De Engelse dichter , dramaturg en schrijver Adrian Christopher William Mitchell werd geboren in Hampstead Heath op 24 oktober 1932. Zie ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2009 en ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2010
There are not enough of us
How much verse is magnificent?
Point oh oh oh oh one per cent.
How much poetry is second-rate?
Around point oh oh oh oh eight.
How much verse is a botched hotch potch?
Ninety-eight per cent by my watch.
How much poetry simply bores?
None of mine and all of yours.
There are too many of us
Most poets are bad poets, the poor creatures.
Much worse than that: most teachers are bad teachers.
For mental patients
pull yourself together
that’s what they always say
pull yourself together
throw your cares away
pull yourself together
but if they knew my heart
and how it kicks inside me
pull yourself apart
all together now
Adrian Mitchell (24 oktober 1932 – 20 december 2008)
Uit: Little Boy Lost
“Her eyes flickered from one to the other, and she said briskly, “Well, have you introduced yourselves yet?” Jean, this is the English gentleman I was telling you about, Monsieur Wainwright. Go and shake hands with him at once. I don’t know where your manners are.”
The child came slowly forward, his eyes still fixed on Hilary’s face. He put out his hand, and as Hilary touched its iciness, the intensity that had held them both was broken. The boy dropped his eyes to the ground and Hilary breathed deeply and felt half-dead with weariness.
The Mother Superior seemed to notice nothing. She went on in the same cheerful voice, “Monsieur is going to spend a few days here and then he’s going back to Paris to tell Madame Quilleboeuf all about you.” She added with a note of anxiety, “Jean, you remember Madame Quilleboeuf, don’t you?”
The boy looked apprehensive. Hilary thought, He’s become scared of questions, and an impulse to spare the child made him say quickly, with assurance not interrogation in his voice, “But of course you remember Grandmaman.”
Miraculously the little expression changed. Now he looked at Hilary again, but this time his eyes were full of relief and gratitude as if he had already received what he was asking for. He said, “She had a clock. A bird jumped out and said, ‘Cuckoo’.” The words were tumbling over each other with excitement.
Hilary thought, How queer to hear him talking French, and simultaneously, That must be the clock that the old lady sold. The nun was saying, “I too had a clock like that when I was a little girl in Alsace,” and the boy quickly turned to her the face of another child, a child vivid, eager, interested.
Now the Mother Superior was saying smoothly, “I mustn’t keep you both indoors talking, when I am sure you want to set out on your walk. Come here, Jean,” she said, and helped him into the heavy straight black coat, buttoned it tightly, and pulled the hood up over his head. Then she opened the door and stood quietly waiting beside it until Hilary and Jean had passed her, and then she closed the door behind them and left them together in the hall.
Hilary turned the handle of the front door, but the door wouldn’t open. The boy darted forward and said eagerly, “Let me. I know how to.” He stood on tiptoe to release a high latch then pulled the door open and proudly held it back for Hilary to pass through.“
Marghanita Laski (24 oktober 1915 – 6 februari 1988)
Mein Lied, was kann es Neues euch verkünden? (Fragment)
Mein Lied, was kann es Neues euch verkünden?
Und welche Weisheit, Freunde, fordert ihr?
Der Hohen meine Jugend zu verbünden,
Dies, wie ihr wißt, gelang noch niemals mir.
Noch Neu, noch Alt wußt’ ich je zu ergründen;
Das Schicksal gönn im Alter Weisheit mir.
Wir irren alle, denn wir müssen irren,
Gelassen mag die Zeit den Knäul entwirren.
Der Waldstrom braust im tiefen Felsengrund,
Gar schroffe Klippen führen drüber hin,
Die furchtbar hängen überm finstern Schlund;
Wer strauchelt, dem ist sichrer Tod Gewinn!
Ein Müder wankt an Geist und Gliedern wund
Daher, schaut bang hinab, kalt graust der Sinn:
Am Felsen spielt ein Kind, sorglos bemühet
Ein Blümchen pflückend, das am Abgrund blühet.
Oft mühten sinnreich Dichter sich und Weise,
Das Leben mit dem Leben zu vergleichen.
Am glücklichsten geschah’s im Bild der Reise!
Ein Tor eröffnet Armen sich, wie Reichen;
Früh ausgewandert auf gewohnten Gleise
Sieht er die Dämmrung kaum dem Licht entweichen,
So treibt der Wahn, ihm dürf’s allein gelingen,
Rastlos in nie erreichte Fern’ zu dringen.
Es türmen Felsen sich in seinen Wegen,
Des Mittags Strahlen glühn auf seinem Haupt,
In Wüsten Sands muß sich der Fuß bewegen,
Ein Ungewitter naht, der Sturmwind schnaubt,
Wo kommt ein sichres Dach dem Blick entgegen?
Es seufzt nach Ruh, wem stolzer Mut geraubt;
In später Nacht, nach tausendfält’ger Not
Kömmt er ans Ziel – und dieses ist – der Tod!
Dorothea von Schlegel (24 oktober 1764 – 3 augustus 1839)
Uit: Northwood. A Tale Of new England
„She committed, infaith, the care of her destitute child to her God,and he did provide. The hearts of all who knewthe little orphan were softened to pity; and thelady who finally adopted, and for six years treatedher with all the tenderness of a mother, was a woman capable of performing the duties she had thusvoluntarily assumed. Beneath her forming care,the fair child grew a lovely, intelligent and accomplished young lady, realizing those expectations herdocility and early industry had inspired. There canbe no excellence attained without industry. Themind of the idle, Hke the garden of the slothful, willbe overgrown with briars and weeds; and indolence,under whatever fashionable name it may assume,sensibility or nervous affections, delicacy or dyspepsia, is a more dangerous enemy to the practice ofvirtue, and to moral and intellectual improvement,than even dissipation or luxury. Those who treada devious path, may possibly retrace their steps, orby a circuitous route finally reach the goal; butthose who never stir, how can they win the race!
It is a good thing to have habits of industry form-ed early, and to be able to connect our first exertions
with the happiness or benefit they imparted to thosewe loved. This Susan could do, and the pleasure
it gave ‘her made employment, ever after, a privilege instead of a burden; and when she was released
from the necessity of labor, she was still ready toreceive every order, and attentive to fulfil every
wish of her benefactress.“
Sarah Josepha Hale (24 oktober 1788 – 30 april 1879)
Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 24 oktober 2010.
De Canadese schrijver, politiek activist, essayist en filmmaker Hubert Aquin werd geboren 24 oktober 1929, in Montreal, Quebec.