Luisa Valenzuela, Eugène Ionesco, Marilynne Robinson, Louis Verbeeck, Mihály Babits

De Argentijnse schrijfster Luisa Valenzuela werd geboren op 26 november 1938 in Buenos Aires. Zie ook alle tags voor Luisa Valenzuela op dit blog.

Uit: Strange things happen here (Vertaald door Helen lane)

“You see them on street corners, Even Elba said something about it the other day, can you imagine, she’s so nearsighted, Just like science fiction, they’ve landed from another planet even though they look like guys from the interior but with their hair so well combed, they’re nice and neat I tell you, and I asked one of them what time it was but didn’t get anywhere-they don’t have watches, of course, Why would they want a watch anyway, you might ask, if they live hi a different time from us? I saw them, too. They come out from under the pavement hi the streets and that’s where they still are and who knows what they’re looking for, though we do know that they leave holes in the streets, those enormous potholes they come out of that can’t ever be filled in, The guy with the vermouth isn’t listening to them, and neither are Mario and Pedro, who are worrying about a briefcase forgotten on a chair that’s bound to contain something of value because otherwise it wouldn’t have been forgotten just so they could get it, just the two of them, not the guy with the lots going on at the other end of the cafe and there’s nobody at this end and Mario and Pedro know it’s now or never. Mario comes out first with the briefcase under his arm and that’s why he’s the first to see a man’s jacket lying on top of a car next to the sidewalk. That is to say, the car is next to the sidewalk, so the jacket lying on the roof is too. A splendid jacket, of stupendous quality. Pedro sees it too, his legs shake because it’s too much of a coincidence, he could sure use a new jacket, especially one with the pockets stuffed with dough. Mario can’t work himself up to grabbing it. Pedro can, though with a certain remorse, which gets worse and practically explodes when he sees two cops coming toward them to .. “We found this car on a jacket. This jacket on a car. We don’t know what to do with it. The jacket, I mean.” “Well, leave it where you found it then. Don’t bother us with things like that, we have more important business to attend to.” More crucial business. Like the persecution of man by man if you’ll allow me to use that euphemism. And so the famous jacket is now in Pedro’s trembling hands, which have picked it up with much affection. »

Luisa Valenzuela (Buenos Aires, 26 november 1938)


De Frans-Roemeense schrijver Eugène Ionesco werd geboren op 26 november 1912 in Slatina, Roemenië. Zie ook alle tags voor Eugène Ionesco op dit blog.

Uit: Rhinocéros (Vertaald door Derek Prouse)

“The scene is a square in a small provincial town. Up-stage a house composed of a ground floor and one storey. The ground floor is the window of a grocer’s shop. The entrance is up two or three steps through a glass-paned door. The word EPICERIE is written in bold letters above the shop window. The two windows on the first floor are the living quarters of the grocer and his wife. The shop is up-stage, but slightly to the left, not far from the wings. In the distance a church steeple is visible above the grocer’s house. Between the shop and the left of the stage there is a little street in perspective. To the right, slightly at an angle, is the front of a café. Above the cafe, one floor with a window; in front, the café terrace; several chairs and tables reach almost to centre stage. A dusty tree stands near the terrace chairs. Blue sky; harsh light; very white walls. The time is almost mid-day on a Sunday in summer-time. JEAN and BERENGER will sit at one of the terrace tables. [The sound of church bells is heard, which stop a few moments before the curtain rises. When the curtain rises, a woman carrying a basket of provisions under one arm and a cat under the other crosses the stage in silence from right to left. As she does so, the GROCER’S WIFE opens her shop door and watches her pass.] GROCER’S WIFE: Oh that woman gets on my nerves! [To her husband who is in the shop:] Too stuck-up to buy from us nowadays. [The GROCER’S WIFE leaves; the stage is empty for a few moments.]
[JEAN enters right, at the same time as BERENGER enters left. JEAN is very fastidiously dressed: brown suit, red tie, stiff collar, brown hat. He has a reddish face. His shoes are yellow and well polished. BERENGER is unshaven and hatless, with unkempt hair and creased clothes; everything about him indicates negligence. He seems weary, half-asleep; from time to time he yawns.]
JEAN: [advancing from right] Oh, so you managed to get here at last, Berenger !
BERENGER: [advancing from left] Morning, Jean !
JEAN: Late as usual, of course. [He looks at his wrist watch.] Our appointment was for 11.3o. And now it’s practically mid-day.
BERENGER: I’m sorry. Have you been waiting long?
JEAN: No, I’ve only just arrived myself, as you saw. [They go and sit at one of the tables on the all terrace.]
BERENGER: In that case I don’t feel so bad, if you’ve only just …“

Eugène Ionesco (26 november 1912 – 28 maart 1994)
Scene uit een opvoering in New York, 2012


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Marilynne Robinson werd geboren in Sandpoint, Idaho op 26 november 1943. Zie ook alle tags voor Marilynne Robonson op dit blog.

Uit: The Givenness of Things: Essays

“If there is anything in the life of any culture or period that gives good grounds for alarm, it is the rise of cultural pessimism, whose major passion is bitter hostility toward many or most of the people within the very culture the pessimists always feel they are intent on rescuing. When panic on one side is creating alarm on another, it is easy to forget there are always as good grounds for optimism as for pessimism, exactly the same grounds, in fact. That is because we are human. We still have every potential for good as we ever had, and the same presumptive claim to respect, our own respect in one another. We are still creatures of singular interest and value, agile of soul as we have always been and as we will continue to be even despite our errors and degradations for as long as we abide on this earth. To value one another is our greatest safety, and to indulge in fear and contempt is our gravest error.”

“I have mentioned the qualitative difference between Christianity as an ethic and Christianity as an identity. Christian ethics goes steadfastly against the grain of what we consider human nature: the first will be last, to him who asks give, turn the other cheek, judge not. Identity on the other hand appeals to a constellation of the worst human impulses. It is worse than ordinary tribalism because it assumes a more than virtuous “us” on one side and on the other a “them” who are very doubtful indeed, who are in fact a threat to all we hold dear.”

“Cultural pessimism is always fashionable, and since we are human, there are always grounds for it. It has the negative consequence of depressing the level of aspiration, the sense of the possible… it is easy to forget that there are always as good grounds for optimism as for pessimism–exactly the same grounds, in fact–that is, because we are human. We still have every potential for good we have ever had, and the same presumptive claim to respect, our own respect and one another’s. We are still creatures of singular interest and value, agile of soul as we have always been and as we will continue to be even despite our errors and depredations, for as long as we abide on this earth.”

Marilynne Robinson (Sandpoint, 26 november 1943)
Hier in 2015 met president Obama 


De Vlaamse dichter en schrijver Louis Verbeeck werd geboren in Tessenderlo op 26 november 1932. Zie ook alle tags voor Louis Verbeeck op dit blog.


Slaap, kleine prins, en droom nog maar even
Droom maar zolang je een droom wordt gegeven
Droom van een wereld met slagroom erop
Want later dan gooien ze die naar je kop

Jij bent nog heel klein maar je wordt al bewonderd
Je telde daarnet zonder haperen tot honderd
Ik word dan wat bang want dat cijfers citeren,
heeft Wernher von Braun vroeger ook moeten leren
Die heeft in zijn jeugd ook veel letters gespeld,
die heeft ook voor het eerst eens tot twintig geteld
Z’n Vatie wist ook niet dat na al die dromen
wat later basis Peenemünde zou komen

Slaap, kleine prins, en droom nog maar even
Droom maar zolang je een droom wordt gegeven
Later dan komt er van dromen niet veel
Je sterft misschien jong voor wat zwart, rood en geel

Ik zag je vanmiddag nog spelen verzinnen,
met uit de buurt zes of zeven vriendinnen
Je deed het zo dacht ik een beetje James Bond-ig,
al is dat zo jong op jouw leeftijd niet zondig
En eerlijk gezegd, ik was een beetje jaloers
Want later dan moet je veranderen van koers
en doe je dat niet roept de buurt al te gader
Het valt niet te verwonderen met zulk een vader

Speel, kleine prins, speel met je vriendinnen
Speel maar zolang je niet hoeft te beminnen
Nu noemt de buurvrouw zo’n kind sociaal
Maar later dan vindt ze zoiets een schandaal

Dus plons in het bad en spat als een kikker
Ren door het huis in je kletsblote flikker
Trap maar je bal door de ruit der buren
en loop door de plassen en schrijf op de muren
Word maar verliefd op de juffrouw op school,
maak van de melkboer een superidool
Bid maar tot God om wat haar op je benen,
huil maar eens uit om die trap op je schenen

Huil, kleine Wim, ach huil nog maar even
Huil maar zolang je een traan wordt gegeven
Huil maar en speel maar en zing maar en dans
Want later dan mag dat alleen in romans.

Louis Verbeeck (Tessenderlo, 26 november 1932)


De Hongaarse dichter, schrijver en vertaler Mihály Babits werd geboren op 26 november 1883 in Szekszárd. Zie ook alle tags voor Mihály Babits op dit blog.

Zigeunerlied (Fragment)

Weht der Wind daher, dahin,
wandert die Zigeunerin.
Rotes Kopftuch, buntes Hemd,
Haar pomadenglatt gekämmt,
bündelt ihre Siebensachen,
muß dem Kind ein Bettchen machen:
Tuch um Hüft und Hals gewunden,
oben, unten zugebunden.
“Schläfst auf meinem Rücken fein,
winziges Zigeunerlein!
Wandern wir durch dunkle Wälder,
schlechte Felder, gute Felder,
schönes Land, grünes Land,
allzeit summt der Wind bekannt.

Schattend steht am Weg der Baum,
und mein Liebchen weint im Traum.
Beeren ziehn die Zweige nieder.
Tun vom Wandern weh die Glieder,
Bündel an den Baum geschwind,
schaukelt das Zigeunerkind.
“Maulbeerbaum kann uns was lehren:
Trägt die Wiege, trägt die Beeren,
gibt dazu auch trocknes Reisig –
wie man Feuer macht, das weiß ich.
Brennt die Flamme lichterloh,
findt ein Topf sich irgendwo,
aus dem Topf in den Kropf
blauer Himmel überm Kopf.”


Vertaald door Annemarie Bostroem

Mihály Babits (26 november 1883 – 4 augustus 1941)
Mihály en Ildikó Babits in Italië in 1940


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 26e november ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag.

Zie voor bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 26 november 2008, mijn blog van 26 november 2007 en ook mijn blog van 26 november 2006.