Uit: A Day in the Life of a Smiling Woman
“The situation was made even more annoying by the fact that everyone looked so interesting. That was why they were all getting on with each other so splendidly, of course. The only people who were not shouting or shuffling were extremely boring-looking people like himself, who were propped up sadly in dark corners. And the girls, one could not deny it, were most impressive. He liked artistic and intellectual-looking girls, himself; he could never see what other people had against all these fiercely painted eyes, these long over-exposed legs, these dramatic dresses. They all looked a little larger and brighter than life, and talked with a more than natural intensity, and laughed with a more than natural mirth. He found them most exhilarating. He gazed with frank admiration at one exotic creature with long pale hair and a long maroon velvet dress: her legs were not over-exposed but on the contrary totally enclosed, though she made up for this modesty elsewhere, displaying to the world a vast extent of pallid back, where angry pointed shoulder-blades rose and fell as she gesticulated and discoursed. All he saw of her was her active back: her face and front were bestowed upon others.
Even she, though, had nothing on a girl he could see at the other side of the room, far away and perched on top of a book-case, whence she was holding court, and whence she smiled serenely above the heads of others and above the sea of smoke. Her slight elevation gave her a look of detached beauty, and her face had a cool superiority, as of one who inhabits a finer air. She too was surrounded, naturally, by hordes of friends and admirers, who were plying her with chat and cigarettes, and constantly refilling her glass. And she too, like the pale girl, had long hair, though hers, as far as he could distinguish, was not pale, but of a dark and fiery red. He decided that he would cross the room and distinguish a little more closely.“
Margaret Drabble (Sheffield, 5 juni 1939)
Uit: Sammy’s House
“They’d ordered cases of frozen feeder mice-available on the Internet to pet owners in need of food for raptors and reptiles-and, in an impressive labor of hate, had carefully sewn several hundred of these tiny frozen mice into the hems of all the heavy West Wing drapes.
We’d noticed an unpleasant odor a few days after we’d moved in, but couldn’t be positive that wasn’t the way the place always smelled. But as the frozen feeder mice had thawed in their thick fabric tombs, the smell had intensified rapidly. In a little over a week, it had become unbearably wretched, rendering the West Wing virtually uninhabitable.
It had been difficult to locate the precise source, since the horrific stench had seemed to emanate from the very walls around us. The maintenance crew had finally discovered the tiny rotting rodent corpses after their fourth thorough search. That very day, a case of champagne had been delivered to the West Wing with a note that read: “To wash down the smell. Enjoy yourselves while you last, because we’ll be rid of you before you know it. Love and kisses, the Exterminators.” And thus, an annoying nickname had been born.
Even after the discovery and removal of the mice carcasses, the gut-gripping stink had lingered for nearly two months, despite all efforts to eradicate it. To their obnoxious delight, the Exterminators had inflicted a parting gift that had kept on giving.
I knew that my own party was perfectly capable of similar pettiness, because the previous administration had complained instantly to the press when they’d moved into the White House eight years earlier to find tuna sandwiches locked in all their file cabinets and their computers rigged to print the chorus of Bob Dylan’s “Ballad of a Thin Man” no matter what the command. Some in the press had privately enjoyed the specter of then President Pile’s political guru Carl Jones battling rebellious office machinery that taunted him with the words “Because something is happening here but you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mister Jones?” printed over and over again, but the majority of columns and articles had chastised the outgoing administration for such childishness.”
Kristin Gore (Carthage, 5 juni 1977)
gegnüber. eingelassene plattn; pro-
tzigste heraldik. weißestn marmors
parade: di superfette SPRACH-
(innenansicht außnvor: hat sichsn fürstbi-
schof feingemacht, getäfelt, drin. drauf-
sicht intarsienspielchn; draufsicht turm-
ofn ALLEGORIEN; nix wi mädels
mit blankn möpsn auffe reliefkacheln,
hübsch glasierte ofnwärme.)
geblendet. kellen, kehrbleche. aus-
gräbersound. DIE GESCHICHTE
HERBRETTERND AUF SACKKARREN.
der ganze weggeächzte schutt, durch-
gesiebte sprache. dies asservieren auf
knien; kratzen geschieht, gekratz, bürstn,
abgepinselt. knien, nebnnander, an
irgend (kloster)mauer bei rasselndm,
heiser schlürfendm INDUSTRIESTAUB-
SAUGER. so landn, schürf-schürf, schä-
del in obstkistn marke »papa clemente«;
säuberlich schädeldeckn (caput mortuum),
sargbrettchn (pestbeständig, siena) in
cellophantütn, auf geflattertm, windgezerr-
tm zeitungspapier. gotisch und durch-
Thomas Kling (5 juni 1957 – 1 april 2005)
De Franse feministische schrijfster, dichteres, professor, filosoof, literair criticus en historica Hélène Cixous werd geboren in Oran, Algerije, op 5 juni 1937. Zie ook alle tags voor Hélène Cixous op dit blog.
Uit: Homère est morte…
« Finalement, c’était une belle nuit.
E.- Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire, quand on est si vieux? Je ne suis plus rien.
H.- La nuit tu fais beaucoup de bruit.Beaucoup pipi.
E.- J’ai pas d’autre chose à faire. ( Un temps.) Dommage.
Dommage, ai-je pensé. Nous nous sommes battues cote à côte. Dans une autre pièce, le jour nous aurait trouvées allongées dan les bras l’une de l’autre, pensai-je.
Maintenant ma mère craint ma nuit. On voit rien. C’est pas très clair. Voilà que nous nous figurons tous les deux qu'”Elle” viendra la nuit.
“Tu me laisses pas tomber ! dit ma mère. Tu me laisses pas seule!” Maintenant j’ai aussi peur de la nuit que du jour. Je la laisse calmement endormie à 23 heures, je dors à une allure folle, à 5 heures je parcours le petit couloir, étroit conduit peuplé de spectre et d’illusions, je murmure “maman”, que dis-je! “maman” c’est moi, si ma mère vit encore. C’est seulement si j’avais perdu mon vieil enfant que maman ce serait celle que j’appelle à mon secours pour me déterrer de cette enterrement vivante. »
« Ce matin c’est à la boîte à couture assise dans ton armoire que je me suis désaltérée. Je l’ai ouverte. Elle est pleine de ton fatras antique grands boutons jamais vains, écheveaux fatigués, deux dés, que je passe à mon doigt pour y retrouver ton doigt, vieille alliance en faïence. La boîte est extérieurement en bon état, vieux chien sage qui ne fait pas son âge. Dedans c’est un cerveau qui a perdu le sens de l’ouvrage du temps : on amasse des brins de fils, des épingles, une pression, des bouts de galons, comme si l’on s’attendait à une disette. Ou comme si l’on recueillait compulsivement de pauvres orphelins.”
Hélène Cixous (Oran, 5 juni 1937)
Uit: Life Interrupted
“So off we went to this monastery, and I guess it was kind of the Þrst harbinger of death, although death seemed everywhere in Ireland. This was a monastery on a river where the Vikings used to come and raid it and burn the books and kill the priests. There was a funeral going on, or at least the grave diggers were digging some graves right near the monastery and taking a cigarette break. I remember that, it was kind of Hamletesque.
Then, driving home, another funereal thing happened. They had the funeral announcements on the radio. I’d never heard anything like that in my life. There must have been about sixteen deaths. Every one of them had put up a courageous struggle, had led an exemplary life, never had a bad word to say about anybody. The announcer read in a monotone, with no inflection at all, pausing about five seconds between each name and then talked about the removal time, Saturday at four-thirty, or whenever the body was going to be removed.
So there was a lot of death in the air that day. When we got home, I took a walk to kind of relieve myself of all that, and walked about six miles through dairy country. The cows were baying and mooing. Mad cow disease was around. I had a feeling they were trying to warn me about something. It was the last long walk I’d ever take in my life. I had no idea at the time, did not imagine it. At the end of the walk I came upon a calf that was in real distress. It couldn’t stand up, it had arthritis, and it was looking me right in the eye and pleading with me to put it out of its pain. I told the farmer, “That calf is suffering. You should call a vet, or have something done with it.” He said, “Ah, yes, I’ll be doing that then. Thank you for looking after it.”
So off I went thinking I’d saved the calf, or put him out of his misery, and off we went, Þve adults-Barbara Leary and her boyfriend, Kim; Tara Newman; and Kathie and I-to have dinner at John Scanlon’s favorite restaurant. I have to say, it wasn’t that good. Maybe in terms of Irish cuisine it was, but my duck was dry.”
Spalding Gray (5 juni 1941 – 10 januari 2004)
Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 5e juni ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.