Cees Nooteboom, Grand Corps Malade, Joanne Rowling, Primo Levi

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Cees Nooteboom werd geboren in Den Haag op 31 juli 1933. Zie ook alle tags voor Cees Nooteboom op dit blog.

 

Uit: Roads to Santiago (Vertaald door Ina Rilke)

 

„Spain is brutish, anarchic, egocentric, cruel. Spain is prepared to face disaster on a whim, she is chaotic, dreamy, irrational. Spain conquered the world and then did not know what to do with it, she harks back to her Medieval, Arab, Jewish and Christian past and sits there impassively like a continent that is appended to Europe and yet is not Europe, with her obdurate towns studding those limitless empty landscapes. Those who know only the beaten track do not know Spain. Those who have not roamed the labyrinthine complexity of her history do not know what they are travelling through. It is the love of a lifetime, the amazement is never-ending.

From the ship’s rail I watch the dusk settle over the island where I have spent the summer. The approaching night steals into the hills, everything darkens; one by one the tall neon street-lamps come on to illuminate the quay with that dead white glow which is as much a part of the Mediterranean night as the moon. Arrival and departure. For years now I have been crossing to and fro between the Spanish mainland and the islands. The white ships are somewhat bigger than they used to be, but the ritual is unchanged. The quay full of white-uniformed sailors, kinsfolk and lovers come to wave goodbye, the deck crowded with departing holiday-makers, soldiers, children, grandmothers. The gangplank has already been raised, the ship’s whistle will give one final farewell that will resound across the harbour and the city will echo the sound: the same, but weaker. Between the high deck and the quay below a last tenuous link, rolls of toilet paper. The beginnings flutter on the quay; up at the rail, the rolls will unwind slowly as the ship moves away, until the final, most fragile link with those staying behind is broken and the diaphanous paper garlands drown in the black water.

There is still some shouting, cries wafting back, but it is already impossible to tell who is calling out and what their messages signify. We sail out through the long narrow harbour, past the lighthouse and the last buoy — and then the island becomes a dusky shadow within the shadow that is night itself. There is no going back now, we belong to the ship. Guitars and clapping on the afterdeck, people are singing, drinking, the deck passengers are settling down for a long night in their steamer chairs, the dinner bell rings, white-jacketed waiters cross and recross the antique dining room under the earnest regard of the king of Spain.“

 

 

Cees Nooteboom (Den Haag, 31 juli 1933)

Santiago de Compostella

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Cees Nooteboom, Grand Corps Malade, Joanne Rowling, Primo Levi”

In Memoriam Maeve Binchy

 

In Memoriam Maeve Binchy

 

 

De Ierse schrijfster en columniste Meave Binchy is gisteren op 72-jarige leeftijd overleden.Maeve Binchy werd geboren op 28 mei 1940 in Dalkey. Zie ook alle tags voor Maeve Binchy op dit blog.

 

Uit: Circle of Friends

 

“Annabel Hogan came in carrying three big bags. She was surprised to see her daughter sitting swinging her legs in the kitchen.

“Aren’t you home nice and early? Let me put these things upstairs.”

Benny ran over to Patsy when her mother’s heavy tread was heard on the stairs.

“Do you think she got it?”

“Don’t ask me Benny, I know nothing.”

“You’re saying that because you do know.”

“I don’t. Really.”

“Was she in Dublin? Did she go up on the bus?”

“No, not at all.”

“But she must have.” Benny seemed very disappointed.

“No, she’s not long gone at all. . . . She was only up the town.”

Benny licked the spoon thoughtfully. “It’s nicer raw,” she said.

“You always thought that.” Patsy looked at her fondly.

“When I’m eighteen and can do what I like, I’ll eat all my cakes uncooked,” Benny pronounced.

“No you won’t, when you’re eighteen you’ll be so busy getting thin you won’t eat cakes at all.”

“I’ll always want cakes.”

“You say that now. Wait till you want some fellow to fancy you.”

“Do you want a fellow to fancy you?”

“Of course I do, what else is there?”

“What fellow? I don’t want you to go anyway.”

“I won’t get a fellow, I’m from nowhere, a decent fellow wouldn’t be able to talk about me and where I came from. I have no background, no life before, you see.”

“But you had a great life,” Benny cried. “You’d make them all interested in you.”

 

 

Maeve Binchy (28 mei 1940 – 30 juli 2012)

Patrick Modiano, Cherie Priest, Salvador Novo, Emily Brontë, Alexander Trocchi, Pauline van der Lans

De Franse schrijver Patrick Modiano werd geboren in Boulogne-Billancourt op 30 juli 1945. Zie ook alle tags voor Patrick Mondiano op dit blog.

 

Uit: Unfall in der Nacht (Vertaald doorElisabeth Edl)

“Vielleicht hatte ich mich bei meinem Sturz am Schädel verletzt. Ich habe mich zu der Frau gedreht. Es überraschte mich, daß sie einen Pelzmantel trug. Mir ist wieder eingefallen, daß Winter war. Außerdem trug der Mann uns gegenüber auch einen Mantel und ich eine von diesen alten Lammfelljacken, wie man sie auf Flohmärkten fand. Ihren Pelzmantel hatte sie bestimmt nicht auf dem Flohmarkt gekauft. Nerz? Zobel? Sie hatte ein sehr gepflegtes Äußeres, was nicht zu den Verletzungen in ihrem Gesicht paßte. Auf meiner Jacke, etwas oberhalb der Taschen, sah ich Blutflecken. Ich hatte eine lange Schramme im linken Handteller, und die Blutflecken auf dem Stoff,

die kamen sicher daher. Sie hielt sich sehr gerade, aber mit geneigtem Kopf, als starre sie auf etwas am Boden. Vielleicht auf meinen schuhlosen Fuß. Die Haare trug sie halblang, und im Licht des Foyers war sie mir blond vorgekommen. Das Polizeiauto war an der Ampel stehengeblieben, auf dem Quai, bei Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois. Der Mann beobachtete uns immer noch, mal sie und mal mich,

schweigend, mit seinem kalten Blick. Ich fühlte mich langsam an irgend etwas schuldig. Die Ampel wurde nicht grün. Es brannte noch Licht in dem Café an der Ecke Quai/Place Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, wo mein Vater sich oft mit mir verabredet hatte. Das war der Augenblick, um zu fliehen. Vielleicht brauchten wir auch nur diesen Typen auf der Bank zu bitten, daß er uns gehen ließ. Aber ich fühlte mich außerstande, das kleinste Wort hervorzubringen. Er hat gehustet, ein schleimiges Raucherhusten, und ich war überrascht, einen Ton zu hören. Seit dem Unfall herrschte tiefe Stille um mich, als hätte ich das Gehör verloren. Wir fuhren den Quai hinunter. Als das Polizeiauto auf die Brücke einbog, spürte ich, wie ihre Finger mein Handgelenk umfaßten. Sie lächelte mich an, wie um mich zu beruhigen, aber ich hatte überhaupt keine Angst. Mir schien sogar, als wären wir, sie und ich, uns schon bei anderer Gelegenheit begegnet und als habe sie immer dieses Lächeln. Wo hatte ich sie schon gesehen?”

 

Patrick Modiano (Boulogne-Billancourt, 30 juli 1945)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Patrick Modiano, Cherie Priest, Salvador Novo, Emily Brontë, Alexander Trocchi, Pauline van der Lans”

Harry Mulisch, Chang-Rae Lee, Wolfgang Bittner, Stanley Kunitz, Marja Brouwers

De Nederlandse schrijver Harry Mulisch werd geboren op 29 juli 1927 in Haarlem. Zie ook alle tags voor Harry Mulisch op dit blog.

 

Uit; The Procedure (Vertaald door Paul Vincent)

„FIRST DOCUMENT

MAN

yes, of course I can come straight to the point and start with a sentence like: The telephone rang. Who’s ringing whom? Why? It must be something important, otherwise the file wouldn’t open with it. Suspense! Action! But I can’t do it that way this time. On the contrary. Before anything can come to life here, we must both prepare ourselves through introspection and prayer. Anyone who wants to be swept along immediately, in order to kill time, would do better to close this book at once, put the television on, and sink back on the settee as one does in a hot foam bath. So before writing and reading any further we’re going to fast for a day, and then bathe in cool, pure water, after which we will shroud ourselves in robes of the finest white linen.

I’ve switched the telephone and the front doorbell off and turned the clock on my desk away from me; everything in my study is waiting for the events to come. The first luminous words have appeared in the ultramarine of the computer screen, while outside the dazzling, setting autumn sun shines over the square. From the blazing western sky tram rails stream like molten gold from a blast furnace; between the black trees cars appear from the chaos, disappear into it, people walk at the tips of shadows that are yards long. From the position of the sun in my room I can see what time it is: the light is falling diagonally, it’s six o’clock, rush hour, for most people the day’s work is over.

The origin of man was a complicated affair. Much of it is still obscure, not only in biological, but also in theological circles. In the Bible, indeed, this creature is actually created twice, and to a certain extent three times. Genesis 1:27 tells us that on the sixth and last day of creation the following happened: “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.” So there were two of them; immediately afterward God says: “Be fruitful, and multiply.” So the man was Adam, but the woman wasn’t Eve, because the primeval mother of us all saw the light of day only later, when the week of creation was long since over; she wasn’t created separately, but came forth from a rib of Adam’s.“

 

Harry Mulisch (29 juli 1927 – 30 oktober 2010)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Harry Mulisch, Chang-Rae Lee, Wolfgang Bittner, Stanley Kunitz, Marja Brouwers”

Remco Campert, Malcolm Lowry, Angélica Gorodischer, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Stephan Sanders

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver Remco Campert werd op 28 juli 1929 in Den Haag geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Remco Campert op dit blog.

 

 

Boerin in Iviers

 

Elke dag nog praat ze
met zijn grafsteen
op het kleine kerkhof aan de overkant
uitzicht over het dal
met het dunne riviertje
glinsterend als een spinnendraad in het Noord-Franse licht

sinds hij dood is
doet ze minder aan de tuin
eens haar trots

ze kreeg er nog een prijs voor
de senator kwam er voor over
helemaal uit Parijs
waar hij een appartement had
en een vriendin
het was vlak voor de verkiezingen
die hij won

de koeien zijn verkocht
de tractor staat te roesten in het hoge gras
het erf is netjes aan kant
en er is nog hout voor één winter

 

 

 

Het Vak

 

Langzaam groeit in mij
de ander die in niets op mij lijkt
en toch alles in zich heeft
van mij die hem baren moet

dan rijst het doek dat me scheidt
van mijn tijd die nu gekomen is
de zaal opent zich veelvuldig
gespiegeld vlees en bloed

even is het alles stilte
wachtend op het eerste woord
dat het schouwtoneel de wereld
tot leven beven doet

côté jardin: de geliefde werpt haar mantel af
côté cour: de moordenaar komt aangezet

 

 

 

Straattheater

 

In de zoele middagwind
zat ik op een bankje
op de Boulevard du Général Leclerc
naast een oude heer
die Indochina nog had meegemaakt
rozet in zijn knoopsgat
witte sjaal om zijn uitgedroogde hals
en een mormel van een hondje
aandachtig aan zijn voet
toen Sophie Marceau actrice
die ik kende uit de bladen
vergezeld van haar fotograaf
uit een limousine stapte
en bij het lichtjes vasthouden
van haar zonnehoed
haar roomblanke oksel toonde

het hondje kefte
en de oude heer en ik
we stonden als één man op
zongen een liedje
maakten kleine pasjes
draaiden met onze kont

maar zij zag ons niet.

 

 

 

Remco Campert (Den Haag, 28 juli 1929)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Remco Campert, Malcolm Lowry, Angélica Gorodischer, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Stephan Sanders”

Dolce far niente (Robert Louis Stevenson)

Dolce far niente

 

Summer Sun

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

Claude Monet, Champs des coquelicots, 1881

 

St. Martin’s Summer

AS swallows turning backward
When half-way o’er the sea,
At one word’s trumpet summons
They came again to me –
The hopes I had forgotten
Came back again to me.

I know not which to credit,
O lady of my heart!
Your eyes that bade me linger,
Your words that bade us part –
I know not which to credit,
My reason or my heart.

But be my hopes rewarded,
Or be they but in vain,
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have gathered in the grain –
I have dreamed a golden vision,
I have not lived in vain.

 

Robert Louis Stevenson (13 november 1850 – 3 december 1894)

 

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 27e juli ook mijn blog van 27 juli 2011 deel 1 en eveneens deel 2.

Dolce far niente (William Cullen Bryant)

Dolce far niente

 

Summer Wind

It is a sultry day; the sun has drank
The dew that lay upon the morning grass,
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

 

Zomerlandschap, Fredrik Marinus Kruseman (12 juli 1816 – 25 mei 1882)

 

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scortching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;–
Their bases on the mountains–their white tops
Shining in the far ether–fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now,
Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!

 

Zomerlandschap, Barend Koekoek (11 oktober 1803 – 5 april 1862)

 

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And soun of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

 

William Cullen Bryant (3 november 1794 – 12 juni 1878)

 

Zie voor de schrijvers van de 26e juli ook mijn blog van 26 juli 2011 en eveneens deel 2.