Hafid Aggoune, Rense Sinkgraven, William Gibson, Siegfried Lenz, Urmuz

 

De Franse schrijver Hafid Aggoune werd geboren op 17 maart 1973 in Saint-Etienne. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 17 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Premières heures au paradis 

 

„Je n’ai jamais été un enfant.

Dès la naissance, mon enfance s’est envolée ailleurs, à jamais éloignée de sa part sublime, orpheline.

Le temps a filé.

Longtemps, la vie m’a échappé. Elle me dépassait constamment. J’avais beau courir, m’interroger, me lancer dans toutes sortes de tentatives, je ne parvenais pas à la rejoindre à temps.

Toutes ces années, j’ai grandi seul, perdu au fond de moi-même, dans une tristesse silencieuse, prisonnier des rêves.

Lorsque l’amour a pris ton visage, l’illusion a duré un temps : cinq années de joies pures.

Je ne sais pas pourquoi certains hommes partent quand le plus beau arrive, mais je sais que le pire est de partir quand on aime l’autre plus que tout au monde, sans rien pouvoir éviter.

Souvent, je pense à ce que je n’ai pas su te dire, toutes ces choses de moi que je n’ai pas pu te donner. Maintenant, elles sont là, paroles jusque-là étouffées par le malheur. Apparues, elles demeurent présentes à la surface de cette personne qu’il me semble avoir trouvée aujourd’hui : Théophile Cannan. On dit qu’être acteur c’est n’être personne.

Notre histoire était aussi parfaite que cette journée particulière où je te quittai, et comme tu l’apprendras ici, en quelques mois ma vie a changé à un point que personne ne peut imaginer.

Ce beau jour de mai, j’ai ouvert la porte et je suis parti sous un ciel bleu. Les ténèbres envahissaient mon crâne. Des jours de silence ont suivi, un long purgatoire vers l’oubli, l’attente d’une délivrance définitive. Je ne savais pas si tu allais me comprendre, m’attendre, garder précieusement ce qui commençait de naître en toi.“

 

 


Hafid Aggoune (
Saint-Etienne, 17 maart 1973)

 

 

Continue reading “Hafid Aggoune, Rense Sinkgraven, William Gibson, Siegfried Lenz, Urmuz”

Patrick Hamilton, Hans Wollschläger, Jean Ingelow, Karl Gutzkow, Ebenezer Elliott, Paul Green

 

De Engelse schrijver Patrick Hamilton werd geboren op 17 maart 1904 in Hassocks, Sussex. Zie ook mijn blog van 17 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 17 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 17 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Hangover Square

 

„They used to rag him until it at last became an accepted thing. “Old Bone” was said to be in one of his “dotty” moods. Mr. Thorne used to be sarcastic. “Or is this one of your-ah-delightfully convenient periods of amnesia, my dear Bone?” But even Mr. Thorne came to accept it. “Extra ordinary boy,” he once heard Mr. Thorne say (not knowing that he was overheard), “I really believe it’s perfectly genuine.” And often, instead of making him look a fool in front of the class, he would stop, give him a curious, sympathetic look, and, telling him to sit down, would without any ironic comment ask the next boy to do what he had failed to do.

“Dead” moods-yes, all his life he had had “dead” moods, but in those days he had slowly slipped into and out of them-they had not been so frequent, so sudden, so dead, so completely dividing him from his other life. They did not arrive with this extraordinary “snap”-that had only been happening in the last year or so. At first he had been somewhat disturbed about it; had thought at moments of consulting a doctor even. But he had never done so, and now he knew he never would. He was well enough; the thing did not seriously inconvenience him; and there were too many other things to worry about-my God, there were too many other things to worry about!

And now he was walking along the cliff at Hunstanton, on Christmas afternoon, and the thing had happened again. He had had Christmas dinner with his aunt, and he had gone out, as he had told her, to “walk it off.” He wore a light raincoat. He was thirty-four, and had a tall, strong, beefy, ungainly figure. He had a fresh, red complexion and a small moustache. His eyes were big and blue and sad and slightly bloodshot with beer and smoke. He looked as though he had been to an inferior public school and would be pleased to sell you a second-hand car. Just as certain people look unmistakably “horsey,” bear the stamp of Newmarket, he bore the stamp of Great Portland Street. He made you think of road houses, and there are thousands of his sort frequenting the saloon bars of public-houses all over England. His full mouth was weak, however, rather than cruel. His name was George Harvey Bone.“

 

 

 

Patrick Hamilton (17 maart 1904 – 23 september 1962)

 

 

Continue reading “Patrick Hamilton, Hans Wollschläger, Jean Ingelow, Karl Gutzkow, Ebenezer Elliott, Paul Green”