Stewart O’Nan, Louis Ferron, Robert Coover, Werner Schwab, E. J. Pratt, Norman Ohler

De Amerikaanse schrijver Stewart O’Nan werd geboren op 4 februari 1961 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2010.

 

Uit: The speed queen

 

“I love you,” he said, still gasping. He didn’t even say my name.

And what was I supposed to say? That I felt sick, that I wished I hadn’t let him?

I said it back.

“Are you okay?” he said.

I knew there would be blood but not so much. I wiped my thighs with the blanket and folded it over.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I just need to clean up.”

“I’ve got Kleenex,” he said, and reached through the back window of the cab and handed me the box. He knelt there staring at me.

“Watch the movie,” I said.

I stuffed some up there, but I still felt sick, so I put on my top and my old underwear and my shorts and found my clogs. Monty wouldn’t leave me alone. “I’m okay,” I kept telling him. “I just need to use the bathroom.” He wanted to come with me, but I finally shouted at him, and he let me go.

I jumped down from the tailgate and almost fell. My legs were shaky and my stomach was churning like a washing machine. Everything down there stung. I stumbled over the dusty mounds toward the red flourescents outlining the snack bar. It was circular and shaped like a witches hat, the projector in the top part. You could see the movie scissoring through the air. We were in the back, like a mile away. The last hundred feet were deserted. A green light burned on each unused speaker like an eye. Halfway there, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I stopped and leaned against a speaker pole and heaved up everything I’d eaten–the Champale and the mustard fries, the nachos and the Dots–all of it splashing hot over my Dr. Scholl’s. I spit to clean my mouth and kicked dust over everything and went on.

My thighs were sticky, and getting sick made me cry, so my face was a mess. I knew the bathrooms were by the front, so I walked around the outside and slipped in, hoping no one would see me.“

 

 

Stewart O’Nan (Pittsburgh,  4 februari 1961)

 

 

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Stewart O’Nan, Louis Ferron, Robert Coover, Werner Schwab, E. J. Pratt, Norman Ohler”

Grigore Vieru, Georg Brandes, Alfred Andersch, Jacques Prévert, Jean Richepin, Carl Michael Bellman

De Moldavische dichter en schrijver Grigore Vieru werd geboren in Pereita op 4 februari 1935. Zie ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 4 februari 2010.

 

When

 

When I die

bury me

in the light of your eyes.

The people

coming to my grave

will always bend their knees

in front of you.

Lest anyone

Should stamp their feet on my tomb,

Lest I should be laid, like my ancestors,

under grass and ground–

bury me in the light

of your eyes,

my last woman,

my first woman.

 

 

My dear one

 

What is falling – unperceived –

From the branches

Are our leaves.

What about the apple?

The golden apple?

 

What is sounding – far away –

In a song

Are our words.

What about that song?

And its celebrations?

 

What is running – clearly –

To the sea

Are our water springs.

What about the sea?

And its free wideness?

 

Whose is the sky?

And its silence?

When the stars are falling

They are our stars

In deep sorrow falling.

 

Broken is lying the looking-glass

Of the days when

– amazed – I discovered

Your peerless face,

The Love.

 

It’s your eyes and my eyes

That are in sorrow closed

Towards silence now.

Silence

Falling down on silence one can only hear.

My dear one!

 

 

Vertaald door Camelia en Constantin Manea 

 


Grigore Vieru (4 februari 1935 – 18 januari 2009)

Portret door Igor Vieru

 

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Grigore Vieru, Georg Brandes, Alfred Andersch, Jacques Prévert, Jean Richepin, Carl Michael Bellman”