Guido Gezelle, Johano Strasser, Yasmina Reza, Joseph Heller, Yánnis Rítsos

De Vlaamse dichter Guido Gezelle werd geboren in Brugge op 1 mei 1830. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 mei 2010 en verder alle tags voor Guido Gezelle.

Peren

Gebogen hangt het perenhout,
bevallig, onder ‘t menigvoud
gedrag, dat hem bewonderen laat
alom, en op de bomen staat.

Zo druiven, in malkaâr geklist,
bij grote en dikke krabben is ‘t,
dat top en takken, scheefgelaân,
bezwijkend, van de peren staan.

Hoe schone, als ‘t lieve zonnelicht
daarop zijn mooie stralen zicht;
en, geluw-, groen- en grauwgeveld,
fijn goud op al die peren smelt!

Hoe spannen ze, in hun ronde glans,
vol zerpe en zoete zeupen gans;
die, borstgeeene en lijfgenoot,
nog wassen, bij de moederschoot!

Het staat er die, vol rode schijn,
bloedverwig als de kaken zijn
van menig menig mensenkind,
dat m’hier en daar ten boere vindt.

Het staat er, effenbruin van bast,
aan klene, tere takken vast;
die ‘k puilen zie, alhier, aldaar,
ter pelen uit en… ponden zwaar.

Vaarwel, die zulke giften laat,
o zonne, aleer gij henengaat,
en elders weunt, de lange tijd
dat ‘t wintert, en ge onzichtbaar zijt.

Dat ‘t donker is, dat ‘t waait en buist;
dat verre is al het groen verhuisd;
dat, naakt, of heel met ijs belaân,
onvriendelijk de bomen staan.

Vaarwel, o zonne!… Hij is groot,
diens hand u in de hemel schoot;
diens goedheid, die geen’ beurte en kent,
bij beurten, ons die zomer zendt.

o Eeuwig goede, om al het goed
dat ‘t bakelen van de zonne doet
onze onbeholpen schamelheid,
zij lof en ere u toegezeid!

 

Het kruis

Het kruis ontliet de mens
uit ’s vijands helse banden;
met ’t kruise wijden hem,
in ’t doopsel, ’s priesters handen;
gebiecht, gevormd, berecht,
getrouwd, gezalfd in ’t kruis,
nog wijst hem ’t kruis de weg
naar hier, zijn laatste thuis.
o kruise, dat daar staat,
och, of zij ’t allen wisten,
gij zijt het teken en
de hoop van elke christen:
zo Christus leefde en stierf,
in kruisen en verdriet,
zo zult gij, of ge en volgt
in Zijn triomf hem niet!

  

Ach licht en is het lot van al

Ach licht en is het lot van al,
zo menig band wordt keten;
zo menige en zo groot getal
die ’t blijzijn haast vergeten!

 
Guido Gezelle (1 mei 1830 – 27 november 1899)
Standbeeld in Brugge

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Guido Gezelle, Johano Strasser, Yasmina Reza, Joseph Heller, Yánnis Rítsos”

Antal Szerb, Ignazio Silone, Aleksander Wat, Viktor Astafiev, Reinier van Genderen Stort

De Hongaarse schrijver Antal Szerb werd geboren op 1 mei 1901 in Boedapest. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 mei 2010 en verder alle tags voor Antal Szerb.

Uit: Journey by Moonlight (Vertaald door Len Rix)

“On the train everything seemed fine. The trouble began in Venice, with the back-alleys.
Mihály first noticed the back-alleys when the motor-ferry turned off the Grand Canal for a short cut and they began appearing to right and left. But at the time he paid them no attention, being caught up from the outset with the essential Veniceness of Venice: the water between the houses, the gondolas, the lagoon, and the pink-brick serenity of the city. For it was Mihály’s first visit to Italy, at the age of thirty-six, on his honeymoon.
During his protracted years of wandering he had travelled in many lands, and spent long periods in France and England. But Italy he had always avoided, feeling the time had not yet come, that he was not yet ready for it. Italy he associated with grown-up matters, such as the fathering of children, and he secretly feared it, with the same instinctive fear he had of strong sunlight, the scent of flowers, and extremely beautiful women.
The trip to Italy might well have been postponed forever, but for the fact that he was now married and they had decided on the conventional Italian holiday for their start to married life. Mihály had now come, not to Italy as such, but on his honeymoon, a different matter entirely. Indeed, it was his marriage that made the trip possible. Now, he reasoned, there was nothing to fear from the danger Italy represented.
Their first days were spent quietly enough, between the pleasures of honey-mooning and the gentler, less strenuous forms of sightseeing. Like all highly intelligent and self-critical people, Mihály and Erzsi strove to find the correct middle way between snobbery and its reverse. They did not weary themselves to death ‘doing’ everything prescribed by Baedeker; still less did they wish to be bracketed with those who return home to boast, “The museums? Never went near them,” and gaze triumphantly at one another.
One evening, returning to their hotel after the theatre, Mihály felt he somehow needed another drink. Quite what of he wasn’t yet sure, but he rather hankered after some sort of sweet wine and, remembering the somewhat special, classical, taste of Samian, and the many times he had tried it in Paris, in the little wine merchant’s at number seven rue des Petits Champs, he reasoned that, Venice being effectively Greece, here surely he might find some Samian, or perhaps Mavrodaphne, since he wasn’t yet quite au fait with the wines of Italy. He begged Erzsi to go up without him. He would follow straightaway. It would be just a quick drink, “really, just a glass” he solemnly insisted as she, with the same mock-seriousness, made a gesture urging moderation, as befits the young bride.”

 
Antal Szerb [1 mei 1901 – 27 januari 1945)
Cover

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Antal Szerb, Ignazio Silone, Aleksander Wat, Viktor Astafiev, Reinier van Genderen Stort”

Alexej Chomjakov, Marcel Prévost, Konrad Weiß, Joseph Addison, José Martiniano de Alencar, Jean de Joinville

De Russische dichter, schrijver, filosoof en theoloog Alexej Stepanovitsj Chomjakov werd geboren op 1 mei 1804 in Moskou. Zie ook alle tags voor Alexej Chomjakov op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 1 mei 2010.

Russian Song

Hail, lovely land of Saint Vladimir!
Thy strength is vast, thy cities mighty;
Thou hast a host of faithful people!
On azure mountains firm thou leanest;
In azure seas thy feet thou bathest.
Thou dost not fear the cruel foe,
But thou dost fear the wrath of God!

Hail, lovely land of Saint Vladimir!
My fathers’ fathers gave thee service.
They won thee peace by fruitful reason,
Thy holy cities they embellisht,
Thy cruel foes they helpt to vanquish.
Recall the good deeds of my fathers.
They served thee with a faithful service,
And I with faithful heart have served thee.
On the steppes from my loins have peasants descended,
Have peasants descended, well-to-do little peasants;
Their place do they know, they know what is useful,
Their brethren they love, and God do they worship.
From me, in the courts, has justice been done
Has justice been done, unbought and impartial.
From me has gone forth to the whole world a rumor
That bluer skies are not to be seen,
That bluer seas are not to be plowed,
That beautiful is the land of Vladimir.
Admire her—thou wilt never sufficiently gaze;
Draw wisdom from her, thou ne’er wilt exhaust her.
Across the heavens the bright sun goes;
All the earth it warms, it lightens.
By night the crowded stars are shining,
And there is no counting the sand or the grass-blades,
And over the earth proceed the words of God—
It warms with life, with joy it shineth;
Bright gleam the churches’ golden cupolas,
And the servants of the Lord and the pilgrims
Are countless like the grass-blades on the steppes,
Are countless like the sands upon the sea-shore.

Vertaald door Nathan Haskell Dole

 
Alexej Chomjakov (1 mei 1804 – 5 oktober 1860)
Zelfportret, 1842

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Alexej Chomjakov, Marcel Prévost, Konrad Weiß, Joseph Addison, José Martiniano de Alencar, Jean de Joinville”