André Gide, George Eliot, Dirk van Weelden, Christian Filips, Suresh en Jyoti Guptara, Viktor Pelevin, Endre Ady, William Kotzwinkle

De Franse schrijver André Gide werd geboren op 22 november 1869 in Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor André Gide op dit blog.

Uit: Les Faux-monnayeurs

“Mais si cela voulait dire quelque chose, tu ne comprendrais tout de même pas.
Quand on parle, c’est pour se faire comprendre.
Veux-tu, nous allons jouer à faire des mots pour nous deux seulement les comprendre.
Tâche d’abord de bien parler français.
Ma maman, elle, parle le français, l’anglais, le romain, le russe, le turc, le polonais, l’italoscope, l’espagnol, le perruquoi et le xixitou.
Tout ceci dit très vite, dans une sorte de fureur lyrique.
Bronja se mit à rire.
Boris, pourquoi est-ce que tu me racontes tout le temps des choses qui ne sont pas vraies ?
Pourquoi est-ce que tu ne crois jamais ce que je te raconte ?
Je crois ce que tu me dis, quand c’est vrai.

Oui. Non ; écoute : on va prendre un bâton ; tu tiendras un bout et moi l’autre. Je vais fermer les yeux et je te promets de ne les rouvrir que quand nous serons arrivés là-bas.
Ils s’éloignèrent un peu ; et, tandis qu’ils descendaient les marches de la terrasse, j’entendis encore Boris :
Oui, non, pas ce bout-là. Attends que je l’essuie.
Pourquoi ?
J’y ai touché.”

André Gide (22 november 1869 – 19 februari 1951)
Hier met zijn jonge geliefde Marc Allégret (links) in 1926

Continue reading “André Gide, George Eliot, Dirk van Weelden, Christian Filips, Suresh en Jyoti Guptara, Viktor Pelevin, Endre Ady, William Kotzwinkle”

In Memoriam William Trevor

In Memoriam William Trevor

De Ierse schrijver William Trevor is afgelopen zondag op 88-jarige leeftijd overleden. William Trevor werd geboren op 24 mei 1928 in Mitchelstown, County Cork. Zie ook alle tags voor William Trevor op dit blog.

Uit: After Rain

“Owen Dromgould had run his fingers over the bark of trees. He could tell the difference in the outline of their leaves; he could tell the thorns of gorse and bramble. He knew birds from their song, dogs from their bark, cats from the touch of them on his legs. There were the letters on the gravestones, the stops of the organ, his violin. He could see red, berries on holly and cotoneaster. He could smell lavender and thyme.
All that could not be taken from him. And it didn’t matter if, overnight, the colour had worn off the kitchen knobs. It didn’t matter if the china light-shade in the kitchen had a crack he hadn’t heard about before. What mattered was damage done to something as fragile as a dream.
The wife he had first chosen had dressed drably: from silence and inflexions – more than from words – he learned that now. Her grey hair straggled to her shoulders, her back was a little humped. He poked his way about, and they were two old people when they went out on their rounds, older than they were in their ageless happiness. She wouldn’t have hurt a fly, she wasn’t a person you could be jealous of, yet of course it was hard on a new wife to be haunted by happiness, to be challenged by the simplicities there had been. He had given himself to two women; he hadn’t withdrawn himself from the first, he didn’t from the second.
Each house that contained a piano brought forth its contradictions. The pearls old Mrs Purtill wore were opals, the pallid skin of the stationer in Kiliath was freckled, the two lines of oaks above Oghill were surely beeches? ‘Of course, of course,’ Owen Dromgould agreed, since it was fair that he should do so. Belle could not be blamed for making her claim, and claims could not be made without damage or destruction. Belle would win in the end because the living always do. And that seemed fair also, since Violet had won in the beginning and had had the better years.”

William Trevor (24 mei 1928 – 20 november 2016)