Uit: 2666 (Vertaald door Natasha Wimmer)
“Reading these two novels only reinforced the opinion he’d already formed of Archimboldi. In 1983, at the age of twenty-two, he undertook the task of translating D’Arsonval. No one asked him to do it. At the time, there was no French publishing house interested in publishing the German author with the funny name. Essentially Pelletier set out to translate the book because he liked it, and because he enjoyed the work, although it also occurred to him that he could submit the translation, prefaced with a study of the Archimboldian oeuvre, as his thesis, and — why not? — as the foundation of his future dissertation.
He completed the final draft of the translation in 1984, and a Paris publishing house, after some inconclusive and contradictory readings, accepted it and published Archimboldi. Though the novel seemed destined from the start not to sell more than a thousand copies, the first printing of three thousand was exhausted after a couple of contradictory, positive, even effusive reviews, opening the door for second, third, and fourth printings.
By then Pelletier had read fifteen books by the German writer, translated two others, and was regarded almost universally as the preeminent authority on Benno von Archimboldi across the length and breadth of France.
Then Pelletier could think back on the day when he first read Archimboldi, and he saw himself, young and poor, living in a chambre de bonne, sharing the sink where he washed his face and brushed his teeth with fifteen other people who lived in the same dark garret, shitting in a horrible and notably unhygienic bathroom that was more like a latrine or cesspit, also shared with the fifteen residents of the garret, some of whom had already returned to the provinces, their respective university degrees in hand, or had moved to slightly more comfortable places in Paris itself, or were still there — just a few of them — vegetating or slowly dying of revulsion.”
Roberto Bolaño (28 april 1953 – 15 juli 2003)
Uit: To Kill a Mockingbird
“How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half 7”
“Goin’ on seven.”
“Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin’ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.”
“I’m little but I’m old,” he said.
Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.-
“’s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.”
Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.”
“Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence.
“Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?”
Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave the money to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it.
“Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?”
Harper Lee (Monroeville, 28 april 1926)
De Joods-Oostenrijkse dichter, schrijver en journalist Karl Kraus werd geboren in Jičin, Bohemen, Oostenrijk-Hongarije (thans Tsjechië) op 28 april 1874. Zie ook alle tags voor Karl Kraus op dit blog.
An den Bürger
Daß im Dunkel die dort leben,
so du selbst nur Sonne hast;
daß für dich sie Lasten heben,
neben ihrer eignen Last;
daß du frei durch ihre Ketten,
Tag erlangst durch ihre Nacht:
was wird von der Schuld dich retten,
daß du daran nie gedacht!
Wie’s mit dem Lettern- und Lügenschall
der Presse in Wahrheit bewandt ist?
“Bekanntlich” sagt sie von jedem Fall,
wo ihr nicht das geringste bekannt ist.
Da macht sie sich wahrlich nicht allzuviel draus
und setzt, was nicht ist, als bekannt voraus.
Dein Fehler, Liebste, ach ich liebe ihn,
und er ist eine deiner liebsten Gaben.
Seh´ich an andern ihn, so seh´ich fast
dich selbst und sehe nach dem Fehler hin,
und alle will ich lieben, die ihn haben!
Fehlst du mir einst und fehlt dein Fehler mir,
weil du dahin,
wie wollt´ich, Liebste lieber dich ergänzen
als durch den Fehler? Ach ich liebe ihn,
und seh´ich ihn schon längst nicht mehr an dir,
die Häßlichste wird mir durch ihn erglänzen!
Doch träte selbst die Schönste vor mich hin,
ich wäre meines Drangs zu dir kein Hehler.
Ihr, die so vieles hat, fehlt eines bloß
und alles drum – ach wie vermiss´ich ihn-
ihr fehlt doch, Liebste, was mir fehlt: dein Fehler.
Karl Kraus (28 april 1874 – 12 juni 1936
I HAVE ARRIVED HERE
I have arrived here, I, Yoyontzin, yearning only for flowers, cutting flowers on the earth, cocoa flowers, cut flowers of friendship, which are your body, O prince. Lord Nezahualcoyotl I am, Yoyontzin. Yyao ohuili yya ayyo yao ayya yohuiya.
I only come bringing your beautiful songs, I carry them down, finding friends. Be joyful here, let your friendship be revealed. Yyao ohuili yya ayyo yao ayya yohuiya.
I take delight a brief time, only fleetingly is my heart glad on earth. I, Yoyontzin: I yearn for flowers. Ohuaya ohuaya.
I live with flowery songs. I want and desire deep brotherhood, nobility. I yearn for songs: I live in flowery songs. Ohuaya ohuaya.
As jade, as jewels, as a wide plumage of quetzal, I value your song, Giver of Life, with these I take enjoyment, with them I dance between the drums in the flowery house of spring. I, Yoyontzin, my heart enjoys it. Ohuaya ohuaya.
Sound your flower drum beautifully, singer; scatter perfumed corn flowers, chocolate flowers, they are spilled as rain here next to the drums. Let us enjoy them. Ohuaya ohuaya.
Already the long-necked turquoise bird, the black trogon, the red parrot sing and warble there, joyful with the flowers. Yao ayyaha ohuaya ohuaya.
Already the flower tree is raised there next to the drum. The precious red bird is in it: Nezahualcoyotl has become a bird, joyful being with flowers. Yao ayyaha ohuaya ohuaya.
Vertaald door John Curl
Nezahualcóyotl (28 april 1402 – 4 juni 1472)
Sculptuur in Mexico City
A Holiday in Childhood
Childhood in his memory a poet keeps,
Everyone has a dream, both bitter and sweet.
Holiday comes, I wish I were a child, to laugh and play,
The eve of Garafa saw sadness swept away.
I recall how impatiently I waited for the dawn,
Eager new ichigs, my new shirt and pants to put on.
Sweet were my dreams before night left my doorway,
In my dreams so bright was this upcoming holiday.
I’ll always remember my Mother’s gentle voice:
“Gaid Namaz is here, get up and let’s rejoice!”
Running like crazy along the crowded streets,
Who was happier than me? It was pure joy and bliss.
And right after the prayer, I would blithely laugh.
O, the yummy taste of Qurbani meat – never enough.
In my memory engrained, I can’t hold back tears,
How joyful was this time, those unforgettable years.
Rays of light from the sky streaming down upon you…
Not just one sun was shining, but at least two.
O, Great Allah, I beg of you and pray.
Let me go back, and in my childhood stay,
Rejoice in cheerful laughter and endless merry play.
Vertaald door L.Rust
To Your Portrait
I look and worship these dark brows and eyes,
Praised be the artist who drew her so nice.
He ordered the sun to pour gold on her hair,
No other beauty to her can compare.
Forgive me, dear sun, for your rays are too weak,
You pale in the shadow of her gorgeous cheek.
If Mejnun was here and saw her by chance,
The love for his Leila would vanish at once.
In the Garden of Eden, I strongly believe,
Adam would surely prefer her to Eve.
Harut and Marut were both tempted by devil,
This angel could help them to struggle with evil.
The taste of her lips is as sweet as sorbet,
And those who shall try them, immortal will stay.
When Iblis, the devil, was rejected and expelled,
Just one glance at her, and he’d regret he rebelled.
So, sing her hosanna, oh birds of the earth,
Or die by the knife, you’ve disproven your worth.
Vertaald door V. Dumaevoy-Valieva
Ğabdulla Tuqay (28 april 1886 – 15 april 1913)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 28e april ook mijn blog van 28 april 2013 deel 2.