Paul Bowles, Theodor Fontane, Peter Lund, Joshua Clover, Norbert Hummelt

De Amerikaanse schrijver, dichter en componist Paul Bowles werd geboren in New York op 30 december 1910. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 december 2006 en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2007en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2009.

Uit: The Stories of Paul Bowles

“No,” the musician answered, and he played several more notes.

Amar went over to the door.

“Is there still time?” he said.

“Yes.”

He stepped inside the door. There was no light, but he could feel warm air blowing upon his face from the corridor to the right. He walked ahead, letting his hand run along the damp wall beside him. Soon he came into a large dimly lit room with a tile floor. Here and there, at various angles, figures lay asleep, wrapped in gray blankets. In a far corner a group of men, partially dressed, sat about a burning brazier, drinking tea and talking in low tones. Amar slowly approached them, taking care not to step on the sleepers.

The air was oppressively warm and moist.

“Where is the bath?” said Amar.

“Down there,” answered one of the men in the group, without even looking up. He indicated the dark corner to his left. And, indeed, now that Amar considered it, it seemed to him that a warm current of air came up from that part of the room. He went in the direction of the dark corner, undressed, and leaving his clothes in a neat pile on a piece of straw matting, walked toward the warmth. He was thinking of the misfortune he had encountered in arriving in this town at nightfall, and he wondered if his clothes would be molested during his absence. He wore his money in a leather pouch which hung on a string about his neck. Feeling vaguely for the purse under his chin, he turned around to look once again at his clothing. No one seemed to have noticed him as he undressed. He went on. It would not do to seem too distrustful. He would be embroiled immediately in a quarrel which could end badly for him.

A little boy rushed out of the darkness toward him, calling: “Follow me, Sidi, I shall lead you to the bath.” He was extremely dirty and ragged, and looked rather more like a midget than a child. Leading the way, he chattered as they went down the slippery, warm steps in the dark. “You will call for Brahim when you want your tea? You’re a stranger. You have much money….”

Amar cut him short. “You’ll get your coins when you come to wake me in the morning. Not tonight.”

“But, Sidi! I’m not allowed in the big room. I stay in the doorway and show gentlemen down to the bath. Then I go back to the doorway. I can’t wake you.”

“I’ll sleep near the doorway. It’s warmer there, in any case.”

“Lazrag will be angry and terrible things will happen. I’ll never get home again, or if I do I might be a bird so my parents will not know me. That’s what Lazrag does when he gets angry.”

“Lazrag?”

“It is his place here. You’ll see him. He never goes out. If he did the sun would burn him in one second, like a straw in the fire. He would fall down in…”

 

Paul Bowles (30 december 1910 – 18 november 1999)

 

 

Continue reading “Paul Bowles, Theodor Fontane, Peter Lund, Joshua Clover, Norbert Hummelt”

Douglas Coupland, Rudyard Kipling, Georg von der Vring,Willy Spillebeen

De Canadese schrijver Douglas Coupland werd geboren op 30 december 1961 in een militaire kazerne in Rheinmünster-Söllingen in Duitsland. Zie en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2009.

 

Uit: JPod

 

“Oh God. I feel like a refugee from a Douglas Coupland novel.”
“That asshole.”
“Who does he think he is?”
“Come on, guys, focus. We’ve got a major problem on our hands.”
The six of us were silent, but for our footsteps. The main corridor’s muted plasma TVs blipped out the news and sports, while ­co-­workers in ­long-­sleeved blue and black ­T-­shirts ­oompah-­loompahed in and out of ­laminate-­access doors, elevated walkways, staircases and elevators, their missions inscrutable and squirrelly. It was a rare sunny day. Freakishly articulated sunbeams highlighted specks of mica in the hallway’s designer granite. They looked like randomized particle ­events.
Mark said, “I can’t even think about what just happened in there.”
John Doe said, “I’d like to do whatever it is people statistically do when confronted by a jolt of large and bad news.”
I suggested he ingest five milligrams of Valium and three shots of hard liquor or four glasses of domestic ­wine.
“Really?”
“Don’t ask me, John. Google it.”
“And so I shall.”
Cowboy had a jones for cough syrup, while Bree fished through one of her many pink vinyl Japanese handbags for lip gloss – phase one of her ­well-­established pattern of pursuing sexual conquest to silence her inner ­pain.
The only quiet member of our group of six was Kaitlin, new to our work area as of the day before. She was walking with us mostly because she didn’t yet know how to get from the meeting room to our cubicles. We’re not sure if Kaitlin is boring or if she’s resistant to bonding, but then again none of us have really cranked up our ­charm.“
 

 


Douglas Coupland (
Rheinmünster-Söllingen, 30 december  1961)

Douglas Coupland in 1992

 

Continue reading “Douglas Coupland, Rudyard Kipling, Georg von der Vring,Willy Spillebeen”

Daniil Charms, Heinrich Hart, Betty Paoli, Maurice Bedel

De Russische dichter en schrijver Daniil Charms (pseudoniem van Daniil Ivanovitsj Joevatsjov) werd geboren in  Sint-Petersburg op 30 december 1905. Zie ook mijn blog van 30 december 2007  en en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2008 en ook mijn blog van 30 december 2009.

 

A Romance 

 

He looks at me with a madman’s eyes –

It’s your house and porch I know so well.

He gives me a kiss with his crimson lips –

Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

 

He brought me a bouquet of crimson carnations –

It’s your austere face I know so well.

He asked in return for a single kiss –

Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

 

He touched me with his finger bearing a dark ring –

It is your dark ring I know so well.

Together we tumbled down on a Turkish divan –

Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

 

He looks at me with a madman’s eyes –

Dwindle away, o you stars, and fade, o you moon!

He gives me a kiss with his crimson lips –

Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

 

 

A Song 

 

We shall close our eyes,

O people! O people!

We shall open our eyes,

O warriors! O warriors!

 

Lift us up above the sea,

O angels! O angels!

Drown the enemy under the sea,

O demons! O demons!

 

We have closed our eyes,

O people! O people!

We have opened our eyes,

O warriors! O warriors!

 

Give us strength to fly over the sea,

O birds! O birds!

Give us courage to die under the sea,

O fish! O fish!

 


Daniil Charms (30 december 1905 – 2 februari 1942)

 

 

Continue reading “Daniil Charms, Heinrich Hart, Betty Paoli, Maurice Bedel”