“He knew it was her, he told me. He told me this a year after he saw her. Exactly a year, he said. —Exactly a year? —That’s what I said, Davy. A year ago – yesterday. —You remember the date? —I do, yeah. —Jesus, Joe. He saw her at the end of a corridor and he knew. Immediately. She was exactly the same. Even from that far off. Even though she was only a shape, a dark, slim shape – a silhouette – in the centre of the late-afternoon light that filled the glass door behind her. —She was never slim, I said. He shrugged. —I don’t even know what slim means, really, he said. He smiled. —Same here, I said. —I just said it, he said. —The word. She was a tall shape – instead. —Okay. —Not a roundy shape. —She’s aged well, I said. —That’s what you’re telling me. —I am, he said. —And she has. —Where was the corridor? I asked him. —The school, he said. —What school? —The school, he said again. —We didn’t know her in school, I said. I knew he didn’t mean the school we’d both gone to. We’d known each other that long. I’d said it – that we hadn’t known her in school – to try to get him to be himself. To give back an answer that would get us laughing. He was the funny one. [ Return to the review of “Love.” ] —My kids’ school, he said. —Hang on, I said. —It was a parent–teacher meeting? —Yeah. —The woman of your dreams stepped out of the sun and into a parent–teacher meeting? —Yep. —Thirty years after the last time you saw her, I said. —More, actually. Way more. Thirty-six or seven years. —Yeah, he said. —That’s it, more or less. What did you say there? That she stepped out of the sun. —I think so, yeah. —Well, that’s it, he said. —That’s what happened.”
Je zei, die oktober, In het hoge, droge gras bij de boomgaard Toen je ervoor koos om vrij te zijn, “Ooit weer, misschien over tien jaar.”
Na de universiteit zag ik je Één keer. Je was vreemd. En ik was geobsedeerd door een plan.
Nu zijn tien jaar en meer Verstreken: ik heb altijd geweten waar jij was- Ik was misschien naar je toe gegaan In de hoop je liefde terug te winnen. Je bent nog steeds single.
Ik deed het niet. Ik dacht dat ik het alleen moest redden. Ik Heb dat ook gedaan.
Alleen in dromen, zoals deze dageraad, Keert de ernstige, machtige intensiteit Van onze jonge liefde Terug in mijn geest, in mijn vlees.
We hadden waar de anderen Allemaal naar hunkeren en zoeken; We lieten het achter ons met negentien.
Ik voel me heel oud, alsof ik Vele levens heb geleefd. En zal nu misschien nooit weten Of ik een dwaas ben Of gedaan heb waar mijn karma om vraagt.
“—We’ll ask Jimmy, said Outspan. —Jimmy’ll know. Jimmy Rabbitte knew his music. He knew his stuff alright. You’d never see Jimmy coming home from town without a new album or a 12-inch or at least a 7-inch single. Jimmy ate Melody Maker and the NME every week and Hot Press every two weeks. He listened to Dave Fanning and John Peel. He even read his sisters’ Jackie when there was no one looking. So Jimmy knew his stuff. The last time Outspan had flicked through Jimmy’s records he’d seen names like Microdisney, Eddie and the Hot Rods, Otis Redding, The Screaming Blue Messiahs, Scraping Foetus off the Wheel (—Foetus, said Outspan. —That’s the little young fella inside the woman, isn’t it? —Yeah, said Jimmy. —AA. that fuckin’ horrible, tha’ is.); groups Outspan had never heard of, never mind heard. Jimmy even had albums by Frank Sinatra and The Monkees. So when Outspan and Derek decided, while Ray was out in the jacks, that their group needed a new direction they both thought of Jimmy. Jimmy knew what was what. Jimmy knew what was new, what was new but wouldn’t be for long and what was going to be new. Jimmy had Relax before anyone had heard of Frankic Goes to Hollywood and he’d started slagging them months before anyone realized that they were no good. Jimmy knew his music. Outspan, Derek and Ray’s group. And And And, was three days old; Ray on the Casio and his little sisters glockenspiel, Outspan on his brother’s acoustic guitar, Derck on nothing yet but the bass guitar as soon as he’d the money saved. —Will we tell Ray? Derek asked. —Abou’ Jimmy? Outspan asked back. —Yeah. Better not. Yet annyway. Outspan was trying to work his thumb in under a sticker, This Guitar Kills Fascists, his brother, an awful hippy, had put on it. —There’s the flush, he said. —He’s comin’ back. We’ll sec Jimmy later. They were in Derek’s bedroom. Ray came back in. —I was thinkin’ there, he said. —I think maybe we should have an exclamation mark, yeh know, after the second And in the name. —Wha’? —It’d be And And exclamation mark, righ’, And. It’d look deadly on the posters. Outspan said nothing while he imagined it. —What’s an explanation mark? said Derek. —Yeh know, said Ray. He drew a big one in the air. —Oh yeah, said Derek. —An’ where d’yeh want to put it again? —And And, He drew another one. —And. —Is it not supposed to go at the end? —It should go up his arse, said Ouupan, picking away at the sticker. • • • Jimmy was already there when Outspan and Derek got to the Pub. —How’s it goin’, said Jimmy. —Howych, Jim, said Outspan. —Howaych, said Derek. They got stools and formed a little semicircle at the bar. —Been ridin’ annythin’ since I seen yis last? Jimmy asked them. —No way, said Outspan. —We’ve been much too busy for that sort o’ thing. Isn’t tha’ righ’? —Yeah, that’s righ’, said Derek. —Puttin’ the finishin’ touches to your album? said Jimmy. —Puttin’ the ftnishin’ touches to our name, said Outspan. —Wha’ are yis now? —And And exclamation mark, righ’? —And, said Derek. Jimmy grinned a sneer. —Fuck, fuck, exclamation mark, me. I bet I know who thought o’ tha’. —There’ll be a little face on the dot, righ’, Outspan explained.”
“Gloria wished she had her own bed back. That was all she missed really. She had her duvet and her pink cover. But it wasn’t the same. `Rayzer?’ She said it a bit louder. Nearly proper talking. Maybe he was asleep. She kind of liked that, the fact that her big brother had fallen asleep before her. She tried again. `Rayzer?’ `What?’ `Are you not asleep?’ `That’s a stupid question.’ `I bet you were asleep,’ said Gloria. ‘And I woke you.’ `I wasn’t,’ said Raymond. `Bet you were,’ said Gloria. ‘Prove it.’ `Easy,’ said Raymond. ‘You said “Rayzer” four times.’ She heard him moving, turning in his bed. `Didn’t you?’ `Yeah,’ she said. ‘I think. Why didn’t you answer?’ `Didn’t want to.’ `I knew that,’ said Gloria. ‘I knew you were awake.’ `What d’you want?’ `Can you hear them?’ said Gloria. `Yeah.’ Gloria was talking about the grown-ups. Her mam, her dad, her granny and Uncle Ben. They were down in the kitchen. Raymond’s bedroom was right on top of them. `They’re mumbling again,’ Gloria whispered. `Yeah,’ said Raymond. The house was full of mumbles these days. Mumbles that often stopped whenever Raymond or Gloria walked into the room. Mumbling was what grown-ups did when they thought they were whispering. Whispers only stayed in the air for a little while but mumbles rolled around for ages, in the high corners, along the window frames, all around the house. The mumbles had almost become creatures. Gloria imagined she could see them. They were made of dust and hair, pushed into a ball, with skinny legs that barely touched the walls and ceilings as they slid along the paint and glass and wood. The mumbling had started when their Uncle Ben had come to live with them. Or just before he came. Gloria didn’t like the mumbles. They worried her. But she didn’t blame her Uncle Ben for them. Neither did Raymond. He didn’t like having to share his bedroom with Gloria, but he didn’t blame his Uncle Ben for that either. Gloria was a pain in the neck — and in other places too. But Raymond knew all little sisters were like that. It was one of the rules of life. And sometimes sharing the bedroom wasn’t too bad. Like now. Raymond had always been a bit afraid of the dark. Just a small bit.”
Ah om te leven op een ochtend half september een stroom doorwadend blootsvoets, met opgerolde broek, laarzen vasthoudend, bundel, zonneschijn, ijs in het ondiepe water, noordelijke rockies.
Geritsel en glinstering van ijzige kreekwateren stenen draaien onder de voeten, klein en hard als tenen, koude neus druipend, inwendig zingend kreek muziek, hart muziek, geur van zon op grind.
Ik beloof trouw
Ik beloof trouw aan de grond van Turtle Island, en aan de wezens die daarop wonen één ecosysteem in diversiteit onder de zon Met vreugdevolle interpenetratie voor iedereen.
When I am old and worse for wear I want to buy a rocking-chair, And set it on a porch where shine The stars of morning-glory vine; With just beyond, a gleam of grass, A shady street where people pass; And some who come with time to spare, To yarn beside my rocking-chair.
Then I will light my corn-cob pipe And dose and dream and rarely gripe. My morning paper on my knee I won’t allow to worry me. For if I know the latest news Is bad,–to read it I’ll refuse, Since I have always tried to see The side of life that clicks with glee.
And looking back with days nigh done, I feel I’ve had a heap of fun. Of course I guess that more or less It’s you yourself make happiness And if your needs are small and few, Like me you may be happy too: And end up with a hope, a prayer, A chuckle in a rocking-chair.
Robert W. Service (16 januari 1874 – 11 september 1958) St. John’s Minster in Preston, Lancashire, de geboorteplaats van Robert W. Service
“–It’s shockin’, said Jimmy Sr again,—so it is. Wha’ do you think o’ this? He was talking to Veronica. –I don’t know, said Veronica. –Is tha’ the best yeh can do, Veronica? –Well, what do YOU think? Jimmy Sr creased his face and held it that way for a second. –I don’t know, he said.—I should give ou’, I suppose. An’ throw a wobbler or somethin’. But—what’s the point? Veronica nodded. She looked very tired now. Jimmy Sr continued. –If she was— He turned to Sharon. –You should’ve come to us earlier—before, yeh know—an’ said you were goin’ to get pregnant. The three of them tried to laugh. –Then we could’ve done somethin’ abou’ it.—My God, though. No one said anything. Then Jimmy Sr spoke to Sharon again. –You’re absolutely sure now? Positive? –Yeah, I am. I done— –Did, said Veronica. –I did the test. –The test? said Jimmy Sr.—Oh.—Did yeh go in by yourself? –Yeah, said Sharon. –Did yeh? Fair play to yeh, said Jimmy Sr.—I’d never’ve thought o’ tha’. Sharon and Veronica looked at each other, and grinned quickly. Jimmy Sr got down to business. –Who was it? –Wha’?—Oh. I don’t know. –Ah now, Jaysis—! –No, I do know. –Well, then? –I’m not tellin’. Jimmy Sr could feel himself getting a bit angry now. That was better.”
“Beatrice brought beer. There was a piercing yelp from one of the back tables, she flinched, beer slopped over the edge of the glass. “God,” she said, “it’s Ploy again.” Ploy was now an engine-man on the mine sweeper Impulsive and a scandal the length of East Main. He stood five feet nothing in sea boots and was always picking fights with the biggest people on the ship, knowing they would never take him seriously. Ten months ago (just before he’d transferred off the Scaffold) the Navy had decided to remove all of Ploy’s teeth. Incensed, Ploy managed to punch his way through a chief corpsman and two dental officers before it was decided he was in earnest about keeping his teeth. “But think,” the officers shouted, trying not to laugh, fending off his tiny fists: “root canal work, gum abscesses….” “No,” screamed Ploy. They finally had to hit him in the bicep with a Pentothal injection. On waking up, Ploy saw apocalypse, screamed lengthy obscenities. For two months he roamed ghastly around the Scaffold, leaping without warning to swing from the overhead like an orangutan, trying to kick officers in the teeth. He would stand on the fantail and harangue whoever would listen, flannelmouthed through aching gums. When his mouth had healed he was presented with a gleaming, regulation set of upper and lower plates. “Oh God,” he bawled, and tried to jump over the side. But was restrained by a gargantuan Negro named Dahoud. “Hey there, little fellow,” said Dahoud, picking Ploy up by the head and scrutinizing this convulsion of dungarees and despair whose feet thrashed a yard above the deck. “What do you want to go and do that for?” “Man, I want to die, is all,” cried Ploy. “Don’t you know,” said Dahoud, “that life is the most precious possession you have?” “Ho, ho,” said Ploy through his tears. “Why?” “Because,” said Dahoud, “without it, you’d be dead.” “Oh,” said Ploy. He thought about this for a week. He calmed down, started to go on liberty again. His transfer to the Impulsive became reality. Soon, after Lights Out, the other snipes began to hear strange grating sounds from the direction of Ploy’s rack. This went on for a couple-three weeks until one morning around two somebody turned on the lights in the compartment and there was Ploy, sitting crosslegged on his rack, sharpening his teeth with a small bastard file. Next payday night, Ploy sat at a table in the Sailor’s Grave with a bunch of other snipes, quieter than usual. Around eleven, Beatrice swayed by, carrying a tray full of beers. Gleeful, Ploy stuck his head out, opened his jaws wide, and sank his newly filed dentures into the barmaid’s right buttock. Beatrice screamed, glasses flew parabolic and glittering, spraying the Sailor’s Grave with watery beer. It became Ploy’s favorite amusement.”
“Closing the front door quietly behind her, Elinor took a moment to absorb the silence. Facing her, directly opposite the front door, where nobody could possibly miss it, was a portrait of her brother, Toby, in uniform. It had been painted, from photographs, several years after his death and was frankly not very good. Everybody else seemed to like it, or at least tolerate it, but Elinor thought it was a complete travesty. Item: one standard-issue gallant young officer, Grim Reaper for the use of. There was nothing of Toby there at all. Nigel Featherstone was the artist: and he was very well regarded; you saw his portraits of judges, masters of colleges, politicians and generals everywhere, but she’d never liked his work. Her own portrait of Toby was stronger – not good, she didn’t claim that – but certainly better than this. She resented not having been asked to paint this family portrait: his own sister, after all. And every visit to her sister’s house began with her standing in front of it. When he was alive, Toby’s presence had been the only thing that made weekends with the rest of her family bearable. Now, this portrait – that blank, lifeless face – was a reminder that she was going to have to face them alone. She caught the creak of a leather armchair from the open door on her left. Oh, well, better get it over with. She went into the room and found Tim, her brother-in-law, sitting by the open window. As soon as he saw her he stood up and let his newspaper slide, sighing, to the floor. `Elinor.’ He pecked her proffered cheek. ‘Too early for a whisky?’ Evidently it wasn’t: there was a half-empty glass by his side. She opened her mouth to refuse but he’d already started to pour. ‘How was the train?’ `Crowded. Late.’ ‘Aren’t they all?’ When she’d first met Tim he might’ve been a neutered tomcat for all the interest he aroused in her. She’d thought him a nonentity, perhaps influenced in that – as in so much else – by Toby, who hadn’t liked Tim, or perhaps hadn’t found much in him to either like or dislike. And yet Tim had gone on to be a successful man; powerful, even. Something in Whitehall, in the War Office. Which was strange, because he’d never actually seen active service.”
Los Angeles basin and hill slopes Checkered with streetways. Floral loops Of the freeway express and exchange.
Dragons of light in the dark sweep going both ways in the night city belly. The passage of light end to end and rebound, —ride drivers all heading somewhere— etch in their traces to night’s eye-mind
calligraphy of cars.
Vole paths. Mouse trails worn in On meadow grass; Winding pocket-gopher tunnels, Marmot lookout rocks. Houses with green watered gardens Slip under the ghost of the dry chaparral,
Ghost shrine to the L. A. River The jinja that never was there is there. Where the river debouches the place of the moment of trembling and gathering and giving so that lizards clap hands there —just lizards come pray, saying “please give us health and long life.”
A hawk, a mouse.
Slash of calligraphy of freeways of cars.
Into the pools of the channelized river the Goddess in tall rain dress tosses a handful of meal.
Gold bellies roil mouth-bubbles, frenzy of feeding, the common ones, the bright-colored rare ones show up, they tangle and tumble, godlings ride by in Rolls Royce wide-eyed in brokers’ halls lifted in hotels being presented to, platters of tidbit and wine, snatch of fame,
churn and roil,
meal gone the water subsides.
A mouse, a hawk.
The calligraphy of lights on the night freeways of Los Angeles
will long be remembered.
Owl calls; late-rising moon.
Changing Diapers
How intelligent he looks! on his back both feet caught in my one hand his glance set sideways, on a giant poster of Geronimo with a Sharp’s repeating rifle by his knee.
I open, wipe, he doesn’t even notice nor do I. Baby legs and knees toes like little peas little wrinkles, good-to-eat, eyes bright, shiny ears chest swelling drawing air,
No trouble, friend, you and me and Geronimo are men.
Gary Snyder (San Francisco, 8 mei 1930)
De Duitse schrijver, entertainer, muzikant, acteur en clubeigenaar Rocko Schamoni (pseudoniem van Tobias Albrecht) werd geboren op 8 mei 1966 in Lütjenburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Rocko Schamoni op dit blog.
Uit: Fünf Löcher Im Himmel
„Ab und zu blieb er stehen, um die Hand am Koffergriff zu wechseln. Er bog in eine Seitengasse ein, lief sie hinunter, beobachtete schweigend die Häuser und Wohnungen, an denen er vorbeikam, die Kneipen und Läden und die überall geparkten Autos. Sein Gesichtsausdruck blieb regungslos. Straße für Straße lief er hinunter und Viertel für Viertel, manchmal setzte er sich für einen Moment auf eine Bank oder eine Mauer, rauchte eine Zigarette und starrte dabei in das Nichts zwischen den Sternen. Schließlich, nach Stunden, erreichte er den Stadtrand. Die Häuser wurden flacher, es gab kaum noch Geschäfte und Kneipen, nur noch endlose Wohnsiedlungen, von kleinen Straßen und Wegen durchzogen, ab und zu einen Zeitungskiosk, die Außenhaut eines gigantischen Organismus. Paul kam zu einer Schrebergartensiedlung. Die Nacht war halb vorüber, und es hatte zu nieseln begonnen, langsam zog die feuchte Kälte in seine Kleidung. Er fand eine Hütte, die verlassen aussah, die Parzelle war verwildert, die Gartenpforte hing schief in den Angeln. Vorsichtig betrat er das Grundstück, das von einer hohen Buchsbaumhecke umgeben war, und arbeitete sich zur Eingangstür der Hütte vor. Sie war verschlossen. Paul lehnte sich langsam, aber mit dem ganzen Gewicht seines Körpers dagegen und hielt den Griff gedrückt, irgendwann hörte er ein knackendes Geräusch, das morsche Holz des Türrahmens gab nach, und Paul trat ein. Er leuchtete mit dem Feuerzeug in den Raum. Vor ihm lag ein ziemlich verwahrlostes, kleines, aber komplett eingerichtetes Zimmer. Er schloss die Tür hinter sich und zündete die Kerze an, die auf einem Campingtisch in der Mitte des Raumes stand. Er setzte sich auf das Sofa dahinter und atmete tief durch. Eine Weile beobachtete er den Dunst, den seine Atemluft in der Kälte bildete, dann schlief er ein, und sein Kopf sank auf die Brust. Ein Knurren weckte Paul. Er schlug die Augen auf. Ein paar Sonnenstrahlen schienen ihm durch das verstaubte Wohnzimmerfenster ins Gesicht. Es knurrte wieder, hell und unangenehm rasselnd. Langsam griff Paul nach dem Messer in seiner Manteltasche, er öffnete die Klinge mit dem Daumen und zog es vorsichtig heraus. Dann beugte er sich vor, um den Raum überblicken zu können. In der Ecke neben dem Kühlschrank hockte ein Tier, er konnte es im Schatten kaum erkennen, vielleicht ein Marder. Langsam erhob sich Paul und griff dabei mit der anderen Hand nach einem schweren gläsernen Aschenbecher vor ihm auf dem Tisch. Der Marder knurrte, bewegte seinen Kopf drohend vor und zurück. Je näher Paul kam, desto nervöser wurde das Tier, langsam hob er die Hand mit dem Aschenbecher, doch plötzlich brach der Marder fauchend aus der Ecke hervor, sprang blitzschnell an ihm hinauf, biss wütend in den Mantel und stürzte quiekend durch den Raum und unter das Sofa. Nervöses Geraschel war zu hören, dann herrschte für einige Sekun-den absolute Ruhe. Vorsichtig hob Paul mit der linken Hand das Sofa an, in der anderen hielt er den Aschenbecher. Aber der Marder war verschwunden. Paul durchsuchte die Schränke nach etwas Essbarem, er fand ein paar alte Teebeutel und zwei abgelaufene Konservendosen mit Erbsensuppe, die er sich auf dem Herd aufwärmte. Er sah sich ein bisschen um, entdeckte eine elektrische Heizung und drehte sie auf.“
Dit hoofd. bloedrig bezweet en vuil, de starend-groote schrik der oogen en stekels scheurend in het hooge Voorhoofd, verminkt door schram en buil. Geen deernis en geen mededoogen, afschuw van zooveel walglijk leed Is in het neerslaan onzer oogen.
Maar God, waarom voor hem zoo wreed, terwijl met ons Gij waart bewogen?
Doch geen, die uw geheimen weet dan dat: Gij zijt met ons bewogen.
Twee vrienden
Het luide licht zweeg tot een schaduw grijs En loom. De avond hief de donkre hulling Van zijn mantel. En traag werd de vervulling Der dingen stil, en ’t zong een zachte wijs.
Wij gingen eenzaam langs het duistre water En dachten ieder aan het leven om ons heen En in ons hart; en elk wist zich alleen – Toen hebben wij gesproken over nu en later.
Maar ’t was vergeefs; het somberdreigend duister Kon nimmer aan ons moede hart ontgaan – Later, in een spiegel, zag elk ’t ontdaan Gelaat en hoorde zijn vervreemd gefluister.
Gerrit Kamphuis (8 mei 1906 – 25 april 1998) Midden jaren 1920
“–You’re wha’? said Jimmy Rabbitte Sr. He said it loudly. –You heard me, said Sharon. Jimmy Jr was upstairs in the boys’ room doing his D.J. practice. Darren was in the front room watching Police Academy II on the video. Les was out. Tracy and Linda, the twins, were in the front room annoying Darren. Veronica, Mrs Rabbitte, was sitting opposite Jimmy Sr at the kitchen table. Sharon was pregnant and she’d just told her father that she thought she was. She’d told her mother earlier, before the dinner. -Oh — my Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. He looked at Veronica. She looked tired. He looked at Sharon again. –That’s shockin’, he said. Sharon said nothing. –Are yeh sure? said Jimmy Sr. –Yeah. Sort of. –Wha’? –Yeah. Jimmy Sr wasn’t angry. He probably wouldn’t be either, but it all seemed very unfair. –You’re only nineteen, he said. –I’m twenty. –You’re only twenty. –I know what age I am, Daddy. –Now, there’s no need to be gettin’ snotty, said Jimmy Sr. –Sorry, said Sharon. She nearly meant it. –I’m the one tha’ should be gettin’ snotty, said Jimmy Sr. Sharon made herself smile. She was happy with the way things were going so far.“
„Dog into wolf, light into twilight, emptiness into waiting presence, here were your underage Marine barfing in the street, barmaid with a ship’s propeller tattooed on each buttock, one potential berserk studying the best technique for jumping through a plate glass window (when to scream Geronimo? before or after the glass breaks?), a drunken deck ape crying back in the alley because last time the SP’s caught him like this they put him in a strait jacket. Underfoot, now and again, came vibration in the sidewalk from an SP streetlights away, beating out a Hey Rube with his night stick; overhead, turning everybody’s face green and ugly, shone mercury-vapor lamps, receding in an asymmetric V to the east where it’s dark and there are no more bars. Arriving at the Sailor’s Grave, Profane found a small fight in progress between sailors and jarheads. He stood in the doorway a moment watching; then realizing he had one foot in the Grave anyway, dived out of the way of the fight and lay more or less doggo near the brass rail. “Why can’t man live in peace with his fellow man,” wondered a voice behind Profane’s left ear. It was Beatrice the barmaid, sweetheart of DesDiv 22, not to mention Profane’s old ship, the destroyer USS Scaffold. “Benny,” she cried. They became tender, meeting again after so long. Profane began to draw in the sawdust hearts, arrows through them, sea gulls carrying a banner in their beaks which read Dear Beatrice. The Scaffold-boat’s crew were absent, this tin can having got under way for the Mediterranean two evenings ago amid a storm of bitching from the crew which was heard out in the cloudy Roads (so the yarn went) like voices off a ghost ship; heard as far away as Little Creek. Accordingly, there were a few more barmaids than usual tonight, working tables all up and down East Main. For it’s said (and not without reason) that no sooner does a ship like the Scaffold single up all lines than certain Navy wives are out of their civvies and into barmaid uniforms, flexing their beer-carrying arms and practicing a hooker’s sweet smile; even as the N.O.B. band is playing “Auld Lang Syne” and the destroyers are blowing stacks in black flakes all over the cuckolds-to-be standing manly at attention, taking leave with rue and a tiny grin.”
Thomas Pynchon (Glen Cove, 8 mei 1937) Down Town Glen Cove, Long Island
„Elinor was halfway up the drive when she sensed she was being watched. She stopped and scanned the upstairs windows—wide open in the heat as if the house were gasping for breath—but there was nobody looking down. Then, from the sycamore tree at the end of the gar- den, came a rustling of leaves. Oh, of course: Kenny. She was tempted to ignore him, but that seemed unkind, so she went across the lawn and peered up into the branches. “Kenny?” No reply. There was often no reply. Kenny had arrived almost a year ago now, among the first batch of evacuees, and, although this area had since been reclassified—“neutral” rather than “safe”—here he remained. She felt his gaze heavy on the top of her head, like a hand, as she stood squinting up into the late-afternoon sunlight. Kenny spent hours up there, not reading his comics, not building a tree house, not dropping conkers on people’s heads—no, just watching. He had a red notebook in which he wrote down car numbers, the time people arrived, the time they left . . . Of course, you forgot what it was like to be his age: probably every visitor was a German spy. Oh, and he ate himself, that was the other thing. He was forever nibbling his fingernails, tearing at his cuticles, picking scabs off his knees and licking up the blood. Even pulling hair out of his head and sucking it. And, despite being a year at the village school, he hadn’t made friends. But then, he was the sort of child who attracts bullying, she thought, guiltily conscious of her own failure to like him. “Kenny? Isn’t it time for tea?” Then, with a great crash of leaves and branches, he dropped at her feet and stood looking up at her, scowling, for all the world like a small, sour, angry crab apple. “Where’s Paul?” “I’m afraid he couldn’t come, he’s busy.” “He’s always busy.” “Well, yes, he’s got a lot to do. Are you coming in now?” Evidently that didn’t deserve a reply. He turned his back on her and ran off through the arch into the kitchen garden.“
We finished clearing the last Section of trail by noon, High on the ridge-side Two thousand feet above the creek Reached the pass, went on Beyond the white pine groves, Granite shoulders, to a small Green meadow watered by the snow, Edged with Aspen—sun Straight high and blazing But the air was cool. Ate a cold fried trout in the Trembling shadows. I spied A glitter, and found a flake Black volcanic glass—obsidian— By a flower. Hands and knees Pushing the Bear grass, thousands Of arrowhead leavings over a Hundred yards. Not one good Head, just razor flakes On a hill snowed all but summer, A land of fat summer deer, They came to camp. On their Own trails. I followed my own Trail here. Picked up the cold-drill, Pick, singlejack, and sack Of dynamite. Ten thousand years.
Kyoto: March
A few light flakes of snow Fall in the feeble sun; Birds sing in the cold, A warbler by the wall. The plum Buds tight and chill soon bloom. The moon begins first Fourth, a faint slice west At nightfall. Jupiter half-way High at the end of night- Meditation. The dove cry Twangs like a bow. At dawn Mt. Hiei dusted white On top; in the clear air Folds of all the gullied green Hills around the town are sharp, Breath stings. Beneath the roofs Of frosty houses Lovers part, from tangle warm Of gentle bodies under quilt And crack the icy water to the face And wake and feed the children And grandchildren that they love.
„Damals war es Abend und Herbst. Öde und unwirtlich sind die Hochflächen des nordböhmischen Landes. Kahl sind sie, weil der Wind über sie hinfegt.Wo eine Straße läuft, stehen die dürren, schwarzberindeten Zwetschgenbäume in unabsehbaren Reihen. Die Bäche und Flüsse haben tiefe Täler ausgewaschen, dort drängt sich der Wald zu dichten Schöpfen zusammen, dort klappern Mühlen und rattern Sägen; dort werden in kleinen Fabriken baumwollene Strümpfe gewirkt und billiger Drell gewoben. Auf steilen Kehren kriecht ein Omnibus zum Rand einer Schlucht empor. Er ist nicht groß, ein schwärzlicher Kasten, der auf plumpen Rädern rumpelt. Der Motor tuckert, die Gänge kreischen. Oben auf der Ebene gewinnt er an Fahrt. Drinnen ist es dunkel.DerWagen stößt und rüttelt, die Luft riecht süßlich nach Benzin, scharf und verdorben nach Atem und Kleiderdunst. Man ist schon eine Stunde unterwegs, irgendwo am Horizont schwimmen Lichter herauf, die Lampen einer größeren Ortschaft. Dort ist die Fahrt zu Ende. Aber zuvor hält der Wagen noch einmal an. Der Fahrer dreht das Licht auf.»AmWrschek«, sagt er. »Da wollte wer aussteigen.« Auf der letzten Bank sitzt, in das Eck gelehnt, ein Mann und schläft. Der Hut ist ihm ins Gesicht gerutscht. »Der ist es«, ruft ein Knabe. »Der dort!« Jemand steht auf, stößt den Schlafenden an. »He – Sie!« Der Mann fährt empor. »AmWrschek! Da sind wir, aussteigen!« »Wird’s bald?« murmelt der Fahrer ungeduldig. Jemand beginnt zu kichern.Es ist immer lächerlich, wenn ein Mensch aus dem Schlaf geweckt wird und nicht begreift, was man von ihm will. Auch dieser Mensch wirkt lächerlich, er stiert ein paar Sekunden ganz verloren vor sich hin, dann schnellt er empor, schnellt sich vorwärts; der Gang zwischen den Sitzen ist mit Gepäck verrammelt, der Mann stolpert, die Leute grinsen. Endlich ist er vorn, da ruft eine Frau: »Ihren Mantel, Sie haben ja Ihren Mantel vergessen.« – Ach ja. Der Mann kehrt um. Er muß zurück, den Mantel vom Haken nehmen und wieder nach vorne gehen.Der Fahrer läßt den Motor wütend aufbrüllen, der Wagen zittert und stampft, als wäre auch er ungeduldig über den torkelnden Fahrgast. Kaum ist der hinaus, ruckt der Wagen an. Die Tür wird von innen zugeschlagen.“
“I set out to go to the memorial service for Louise Bogan at 3 at the National Institute [ of Arts and Letters ] ; but I stopped to see the doctor on the way and he told me I ought not to go, because I would give people my infection. So I went back to the club and went to bed. I was trying to read Conrad’s “Secret Agent” — very boring, full of the old-fashioned psychologizing of the Henry James era. Some of these novels of Conrad’s present a challenge to the reader to get through them. I had a similar experience with “Nostromo,” which I read part of in the hospital. [ Wilson had a heart attack in March. ] I was well enough on Saturday to go with [ the writer ] Penelope [ Gilliatt ] to Fellini’s “Satyricon” — long and elaborate, a rather unpleasant effect, a piling up of horrors and monstrosities. Naples, Fla., Winter 1972 At Wellfleet, before I left, I found myself surrounded by my books and other belongings, but was now alienated from them, couldn’t really connect with them. Uncomfortable. Talcottville, Spring 1972 T’ville, May 31-June 5. Rather a desolate stay: Mrs. Stabb, Mrs. Seelman nursing me. Millers and Glyn Morris [ friends ] madly working for McGovern. Democrats up here in hiding, people in big places Republicans. Two movies: “Godfather” and “French Connection,” bang bang. Painful getting in and out of theaters. Ned Miller harangued me about diet as if he had had a religious conversion.”
Edmund Wilson (8 mei 1895 – 14 juni 1972) Hier met zijn zoontje Reuel in 1949
« A cette vue, qui me fit trembler pour le bien de l’Église, je m’arrêtais tout court ; je serrai promptement mes ducats, je tirai quelques réaux, et, m’approchant du chapeau disposé à recevoir la charité des fidèles effrayés, je les jetai dedans l’un après l’autre, pour montrer au soldat que j’en usais noblement. Il fut satisfait de ma générosité, et me donna autant de bénédictions que je donnai de coups de pied dans les flancs de ma mule, pour m’éloigner promptement de lui ; mais la maudite bête, trompant mon impatience, n’en alla pas plus vite. La longue habitude qu’elle avait de marcher pas à pas sous mon oncle lui avait fait perdre l’usage du galop. Je ne tirai pas de cette aventure un augure trop favorable pour mon voyage. Je me représentai que je n’étais pas encore à Salamanque, et que je pourrais bien faire une plus mauvaise rencontre. Mon oncle me parut très imprudent de ne m’avoir pas mis entre les mains d’un muletier. C’était sans doute ce qu’il aurait dû faire ; mais il avait songé qu’en me donnant sa mule mon voyage me coûterait moins, et il avait plus pensé à cela qu’aux périls que je pouvais courir en chemin. Ainsi, pour réparer sa faute, je résolus, si j’avais le bonheur d’arriver à Peñaflor, d’y vendre ma mule, et de prendre la voie du muletier pour aller à Astorga, d’où je me rendrais à Salamanque par la même voiture. Quoique je ne fusse jamais sorti d’Oviédo, je n’ignorais pas le nom des villes par où je devais passer : je m’en étais fais instruire avant mon départ. J’arrivai heureusement à Peñaflor : je m’arrêtai à la porte d’une hôtellerie d’assez bonne apparence. Je n’eus pas mis pied à terre, que l’hôte vint me recevoir fort civilement. Il détacha lui-même ma valise, la chargea sur ses épaules, et me conduisit à une chambre, pendant qu’un de ses valets menait ma mule à l’écurie. Cet hôte, le plus grand babillard des Asturies, et aussi prompt à conter sans nécessité ses propres affaires que curieux de savoir celles d’autrui, m’apprit qu’il se nommait André Corcuelo ; qu’il avait servi longtemps dans les armées du roi en qualité de sergent, et que, depuis quinze moins, il avait quitté le service pour épouser une fille de Castropol qui, bien que tant soit peu basanée, ne laissait pas de faire valoir le bouchon.”
Alain-René Lesage (8 mei 1668 – 17 november 1747) Cover
Uit:Stina Becomes a Farmer’s Wife (Vertaald door Sally Ryan)
“Why, that’s a darned shame,” said the farmer. But when Stina continued holding the bread toward him, he took it with an attempt to be polite–”Those are really very fine sandwiches.” He half rose in the seat and began to fumble in his coat-tail pocket. As his arms were short, he had some trouble in hauling out a black, hammered pint bottle. A blue checked cotton handkerchief came out with it . “Shall we make the nightingale chirp?” he asked, chuckling inwardly without moving his lips. He produced a strident noise by rubbing the moist cork against the bottle, which he then offered to Stina. She gave him an indignant glance and rejected the proffered bottle by a gesture. The farmer laughed as before, and said, “Why–it ain’t brandy. It’s sweet punch extract.” This information altered matters. Stina took a swallow from the bottle, and grunted something which was meant to be thanks. The man took a long pull, and exclaimed with voluptuous delight, “Ah–ah–that cools one off a sight in such a heat. It’s a tidy drink.” Stina nodded and licked her lips. A much softer “Ah” than that of the man was evidence of the enjoyment which the sweet drink had given her. They continued their ride over the white road, without the least change in the surroundings or the situation. A couple of times the farmer moved nearer to Stina, as if by way of experiment, but each time she squeezed farther into the opposite corner of the seat. They came to a hill. Now the horses had to walk slowly. From the top of the hill a village could be seen, topped by the white church tower with tiled, white-washed step-gables. Here and there were some farms, separated from the road by dunghills and blackish brown pools of water. “Whoa !” said Stina when they had reached a cottage with green window-frames and a wilted rose-bush growing along the wall. “Oh, is that where it is?” said the farmer. “Whoa! Do you understand Danish, you red fox ?” This latter remark was addressed to the near horse, which had not been willing to obey orders at once, but seemed impressed by this appeal to its nationality. A little girl in a pink calico dress appeared in the door, which consisted of an upper and a lower part, both open.”
Sophus Schandorph (8 mei 1836 – 1 januari 1901) Portret door P.S. Krøyer, 1895
De Franse schrijver, vertaler regisseur en diplomaat Romain Gary werd geboren op 8 mei 1914 in Vilnius, Litouwen. Zie ook alle tags voor Romain Gary op dit blog.
Uit: La vie devant soi
« L’entrée de l’immeuble menait à un deuxième immeuble, plus petit à l’intérieur et dès que j’y suis entré, j’ai entendu des coups de feu, des freins qui grinçaient, une femme qui hurlait et un homme qui suppliait « Ne me tuez pas ! Ne me tuez pas! » et j’ai même sauté en l’air tellement c’était trop près. Il y a eu tout de suite une rafale de mitraillette et l’homme a crié « Non! », comme toujours lorsqu’on meurt sans plaisir. Ensuite il y a eu un silence encore plus affreux et c’est là que vous n’allez pas me croire. Tout a recommencé comme avant, avec le même mec qui ne voulait pas être tué parce qu’il avait ses raisons et la mitraillette qui ne l’écoutait pas. Il a recommencé trois fois à mourir malgré lui comme si c’était un salaud comme c’est pas permis et qu’il fallait le faire mourir trois fois pour l’exemple. Il y eut un nouveau silence pendant lequel il est resté mort et puis ils se sont acharnés sur lui une quatrième fois et une cinquième et à la fin il me faisait même pitié parce qu’enfin tout de même. Après ils l’ont laissé tranquille et il y eut une voix de femme qui a dit « mon amour, mon pauvre amour », mais d’une voix tellement émue et avec ses sentiments les plus sincères que j’en suis resté comme deux ronds de flan et pourtant je ne sais même pas ce que ça veut dire. Il n’y avait personne dans l’entrée sauf moi et une porte avec une lampe rouge allumée. Je suis à peine revenu de l’émotion qu’ils ont recommencé tout le bordel avec « mon amour, mon amour » mais chaque fois sur un autre ton, et puis ils ont remis ça encore et encore. Le mec a dû mourir cinq ou six fois dans les bras de sa bonne femme tellement c’était pour lui le pied de sentir qu’il y avait là quelqu’un à qui ça faisait de la peine. »
“Gloria Kelly lay in bed. She was wide awake. She knew her brother, Raymond, was too. She could tell by the way he was breathing. It was awake breath. He was lying there, thinking and listening. Sleep breath was different. It was longer and lighter, less in and out. ‘Rayzer?’ she whispered, Raymond didn’t answer. But she didn’t care. She liked sharing the bedroom. Although she knew Raymond didn’t. She didn’t care about that either. She could like it in secret. She didn’t have to tell him. She’d been moved into Raymond’s room when their Uncle Ben had come to live with them. For a while. That was what her mam and dad had said. Uncle Ben would be staying ‘for a while’. At first her mother had called it ‘a little while’. But the ‘little’ had disappeared when Uncle Ben kept staying, and Gloria began to think that her bedroom wasn’t hers any more. And Raymond, she supposed, began to think the same thing. His room had become their room. She looked into her room sometimes, when her Uncle Ben wasn’t in there. He hadn’t done anything to it. He hadn’t touched her pictures or her other stuff. It was still pink, nearly everything in it. The only really new thing in the room was her Uncle Ben’s smell. It was kind of an adult smell. A mixture of soap and sweatiness. There were none of his clothes lying around, and just one book that wasn’t hers. She’d looked at the cover but it had looked boring, about a war or something. Except for the fact that she didn’t sleep or play in there any more, it was still Gloria’s room. So maybe her Uncle Ben really was only staying for a while – but the while was a bit longer than they’d expected. Maybe. ‘Rayzer?’ He still wouldn’t answer. She didn’t like her bed. It wasn’t a real bed. It was just a mattress on the floor. She’d liked it at first. It had been fun, nearly like camping. But not now. Her face was sometimes right against the wall, low down, at the skirting board, nearly where it joined the floor. It was cold there. Always – even when the rest of the room was warm. And she could hear things sometimes – she thought she could. Behind the skirting board.”
“Wha’ d’yeh think of the poll? He’s alrigh’. He pulls a reasonable pint. I meant, the election poll. Ah, fuck the-. Go on. Michael D.’s leadin’. Followed by Mitchell. No. The Dragons’ Den fella. Fuckin’ hell. How did tha’ happen? Well, he’s scutterin’ on abou’ community an’ disability an’ tha’. But, really, he’s an 01’ Fianna Fail hack. Up to his entrepreneurial bollix in it. Annyway, my theory. Go on People still love Fianna Fail. But they’d hammer them if they had a candidate. Exactly. But they can vote for this prick without havin’ to admit it. Brilliant. But I think Michael D. will get there. How come? He was goin’ on abou’ the President not bein’ a handmaiden to the government. What’s a handmaiden? I’m not sure. But if I was lookin’ for one in the Golden Pages, I wouldn’t be stoppin’ at the Michaels. Annyway, he suddenly stops, an’ says he broke his kneecap when he fell durin’ a fact-findin’ mission in Colombia. Wha’ does tha’ tell yeh? He was ou’ of his head. Exactly. Fact-findin’ mission me hole. He’s lettin’ us know – he’s one o’ the lads. Well, that’s me decided. Me too.”
“– Have yeh made your mind up yet?
– A pint – same as always. I haven’t had to make me mind up since –
– I meant the election.
– Ah, shove it.
– Well, it’s either tha’ or the Greek default.
– Alrigh’ – fuck it. Who’s goin’ to
win?
– Hard to say. They’re all shite.
– I seen Mary Davis’s Sex an’ the City posters.
– There yeh go. An’ Mitchell. He said you can see the house he grew up in – in Inchicore, like – from the window of the Áras. An’ he’s goin’ to look out at it every mornin’.
– An’ shout, Fuck you, Inchicore.
– He could get the queen to do it with him the next time she’s over.
– A bondin’ exercise.
– Exactly. She probably never gets the chance to say “fuck” at home.
– Talkin’ abou’ fuck an’ the queen. What’s McGuinness up to?
– Says he’ll only pay himself the average industrial wage.
– The fuckin’ eejit.
– I’m with yeh. He says he’ll employ six young people with the money left over.
– Cuttin’ the grass an’ washin’ diesel. What about the Senator?
– Ah Jaysis. It looks like Greece is goin’ to miss its deficit target an’ has fuck-all chance of avertin’ bankruptcy.“
„It’s the first day of spring 2001, and Maxine Tarnow, though some still have her in their system as Loeffler, is walking her boys to school. Maybe they’re past the age where they need an escort, maybe Maxine doesn’t want to let go just yet. It’s only a couple blocks, it’s on her way to work, she enjoys it, so?
This morning, all up and down the streets, what looks like every Callery Pear tree on the Upper West Side has popped overnight into identical white clouds of pear blossoms. As Maxine watches, sunlight finds its way past rooflines and water tanks to the end of the block and into one particular tree, which all at once is filled with light.
“Mom?” Ziggy in the usual hurry. “Yo.”
“Guys, check it out, that tree?”
Otis takes a minute to look. “Awesome, Mom.”
“Doesn’t suck,” Zig agrees. The boys keep going, Maxine enjoys the tree half a minute more before catching up. At the corner by long-implanted reflex she drifts into a pick so as to stay between them and any driver whose idea of sport is to come around the corner and run you over.
Sunlight reflected from apartment windows has begun to show up in blurry patterns on the fronts of the buildings across the street. Two-part buses, new on the routes, creep the crosstown blocks like giant insects. Steel shutters are being rolled up, early trucks are double-parking, guys are out with hoses cleaning off their piece of sidewalk. Unhoused people sleep in doorways, scavengers with huge plastic sacks full of empty beer and soda cans head for the markets to cash them in, work crews wait in front of buildings for the super to show up. Runners are bouncing up and down at the curb waiting for the lights to change. Cops are in coffee shops dealing with bagel deficiencies. Kids, parents, and nannies wheeled and afoot are heading in all different directions for schools in the neighborhood. Half the kids seem to be on new Razor scooters, so to the list of things to keep alert for, add ambush by rolling aluminum.”
“July Fourth started hot and grew hotter, early light on the peaks descending, occupying, the few clouds bright and shapely and unpromising of rain, nitro beginning to ooze out of dynamite sticks well before the sun had cleared the ridge. Among stockmen and rodeo riders, today was known as “Cowboy’s Christmas,” but to Webb Traverse it was more like Dynamite’s National Holiday, though you found many of the Catholic faith liked to argue that that ought to be the Fourth of December, feast of St Barbara, patron saint of artillerymen, gunsmiths, and by not that big of a stretch, dynamiters too.
Everybody today, drovers and barkeeps, office clerks and hardcases, gentle elderly folks and openmouth reckless youth, would be seized sooner or later by the dynamitic mania prevailing. They would take little fractions of a stick, attach cap and fuse, light them up and throw them at each other, drop it in reservoirs and have all-day fish fries, blast picturesque patterns in the landscape that’d be all but gone next day, put it lit into empty beer barrels to be rolled down mountainsides, and take bets on how close to town before it all blew to bits – a perfect day all round for some of that good Propaganda of the Deed stuff, which would just blend right in with all the other percussion.
Webb staggered up out of his bedroll after one of those nights when he did not so much sleep as become intermittently conscious of time. Already warm-up blasts could be heard up and down the valley. Today’s would be a fairly routine job, and Webb was looking forward to a little saloon time at the end of it. Zarzuela was out by the fence waiting, having known Webb long enough to have an idea that whatever the day held in store, it would include explosion, which the colt was used to and even looked forward to.”
