Hiaasen, Edward Albee

De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Naomi Shihab Nye werd geboren op 12 maart 1952 in St. Louis, Missouri. Zie ook mijn blog van 12 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 12 maart 2010.

Hidden

If you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
nearly invisible
as if the stone has
swallowed it.

If you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it
it becomes blood
sigh
the little sucked-in breath of air
hiding everywhere
beneath your words.

No one sees
the fuel that feeds you.

 

Making a Fist 

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
I felt the life sliding out of me,
a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.
My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

“How do you know if you are going to die?”
I begged my mother.
We had been traveling for days.
With strange confidence she answered,
“When you can no longer make a fist.”

Years later I smile to think of that journey,
the borders we must cross separately,
stamped with our unanswerable woes.
I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.

 

Naomi Shihab Nye (St. Louis,12 maart 1952)

 

 

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