Colin Channer, Herman Franke, Sebastian Fitzek, Richard Howard, Migjeni, Arna Wendell Bontemps, Conrad Richter, Edwina Currie, Frank Witzel

De Jamaicaanse schrijver Colin Channer werd geboren op 13 oktober 1963 in Kingston. Zie ook mijn blog van 13 oktober 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor Colin Channer op dit blog.

Uit: The Girl with the Golden Shoes

“So while the others ran, she hid behind the almond tree and watched in fearful fascination as the creature loomed.
It wasn’t until the mask had been removed that Estrella, who’d never been to school or traveled much on her tiny island, understood that what she thought had been a monster was a human being—a scuba diver in a rubber suit.
She stepped out from behind the tree and walked toward him in her old blue frock with eyelet lace around the hem, hips moving widely underneath the faded fabric, giving insight to the marvel of her shape. She was tall and big-boned with mannish shoulders and a long face with sharp cheeks. Her eyes were bright and slanted, and although her skin was darker than a Coke, she had a length of wavy hair.
“What are you wearing?” she asked in English, which she rarely had the need to use, since everyone around her spoke Sancoche.
“It lets me breathe beneath the water.”
They talked for several minutes, during which he explained some of his duties; then he disappeared below the surf.
In Sancoche, her native dialect, Estrella kept repeating as the ripples disappeared, “I never even thought to dream of seeing a thing like that.”

 
Colin Channer (Kingston, 13 oktober 1963)

Continue reading “Colin Channer, Herman Franke, Sebastian Fitzek, Richard Howard, Migjeni, Arna Wendell Bontemps, Conrad Richter, Edwina Currie, Frank Witzel”

Nobelprijs voor Literatuur 2016 voor Bob Dylan

Nobelprijs voor Literatuur 2016 voor Bob Dylan

De Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur is dit jaar toegekend aan de Amerikaanse zanger, songwriter en dichter Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan werd geboren als Robert Allen Zimmerman op 24 mei 1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Zie ook alle tags voor Bob Dylan op dit blog 

Mr. Tambourine Man

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey !
Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.
Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship
My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels
To be wanderin’
I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’ swingin’ madly across the sun
It’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facin’
And if you hear vague traces of skippin’ reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it’s just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn’t pay it any mind, it’s just a shadow you’re
Seein’ that he’s chasing.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to
Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

 
Bob Dylan (Duluth, 24 mei 1941)

 

 

Jeet Thayil

 

De Indiase dichter, schrijver, librettist en muzikant Jeet Thayil werd geboren op 13 oktober 1959 in Kerala als zoon van de auteur en redacteur TJS George, die op verschillende plaatsen in India, in Hong Kong en New York heeft gewerkt. Thayil werd vooral in het buitenland opgeleid. Hij behaalde een Master in Fine Arts aan het Sarah Lawrence College (New York), en hij heeft beurzen prijzen gekregen van o.a. de New York Foundation for the Arts, de Zwitserse Raad voor de Kunsten, de British Council en de Rockefeller Foundation. Zijn eerste roman, Narcopolis (2011) speelt grotendeels in Bombay in de jaren ’70 en ’80, en vertelt de geheime geschiedenis van de stad, toen opium plaats maakte voor de nieuwe goedkope heroïne. Thayil is redacteur van het “Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets” (2008), “60 Indian Poets”, (2008) en een verzameling van essays “Divided Time: India and the End of Diaspora” (2006) en van een bloemlezing van Indische poëzie (2015). Ook schreef hij het libretto voor de opera “Babur in Londen”, in opdracht van de Britse Opera Group met muziek van de in Zurich gevestigde Britse componist Edward Rushton. De wereldpremière van de opera vond plaats in Zwitserland in 2012, gevolgd door reizen naar het Verenigd Koninkrijk (Londen en Oxford) en India. De kern van het werk is een verkenning van de complexiteit van geloof en multiculturalisme in het hedendaagse Groot-Brittannië. Thayil is ook bekend als een performance dichter en alsmuzikant. Als songwriter en gitarist is hij de ene helft van het hedendaagse muziek project Sridhar / Thayil. In 2012 kreeg hij voor de dichtbundel “These Errors are Correct” de Sahitya Akademi Award voor Engels. Zijn roman stond op de short list voor de Man Booker Prize 2012 en de Hindu Literary Prize (2013).

 

The Penitent

I’m back where my life and I parted ways.
I’m talking to the coffeemaker, to the face
towels folded by the sink, to the air
conditioner that conspires with my enemies. Even now,
in the midst of my extremity my eyes are dry,
and if I jump repeatedly against the window
I can tell myself I’m being lifted by a great joy –
until the glass smites my face and I cry out
your old name. The room is empty, lonely
as a still life, but the water stains speak
with your voice, Honor me, honor everything.

 

 

To Baudelaire

I am over you at last, in Mexico City,
in a white space high above the street,
my hands steady, the walls unmoving.
It’s warm here, and safe, and even in winter
the rain is benign. Some mornings I let
the sounds of the plaza – a fruit seller,
a boy acrobat, a woman selling
impossible fictions – pile up in a corner
of the room. I’m not saying I’m happy
but I am healthy and my money’s my own.
Sometimes when I walk in the market
past the chickens and the pig smoke,
I think of you – your big talk and wolf’s heart,
your Bonaparte hair and eyes of Poe.
I don’t miss you. I don’t miss you when
I open a window and light fills the room
like water pouring into a paper cup,
or when I see a woman’s white dress shine
like new coins and I know I could follow
my feet to the river and let my life go
away from me. At times like this,
if I catch myself talking to you,
I’m always surprised at the words I hear
of regret and dumb boyish devotion.

 

 

 
Jeet Thayil (Kerala, 13 oktober 1959)

In Memoriam Dario Fo

In Memoriam Dario Fo

De Italiaanse schrijver, regisseur en acteur Dario Fo die in 1997 de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur kreeg, is op 90-jarige leeftijd overleden. Dat meldt de Italiaanse regering. Dario Fo werd geboren in Leggiuno-Sangiamo op 24 maart 1926. Zie ook alle tags voor Dario Fo op dit blog.

Uit: Mistero Buffo (Mary at the Cross, vertaald door Ed Emery)

“SOLDIER: I told you before, lady! there is only one way to make him happy: kill him at once. If you want to hurry it up and take that lance leaning over there, we soldiers will pretend not to see, and you must run up under the cross and stick the point into him with all your strength, stick the lance right into his belly, right in, and then, in a moment, you will see Christ die. [The Madonna faints] What’s the matter? Why did she faint? I never even touched her!
MAN: Lay her out… do it gently… and give her room to breathe…
WOMAN: Let’s have something to cover her with… she’s shivering with the cold…
OTHER MAN: I left my cloak at home…
MAN: Move aside there… Help me to lay her out…
OTHER MAN: And now be quiet and let her recover.
MARY: [As if in a dream] Who are you, up there, young man, I sem to know you. What is it that you want from me?
WOMAN: She’s talking in her sleep, she’s confused… she’s having visions…
GABRIEL: I am Gabriel, the Anel of the Lord. I am he, oh Virgin, the herald of your solitary and delicate love.
MARY: Go spread your wings, Gabriel. return to the radiant joys of Heaven, for there is nothing for you on this vile earth, in this tormented world. Go, so that you do not soil your wings, with their feathers coloured in gentle colours… Don’t you see the mud… and the blood… dung and filth…? It’s like a sewer… Go, so that your delicate ears are not burst asunder with this desperate crying, the pleading and weeping that arises on all sides. Go, so that you do not sear your bright eyes looking at sores and scabs and boils and flies and worms creeping forth from torn bodies of the dead.
You are not used to this, because in Paradise you have no wailing and lamentation, or wars, or prisons, or men hanged, or women raped. In Paradise there is no hunger, no starvation, nobody sweating with work, wearing themselves to the bone, no children without smiles, no women out of their mids with grief, nobody who suffers to pay the price of original sin. Go, Gabriel, go, Gabriel.
GABRIEL: Grief-stricken woman, whom suffering has struck even in her belly, now I understand clearly… Now that this torment has seized you, seeing the young Lord God nailed up… at this moment, I too understand, just like you…
MARY: You understand, just like me, just lik me? Gabriel, did you bear my son in your swelling belly? Did you bite you lip so as not to scream with pain while giving birth to him? Did you feed him? Did you give him the milk from your breast, Gabriel? Did ou suffer when he was sick with fever, when he was down with measles, and did you stay up all night comforting him when he was crying with his first teeth? No, Gabriel? Well, if you didn’t go through all that, then you cannot speak of sharing my grief at this moment…
GABRIEL: You’re right, Mary… Forgive my presumption. I said it because my heart is breaking within me. I who thought that I was above all suffering. But I come to remind you that it is just this, your song, this lament without a voice, this plaint without sobs, this, your sacrifice, and the sacrifice of your son, which will tear apart the heavens, and which will enable men for the first time to enter Paradise!”

 
Dario Fo (24 maart 1926 – 13 oktober 2016)