Colin Clark

De Britse schrijver en filmmaker Colin Clark werd geboren op 9 oktober 1932 in Londen als zoon van de kunsthistoricus Lord Clark of Saltwood en als jongere broer van de conservatieve politicus en militair historicus Alan Clark. Hij werd opgeleid op Eton College en Christ Church in Oxford. Van 1951-1953 diende hij als piloot – officier bij de Royal Air Force.Colin Clark’s eerste baan na het verlaten van de universiteit was als assistent-regisseur van de film De Prins en de Showgirl (1957), geregisseerd door Laurence Olivier en met Olivier en Marilyn Monroe in de hoofdrol, een ervaring die Clark later omzette in twee boeken, een een aantal dagboeken, (waarvan een tv-documentaire werd gemaakt in 2004) en ander autobiografisch werk. Clark’s beschrijving van zijn tijd met Monroe is de basis van defilm My Week met Marilyn uit 2011.

Uit: My Week With Marilyn


 Though Marilyn never arrived at the studio on time, Olivier was always there at seven o’clock sharp. Just before lunch, to everyone’s surprise, Marilyn did show up, but by four o’clock that afternoon she was even more distressed than usual. Olivier decided to call it a day and when I went to his dressing room he was angrily discussing with Milton Greene why Marilyn was so upset.

‘Colin,’ said Olivier, ‘go across to Miss Monroe’s suite and ask her very politely whether she intends to come to work tomorrow.’


‘Colin,’ Marilyn’s voice was no more than a whisper, ‘what is your job on the picture?’

‘I’m what they call a “gofer”. Anyone can boss me around.’

‘Are you a spy for Sir Laurence? I always see you round him.’

‘I’m not a spy but it’s my job to report anything that will help his movie get made. He’s sent me to see if you are coming to work tomorrow.’

‘Mr Miller is flying to Paris tomorrow so I’ll stay home to see him.’

‘Of course, Miss Monroe.’

There was a long pause.

‘Colin, whose side are you on?’

‘Oh, yours, Miss Monroe. I promise you I’m on your side and always will be.’

Colin Clark (9 oktober 1932-17 december 2002)


Tadeusz Różewicz, Herman Brusselmans, Victor Klemperer, Marína Tsvetájeva

De Poolse dichter en schrijver Tadeusz Różewicz werd geboren in Radomsko op 9 oktober 1921. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2008 en ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2010


Death will not correct
a single line of verse
she is no proof-reader
she is no sympathetic
lady editor

a bad metaphor is immortal

a shoddy poet who has died
is a shoddy dead poet

a bore bores after death
a fool keeps up his foolish chatter
from beyond the grave


The Return

Suddenly the window will open
and Mother will call
it’s time to come in

the wall will part
I will enter heaven in muddy shoes

I will come to the table
and answer questions rudely

I am all right leave me
alone. Head in hand I
sit and sit. How can I tell them
about that long
and tangled way.

Here in heaven mothers
knit green scarves

flies buzz

Father dozes by the stove
after six days’ labour.

No–surely I can’t tell them
that people are at each
other’s throats.


Vertaald door Adam Czerniawski


Tadeusz Różewicz
(Radomsko, 9 oktober 1921)


Doorgaan met het lezen van “Tadeusz Różewicz, Herman Brusselmans, Victor Klemperer, Marína Tsvetájeva”

Mário de Andrade, Jens Bjørneboe, Léopold Senghor

De Braziliaanse dichter en schrijver Mário de Andradewerd op 9 oktober 1893 in São Paulo in Brazilië geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Mário de Andradeop dit blog.



At least, we are no longer friends.
You walk easily, lightly,
In the labyrinth of complications.
What subtlety! what dancing grace!…
It is true that there always remains
Some dust from your wings
On the branches, on the thorns,
Even on the blossoms of that wood…
And I also noticed several times
That your wings are ragged at the edges…
But the essential thing, the important thing,
Is that despite the raggedness you can still fly.

I am not like that.
I am heavy, I am rather clumsy,
I have no wings and not much breeding.
I need a broad and straight road.
If I lack space, I break everything,
I get hurt, I get tired… I finally fall.

In the middle of the wood I stop, unable to go on.
I cannot stand it any longer.

You… you may still call me a friend…
Although you lose a bit of your wing,
You sit on my thorn bush and can still fly.
Yet I, I suffer it is true,
But I am no longer your friend.
You are friend of the sea, you are friend of the river…


Vertaald door John Nist en Yolanda Leite

Mário de Andrade (9 oktober 1893 – 25 februari 1945)

Borstbeeld door Bruno Giorgi in Sao Paulo

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Mário de Andrade, Jens Bjørneboe, Léopold Senghor”

Ivo Andrić, Johannes Theodor Baargeld, Christian Reuter, Holger Drachmann

De Servisch-Kroatische schrijver Ivo Andrić werd geboren op 9 oktober 1892 in het dorpje Dolac in de buurt van Travnik, Bosnië. Zie voor onderstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2006 en ook mijn blog van 9 oktober 2010


Uit: The Pasha’s Concubine (Vertaald door Joseph Hitrec e.a.)

„In the forenoon of the second day, as he was returning from the drill field, the Pasha and his escort found themselves in the bazaar. They rode cautiously over the thawing ice. It was a market day, and in front of the Garić Bakery their way was blocked by some peasants’ horses laden with wood. While the flustered farmers began to hop and skip around the stubborn horses, the Pasha cast a glance into the bakery. Next to the closed brick oven stood the old baker Ali, stoop-shouldered, with rheumy, wizened eyes out of which tears kept oozing on his great white mustache. At the wide-open shopwindow, among the bread loaves and pans of meat and pies, was his daughter Mara. On her knees and propped on the counter with one arm, she had stretched the other for a platter on a shelf underneath. When she heard the shouts of the soldiers and the stamping of the peasants’ horses, she lifted her head, and the Pasha, seeing her wrapped like this around the counter, fell in love with her round, childish face and her merry eyes.

When he rode that way again in the afternoon, the bakery was deserted, the window half-shuttered, and on the sill was a purring cat with signed white hair.

He gave orders that the girl be found and brought to him. The noncommissioned officers and town constables ran eagerly to carry them out. He stayed over till noon of the third day, when they reported that the matter could be arranged. The girl had no one except her father. Her mother had been well-known Jelka, named Hafizadić after the old Mustaybey Hafizadić, who had kept her for several years and then married her off to this Garić, a quiet and simple-minded young man, to whom he had also given money to open the bakery.

The Pasha left some money and entrusted the matter to his old acquaintance Teskeredžić. And toward the end of March, on another market day, they brought the girl to him at Sarajevo.

The Pasha had not been wring in his judgment. She was the kind of woman he had always sought and particularly esteemed, the only kind that still attracted him. She was not quite sixteen. She had big eyes of a dovelike shade and muted porcelain luster, which moved languidly. Her hair was quite fair, heavy, and thick, such as was seldom seen on women in this region. Both her face and her arms were covered with a fine, light down that was noticeable only in sunlight.“


Ivo Andrić (9 oktober 1892 – 13 maart 1975)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Ivo Andrić, Johannes Theodor Baargeld, Christian Reuter, Holger Drachmann”