Tag: Theodor Däubler

V. S. Naipaul, Jonathan Franzen, Ted Hughes, Theodor Däubler, Herta Müller, Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin, Roger Peyrefitte

De Britse schrijver Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul werd geboren op 17 augustus 1932 in Chaguanas, Trinidad en Tobago. Zie ook alle tags voor V. S. Naipaul op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2010.

Uit: A Bend In the River

“At certain times in some civilizations great leaders can bring out the manhood in the people they lead.  It is different with slaves.  Don’t blame the leaders.  It is just part of the dreadfulness of the situation.  It is better to withdraw from the whole business, if you can.  And I could.  You may say — and I know, Salim, that you have thought it — that I have turned my back on my community and sold out.  I day: ‘Sold out to what and from what? What do you have to offer me? What is your own contribution?  And can you give me back my manhood?’ Anyway, that was what I decided that morning, beside the river of London, between the dolphins and the camels, the work of some dead artist who had been adding to the beauty of their city.
“That was five years ago.  I often wonder what would have happened to me if I hadn’t made that decision.  I suppose I would have sunk.  I suppose I would have found some kind of hole and tried to hide or pass.  After all, we make ourselves according to the ideas we have of our possibilities.  I would have hidden in my hole and been crippled by my sentimentality, doing what I doing, and doing it well, but always looking for the wailing wall.  And I would never have seen the world as the rich place that it is.  You wouldn’t have seen me here in Africa , doing what I do.  I wouldn’t have wanted to do it, and no one would have wanted me to do it.  I would have said: ‘It’s all over for me, so why should I let myself be used by anybody? The Americans want to win the world.  It’s their fight, not mine.’ And that would have been stupid.  It is stupid to talk of the Americans.  They are not a tribe, as you might think from the outside.  They’re all individuals fighting to make their way, trying as hard as you or me not to sink.
“It wasn’t easy after I left the university.  I still had to get a job, and the only thing I knew now was what I didn’t want to do.  I didn’t want to exchange one prison for another.  People like me have to make their own jobs.  It isn’t something that’s going to come to you in a brown envelope. The job is there, waiting.  But it doesn’t exist for you or anyone else until you discover it, and you discover it because it’s for you and you alone.”

 
V. S. Naipaul (Chaganuas, 17 augustus 1932)

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Jonathan Franzen, Ted Hughes, V. S. Naipaul, Theodor Däubler, Herta Müller, Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin, Roger Peyrefitte

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Jonathan Franzen werd geboren op 17 augustus 1959 in Western Springs, Illinois. Zie ook alle tags voor Jonathan Franzen op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2010.

Uit: Freedom

“The news about Walter Berglund wasn’t picked up locally-he and Patty had moved away to Washington two years earlier and meant nothing to St. Paul now-but the urban gentry of Ramsey Hill were not so loyal to their city as not to read the New York Times. According to a long and very unflattering story in the Times, Walter had made quite a mess of his professional life out there in the nation’s capital. His old neighbors had some difficulty reconciling the quotes about him in the Times (“arrogant,” “high-handed,” “ethically compromised”) with the generous, smiling, red-faced 3M employee they remembered pedaling his commuter bicycle up Summit Avenue in February snow; it seemed strange that Walter, who was greener than Greenpeace and whose own roots were rural, should be in trouble now for conniving with the coal industry and mistreating country people. Then again, there had always been something not quite right about the Berglunds.

Walter and Patty were the young pioneers of Ramsey Hill – the first college grads to buy a house on Barrier Street since the old heart of St. Paul had fallen on hard times three decades earlier. They paid nothing for their Victorian and then killed themselves for ten years renovating it. Early on, some very determined person torched their garage and twice broke into their car before they got the garage rebuilt.

Sunburned bikers descended on the vacant lot across the alley to drink Schlitz and grill knockwurst and rev engines at small hours until Patty went outside in sweatclothes and said, “Hey, you guys, you know what?” Patty frightened nobody, but she’d been a standout athlete in high school and college and possessed a jock sort of fearlessness. From her first day in the neighborhood, she was helplessly conspicuous. Tall, ponytailed, absurdly young, pushing a stroller past stripped cars and broken beer bottles and barfedupon old snow, she might have been carrying all the hours of her day in the string bags that hung from her stroller. Behind her you could see the baby-encumbered preparations for a morning of baby-encumbered errands; ahead of her, an afternoon of public radio, the Silver Palate Cookbook, cloth diapers, drywall compound, and latex paint; and then Goodnight Moon, then zinfandel. She was already fully the thing that was just starting to happen to the rest of the street.”

 

Jonathan Franzen (Western Springs, 17 augustus 1959)
Time Cover, augustus 2010

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Ted Hughes, Theodor Däubler, Fredrika Bremer, Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin, Roger Peyrefitte, Nicola Kraus, Robert Sabatier, Anton Delvig, Jozef Wittlin

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Ted Hughes werd geboren op 17 augustus 1930 in Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Ted Hughes op dit blog.

 

 

The Harvest Moon

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

So people can’t sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!’ and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

 

 

Work and Play

The swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
A blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
A whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
But the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
In shimmering exhaust
Searching to slake
Its fever in ocean
Will play and be idle or else it will bust.

The swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
She flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
Dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
But the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
Disgorges its organs
A scamper of colours
Which roll like tomatoes
Nude as tomatoes
With sand in their creases
To cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.

The swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
She scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
She draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
But the holiday people
Are laid out like wounded
Flat as in ovens
Roasting and basting
With faces of torment as space burns them blue
Their heads are transistors
Their teeth grit on sand grains
Their lost kids are squalling
While man-eating flies
Jab electric shock needles but what can they do?

They can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
And start up the serpent
And headache it homeward
A car full of squabbles
And sobbing and stickiness
With sand in their crannies
Inhaling petroleum
That pours from the foxgloves
While the evening swallow
The swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
Touches the honey-slow river and turning
Returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves –
A boomerang of rejoicing shadow.

 

 

Ted Hughes (17 augustus 1930 – 28 oktober 1998)

Lees verder “Ted Hughes, Theodor Däubler, Fredrika Bremer, Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin, Roger Peyrefitte, Nicola Kraus, Robert Sabatier, Anton Delvig, Jozef Wittlin” →

Jonathan Franzen, V. S. Naipaul, Herta Müller, Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin, Roger Peyrefitte, Nicola Kraus, Ted Hughes, Robert Sabatier, Anton Delvig,Theodor Däubler, Józef Wittlin, Oliver St. John Gogarty, Fredrika Bremer

De Amerikaanse schrijver en essayist Jonathan Franzen werd geboren op 17 augustus 1959 in Western Springs, Illinois. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Freedom

„She attended to the funeral arrangements for her mother-in-law in a mental state whose fragility the autobiographer hopes at least partly explains her poor handling of her discovery that an older neighbor girl, Connie Monaghan, had been preying on Joey sexually. The litany of the mistakes that Patty proceeded to make in the wake of this discovery would exceed the current length of this already long document. The autobiographer is still so ashamed of what she did to Joey that she can’t begin to make a sensible narrative out of it. When you find yourself in the alley behind your neighbor’s house at three in the morning with a box cutter in your hand, destroying the tires of your neighbor’s pickup truck, you can plead insanity as a legal defense. But is it a moral one?

For the defense: Patty had tried, at the outset, to warn Walter about the kind of person she was. She’d told him there was something wrong with her.

For the prosecution: Walter was appropriately wary. Patty was the one who tracked him down in Hibbing and threw herself at him.

For the defense: But she was trying to be good and make a good life! And then she forsook all others and worked hard to be a great mom and homemaker.

For the prosecution: Her motives were bad. She was competing with her mom and sisters. She wanted her kids to be a reproach to them.

For the defense: She loved her kids!

For the prosecution: She loved Jessica an appropriate amount, but Joey she loved way too much. She knew what she was doing and she didn’t stop, because she was mad at Walter for not being what she really wanted, and because she had a bad character and felt she deserved compensation for being a star and a competitor who was trapped in a housewife’s life.“

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Jonathan Franzen (Western Springs, 17 augustus 1959)

 

De Britse schrijver Sir Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul werd geboren op 17 augustus 1932 in Chaguanas, Trinidad en Tobago. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Miguel Street

„BOGART
Every morning when he got up Hat would sit on the banister of his back verandah and shout across, ‘What happening there, Bogart?’
Bogart would turn in his bed and mumble softly, so that no one heard, ‘What happening there, Hat?’
It was something of a mystery why he was called Bogart; but I suspect that it was Hat who gave him the name. I don’t know if you remember the year the film Casablanca was made. That was the year when Bogart’s fame spread like fire through Port of Spain and hundreds of young men began adopting the hardboiled Bogartian attitude.
Before they called him Bogart they called him Patience, because he played that game from morn till night. Yet he never liked cards.
Whenever you went over to Bogart’s little room you found him sitting on his bed with the cards in seven lines on a small table in front of him.
‘What happening there, man?’ he would ask quietly, and then he would say nothing for ten or fifteen minutes. And somehow you felt you couldn’t really talk to Bogart, he looked so bored and superior. His eyes were small and sleepy. His face was fat and his hair was gleaming black.
His arms were plump. Yet he was not a funny man. He did everything with a captivating languor. Even when he licked his thumb to deal out the cards there was grace in it.
He was the most bored man I ever knew.
He made a pretence of making a living by tailoring, and he had even paid me some money to write a sign for him:
TAILOR AND CUTTER Suits made to Order Popular and Competitive Prices

He bought a sewing machine and some blue and white and brown chalks. But I never could imagine him competing with anyone; and I cannot remember him making a suit. He was a little bit like Popo, the carpenter next door, who never made a stick of furniture and was always planing and chiselling and making what I think he called mortises. Whenever I asked him, ‘Mr Popo, what you making?’ he would reply, ‘Ha, boy! That’s the question. I making the thing without a name.’ Bogart was never even making anything like this.“

 naipaul

 V. S. Naipaul (Chaganuas, 17 augustus 1932)

 

De Duitse schrijfster Herta Müller werd geboren op 17 augustus 1953 in Nitzkydorf, Roemenië. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Niederungen

„Die Grabrede

Auf dem Bahnhof liefen die Verwandten neben dem dampfenden Zug her. Bei jedem Schritt bewegten sie den hochgehobenen Arm und winkten.

Ein junger Mann stand hinter dem Zugfenster. Die Scheibe reichte ihm bis unter die Arme. Er hielt einen Strauß weißer, zerfledderter Blumen vor der Brust. Sein Gesicht war starr. Eine junge Frau trug ein fades Kind aus dem Bahnhof hinaus. Die Frau hatte einen Buckel.

Der Zug fuhr in den Krieg.

Ich knipste den Fernseher aus.

Vater lag in einem Sarg mitten im Zimmer. An den Wänden hingen so viele Bilder, dass man die Wand nicht sah. Auf einem Bild war Vater halb so groß wie der Stuhl, an dem er sich festhielt. Er hatte ein Kleid an und stand auf krummen Beinen, die voller Speckfalten waren. Sein Kopf war birnenförmig und kahl.

Auf einem anderen Bild war Vater Bräutigam. Man sah nur seine halbe Brust. Die andere Hälfte war ein Strauß weißer, zerfledderter Blumen, die Mutter in der Hand hielt. Ihre Köpfe waren so nahe nebeneinander, dass sich ihre Ohrläppchen berührten.

Auf einem anderen Bild stand Vater kerzengerade vor einem Zaun. Unter seinen hohen Schuhen lag Schnee. Der Schnee war so weiß, dass Vater im Leeren stand. Seine Hand war über den Kopf gehoben zum Gruß. Auf seinem Rockkragen waren Runen.

Auf dem Bild, das daneben hing, hielt Vater eine Hacke auf der Schulter. Hinter ihm stand ein Maisstengel, der in den Himmel ragte. Vater hatte einen Hut auf dem Kopf. Der Hut warf einen breiten Schatten und verdeckte Vaters Gesicht.

Auf dem nächsten Bild saß Vater am Lenkrad eines Lastautos. Das Auto war mit Rindern beladen. Vater fuhr jede Woche die Rinder ins Schlachthaus in die Stadt. Vaters Gesicht war schmal und hatte harte Kanten.“

mueller

Herta Müller (Nitzkydorf, 17 augustus 1953)

 

De Ethiopische dichter en schrijver Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin werd geboren op 17 augustus 1936 in Boda bij Ambo. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Who Is On Whose Way

I did not know, oh sir, that I stood on your way,
It all happened in chance; argument is unfit,
If we fight, others will benefit,
And as this road is also where my future lay,
Destiny forces me to answer you with “ Nay “
Pray lose no temper: lest you commit
A risk to result in a regrettable wit,
For, if there be crime, guilty is just the day:

I am also in yours as you are in my shoes
So do let us shift sir, to either side
However painful it becomes, we should, though
We realize that it isn’t much to lose
That in spite of us the way is wide
And that after all, someday, both of us go.

 

Tears Inevitable

Showers of anguish
Rain, do not exhaust
Ocean of revenge
Of the innermost
Voice of the betrayed
Comfort of the lost,

Tears torn of self
Blood of the heart.

 gabre

Tsegaye Gabre-Medhin (17 augustus 1936 – 25 februari 2006)

 

De Franse schrijver en diplomaat Roger Peyrefitte werd geboren op 17 augustus 1907 in  Castres. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Der junge Alexander (Vertaald door Sybille A. Rott-Illfeld)

„Sie hatten sich nackt ausgezogen. Der Geruch des Meeres vermischte sich mit dem Duft ihrer Haut. Gedämpft klangen Kitharaklänge (…) an ihre Ohren. Hephaistions Lippen glitten zart über Alexanders Lider. Seit Aristoteles ihnen gesagt hatte, dass die Haut der Lider ebenso empfindlich sei wie die Vorhaut, mochten sie diese Liebkosung ganz besonders. “Erinnerst du dich”, fragte Alexander, “wie wir ihn nach dem Wesen der Lust befragten?” “Er glaubte weder, wie Pythagoras, dass das Sperma aus dem Hirn kommt, noch wie andere Philosophen, aus allen Körperteilen. Er definierte die Lust einfach als `unbändiges Verlangen’, und das schien uns unzureichend. Aber wie soll man solche Dinge auch erklären? Man muss sich damit begnügen, sie zu empfinden.” (…) Ihre Lippen fanden sich und Gott verströmte seine Kraft. (…)

peyrefitte

Roger Peyrefitte (17 augustus 1907 – 5 november 2000)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Nicola Kraus werd geboren op 17 augustus 1974 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 7 februari 2009.

Uit: Citizen Girl (Samen met Emma McLaughlin)

„The ladies’ room door squeaks open and I stop breathing, jerking my feet up on the toilet seat lid in an effort to work through my lunch hour in solitude. Rubber soles scuff along the honeycomb tiles as I bend to inch the remains of my lunch out of view, but my pen betrays me, rolling brazenly out of my lap and onto the warped floor.

“Who’s in here?” my boss, Doris, shouts over the din of sweatshop sewing machines whirring up the air shaft. I consider not responding — maybe she’ll think the pipes are now leaking not only asbestos but pens. “Hello-o?” She knocks once on the last stall door before rattling it forcefully. Her tightly permed gray curls appear below me. “Oh, Girl, it’s you.”

I will a cheery smile.

“You have your period again, don’t you?” She stares up disdainfully as she turns a deep red from her inverted stance. “You know, Girl” — she takes in my research materials on the floor — “I’ve provided you with a perfectly good desk.”

“Yes, thank you…” I try to dislodge my crossed legs without stepping on her face. “I was just taking advantage of the quiet to finish my presentation for the conference.” I unlatch the door, and she abruptly shoves it in toward me, spraying the cup of coffee I’d balanced on the toilet-paper dispenser onto my coat. My new coat.

She arches her eyebrows over her multicolored Fimo clay bifocals. “You’re a mess,” she pronounces. “You really should make your lunch at home and bring it with you. You’re not managing your finances very well if you buy those expensive sandwiches every day. But I guess that’d mean you’d actually have to get out of bed on time.” She remains squarely in the stall doorway, indicating that I owe her an explanation.“

 kraus

Nicola Kraus (New York, 17 augustus 1974)

Emma McLaughlin en Nicola Kraus (rechts)

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver Ted Hughes werd geboren op 17 augustus 1930 in Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2006 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Wind

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up –
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

 

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

hughes

Ted Hughes (17 augustus 1930 – 28 oktober 1998)

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Robert Sabatier werd geboren op 17 augustus 1923 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Le lit de la merveille

” Va où il y a des livres…”

Sur ce conseil insolite d’un clochard, le jeune Julien, qui traîne dans le Paris de l’après-guerre le souvenir d’une blessure d’amour, trouve un petit emploi chez un libraire. Il rencontre Roland, un étudiant dandy, qui le présente bientôt à sa mère Eleanor, une Américaine de Boston, éprise de littérature et d’art français. Ainsi va commencer pour Julien un roman d’apprentissage que Stendhal n’eût pas désavoué.

Apprentissage du monde, d’abord, dans un Paris où l’on croise Aragon, Bachelard, Asturias ou Darius Milhaud. Initiation amoureuse, aussi, qui, bien qu’elle finisse mal, aidera le jeune homme à trouver son destin. Mais la grande affaire, ce sont les livres. ” Viens creuser le lit de la merveille “, a dit à Julien un vieil émigré de l’Est en l’entraînant dans sa bibliothèque. Il ne l’oubliera plus. A travers cette peinture attendrie et souriante du Boul’Mich’ et du Saint-Germain d’autrefois, le romancier des Allumettes suédoises et du Cygne noir salue sa propre jeunesse et la passion de sa vie : la lecture.“

 sabatier

Robert Sabatier (Parijs, 17 augustus 1923)

 

De Russische dichter Anton Delvig werd geboren op 17 augustus 1798 in Moskou. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Romance

Don’t say that love will come and go,
Your friend suggests that you forget it,
He thinks that it’s eternal, so
His happiness, he says he’ll bet it.

Why should my soul suppress the will
That flashed and seized me suddenly,
Now let me give myself, and humbly,
All to your tenderness and thrill.

Why should I suffer? What has love
Donated me from up above?
Except for wounds and bitter tear,
Except for sorrow, pain and fear?

Though love is not a lasting thing
I’ll never see it kiss the ground,
I’ll die with it like the sad sound
Of an abruptly broken string.

 

Love

Well, what is love? A rambling dream,
The link of charm and admiration!
And you, in reverie and aspiration,
Now moan in agony, now seem

To doze, absorbed in golden slumbers,
And stretch your hand to dreams ahead
Forgetting all your drowsy rambles,
Unwell, and with a heavy head.

 

Vertaald door Alec Vagapov

delvig

Anton Delvig (17 augustus 1798 – 26 januari 1831)

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Theodor Däubler werd geboren op 17 augustus 1876 in Triëst. Zie en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Regen

Die Sonne hat nur kurz das nasse Tal umschlungen,
Die Pappeln rauschen wieder, neckisch spielt der Wind
Des Baches Schwermut hat gar lang allein geklungen,
Der Wind ist pfiffiger als ein vergnügtes Kind.

Die Wolken wollen kommen. Alles wurde rauher,
Die blassen Pappeln rascheln wie bei einem Guß.
Die nassen Weiden faßt ein kalter Schauer,
Gewaltig saust die Luft, beinahe wie ein Fluß.

Nun soll der Regen kommen! Und es gieße wieder!
Der Sturm ist kraftbegabtes Lautgebraus,
Der Regen bringt die Rhythmen heller Silberlieder,
Die Pappeln wissen das und schlottern schon voraus.

Dem nassen Tal entwallen kalte Atlashüllen,
Und auch die Nebelhauche tauchen raschelnd auf.
Der Wind beginnt die Flur mit Wispern zu erfüllen,
Die Pappeln biegen sich, das Grau nimmt seinen Lauf.

däubler

 Theodor Däubler (17 augustus 1876 – 13 juni 1934)

 

De Poolse dichter en schrijver Józef Wittlin werd geborern in Podolien op 17 augustus 1896 in het toenmalige Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Zie en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Hymn of Hatred (Fragment)

Oh no! I will not sing of love today, of what is sacred, angelic, and eternal, powerful
like God, like the immortal He.–I will not sing a hymn of love.
Oh yes! Oh yes! Hatred walks on our streets, snickers, hands on her
hips, totters like a drunk, like that ultimate streetwalker and spits in
the face of anyone who dares to live.
Both you and me.
And oh, how her blinkers blaze!
She saw the cross on a shrine’s golden cupola and a torrent poured
down on it from her piercing eyes. And the cross rusted in shame and
blackened in offense.
Oh, how that once gold cross did turn black.
She cast an abusive word into the church, through the wide open
doors, and holy icons paled and heads turned in their halos, and the
host was covered in mold and spoiled
before it was brought before the people congregated in hunger for the
miracle of
love!…
Oh terrible defiled host!
Hatred walks on our streets…and when she spies a mother, a mother
who
carries the fetus of a child in her womb–the fetus has already turned
to vermin.–And the vermin
chew the maternal womb.
Oh, how awfully the vermin chew the mother’s womb!…
And hatred bewitched an infant in its cradle,
touching it’s shoulders–
And when the mother presses her child to her breast.
And when the mother kisses her infant’s little mouth
–vile leprosy descends on her maternal visage.
Oh, how foully leprosy deformed the mother!

wittlin

Józef Wittlin (17 augustus 1896 – 28 februari 1976)
Portret door Stefan Mrożewski

 

De Ierse dichter en schrijver Oliver St. John Gogarty 17 augustus 1878 in Dublin. Hij werkte ook als arts, piloot. Zie en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Ode of Welcome

The Gallant Irish yeoman
Home from the war has come
Each victory gained o’er foeman
Why should our bards be dumb.

How shall we sing their praises
Our glory in their deeds
Renowned their worth amazes
Empire their prowess needs.

So to Old Ireland’s hearts and homes
We welcome now our own brave boys
In cot and Hall; neath lordly domes
Love’s heroes share once more our joys.

Love is the Lord of all just now
Be he the husband, lover, son,
Each dauntless soul recalls the vow
By which not fame, but love was won.

United now in fond embrace
Salute with joy each well-loved face
Yeoman: in women’s hearts you hold the place.

gogarty

Oliver St. John Gogarty (17 augustus 1878 – 22 september 1957)
Portret door Gerald Leslie Brockhurst

 

De Zweedse schrijfster Fredrika Bremer werd geboren op 17 augustus 1801 in Tuorla bij Piikkiö. Zie en ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2009.

Uit: Nina. Old Acquaintances

„Are you now all assembled here t”—Bellmix. We enter an apartment where soft sofas, handsome mats, clear mirrors, rich window drapery, and so forth, present that picture of comfort, which the great artist of the present age—Utility, pre-eminently strives to establish. With a somewhat over-heated head inclining over a chess hoard, sits on a sofa, the well- preserved President, his Excellency Von G. Before him we see his daughter Edla busily intent upon being check-mated by her father, partly because she has already won one game of him, partly because his Excellency was not in the very best humour. However, the game and the humour of the President now all at once begin to brighten up. “Edla,” he observed,” the queen is a precious piece ; without her there is no life in the game. You must excuse me now for taking yours to give check …. and check-mate you 1″ “Check-mate? Yes, irretrievably!” exclaimed Edla. ” That, upon my word, was an excellent move. How foolishly my bishops stand there.” His Excellency turned up his nose, snuffed, and chapter{Section 4could not for the world suppress a hearty laugh at the astonished look of his daughter, then he very pleasantly said: ” My good child, if you are not too weary with being check-mated, give me a cup of tea.” ” Directly,” said Edla, with gladsome readir.’ess. The President stretched himself out very comfortably on the sofa. At a little distance from these, we behold another group near the window. A very handsome young lady is occupied in painting some fresh flowers, which stand before her in a glass. Another lady, not young, and still less handsome, but with a most elaborate toilette, sits next to her embroidering a shepherdess in tapestry.“

bremer

Fredrika Bremer (17 augustus 1801 – 31 december 1865)
Portret door Olaf Johan Södermark

Herta Müller, Ted Hughes, Robert Sabatier, Anton Delvig,Theodor Däubler, Józef Wittlin, Oliver St. John Gogarty, Fredrika Bremer

De Duitse schrijfster Herta Müller werd geboren op 17 augustus 1953 in Nitzkydorf, Roemenië.

Uit: Atemschaukel

„Alles, was ich habe, trage ich bei mir.

Oder: Alles Meinige trage ich mit mir.

Getragen habe ich alles, was ich hatte. Das Meinige war es nicht. Es war entweder zweckentfremdet oder von jemand anderem. Der Schweinslederkoffer war ein Grammophonkistchen. Der Staubmantel war vom Vater. Der städtische Mantel mit dem Samtbündchen am Hals vom Großvater. Die Pumphose von meinem Onkel Edwin. Die ledernen Wickelgamaschen vom Nachbarn, dem Herrn Carp. Die grünen Wollhandschuhe von meiner Fini-Tante. Nur der weinrote Seidenschal und das Necessaire waren das Meinige, Geschenke von den letzten Weihnachten.

Es war noch Krieg im Januar 1945. Im Schrecken, dass ich mitten im Winter wer weiß wohin zu den Russen muss, wollte mir jeder etwas geben, das vielleicht etwas nützt, wenn es schon nichts hilft. Weil nichts auf der Welt etwas half. Weil ich unabänderlich auf der Liste der Russen stand, hat mir jeder etwas gegeben und sich sein Teil dabei gedacht. Und ich habe es genommen und mir gedacht mit meinen siebzehn Jahren, dass dieses Wegfahren zur rechten Zeit kommt. Es müsste nicht die Liste der Russen sein, aber wenn es nicht zu schlimm kommt, ist es für mich sogar gut.

Ich wollte weg aus dem Fingerhut der kleinen Stadt, wo alle Steine Augen hatten. Statt Angst hatte ich diese verheimlichte Ungeduld. Und ein schlechtes Gewissen, weil die Liste, an der meine Angehörigen verzweifelten, für mich ein annehmbarer Zustand war. Sie fürchteten, dass mir etwas zustößt in der Fremde. Ich wollte an einen Ort, der mich nicht kennt.

Mir war bereits etwas zugestoßen. Etwas Verbotenes. Es war absonderlich, dreckig, schamlos und schön. Es passierte im Erlenpark ganz hinten jenseits der Kurzgrashügel. Auf dem Heimweg bin ich in die Parkmitte, in den runden Pavillon gegangen, wo an Feiertagen die Orchester spielten. Ich blieb eine Weile darin sitzen. Das Licht stach durchs feingeschnitzte Holz. Ich sah die Angst der leeren Kreise, Quadrate und Trapeze, verbunden durch weiße Ranken mit Krallen. Es war das Muster meiner Verirrung und das Muster des Entsetzens im Gesicht meiner Mutter. In diesem Pavillon habe ich mir geschworen: Ich komme nie mehr in diesen Park“.

 

 

Mueller
Herta Müller (Nitzkydorf, 17 augustus 1953)

 

 

 

De Engelse dichter en schrijver Ted Hughes werd geboren op 17 augustus 1930 in Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2006. 

 

Spring & Fall: To A Young Child

 

Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leaves, like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By & by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep & know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow’s springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

 

 

 

 

God’s Grandeur

 

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

 

 

 

Hughes
Ted Hughes (17 augustus 1930 – 28 oktober 1998)

 

 

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Robert Sabatier werd geboren op 17 augustus 1923 in Parijs.

  

Uit: Les allumettes suédoises

 

«  A l’orée du Gévaudan, le pays de la «Bête», dans la chaleur de l’été 1944, en fin d’après-midi, un char de foin au dos arrondi gravissait une pente montagnarde. Deux vaches rousses, bonnes pour le trait, avançaient sans hâte conduites par un paysan en bourgeron noir, son chapeau d’Auvergnat bien enfoncé, le rabat cachant le front et les yeux. Précédant l’attelage, il caressait de loin en loin l’échiné des vaches avec le long aiguillon qu’il portait sur l’épaule.
Le grincement des roues, la pesanteur des pas, le frôlement des branches troublaient à peine un paysage d’arbres et de pierres. Quand la forêt apparut plus dense, le chemin plus étroit, l’attelage marqua un temps d’arrêt. Le paysan se moucha dans un large tissu à carreaux. Il fit par deux fois «Ha ! Ha !» pour encourager les vaches à reprendre leur marche. Le chemin devint une simple sente d’où il fallait écarter des roches. Le soleil jetait des éclats lumineux entre les branches des pins.
Le paysan au visage tanné, peut-être moins âgé qu’il n’y paraissait, les traits aigus, le regard noir, avançait d’un pas pesant, égal, donnant une impression d’opiniâtreté, de robustesse. Se dirigeait-il par un raccourci vers la ferme de quelque hameau perdu comme il en est tant dans cette région forestière ? Le char roulait maintenant sur les aiguilles de pin qui crissaient. L’homme sifflota un air de bourrée. Ce qui ressemblait à un écho lui répondit. Lorsque le char atteignit la clairière, le paysan marmonna en patois des mots incompréhensibles. Ils semblaient marquer son étonnement d’être là, puis il dit cette fois en français : «Faut bien le faire !» Il essuya son front et attendit. »

 

 

sabatier
Robert Sabatier (Parijs, 17 augustus 1923)

 

 

 

De Russische dichter Anton Delvig werd geboren op 17 augustus 1798 in Moskou. 

 

Wir

Klägliche wir! Unser Geist:
In Nebeln schwer atmende Fackel.
Boot unseres Lebens: Von Tränen –
Strömen entführt auf ein Meer.
Und unser Glück: Zwischen Trug –
Bilder verstoßen in eine Wüste…
Wie nach der Kerze das Kind,
So greifen wir nach der Liebe.

 

Delvig
Anton Delvig (17 augustus 1798 – 26 januari 1831)

 

 

Zie voor alle bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 17 augustus 2008.

 

 

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Theodor Däubler werd geboren op 17 augustus 1876 in Triëst. Daar, en in Venetië, groeide hij op. Däubler werd tweetalig (Duits en Italiaans) opgevoed. Na zijn eindexamen gymnasium trok hij met zijn ouders naar Wenen. Daarna begon voor hem een leven van voortdurend reizen, o.a. naar Napels, Berlijn, Parijs en Florence. Tijdens WO I woonde hij in Berlijn en in Wenen. Vanaf 1910 verschenen zijn eerste werken die door de dichters van het opkomende expressionisme enthousiast onthaald werden. Dat gold ook voor Das Nordlicht, een groots opgezet versepos in drie delen, waaraan Däubler al in 1898 begonnen was.

 

Das Nordlicht (Fragment)

Prolog

Es sind die Sonnen und Planeten, alle,

Die hehren Lebensspender in der Welt,

Die Liebeslichter in der Tempelhalle

Der Gottheit, die sie aus dem Herzen schwellt.

Nur Liebe sind sie, tief zur Kraft gedichtet,

Ihr Lichtruf ist urmächtig angespannt,

Er ist als Lebensschwall ins All gerichtet,

Was er erreicht, ist an den Tag gebannt!

Ein Liebesband hält die Natur verkettet;

Die Ätherschwelle wie der Feuerstern,

Die ganze Welt, die sich ins Dunkel bettet,

Ersehnt in sich den gleichen Ruhekern.

Durch Sonnenliebe wird die Nacht gelichtet,

Durch Glut und Glück belebt sich der Planet,

Die Starre wird durch einen Brand vernichtet,

Vom Meer ein Liebeswind verweht.

Wo sich die Eigenkraft als Stern entzündet,

Wird Leben auch sofort entflammt,

Und wenn die Welt sich im Geschöpf ergründet,

So weiß das Leid, daß es dem Glück entstammt.

So muß die Erde uns mit Lust gebären,

Und wird auch unser Sein vom Tag geschweißt,

Können doch Sterne uns vom Grund belehren

Und sagen, daß kein Liebesband zerreißt.

Wir sehn das Leben uns die Jugend rauben,

Es ängstigt uns das Alter und der Tod,

Drum wollen wir an einen Anfang glauben

Und schwören auf ein ewiges Urgebot.

 

Daubler

Theodor Däubler (17 augustus 1876 – 13 juni 1934)
Portret door Otto Dix

 

 

De Poolse dichter en schrijver Józef Wittlin werd geborern in Podolien op 17 augustus 1896 in het toenmalige Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Daar bezocht hij het gymnasium. Omdat de tweede vrouw van zijn vader Duitse was leerde hij al vroeg Duits. Hij raakte bevriend met Joseph Roth. Samen gingen zij in 1916 vrijwillig in dienst bij het Oostenrijkse leger. Na zijn diensttijd studeerde Wittlin korte tijd, brak de studie af en werkte vervolgens als leraar, journalist, dramaturg en zelfstandig schrijver. In 1927 verhuisde hij naar Warschau. Hij maakte ook veel reizen door Europa. Bij het uitbreken van WO II was hij in Parijs. Uiteindelijk lukte het hem in 1941 naar New York te onrkomen. Zijn belangrijkste werk is de roman  Das Salz der Erde, het eerste deel van de trilogie Die Geschichte vom geduldigen Infanteristen die onvoltooid bleef.

 

Uit: Die Geschichte vom geduldigen Infanteristen (Vertaald door Izydor Bermann/ Marianne Seeger, Karl Dedecius, Friedrich Griese)

 

“So was, so ein Dummkopf! Das kaiserliche Manifest, das kaiserliche Manifest hat der Kerl verkehrt angebracht!”

Er konnte sich lange nicht beruhigen, schließlich lief er ins Büro, holte neue Plakate und klebte sie selbst an. Und da begannen die im Wartesaal versammelten Leuten die Worte des Manifestes “An meine lieben Völker” laut zu buchstabieren. Zunächst einzeln, je nach der Geläufigkeit im Lesen, dann im Chor, zusammen mit den Analphabeten. Sie wiederholten jedes Wort wie die Litanei in der Kirche. Der Glaube an den Kaiser Franz Joseph vereinigte in diesen entlegenen Ländern die römischen Katholiken mit den griechischen Katholiken, die Armenier und die Juden zu einer gemeinsamen und allgemeinen Kirche. Piotr nahm unwillkürlich den Hut vom Kopf, und mit offenem Munde hörte er die feierliche Klage des Kaisers. Bis hierher schickte der Kaiser seine Klage, bis an die äußerste Grenze seines Reiches, damit ihn gute Menschen, einfache Menschen bemitleiden und sich des Unrechts, das ihm widerfahren war, annahmen. Und seine getreuen Untertanen enttäuschten den Kaiser nicht.“

 

 

Wittlin

Józef Wittlin (17 augustus 1896 – 28 februari 1976)

 

 

 

De Ierse dichter en schrijver Oliver St. John Gogarty 17 augustus 1878 in Dublin. Hij werkte ook als arts, piloot. Ook was hij sportsman en zat hij in het parlement. Bij tijdgenoten was hij zowel geliefd als gehaat. Hij steunde zowel arme mensen als het Ierse verzet en richtte in 1904 een literaire kring op Dunguaire Castle, waaraan ook Lady Gregory, George Bernard Shaw, Edward Martyn, John Millington Synge en William Butler Yeats teilnahmen deelnamen. Bekend is hij vooral ook gebleven als voorbeeld voor de figuur van Buck Mulligan in Ulysses van James Joyce.

 

 

To the pure all things are pure

 

The gallant Irish yoeman

Home from the war has come.

Each victory gained o’er foeman,

Why should our hearts be dumb?

 

How shall we sing their praises

Or glory in their deeds,

Renowned their worth amazes,

Empire their prowess needs.

 

So to Old Ireland’s hearts and homes

We welcome now our own brave hoys

In cot and hall; ‘neath lordly domes

Love’s heroes share once more our joys.

 

Love in the Lord of all just now,

Be he the husband, lover, son,

Each dauntless soul recalls the vow

By which not fame, but love was won.

 

United now in fond embrace

Salute with joy each well loved face.

Yeoman, in women’s hearts you hold the place.

 

 

gogarty
Oliver St. John Gogarty (17 augustus 1878 – 22 september 1957)

 

 

 

De Zweedse schrijfster Fredrika Bremer werd geboren op 17 augustus 1801 in Tuorla bij Piikkiö. Zij stamde uit de hogere burgerij en kon al vroeg lange reizen maken. In Stockholm sloot zij vriendschap met Jeremy Bentham, die haar bekend maakte met het werk van James Mill en van diens zoon John Stuart Mill. Haar sociale engagement leidde in 1884 tot de oprichting van het Fredrika-Bremer-Verbond dat de kiemcel werd van de Zweedse vrouwenbeweging.

 

Uit: Hertha or the Story of a Soul (Vertaald door Mary Howitt)

 

   “I have held my peace so long, I have left unspoken so much that stirs my whole being, Alma! With you alone can I give vent to my feelings. You only can read my heart. I feel as if your glance had a healing power. Lay your hand there; let it rest there for a moment; perhaps it may allay this bitterness, which I now feel towards them who gave us life, against them whom we call our father in Heaven, and our father on earth. Bitterness against one’s father is a frightful feeling! Oh, Alma! when I think that it is our father’s fault that you are lying here heart-broken; that you might have been the happy wife of the man who loved you if our father’s obstinacy and covetousness had not separated you!”

        “Do you speak of it, Hertha!” interrupted Alma, whilst a death-like paleness overspread her countenance; “do not touch upon that subject.”

“Forgive me, beloved! But I know that it is that which is killing you. Ever since then have I seen you fade and waste away, as by some secret malady; your eyes become larger; your cheeks emaciated, and you—oh Alma, sweet Alma! I feel I shall hate him!”

        “Do not hate him. Pity him rather. Believe me, he is not happy. He has not always been as he is now. Ever since our mother’s death, Anna says that his temper has become gloomy and morbid; and our aunt made him more morose than he otherwise would have been.”

        “But he is also unjust and severe! Had he given us our right, then you would not have been as you now are. Why does he withhold from us our mother’s property? Why does he render us no account of what we possess, or of what we ought to have?”

        “We have, in fact, no right to desire it. We are, according to the laws of our country, still minors, and he is our lawful guardian.”

 

 

 

Bremer

Fredrika Bremer (17 augustus 1801 – 31 december 1865)
Portret door Johan Gustaf Sandberg