Bruce Chatwin, Daphne du Maurier, Kathleen Jamie, Armistead Maupin, Gregor von Rezzori

 

De Engelse schrijver Bruce Chatwin werd op 13 mei 1940 in Sheffield geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2010.

 

Uit: On The Black Hill

 

„Every morning their alarm went off at six.  They listened to the farmers’ broadcast as they shaved and dressed.  Down-stairs, they tapped the barometer, lit the fire and boiled a kettle for tea.  Then they did the milking and foddering before coming back for breakfast.

 

All the birds were silent in the sillness that precedes a storm. Thistledown floated upwards, and a shriek tore out across the valley. The labour pains had begun…

 

The oarsman was a boy in a red-striped blazer; and in the stern, half-hidden under a white parasol, sat a girl in a lilac dress.  Her fair hair hung in thick tresses, and she trailed her fingers through the lapping green wavelets.

 

She was a good woman who hoped the world was not as bad as everyone said.  She had a bad heart brought on by poverty and overwork…

…She never forgot an insult and she never forgot a kindness.  She felt crushed and ashamed — ashamed of her boys and ashamed of being ashamed of them.

 

The Reverend Thomas Tuke was a classical scholar of private means…

…He knew the whole of Homer by heart: each morning, between a cold bath and breakfast, he would compose a few hexameters of his own…

…Most of the women were in love with him — or transported by the timbre of his voice.“

 

 

 


Bruce Chatwin (13 mei 1940 – 18 januari 1989)

 

 

 

De Britse schrijfster Daphne du Maurier werd geboren in Londen op 13 mei 1907. Zie ookmijn blog van 13 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Call of the Jaguar

 

“In the distance, the jungle resumed, green and dense, and beyond that, a reddish-colored mountain floated above the treetops.
“Is that El Castillo?” Alex asked.
“Yes, that’s my mountain.” Her heart lifted at the sight. At least that hadn’t changed. The plane’s shadow flitted over the green jungle below as they neared the peak. “Look,” Rachel said. “There’s a landing strip.”
Alex flew lower, tilting the wings as he circled the strip of rough red dirt slashed out of the jungle. “I don’t see any ruins.”
Rachel peered across him, looking out his side window, searching for any sign of the archaeological site. Alex wheeled the plane again and they spiraled lower. As they neared the landing strip, several men stepped out of the jungle. They were dressed in camouflage fatigues and gripped automatic rifles in their hands.
Alex stiffened and gripped the yoke nervously. “Uh-oh. Was your professor expecting us?”
Oh crap, she
had
told him she had an urgent message for Dr. Kerby, hadn’t she? “I doubt it,” she said. “I couldn’t call—no phone, no fax. No electricity.”
The men on the ground raised their rifles to their shoulders. Alex jerked back the yoke. “Shit!”
Shots rang out around them as the plane climbed suddenly and steeply, leaving Rachel’s stomach somewhere near her feet. She ducked her head beneath the window. Bullets pinged off the exterior of the plane.
“Goddamn it!” Alex shouted toward his side window. “Can’t they see we’re civilians? The pinging of bullets stopped and Alex leveled off. Rachel pulled herself together, sat up straight, and chanced a look out the window. “We made it.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “We’re out of range.”

 

 

Daphne du Maurier (13 mei 1907 – 19 april 1989)

 

 

 

 

De Schotse dichteres Kathleen Jamie werd geboren op 13 mei 1962 in Currie, Edinburgh. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2010.

 

 

Merry Jesters

 

Beneath not a forest
canopy, but calm
domestic skies,
grow myriad greens,
a fan of jagged black.

 

Here every leaf
must have its day: each
heart-shape or spear’s
equal to every other –
for this is a jungle

 

republic, where naturalised
exotics flower
angelically bright,
and a placid bird presides.
But she whose wings

 

drape her like a vestment
merely observes
as half-a-dozen denizens
of the deeply municipal
conduct some ritual

 

or prank – which we
have interrupted, so the animals
(bar the sad excluded one)
are regarding us. But what
have we intruded upon?

 

What requires the red
funnel, the pallid stick,
the so-suburban milk bottle
stolen, one suspects,
from a polished step?

 

We can enquire, but not
one of them, not the bear,
or the frond-
obscured fugitive
by the bear’s head,

 

the dog-faced monkeys,
or even that wise bird
will spill the beans,
and frankly, there’s no good
reason why they should.

 

 

 


Kathleen Jamie (Currie, 13 mei 1962)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Armistead Jones Maupin Jr. werd geboren op 13 mei 1944 in Washington. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2007 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2008 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2009 en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Tales of the City

 

„”Well, then why …

“I’m not coming home, Mom.”

Silence. Then, dimly in the distance, a television voice began to tell Mary Ann’s father about the temporary relief of hemorrhoids. Finally, her mother spoke: “Don’t be silly, darling.”

“Mom . . . I’m not being silly. I like it here. It feels like home already.”

“Mary Ann, if there’s a boy

“There’s no boy…. I’ve thought about this for a long time.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been there five days!”

“Mom, I know how you feel, but . . . well, it’s got nothing to do with you and Daddy. I just want to start making my own life . . . have my own apartment and all.”

“Oh, that. Well, darling . . . of course you can. As a matter of fact, your daddy and I thought those new apartments out at Ridgemont might be just perfect for you. They take lots of young people, and they’ve got a swimming pool and a sauna, and I could make some of those darling curtains like I made for Sonny and Vicki when they got married. You could have all the privacy you . . .”

“You aren’t listening, Mom. I’m trying to tell you I’m a grown woman.”

“Well, act like it, then! You can’t just . . . run away from your family and friends to go live with a bunch of hippies and mass murderers!”

“You’ve been watching too much TV.”

“O.K. . . . then what about The Horoscope?”

“What?”

“The Horoscope. That crazy man. The killer.”

“Mom . . . The Zodiac.”

 

 

 

Armistead Maupin ( Washington, 13 mei 1944)

Hier (r) met zijn partner Christopher Turner 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver en acteur Gregor von Rezzoriwerd geboren op 13 mei 1914 in Czernowitz. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2009en ook mijn blog van 13 mei 2010.

 

Uit: Denkwürdigkeiten eines Antisemiten

 

„Die Ansicht hatte sich bald allseits zur Unbestreitbarkeit gefestigt. Es war so: mein unausweichlicher Bestimmungsort war früher oder später ein Gefängnis. Ich selbst blieb darüber kaum noch im Zweifel.
Zu den trivialen Lebensweisheiten, die meine Generation der »Frommen Helene« Wilhelm Buschs verdankt, gehört der Spruch: »Ist der Ruf erst ruiniert, lebt es sich recht ungeniert.« Aber auch diese optimistische Behauptung entspricht eher dem Wunschdenken als einer praktischen Erfahrung. Ich für mein Teil würde sicherlich, hätte man mich zu jener Zeit nach meinem Gemütszustand gefragt, tief aufseufzend erwidert haben: »Skutschno!«. Denn obwohl es an gelegentlichen rebellischen Aufwallungen bei mir nicht fehlte, schleppte ich mich, oder vielmehr: ließ ich mich im Schneckengang der Tage lustlos durch mein ödes Dasein schleppen, niemals ledig der Bürde eines Schuldgefühls, das nicht aus den Motiven kommen wollte, die man ihm zu unterschieben versuchte, obwohl die eigentlichen Gründe nicht weit davon entfernt lagen. Hätte ich die feine und komplexe Unterscheidung erklären können, so wäre manches gut geworden. Aber eben dazu war ich nicht imstande.
Mein Bild von damals sehe ich vor mir wie auf einem Schnappschuß aus einer jener feinmechanisch schräubchen- und hebelreichen Kameras, deren glotzäugige Linsen und faltige, von nickelblitzenden Scherengestellen wie Harmonikas ausziehbare Bälge aus schwarzem Leder vom selben, der Pferdekutschenwelt noch nahen Epochengeist gebildet waren wie die klar winkeligen, hochrädrigen Autos jener Tage, die meine Knabenphantasie bis zur Leidenschaft erregten.“

 

 

 


Gregor von Rezzori (13 mei 1914 – 23 april 1998)



Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 13e mei ook
mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn eerste blog van vandaag.