Tag: Patrick Rambaud

Patrick Rambaud, Louise Glück

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: The Battle (Vertaald door Will Hobson)

“Now the Emperor had taken personal command. He intended to destroy the Archduke Charles”s army, a strong force on its own, before it could link up with that of the Archduke John, which was arriving from Italy by forced march. For that reason, the Emperor had posted Davout and his cavalry on lookout to the west. He gazed at the vast Marchfeld plain on the other side of the river, climbing endlessly to the horizon towards the plateau of Wagram.
An ordinary sergeant-major, with a white handlebar moustache and clumsily buttoned coat, called out to him in a reproachful voice, not even bothering to stand to attention, `You have forgotten me, my Emperor! What about my medal?”
“What medal?” asked Napoleon, smiling for the first time in eight days.
“La croix d”officier de la Légion d”honneur, of course! I”ve deserved it from the first day I fought as a soldier in your army!”
“As long as that?”
“Rivoli! Saint Jean-d”Acre! Austerlitz! Eylau!”
“Berthier …”
The chief of staff noted down the name of the newly promoted officer, Rousillon, with his pencil. He had hardly finished writing before the Emperor stood up, throwing aside the hatchet with which he had been hacking at the oak”s trunk. “Andiamo! I want a bridge by the end of the week. Station some of the brigades of light cavalry in that village behind there.”
“Ebersdorf,” said Berthier, checking it on his map.
“Bredorf if you wish, and three divisions of cuirassiers. Get started immediately!”
The Emperor never gave a direct order or reprimand any more: everything went through Berthier. Before climbing into the Berline, the latter signalled to one of his theatrically dressed aides-de-camp. “See to it, Lejeune, with the Duke of Rivoli.”
“Very good, Your Excellency,” replied the officer, a young colonel in the Engineers with tanned skin, brown hair and a striking scar, like a stripe, across the left of his forehead.
He mounted his Arab, adjusted his black and gold silk belt, brushed a speck of dust off his fur dolman and watched the imperial carriage drive off with its escort. He lingered behind, studying the Danube with a professional eye and those islands pounded by the current. Lejeune had taken part in the construction of pontoon bridges on the Po, in the driving rain, where they had used posts, anchors and rafts, but how was one to find purchase in these swirling yellow foam-flecked waters?
The main branch of the river skirted the island of Lobau on the south. Looking towards the other bank, which they had to reach, Lejeune suspected marshy ground and quagmires which the river, as it rose and fell, would reveal as tongues of sand.”

 

Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres, essayiste en schrijfster Louise Elisabeth Glück werd geboren op 22 april 1943 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Louise Glück op dit blog.

 

Avondrood

Mijn grootste vreugde
is het geluid van jouw stem
als die me roept zelfs in wanhoop; mijn verdriet
dat ik je niet kan antwoorden
in een spraak die je als de mijne aanvaardt.

Je hebt geen vertrouwen in je eigen taal.
Dus hecht je
gezag aan tekens
die je niet nauwkeurig kunt lezen.

En toch bereikt je stem me altijd.
En ik antwoord aanhoudend,
terwijl mijn woede luwt
naarmate de winter vergaat. Mijn tederheid
zou je duidelijk moeten zijn
in de koelte van de zomeravond
en in de woorden die uitgroeien
tot je eigen antwoord.

 

Vertaald door Erik Menkveld

 

Louise Glück (22 april 1943 – 13 oktober 2023)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Patrick Rambaud, Oliver Bottini, Louise Glück

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: Napoleon’s Exile (Vertaald door Shaun Whiteside)

“Octave adjusted his white English-style wig, which was combed back with fake nonchalance. He studied himself in the mirror. Pale grey eyes, pinched nostrils, a lipless mouth. His neutral face lent itself to change, and it made him smile. “I can play any part I like,” he thought with satisfaction.
Just then there was a knock at his door and someone called his name. Octave drew back the bolt and opened the door to reveal Marquis de la Grange, the former commander of the Vendeé, who had been involved in several failed conspiracies and who was now plotting in Paris, beneath the very noses of the imperial police. Tall, lean, rather severe, wearing a blue woolen frock-coat with an astrakhan collar, the Marquis had not visited Octave’s apartment before.
Octave occupied a long and sparsely furnished room on the first floor of the Hôtel de Salerne, in the rue Saint-Sauveur: a candlestick on the pine table, a bed, an enormous wardrobe. The velvet of the armchairs was as faded as that of the canopy of the bed, and Octave had to make do without a valet or chambermaid, with logs piled up beside the fireplace.
The velvet of the armchairs was as faded as that of the canopy of the bed, and Octave had to make do without a valet or chambermaid, with logs piled up beside the fireplace.
“But they are both temporary and discreet.”
“I grant you that, and in any case I’m not here to inspect you but to give you a warning.”
“Has someone spotted me?”
“No, no, don’t worry about that. The bluebottles down at the Préfecture are far too stupid to do anything of the sort. I wanted to tell you that we appear to have managed a complete revolution.”
“A revolution . . .”
“In the astronomical sense: the return of a planet to the initial point of its orbit.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that we are about to return to our startingpoint: the monarchy.”
“I still don’t get what you’re on about.”
“I’ll take you there, and then you’ll understand.”
The Marquis lifted Octave’s three-cornered hat from a peg, threw him his coat, thrust his own wide-brimmed black felt hat back on and dragged Octave to the staircase.
Outside the front door, in the rue des Deux-Portes, a rented cabriolet awaited, a large number painted on its door. The coachman asked no questions, since the journey had already been decided: the coach—amid a great din of wheels, tinkling bells, hoofs and curses, all of which discouraged conversation—was taking them to the Louvre.”

 

Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)

 

De Duitse schrijver Oliver Bottini werd geboren op 21 april 1965 in Neurenberg. Zie ook alle tags voor Oliver Bottini op dit blog.

Uit: Der Tod in den stillen Winkeln des Lebens

„Sekundenlang war er unfähig, sich zu bewegen. Hektisch atmend starrte er auf die geborstene Windschutzscheibe, durch deren Risse Sand ins Wageninnere wirbelte, wo er sich mit dem weißen Talkumpuder der Airbags vermischte. Jenseits der Scheibe lag die Sichtweite unter fünf Metern. Mehrere Menschen tauchten auf, rannten in Richtung Standstreifen. Endlich gelang es ihm, den Gurt zu lösen und sich zur Seite zu drehen. Ein rascher Blick nach hinten, die Kinder schienen unversehrt. Claudia war in sich zusammengesunken, hielt sich den Unterarm. Winter zwang sich zur Ruhe, öffnete ihre Gurtschnalle und half ihr, sich zurückzulehnen, vorsichtig, der Unterarm war wohl gebrochen. Sie war leichenblass, brachte kein Wort hervor, nickte nur, alles okay, fast, und er unterdrückte die Angst und die Schmerzen in seiner Brust und nickte ebenfalls, bei mir auch. Er wandte sich den Kindern zu. Emmy saß hochaufgerichtet da, die Hände auf den Ohren, die Augen geschlossen, aus ihrer Nase lief jetzt ein wenig Blut. Vor dem Fenster neben ihr flatterte der Seitenairbag. Plötzlich schüttelte sie wimmernd den Kopf, der Schock kam mit Verzögerung. Leon rieb sich das Bein und weinte leise. »Alles okay?«, stieß Winter hervor. Emmy riss die Augen auf, wirkte vollkommen verwirrt, als wäre sie aus einem tagelangen Schlaf erwacht. Sie begann zu schreien, und er sah, wie ihre Hand nach dem Türgriff tastete. Nur nicht aussteigen, dachte er, und herrschte sie an: »Emmy, sitzenbleiben!« Sie beachtete ihn nicht. Als sie die Tür aufstieß, fuhr ein kräftiger Luftstrom ins Wageninnere, Sand drang in Winters Augen. Er hörte Claudias verstörte Stimme, legte ihr die Hand auf die Schulter, aber er hatte jetzt keine Zeit für sie, Emmys Schreie wurden immer schriller, sie hatte schon ein Bein halb im Freien, während sie mit beiden Händen am Gurtschloss herumfingerte und nach ihm schlug, weil er sie davon abzuhalten versuchte. »Nicht aussteigen, Emmy, bitte! Emmy!« Sie zerrte am Gurt, versuchte durchzuschlüpfen, und Winter öffnete hastig seine Tür. kämpfte sich in den lärmenden Sturm hinaus, wollte um den Wagen herum zu ihr. Sandkörner stachen wie Hunderte feinster Nadeln auf seiner Haut, drangen ihm in Ohren, Nase, Mund, und er dachte fassungslos, dass sie in eine Art Wüstensturm geraten sein mussten, bis er begriff; dass der Sand nicht aus einer Wüste kam, sondern von den umliegenden Äckern, er hatte den Geschmack von Erde im Mund, und er wusste doch, wie Erde schmeckte. Die Augen mit einem Arm abschirmend, ließ er sich von den Böen am Wagen entlangstoßen, vorbei an Leons Tür zum Heck, musste sich für einen Moment an der Dachreling festklammern, um nicht weitergetrieben zu werden. Kaum einen Meter entfernt stand das nachfolgende Auto, die Beifahrertür offen, der Innenraum leer. Plötzlich brach ein riesiger Schatten in sein Blickfeld, grelle Lichter, eine mehrtonige Lkw-Hupe dröhnte.“

 

Oliver Bottini (Neurenberg,  21 april 1965)

 

De Amerikaanse dichteres, essayiste en schrijfster Louise Elisabeth Glück werd geboren op 22 april 1943 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Louise Glück op dit blog.

 

De wilde iris

Aan het eind van mijn lijden
was een poort.

Hoort: wat jullie dood noemen
herinner ik mij.

Geluiden, boven me, schurende dennentakken.
Daarna niets. De zwakke zon
fladderde over de droge grond.

Het is vreselijk te overleven
als bewustzijn
begraven in de donkere aarde.

Toen was het voorbij: dat wat jullie vrezen, bezield
te zijn en niet in staat
tot spreken, eindigde abrupt, de stugge aarde
gaf een beetje mee. En wat ik hield
voor vogels schoot lage heesters in.

Jullie die je de overgang
uit de andere wereld niet herinneren
ik zeg jullie ik kon weer spreken: wat er ook
terugkeert uit vergetelheid keert terug
om stem te vinden:

uit het hart van mijn leven spoot
een grote fontein, diepblauwe
schaduwen op een azuren zee.

 

Vertaald door Erik Menkveld

 

Louise Glück (New York, 22 april 1943)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Patrick Rambaud, n. c. kaser

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: The Retreat (Vertaald door Will Hobson)

“Captain d’Herbigny felt ridiculous. Swathed in a pale cloak that floated on his shoulders, one could make out a dragoon of the Guard by the helmet enturbanned in navy calfskin, with a black horsetail on its brass crest, but astride a miniature horse he had bought in Lithuania, this strap¬ping fellow had to dress his stirrups too short to stop his boots dragging along the ground – except that then his knees stuck up. “What in Heaven’s name do I look like?” he grumbled. “What sort of a sight must I be?”
The captain missed his mare and his right hand. The hand had been hit by a Bashkir horseman’s poisoned arrow during a skirmish: the surgeon had amputated it, stopped the bleeding with birch cotton because there was a shortage of lint, and dressed the wound with paper from the archives for lack of bandages.
As for his mare, she had bloated after eating rain-soaked green rye; the poor thing had started trembling and soon she was hardly able to stand upright; when she stumbled into a gully, d”Herbigny had resigned himself to destroying her with a bullet behind the ear; it had brought him to tears.
His batman Paulin limped behind him, sighing, dressed in a black coat covered with leather patches and a crumpled hat, and with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder filled with grain he’d gathered along the way; he was leading by a string a donkey with a portmanteau strapped to its back.
These two fine fellows were not alone in railing against their ill fortune. Lined with a double row of huge trees similar to willows, the new Smolensk road they were trudging along ran through flat, sandy country. It was so broad that ten barouches could drive down it abreast, but on that grey, cold September Monday, as the mist lifted it revealed an unmoving crush of vehicles following the Guard and Davout’s army. There were goods wagons in their thousands, a mass of conveyances for transporting the baggage, ambulance carts, masons’, cobblers’, and tailors’ caravans; they carried handmills and forges and tools; on their long wooden handles, scythe blades poked out of one dray. The most exhausted, victims of fever, let themselves be carried, sitting on the ammunition wagons drawn by scrawny horses; long-haired dogs chased in and out, trying to bite each other. Soldiers of all arms of the army escorted this throng. They were marching to Moscow. They had been marching for three months.
Ah yes, the captain remembered, they’d been a mighty fine sight in June when they’d crossed the Niemen to violate Russian territory. The procession of troops across the pontoon bridges had lasted for three days. Just imagine: cannon by the hundred, over five hundred thousand fresh, alert fighting men, French a good third of them, with the grey-coated infantry rubbing shoulders with Illyrians, Croats, Spanish volunteers and Prince Eug”ne’s Italians.”

 

Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)

 

De Zuidtiroolse dichter norbert c. kaser werd geboren op 19 april 1947 in Brixen. Zie ook alle tags voor norbert c. kaser op dit blog.

 

klooster (I)
uit de klankgaten

van de ursulinen
klinkt het voor de
veertigurige
aanbidding
een vrouw

die in de lippen
snel bladert
een betere film

voor oude vrouwen met doek
enorme zonde buiten
in de carnavalsstegen
wierook

harmonium
stinkgas
sissen rond kerkbanken
in dubbele rij
zweven de kloosterzusters
door het schip
ingeslikte hoest
een vrouw

die in de lippen
snelle rozenkrans
bladert
het pensioen daalt

koffie stijgt
het bedplassende neefje
de geliefde
rot weg als onkruid
de haarspeld steekt
& die daar die daar
is een slang
voor mij
licht geven aan de missie
& de heidenen
& geld
bij de laatste bel

fladdert
kortademig
de dienstdoende
kapucijner naar binnen
om het lichaam van de HEER

te onthullen
& met zachte woorden
de ziel te vullen
amen

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

n. c. kaser (19 april 1947 – 21 augustus 1978)
Standbeeld van norbert c. kaser op de Rathausplatz in Bruneck.

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Patrick Rambaud, Gerrit Wustmann

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: The Battle (Vertaald door Will Hobson)

“Berthier had in turn climbed out of the Berline and gone to join Napoleon, who was sitting on the stump of a durmast oak. The two men were almost the same height and they wore the same type of hat; from a distance, they might have been mistaken for one another. But the Chief of Staff had thick, curly hair and a corpulent face which lacked the symmetry of Napoleon’s. Together they looked at the Danube.
‘Sire,’ said Berthier, biting his fingernails, `the place seems well chosen.’
‘Sulla carta militare, ” evidente!‘ replied the Emperor, cramming his nostrils with snuff.
‘The depth still needs to be sounded from skiffs …’
That’s your concern!’
‘… the strength of the current measured …’
Your concern!’
Berthier’s concern, as usual, was to obey. Loyal and meticulous, he always carried out his master’s wishes to the letter and, as a consequence, had acquired enormous power, the self-interested devotion of others and no small amount of jealousy.

********************************************************

The section of the Danube before them was split into several branches, which slowed its current, and was further broken up by a number of islands covered in meadows, scrub and woods of elms, willows and spreading oaks. An islet between the bank and the largest of these islands, the island of Lobau, would serve as a point of support for the bridge they were going to build. On the other side of the river, at the Lobau’s furthest point, they could see a small, level expanse stretching to the villages of Aspern and Essling and then, rising above the thickets of trees, the two village steeples. Beyond that, an immense plain planted with green crops and watered by a stream that dried up in May, and finally, on the left, the wooded heights of Bisamberg, where the Austrian troops had fallen back after burning the bridges.
The bridges! Four years earlier the Emperor had entered Vienna as a saviour, its inhabitants running to meet his army. This time, when he reached its poorly protected suburbs, he had been forced to lay siege to the city for three days, and even bombard it before the garrison withdrew.
An initial attempt to cross the Danube near the destroyed Spitz bridge had failed recently. Five hundred light infantrymen of Saint-Hilaire’s division, under the command of chefs de bataillons Rateau and Poux, had gained a foothold on the island of Schwartze-Laken, but acting without precise orders or coordination they had neglected to station a reserve company in a large house well placed for protecting the landing of further troops. Half of their men had been killed; the others were wounded or captured by the enemy vanguard stationed on the left bank, which played the Austrian anthem by Herr Haydn every morning to rouse the spirits of the Viennese.”

 

Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedagen:

De Duitse dichter Gerrit Wustmann werd in 1982 in Keulen geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Gerrit Wustmann op dit blog.

 

galata kulesi beneden

’s nachts de akkoorden van de sitar
en de klaagzang van de saz van de man
die hier altijd zit met de klacht
van de bomen en de violen
die uit ramen klinken
om twee uur ’s ochtends stemt
de gitaarbouwer nog een laatste
instrument voordat hij de laatste
katten voedt een laatste çay
een laatste nog op het laatst deze
blik deze lach en
de nachtlichten van de schepen
op de bosporus

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Gerrit Wustmann (Keulen, 1982)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn blog van 21 april 2020 en eveneens mijn blog van 21 april 2019 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, Charles den Tex, Ahmed Arif, Michael Mann, John Mortimer

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Shirley

“Mr. Sweeting is mincing the slice of roast beef on his plate, and complaining that it is very tough; Mr. Donne says the beer is flat. Ay, that is the worst of it: if they would only be civil Mrs. Gale wouldn’t mind it so much, if they would only seem satisfied with what they get she wouldn’t care; but “these young parsons is so high and so scornful, they set everybody beneath their ‘fit.’ They treat her with less than civility, just because she doesn’t keep a servant, but does the work of the house herself, as her mother did afore her; then they are always speaking against Yorkshire ways and Yorkshire folk,” and by that very token Mrs. Gale does not merely the humble appendages.” There was a certain dignity in the little elderly gentleman’s manner of rebuking these youths, though it was not, perhaps, quite the dignity most appropriate to the occasion. Mr. Helstone, standing straight as a ramrod, looking keen as a kite, presented, despite his clerical hat, black coat, and gaiters, more the air of a veteran officer chiding his subalterns than of a venerable priest exhorting his sons in the faith. Gospel mildness, apostolic benignity, never seemed to have breathed their influence over that keen brown visage, but firmness had fixed the features, and sagacity had carved her own lines about them. “I met Supplehough,” he continued, “plodding through the mud this wet night, going to preach at Milldean opposition shop. As I told you, I heard Barraclough bellowing in the midst of a conventicle like a possessed bull; and I find you, gentlemen, tarrying over your half-pint of muddy port wine, and scolding like angry old women. No wonder Supplehough should have dipped sixteen adult converts in a day — which he did a fortnight since; no wonder Barraclough, scamp and hypocrite as he is, should attract all the weaver-girls in their flowers and ribbons, to witness how much harder are his knuckles than the wooden brim of his tub; as little wonder that you, when you are left to yourselves, without your rectors — myself, and Hall, and Boultby — to back you, should too often perform the holy service of our church to bare walls, and read your bit of a dry discourse to the clerk, and the organist, and the beadle. But enough of the subject. I came to see Malone. — I have an errand unto thee, 0 captain!” “What is it?” inquired Malone discontentedly. “There can be no funeral to take at this time of day.” “Have you any arms about you?” “Arms, sir? — yes, and legs.” And he advanced the mighty members. “Bah! weapons I mean.” “I have the pistols you gave me yourself. I never part with them. I lay them ready cocked on a chair by my bedside at night. I have my blackthorn.” “Very good. Will you go to Hollow’s Mill?” “What is stirring at Hollow’s Mill?”

 


Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

 

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: L’Absent

« L’Empereur se resigna. Aprås un jour de diåte, laissant å Bassano et å Caulaincourt le soin d’arranger les etapes de son voyage, il se refugia dans les livres. Enferme, de son cabinet de travail dont il ne sortait plus qu’å peine, il organisa le pillage de la bibliothåque du chåteau, etablissant une liste des auteurs å emporter en exil, Cervantås, Fenelon, La Fontaine, Voltaire, son cher Plutarque dans la traduction de Jacques Amyot, une collection du Moniteur universel. L’Empereur feuilletait, compulsait, annotait, marquait des pages, triait lui-måme les volumes qu’on mettait en caisses, et parce que les libraires habituels de Fontainebleau avaient detale, Octave fut designe pour seconder le comte Bertrand dans cette tåche distrayante, car il avait des lettres. Si Napoleon continuait å ddplier des cartes, ce n’etait plus pour disposer des troupes dans un repli de terrain mais pour se pencher sur des repkes geographiques. Il leva les yeux et demanda : — Connaissez-vous cette ile, messieurs ? Y a-t-il un palais ? un chåteau ? une habitation convenable ? passable ? — Nous savons juste la situer, sire. — Montrez-moi, Bertrand, je ne la trouve pas… — Le comte Bertrand indiqua de l’ongle un point perdu en mer å cöte de la Corse. — On dirait un puceron. — C’est pourtant d’Elbe. — Une ? Un rocher, oui. Napoleon faisait la moue, ses lorgnons sur le nez et le nez cone contre la carte de la Mediterranee. — La cöte semble proche, dit-il. — Piombino est å environ trois ou quatre lieues d’Elbe. Voyez, sire… — Je vois les rivages de la Toscane. Ces gens ne m’aiment guåre, ils pleurent encore leur grand-duc Leopold. Ils vivent dans un jardin mais je les sais hostiles. — Ils sont aussi rebelles que couards, Votre Majeste n’a pas å s’inquieter. — He! mon royaume n’est pas si loin de Rome… — A quarante-cinq lieues, eri effet, et Naples å quatre-vingt-cinq. — Voilå qui nous ouvre des perspectives… L’Empereur avait souri et il mordillait en re’vant le manche de son lorgnon. Il battit des mains quand Octave lui presenta un fascicule qu’il venait de denicher au fond d’un rayon, Notice sur d’Elbe, par un auteur anonyme, et, surtout, le recent Voyage å d’Elbe d’Arsåne Thebaut, plus complet. « A la bonne heure ! dit-il. Apprenons notre royaume ! »

 

 
Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)
Cover

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Charles den Tex werd geboren in Box Hill, Australië, op 21 april 1952. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles den Tex op dit blog.

Uit: De vriend

“Slapen deed ze overdag en korter dan ze zou willen. Twee nachten zat ze al in het hok. Af en toe kon ze even naar buiten om lucht te krijgen, maar het merendeel van de tijd bracht ze door in een kleine ruimte met een grote hoeveelheid apparatuur en twee mannen: Kris de Roode en Wim ’t Man. Haar noemden ze Pop, Wijffie, Schat, Professor, Mevrouw of wat er maar in ze opkwam. Meestal noemden ze haar M, omdat ze zo heette, Emma. De bijnamen waren hun manier om de gein er een beetje in te houden, dat begreep ze wel, al was het af en toe knap vermoeiend, zo veel humor.
‘Is dat alles, Pop?’ vroeg Wim.
Ze knikte, de koptelefoon nog op haar hoofd. ‘Ik hoor niets meer.’
Wim draaide zijn stoel de andere kant op, naar Kris. ‘Zijn ze naar buiten?’
Kris keek naar een monitor die aan de wand hing. Bij hoge uitzondering hadden ze toestemming gekregen om één camera op te hangen zodat ze tenminste een beeld hadden van de mannen die naar binnen gingen en naar buiten kwamen. Het beeld was zwart-wit, niet overdreven scherp en statisch. Ze konden de camera niet bedienen. Op de monitor was de voordeur van het pand te zien. Kris schudde zijn hoofd. ‘Nog niet.’
‘Ik hoor ze op de gang’, zei Emma.
Ze wachtten. Emma met de koptelefoon op, Kris kijkend naar de monitor. Het bleef voor haar een vreemde gedachte dat zij hier zaten te luisteren naar drie mannen aan de andere kant van de muur die daar bijeenkwamen om te praten, te overleggen, afspraken te maken, te vertellen wat ze hadden gedaan of niet hadden gedaan, om plannen te maken. Meestal hadden ze het over gewone dingen of ze hadden ruzie, op hun manier. Ruzie met hun vriendin, met een vriend, met hun vader, er was altijd wel iemand die iets niet goed deed. Tussendoor hadden ze het over wapens, over kogels en messen. Die nacht ging het vooral over een mislukte afspraak. Er had een geldoverdracht moeten plaatsvinden en er was niemand komen opdagen. Ergens was iets fout gegaan, zonder geld liepen ze vast. Ze wachtten op contact dat niet kwam. Daar wonden de mannen zich enorm over op. Emma moest voortdurend haar aandacht erbij houden, midden in het slapste geouwehoer konden ze opeens overschakelen naar iets belangrijks.”

 


Charles den Tex (Box Hill, 21 april 1952)
Cover

 

De Turkse dichter van Koerdische afkomst Ahmed Arif werd geboren op 21 april 1927 in Diyarbakır, Zie ook alle tags voor Ahmed Arif op dit blog.

 

In Jail

Have you heard, stone wall,
iron door, blind window?
my pillow, my berth, my chain
the doleful photo in my secret
for which I almost died
have you heard?
my visitor has sent me green onion
my cigarette smells carnation
Spring has come to the mountains of my country.

 

Vertaald door Celal Kabadayı

 

Thirty-Three Bullets

I.
This is the Mengene mountain
When dawn creeps up at the lake Van
This is the child of Nimrod
When dawn creeps up against the Nimrod
One side of you is avalanches, the Caucasian sky
The other side a rug, Persia
At mountain tops glaciers, in bunches
Fugitive pigeons at water-pools
And herds of deer
And partridge flocks…

Their courage cannot be denied
In one-to-one fights they are unbeaten
These thousand years, the servants of this area
Come, how shall we give the news?
This is not a flock of cranes
Nor a constellation in the sky
But a heart with thirty-three bullets
Thirty-three rivers of blood
Not flowing
All calmed to a lake on this mountain

 

Vertaald door Murat Nemet-Nejat

 


Ahmed Arif (21 april 1927 – 2 juni 1991)

 

De Duitse literatuurwetenschapper en musicus Michael Mann werd als jongste kind van Thomas en Katia Mann geboren op 21 april 1919 in München. Zie ook alle tags voor Michael Mann op dit blog.

Uit: Die Manns. Geschichte einer Familie (door Tilmann Lahme)

„Michael Mann ist zusammen mit seiner Frau Gret von Zürich nach England gereist. Er schickt seiner Mutter einen Bericht über seine Zeit in der Schweiz, darüber, dass es gar nicht einfach gewesen sei, nach England hineinzukommen, und von der hysterischen Stimmung und den grausigen Szenen, die er im englischen Konsulat in Brüssel erlebt habe, von zahlreichen deutschen Juden, die dort um ein Visum gefleht hätten und die brutal abgewiesen worden seien, »die armen armen Leute«. Geld habe ihm die Mutter ja keines mehr geschickt nach seiner letzten brieflichen Forderung, da habe er sich welches bei einem Schweizer Bekannten der Familie geliehen (und zwar doppelt so viel, wie er von ihr hatte haben wollen). Jetzt brauche er aber dringend: Geld; und zwar »viel Geld«, für den Fall zum Beispiel, dass er kurzfristig eine Überfahrt nach Amerika buchen müsse. Eigentlich will er in England und bei Flesch bleiben, auch im Kriegsfall, aber ein Finanzpolster sei dennoch notwendigisst! Katia Mann schickt Geld.”
(…)

Michael Mann meldet sich mit einem Brief. Gret und er seien »gerettet«. Zusammen mit dem Geigenlehrer Flesch und einigen von seinen Schülern sind sie nach Wales ausgewichen. Sie wohnen in einem feinen Privathotel. Gret helfe im Hotelbetrieb, während er sich auf sein Geigenspiel konzentriere. Nach Amerika möchte Michael nicht fahren, das sei ja jetzt »unsinnig«.

 


Michael Mann (21 april 1919 – 1 januari 1977)
V.l.n.r. Thomas, Elisabeth, Katia, Monika en Michael Mann, 1935 in Küsnacht

 

De Engelse schrijver John Mortimer werd geboren op 21 april 1923 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor John Mortimer op dit blog.

Uit: Paradise Postponed

“She felt a tightness in her chest and sent for Dr Simcox.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Look out there, that’s the trouble! It’s so green and quiet and it’s always bloody raining.’
‘That’s England, Mrs Mallard-Greene. I’m afraid there’s no known cure for it.”
(…)

“You can’t change people. You know that. You can’t make them stop hating each other, or longing to blow up the world, not by walking through the rain and singing to a small guitar. Most you can do for them is pull them out of the womb, thump them on the backside and let them get on with it.”
(…)

“In the middle of the swinging sixties people in England were apparently under some sort of obligation to have a good time and most of them didn’t. A Russian and an American walked about in space to no one’s particular advantage. The Beatles received their British Empire medals and, so it was said, smoked cannabis in the lavatories at Buckingham Palace. American aeroplanes were bombing Vietnam, but no one seemed to talk about the nuclear holocaust any more.”

 


John Mortimer (21 april 1923 – 16 januari 2009)
Cover audioboek

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Ahmed Arif, Michael Mann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Jane Eyre

“He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed more concern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when I had concluded.
“Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?” I asked.
“Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for? What can she do? Let her sleep unmolested.”
“Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.”
“Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there, — I will put it on. Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them out of the wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take the candle. Remain where you are till I return; be as still as a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don’t move, remember, or call any one.”
He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. I was left in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but heard nothing. A very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it was cold, in spite of the cloak; and then I did not see the use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I was on the point of risking Mr. Rochester’s displeasure by disobeying his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting. “I hope it is he,” thought I, “and not something worse.”
He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. “I have found it all out,” said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; “it is as I thought.”
“How, sir?”
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired in rather a peculiar tone —
“I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door.”
“No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.”
“But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I should think, or something like it?”
“Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole, — she laughs in that way. She is a singular person.”
“Just so. Grace Poole — you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular — very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night’s incident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs” (pointing to the bed): “and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four: — in two hours the servants will be up.”

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Charlotte Gainsbourg (Jane) en William Hurt (Edward) in de gelijknamige film uit 1996

 

De Franse schrijver Patrick Rambaud werd geboren op 21 april 1946 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Rambaud op dit blog.

Uit: La Bataille

“Le maréchal Lannes était fatigué par quinze ans de combats et de dangers. Il venait de conduire l’affreux siège de Saragosse. Riche, marié à la plus belle et à la plus discrète des duchesses de la cour, fille d’un sénateur, il aurait voulu se retirer en famille dans sa Gascogne, voir grandir ses deux fils. Il était las de partir sans jamais savoir s’il reviendrait autrement que dans une caisse. Pourquoi l’Empereur lui refusait-il cette tranquillité ? Comme lui, la plupart des maréchaux n’aspiraient qu’à la paix des champs. Ces aventuriers, avec le temps, devenaient bourgeois. A Savigny, Davout construisait des huttes en osier pour ses perdreaux et à quatre pattes il leur donnait du pain ; Ney et Marmont adoraient jardiner ; MacDonald, Oudinot, ne se trouvaient à l’aise qu’entourés de leurs villageois ; Bessière chassait sur ses terres de Grignon s’il ne jouait avec ses enfants. Quant à Masséna, il disait de sa propriété de Rueil, qui regardait la Malmaison proche où se retirait l’Empereur : “D’ici, je peux lui pisser dessus !” Sur un ordre, ils étaient venus en Autriche, à la tête de troupes disparates et jeunes, qu’aucun motif puissant ne poussait à tuer. L’Empire déclinait déjà et n’avait que cinq ans. Ils le sentaient. Ils suivaient encore.
Lannes passait vite de la colère à l’ affection. Un jour il écrivait à sa femme que l’Empereur était son pire ennemi: «Il n’aime que pa boutade, quand il a besoin de vous » ; puis Napoléon le comblait de faveurs et ils se tombaient dans les bras. Leurs sorts restaient liés. Il y avait peu, dans les escarpements difficiles d’ une sierra espagnole, l’Empereur s’était cramponné à son bras.
À pied, dans la neige qui les giflait en tempête, avec leurs hautes botte en cuir, ils dérapaient.
Ensemble ils avaient enfourché la volée d’un canon, et des grenadiers les avaient hissés comme sur un traîneau au sommet du col de Guadarrama.”

 

 
Patrick Rambaud (Parijs, 21 april 1946)
Cover

 

De Engelse schrijver John Mortimer werd geboren op 21 april 1923 in Londen. Zie ook alle tags voor John Mortimer op dit blog.

Uit: Rumpole and the Brave New World

“I don’t see why not.”
“We do our best to live through the trivialities of existence and get to the deeper understanding, then we go off to a little place in Chelsea for a light meal. Do you think your husband would understand it?”
“Not at all, but that won’t stop me joining you.”
“They will be enormously grateful. They’ve never met anyone who lived so near the Great Truth as you seem to do. We’ll make a date, Mrs Rumpole. You must shed your light in as many dark holes as possible.”
……..

The Rumpole practice in those days could be described as “jogging along”. The mantelpiece wasn’t entirely empty of briefs but they were of an unexciting and predictable variety. There was the case of Harry Timson, whose normally peaceful course of breaking and entering had become revealed to the authorities. This was owing to information, he strongly suspected, that was supplied by his cousin Percy, when he’d found himself in trouble over a quantity of stolen fish dinners. Such disloyalty was rare among the Timsons and Harry was pained by his cousin’s behaviour.
While I was thinking these matters over at dinner in the kitchen in Froxbury Mansions (a couple of chops and boiled potatoes), I noticed Hilda looking at me in a strange and thoughtful manner. After a while she got up with a tea towel in her hand and made polishing motions in the air around my head.
“What on earth?”
“It’s your aura.” She Who Must was speaking entirely seriously. “I have to keep your aura clean. You want your aura polished, don’t you?”
“I might do if I knew what on earth you were talking about.”
“I’m sorry for you Rumpole, you have such a lot to learn about life.”
With that she sat down apparently having got the aura satisfactorily dusted, and I wondered how far I could adjust myself to a world which was becoming more and more difficult to understand.”

 


John Mortimer (21 april 1923 – 16 januari 2009)
Karikatuur van Leo McKern als Horace Rumpole

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Charles den Tex werd geboren in Box Hill, Australië, op 21 april 1952. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles den Tex op dit blog.

Uit: Het vergeten verhaal van een onwankelbare liefde in oorlogstijd (Samen met Anneloes Timmerije)

“Het is een vlucht van niks, nauwelijks iets te navigeren, Guus en zijn bemanning hebben de route al zo vaak gevlogen dat er geen verrassingen meer zijn. Het weer is goed, de kist ligt als een huis in de lucht en ze hebben geen afwijkende opdrachten of taken meegekregen. Drie passagiers ophalen met hun bagage en naar de basis brengen. Eenvoudiger kan bijna niet en toch voelt Guus zich niet echt lekker. Eenmaal op afstand van de stad geeft hij de besturing aan zijn Twee, die het dankbaar van hem overneemt. Zo kan Guus met de radio aan de gang om het afluistersysteem in te schakelen. Hij pakt de koptelefoon en nog voor hij hem kan inpluggen heeft hij moeite om gewoon te doen. Alles wat hij doet, elke handeling voelt vreemd, onecht, en het lijkt alsof dat op zijn voorhoofd geschreven staat. Als hij aan een knopje draait, weet hij zeker dat zijn Twee zich meteen afvraagt waarom hij dat doet. En waarom op dat moment. Kleine handelingen worden groter en zwaarder, alsof hij overdreven veel kracht nodig heeft om ze uit te voeren. Hij is ineens rillerig, koortsig, zijn lijf voelt alsof hij griep onder de leden heeft, slap en vervelend. Het liefst zou hij al die spullen onaangeroerd laten en een beetje onderuitzakken in zijn stoel. Waarom zou hij die mannen afluisteren? Dat is niets voor hem. Hij is een vlieger. Klaar. Hij huivert, weet dat hij geen keus heeft. In een andere situatie zou hij ervan kunnen afzien, misschien, maar niet nu. Hij moet. Met een kort gebaar schakelt hij de microfoon in, zet zijn koptelefoon af en klautert uit zijn stoel. Als hij wordt achtervolgd door een Zero of als er op hem wordt geschoten en de vonken van de romp af springen, weet hij wat hij moet doen. In een gevecht jaagt zijn hart hem voort en spannen zijn spieren zich tot ze keihard zijn. Dat is anders, fysiek. Nu niet. Afluisteren is stiekem en de spanning springt achter zijn ogen, verspreidt zich via zijn gedachten door zijn lichaam, tot in zijn tenen. Hij moet bewegen om de zenuwen doorgang naar de passagiersruimte.
De drie mannen zitten niet op de plek waar hij ze had verwacht. Ai, die mogelijkheid had hij van tevoren moeten bedenken. Ze hebben banken achterin uitgekozen waardoor de microfoon iets verder van ze vandaan hangt en bovendien de verkeerde kant op gericht is. Als hij hem kan draaien heeft hij nog enige kans iets van hun gesprek te horen. De bevestiging met het ijzerdraad is flexibel genoeg om hem met één beweging de andere kant op te draaien. Maar dan moet hij dat wel doen zonder er de aandacht op te vestigen.
Een van de mannen heeft een opengevouwen dossier op schoot. Op het moment dat hij nadert kijkt de man het nog één keer in, maakt een aantekening met een potlood en slaat het vervolgens dicht.”uit zijn ledematen te laten lopen.”

 


Charles den Tex (Box Hill, 21 april 1952)
Affiche voor een lezing

 

De Turkse dichter van Koerdische afkomst Ahmed Arif werd geboren op 21 april 1927 in Diyarbakır, Zie ook alle tags voor Ahmed Arif op dit blog.

 

Anatolia

I gave cradles to Noah
Swings,hammocks
I am Anatolia
Do you know?

I’m ashamed
I’m ashamed of being poor
Naked in everyone’s eyes
My seedlings gets cold
My blend is slack
Frienship,work,
Tie
Roses are open
In poet’s and scientist’s world
I stayed all alone
All alone and so far
Do you know?

I milked thousand years
They smashed with their horrible horsemans
My coy semiconscious sleeps
Rulers,attackers,bandits
They release extortion on me
I didn’t care İskender
I didn’t care Sultans
They passed away,shadowless
I said hi to my friend
Do you see ?

I wish you knew how I love
Köroğlu,
Karayılan,
Unknown soldier..
Pir Sultan and Bedrettin
Then the pen don’t write
A nice love..
I wish you knew
How they loved me
I wish you knew
Who bullet in Urfa
On Mosque,brricade
On cypress
How he laughed to die
I really want you to know,
Do you hear ?

Don’t be sad
Don’t be upset
Wherever you are
Inside,outside,in school,on desk
Walk onto
Spit on hangman’s face
Opportunist’s,factious’s
Hang on with book
Hang on with work
With claw,teeth
With hope,with love,with dream
Hang on don’t be expose me

See how can I create again
With your honest,young hands
There are my daughters
Sons on future
All of them a piece of an unforgiven world
The buds of thousand years
On your eyes,
I’ll kiss you on your eyes
I have my hope on you
Do you understand ?

 

 
Ahmed Arif (21 april 1927 – 2 juni 1991)
Cover

 

De Duitse literatuurwetenschapper en musicus Michael Mann werd als jongste kind van Thomas en Katia Mann geboren op 21 april 1919 in München. Zie ook alle tags voor Michael Mann op dit blog.

Uit: Die Manns. Geschichte einer Familie (door Tilmann Lahme)

„Michael Mann ist im Juni nach Paris zurückgekehrt, nimmt weiter Stunden bei seinem Geigenlehrer Galamian. Von seiner musikalischen Ausbildung handeln die Briefe an die Mutter selten. Zwei andere Themen stehen im Mittelpunkt: seine Pläne für die Hochzeit mit Gret Moser; und Geld, das immer fehlt und in jedem Brief aufs Neue eingefordert oder erbettelt wird. Im August kehrt auch das große Thema des Vorjahres zurück: der Bugatti. Der Sportwagen muss schon wieder repariert werden, und dabei ist ein zusätzlicher cldfaut bemerkt worden: Die Spur ist völlig verzogen, die neuen Reifen (die er auf Pump gekauft hat) sind dadurch schon wieder abgefahren. Michael Manns Begeisterung für sein »Wunder« ist verflogen. Er schreibt der Mutter von Plänen, den Wagen zu verkaufen, er habe auch schon einen Interessenten. »Den Defaut verschweige ich ihm natürlich«. Natürlich. Und schon folgt der obligatorische Abschnitt über »so vieeele, viele schoiiissliche Uunk000sten«. Zehn Tage später braucht er wieder Geld. Sie solle bloß nicht denken, er mache laufend Schulden nach dem Motto: Die Mutter zahlt sie ohnehin. So sei das nicht. Er lebe eigentlich »garnicht unsparsam«. Nur: »wenn ich bloß nicht immer solch abscheuliches Miss- und Ungeschick hätte.“
(…)

Die Familie lebt nach wie vor in einem privilegierten Exil, aber doch in unsicheren Zeiten, auch finanziell längst nicht mehr so weich gebettet wie in früheren Tagen. Die Ausgaben sind hoch, und die Zahl derer, die von der Mutter regelmäßig Geld erwarten, wird nicht geringer. Am wenigsten von allen in der Familie hat Michael Mann die Lage erfasst. Der Mutter schickt er, nach all den Bettelbriefen dieses Jahres, einige Wochen vor Weihnachten seinen Wunschzettel für das Fest: Lederhandschuhe, Manschettenknöpfe, Hemden, Hosen, eine Lederweste, eine Joppe, Pantoffeln, einen Seidenpyjama, feine Taschen- und Halstücher, eine Notenmappe (eine »schöne«), einen Notenständer, ein Grammophon, einen Geigenkasten, ein elektrisches Metronom, einen neuen Füllfederhalter, eine Armbanduhr, ein Feuerzeug, »Soir de Paris« (ein Parfüm), einen arabischen Teppich, ein Zigarettenetui …“

 

 
Michael Mann (21 april 1919 – 1 januari 1977)
Hier met echtgenote Gret in 1937

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 21e april ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann

 De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Villette

“In the autumn of the year  —  —  I was staying at Bretton; my godmother having come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly saw events coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which the faint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother’s side; not with tumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full river through a plain. My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with “green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round.” The charm of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident; but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter came I almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was from home, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication: to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud seemed to pass.
The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered my bedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in its shady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, draped with white; and in addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewood chest. I stood still, gazed, and considered.
“Of what are these things the signs and tokens?” I asked. The answer was obvious. “A second guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects other visitors.”
On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I was told, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend and distant relation of the late Dr. Bretton’s. This little girl, it was added, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton ere long subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

Lees verder “Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Meira Delmar, Alistair MacLean, Gerrit Wustmann” →

Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Jane Eyre

“Wake! wake!” I cried. I shook him, but he only murmured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the flames which were devouring it.
The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it, and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water.
“Is there a flood?” he cried.
“No, sir,” I answered; “but there has been a fire: get up, do; you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle.”
“In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded. “What have you done with me, witch, sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plotted to drown me?”
“I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven’s name, get up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon find out who and what it is.”
“There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a candle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be–yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now run!”
I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water.
“What is it? and who did it?” he asked. I briefly related to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the smoke,–the smell of fire which had conducted me to his room; in what state I had found matters there, and how I had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on.”

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Mia Wasikowska als Jane Eyre in de gelijknamige film uit 2011

Lees verder “Charlotte Brontë, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Charles den Tex, Michael Mann, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann” →

Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: The Correspondence of Charlotte Brontë

“Charlotte’s reply to Robert Southey
16 March 1837
“SIR, I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, even though by addressing you a second’ time I should appear a little intrusive ; but I must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have condescended to give me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply ; so considerate in its tone, so noble in its spirit. I must suppress what I feel, or you will think me foolishly enthusiastic-
At the first perusal of your letter I felt only shame and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody ; I felt a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was only a source of confusion ; but after I had thought a little, and read it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear. You do not forbid me to write ; you do not say that what I write is utterly destitute of merit. You only warn me against the folly of neglecting real duties for the sake of imaginative pleasures ; of writing for the love of fame ; for the selfish excitement of emulation. You kindly allow me to write poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing which I ought to do, in order to fureue that single, absorbing, exquisite gratification, I am afraid, sir, you think me very foolish. I know the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash from beginning to end ; but I am not altogether the idle dreaming being it would seem to denote. My father is a clergyman of limited though competent income, and I am the eldest of his children. He expended quite as much in my education as he could afford in justice to the rest. I thought it therefore my duty, when I left school, to become a governess. In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts all day long, and my head and hands too, without  having a moment’s time for one dream of the imagination. In the evenings, I confess, I do think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts. I carefully avoid any appearance of pre- occupation and eccentricity, which might lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits. Following my father’s advice who from my childhood has counselled me, just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter I have endeavoured not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them. I don’t always succeed, for sometimes when I’m teaching or sewing I would rather be reading or writing ; but I try to deny myself ; and my father’s approbation amply rewarded me for the privation.
Once more allow me to thank you with sincere gratitude. I trust I shall never more feel ambitious to see my name in print ; if the wish should rise, I’ll look at Southey’s letter, and suppress it. It is honour enough for me that I have written to him, and received an answer. That letter is consecrated ; no one shall ever see it but papa and my brother and sisters. Again I thank you. This incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more ; if I live to be an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years hence as a bright dream. The signature which you suspected of being fictitious is my real name.

Again, therefore, I must sign myself  C. BRONTE.”

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Op een Engelse poster

Lees verder “Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Peter Schneider, Gerrit Wustmann” →

Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Gerrit Wustmann

De Britse schrijfster Charlotte Brontë werd geboren in Thornton op 21 april 1816. Zie ook alle tags voor Charlotte Brontë op dit blog.

Uit: Shirley

“I allude to a rushing backwards and forwards, amongst themselves, to and from their respective lodgings: not a round–but a triangle of visits, which they keep up all the year through, in winter, spring, summer, and autumn. Season and weather make no difference; with unintelligible zeal they dare snow and hail, wind and rain, mire and dust, to go and dine, or drink tea, or sup with each other. What attracts them, it would be difficult to say. It is not friendship; for whenever they meet they quarrel. It is not religion; the thing is never named amongst them: theology they may discuss occasionally, but piety–never. It is not the love of eating and drinking: each might have as good a joint and pudding, tea as potent, and toast as succulent, at his own lodgings, as is served to him at his brother’s. Mrs. Gale, Mrs. Hogg, and Mrs. Whipp–their respective landladies–affirm that “it is just for nought else but to give folk trouble.” By “folk,” the good ladies of course mean themselves; for indeed they are kept in a continual “fry” by this system of mutual invasion.
Mr. Donne and his guests, as I have said, are at dinner; Mrs. Gale waits on them, but a spark of the hot kitchen fire is in her eye. She considers that the privilege of inviting a friend to a meal occasionally, without additional charge (a privilege included in the terms on which she lets her lodgings), has been quite sufficiently exercised of late. The present week is yet but at Thursday, and on Monday, Mr. Malone, the curate of Briarfield, came to breakfast and stayed dinner; on Tuesday, Mr. Malone and Mr. Sweeting of Nunnely, came to tea, remained to supper, occupied the spare bed, and favoured her with their company to breakfast on Wednesday morning; now, on Thursday, they are both here at dinner, and she is almost certain they will stay all night. “C’en est trop,” she would say, if she could speak French. »

 

 
Charlotte Brontë (21 april 1816 – 31 maart 1855)
Cover

Lees verder “Charlotte Brontë, Michael Mann, Patrick Rambaud, John Mortimer, Gerrit Wustmann” →