Richard Preston, Sergio Ramírez, Conrad Aiken, Gunter Haug

De Amerikaanse schrijver Richard Preston werd geboren op 5 augustus 1954 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010.

 

Uit: The Wild Trees

 

“Steve Sillett had feathery light-brown hair, which hung out from under a sky-blue bandanna that he wore tied around his head like a cap. He had flaring shoulders, and his eyes were dark brown and watchful, and were set deep in a square face. The Sillett brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the birds. Their bodies were outlined against decks of autumn rollers coming in, giving off a continual roar. Scott handed the binoculars to his younger brother, and their hands touched for an instant. The Sillett brothers’ hands had the same appearance-fine and sensitive-looking, with deft movements.

Scott turned to Marwood: “Marty, I think your car should be called the Blue Vinyl Crypt. That’s what it will turn into if we fall off a cliff or get swiped by a logging truck.”

“Dude, you’re going to get us into a crash that will be biblical in its horror,” Steve said to Marwood. “You need to let Scott drive.” (Steve didn’t know how to drive a car.)

Marwood didn’t want Scott’s help with the driving. “It’s a very idiosyncratic car,” he explained to the Sillett brothers. In theory, he fixed his car himself. In practice, he worried about it. Lately he had noticed that the engine had begun to give off a clattering sound, like a sewing machine. He had also become aware of an ominous smell coming from under the hood, something that resembled the smell of an empty iron skillet left forgotten on a hot stove. As Marwood contemplated these phenomena and pondered their significance, he wondered if his car needed an oil change. He was pretty sure that the oil had been changed about two years ago, in Alaska, around the time the license plates had expired. The car had been driven twenty thousand miles since then, unregistered, uninsured, and unmaintained, strictly off the legal and mechanical grids. “I’m worried you’ll screw it up,” he said to Scott.

Steve handed the binoculars to his brother and climbed into the back of the Blue Vinyl Crypt. “Dudes, let’s go,” he said. “We need to see some tall redwoods.”

 

 

 

Richard Preston (Cambridge, 5 augustus 1954)

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Wendell Berry, Guy de Maupassant, Ron Silliman, Christian Wagner

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver, essayist en criticus Wendell Berry werd geboren op 5 augustus 1934 in Henry County, Kentucky. Zie ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2009 en ook mijn blog van 5 augustus 2010.

 

  

In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. Williams

 

I.

 

The poem is important, but

not more than the people

whose survival it serves,

 

one of the necessities, so they may

speak what is true, and have

the patience for beauty: the weighted

 

grainfield, the shady street,

the well-laid stone and the changing tree

whose branches spread above.

 

For want of songs and stories

they have dug away the soil,

paved over what is left,

 

set up their perfunctory walls

in tribute to no god,

for the love of no man or woman,

 

so that the good that was here

cannot be called back

except by long waiting, by great

 

sorrows remembered and to come

by invoking the thunderstones

of the world, and the vivid air.

 

II.

 

The poem is important,

as the want of it

proves. It is the stewardship

 

of its own possibility,

the past remembering itself

in the presence of

 

the present, the power learned

and handed down to see

what is present

 

and what is not: the pavement

laid down and walked over

regardlessly–by exiles, here

 

only because they are passing.

Oh, remember the oaks that were

here, the leaves, purple and brown,

 

falling, the nuthatches walking

headfirst down the trunks,

crying “onc! onc!” in the brightness

 

as they are doing now

in the cemetery across the street

where the past and the dead

 

keep each other. To remember,

to hear and remember, is to stop

and walk on again

 

to a livelier, surer measure.

It is dangerous

to remember the past only

 

for its own sake, dangerous

to deliver a message

you did not get.

 

 



Wendell Berry (Henry County, 5 augustus 1934)

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