John Grisham, Robin Block, Elizabeth Bishop, Neal Cassady, Henry Roth, Eva Strittmatter, Gert Jonke, Jules Verne, Kate Chopin

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Grisham werd geboren in Jonesboro, Arkansas, op 8 februari 1955. Zie ook alle tags voor John Grisham op dit blog.

Uit:The Rooster Bar

“The end of the year brought the usual holiday festivities, though around the Frazier house there was little to cheer. Mrs. Frazier went through the motions of decorating a small tree and wrapping a few cheap gifts and baking cookies no one really wanted, and, as always, she kept The Nutcracker running nonstop on the stereo as she gamely hummed along in the kitchen as though the season was merry.
Things were anything but merry. Mr. Frazier had moved out three years earlier, and he wasn’t missed as much as he was despised. In no time, he had moved in with his young secretary, who, as things developed, was already pregnant. Mrs. Frazier, jilted, humiliated, broke, and depressed, was still struggling.
Louie, her younger son, was under house arrest, sort of free on bail, and facing a rough year ahead with the drug charges and all. He made no effort to buy his mom anything in the way of a gift. His excuse was that he couldn’t leave the house because of the court-ordered monitor attached to his ankle. But even without it, no one expected Louie to go to the trouble of buying gifts. The year before and the year before that both of his ankles had been unburdened and he hadn’t bothered to shop.
Mark, the older son, was home from the horrors of law school, and, though even poorer than his brother, had managed to buy his mother some perfume. He was scheduled to graduate in May, sit for the bar exam in July, and begin working with a D.C. firm in September, which, as it so happened, was the same month Louie’s trial was on the docket. But Louie’s case would not go to trial for two very good reasons. First, the undercover boys had caught him in the act of selling ten bags of crack—there was even a video—and, second, neither Louie nor his mother could afford a decent lawyer to handle the mess. Throughout the holidays, both Louie and Mrs. Frazier dropped hints that Mark should rush in and volunteer to defend his brother. Wouldn’t it be easy to stall matters until later in the year when Mark was properly admitted to the bar—he was practically there anyway—and once he had his license wouldn’t it be a simple matter of finding one of those technicalities you read about to get the charges dismissed?”

John Grisham (Jonesboro, 8 februari 1955)


De Nederlandse dichter, songwriter en musicus Robin Block werd geboren op 8 februari 1980 in Heemskerk. Zie ook alle tags voor Robin Block op dit blog.


Stempel door een naam die ik niet spellen kon
maar ik herken de klank en de hand die mij toestopte.

De trilling van de gong
klinkt langer dan de zucht van bleke meesters.
De eeuw rekt uit over een gekromde rug en recht zich.
De geest van mijn voorvaderen rolt weer over mijn tong
en ik knikkebol in een rotanstoel.
Ik proef rambutan, tabak, de smaak van hun gebeden.
Ik knik waar ook zij zouden zwijgen.
Ik wijs de oceaan aan en luister: sss-aaa-muuu-draaa.

Zie je hoe de zon zich verplaatst -in repen-,
door de bamboerasters een gezicht uittekent?
Hoe fel het kleurt om moeders jukbeenderen heen?
Er licht een kaart op in mijn huid,
een brandmerk van toekomstige dwalingen.

Inboedel en bloed worden gescheiden.
Ik zoek je eerst in het hart en dan pas in papieren, archieven.
Witte bloem. Kalme zon. Zachte ogen.
Moeder, snuif nog één keer in mijn hals, voordat de boot zich los-
scheurt van de volgestroomde kade.
Roep nog iets onverstaanbaars: mijn naam.

Zolang als ik kijk. Zolang als ik kijk, zul je blijven zwaaien.

Robin Block (Heemskerk, 8 februari 1980)


De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Elizabeth Bishop werd geboren op 8 februari 1911 in Worcester, Massachusetts. Zie ook alle tags voor Elizabeth Bishop op dit blog.

Songs For A Colored Singer

A washing hangs upon the line,
but it’s not mine.
None of the things that I can see
belong to me.
The neighbors got a radio with an aerial;
we got a little portable.
They got a lot of closet space;
we got a suitcase.

I say, “Le Roy, just how much are we owing?
Something I can’t comprehend,
the more we got the more we spend….”
He only answers, “Let’s get going.”
Le Roy, you’re earning too much money now.

I sit and look at our backyard
and find it very hard.
What have we got for all his dollars and cents?
–A pile of bottles by the fence.
He’s faithful and he’s kind
but he sure has an inquiring mind.
He’s seen a lot; he’s bound to see the rest,
and if I protest

Le Roy answers with a frown,
“Darling, when I earns I spends.
The world is wide; it still extends….
I’m going to get a job in the next town.”
Le Roy, you’re earning too much money now.

Elizabeth Bishop (8 februari 1911 – 6 oktober 1979)
Hier met Robert Lowell 


De Amerikaanse schrijver Neal Cassady werd geboren op 8 februari 1926 in Salt Lake City. Zie ook alle tags voor Neal Cassady op dit blog.

Uit: Collected Letters

April 15, 1947 1073 Downing St. [Denver]
Dear Jack; What you say about “not to worry about worry”—”not to make an issue of labours” etc. is the one thing I have always had, you can’t see that your insistence on believing that the will is all, has, and always will be my basic concept. Since even I am not too sure of what I’m seeking now, you can’t say our paths are as seemingly devious as you think. Of course, I know the only reason you have these presumptions is due to my inability to formulate verbally what I feel and failing to pass this on to you, you assume a lack on my part, that is, a failure to really understand you. Because of this I fear you unconsciously are not too damn interested in me, and, although knowing how foolish and unnecessary it is to be that way toward me, you still feel guilty enough to be concerned and yet bored, therefore, fall into false premises about us. Remember, my primary feeling for you lies in just that unconcern & frankness, lack of straightness etc. that you speak of, so don’t allow any preconceived ideas of me or my character, or what I’m “seeking” to interfere with that. Just as you outlined Ed White, is just as I think of you & whatever difference there is in our personalities can, should & in my mind is, overcome due only to this knowledge. In other words: sensing a semi-indifference to me, you react just enough to fail to see that in that semi-indifference lies our freedom and any degree of closeness we have. Don’t compare me with Allen or Huneke, but rather with someone like Norman or even White. I am similar to Norman in that my native enthusiasm carries me on (just as with you) & similar to White in that I feel only as much as I’m concerned. This could become involved, all I’m trying to say is, let things fall into their natural order & don’t, after really coming on fine, take on a defensive, apologetic air which we both feel only because of a self-imposed sense of obligation, and excuse yourself for something that, in actuality, you are to be commended for. Let’s forget all this shit and just scribble to each other what [we] feel, not think.

I’ve rejected Justin and feel very little need for anyone at this time, really, I just want to be alone. I’m closing so soon only because I’m quite fatigued and this letter is five days late as it is. Have pity and write soon, don’t write to say anything, just write. Your friend, NEALL.
P.S. Great! Great! keep going on that novel, man—you’re in!”

Neal Cassady (8 februari 1926 – 4 februari 1968)


De Amerikaanse schrijver Henry Roth werd geboren op 8 februari 1906 in Tysmenitz nabij Stanislawow, Galicië, in het toenmalige Oostenrijk-Hongarije. Zie ook alle tags voor Henry Roth op dit blog.

Uit: Call it Sleep

“All day the guttural, the high-pitched voices, the astonished cries, the gasps of wonder, reiterations of gladness had risen from her decks in a motley billow of sound. But now her decks were empty, quiet, spreading out under the sunlight al-most as if the warm boards were relaxing from the strain and the pressure of the myriads of feet. All those stee-rage passengers of the ships that had docked that day vhn vono permitted to enter had Already entered eveept two, a woman and a young child she carried in her arms. They had just come aboard escorted by a man. About the appearance of these late comers there was little that was unusual. The man had evidently spent some time in America and was now bringing his wife and child over from the other side. It might have been thought that he had spent most of his life time in lower New York, for he paid only the scantest attention to the Statue of Liberty or the city rising from the water or to the bridge spanning the East River – or perhaps he was merely too agitated to waste time on these wonders. His clothes were the ordinary clothes the ordinary New-Yorkers wore at that period – sober and dull. A black derby accentueted the sharpness and sedentary pallor of his face; a jacket, loose on his tall spare frame, but-toned up in a V close to the throat; and above the V a thightly knotted black tie was mounted in the groove of a high starched collar. As for his wife, one guessed that she was European more by timid wondering look in her eyes as she gazed from her husband to the harbor, than by her clothes. For her clothes were American – a black skirt, a white shirt-waist and a black jacket. Ob-viously her husband had either taken the precaution of sending them to het while she was still in Europe or had brought them with him to Ellis Island where she had slipped them on before she left. Only the small child in her arms wore a distinctly foreign costume, an impression one got chiefly from the odd, outlandish, blue straw hat on his head with its polka dot ribbons of the same colour dangling over each shoulder.”

Henry Roth (8 februari 1906 – 13 oktober 1995)


De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Eva Strittmatter werd als Eva Braun geboren op 8 februari 1930 in Neuruppin. Zie ook alle tags voor Eva Strittmatter op dit blog.

März in Wahrheit

Alle Schneisen sind mit Blau ausgegossen.
Der März ist hellblau. Hellblau nicht grün.
Das Kieferngrün ist von Lichtblau umflossen,
In dem, gegens Licht, Lichtstäublein sprühn

Von fliegendem Leben, Mücklein, die schweben
Im okeanisch wogenden Blau.
Allgierig sich erneuerndes Leben
Umbalzt auch mich, die zaudernde Frau.


Liebe II

Die Sensation zu leben.
Nachts. Und die Liebe ist.
Gefangen und ergeben:
Wir sind. Ich bin. Du bist.

Austausch. Aufschwung. Verwandlung.
Zwei Atemzüge Zeit.
Ein Nichts von einer Handlung.
Dann: eine Ewigkeit.


Liebe III

Liebe ist das, was man verliert
und unversehens wiederfindet.
Wenn man schon ist wie licht-erblindet,
weil man nur Fernes anvisiert,
liegt es am Wege. Zwar in Scherben
doch noch zu kennen an dem Schein,
den Blumen haben vor dem Sterben,
und an dem Neigenduft von Wein
Ach Liebe – unausweichlich lieben
gegen Verlust: Wir welken hin.
Einer des andern Schuld geblieben.
Einer des anderen Gewinn.

Eva Strittmatter (8 februari 1930 – 3 januari 2011)


De Oostenrijkse dichter en schrijver Gert Jonke werd geboren op 8 februari 1946 in Klagenfurt. Zie ook alle tags voor Gert Jonke op dit blog.

Uit: Redner rund um die Uhr

„Das alles bis jetzt durchzustehen habe ich nur die Kraft aufbringen können, indem ich mich immer wieder auf jenes glitzernde innere Schimmern besinne, das sich in mir versteckt und das ich eher hören als sehen kann, wenn ich manchmal kopfabwärts schräg in mich einwärts blicke und aus mir heraus dieses blinzelnde Schimmern vernehme, das ganz stark mit mir zu tun hat.
Sie erinnern sich:
Dieses hörbar glitzernde Blinzeln dieser ganz vielen vielen beinah unzähligen Taschenlampenbirnen in mir.
Jetzt lasse ich es drinnen.
Immer wollte ich es aus mir herausholen aus jenem juckend sich öffnenden Spalt am unteren Halsansatz oder schon auf oberster Schulter halsverrenkend schräg abwärts schielend herausstülpen aus mir, um mich auch draußen damit zu schmücken.
Von Zeit zu Zeit verflüssigt es sich, füllt mich völlig aus so, daß ich mit meinen Armen luftaufwärts greife und wie ein aus dem Boden der Ebene schnell wachsender Baum mit den äußersten Zweigen meiner Blätterkrone im gesamten Himmel darüber verspannt und verankert bin.
Dann bin ich manchmal auch der Regenbogen, der nach dem Ende des Gewitters seine Farbenrede hält.

Inzwischen habe ich es so weit gebracht, mein Nervensystem zu einem Musikinstrument, das sich in meinem Inneren befindet, umzubauen.
Alle Gefühle, die in mir hochkommen, werden, wenn ich in die Saiten meiner Nervenharfe greife, mit der musikalischen Intelligenz meiner Empfindungen zu einem leuchtend blinzelnden Funkeln und glänzenden Schimmern gebracht. Auf den sich mir unter der Haut durch meinen ganzen inneren Resonanzkörper dicht gebündelt verspannten Saiten erklingend, höre ich auch die allerschlimmsten der mir aufkommenden Gefühle meines hoffnungslosen Daseins als musikalisch ununterbrochen atemberaubendes Ereignis, und alle Ödnis und Trauer wird mir zu einem höchste Höhen erklimmend rasend wehmütigen Glück.“

Gert Jonke (8 februari 1946 – 4 januari 2009)


 De Franse schrijver Jules Verne werd geboren in Nantes op 8 februari 1828. Zie ook alle tags voor Jules Verne op dit blog.

 Uit: Michel Strogoff

“Sire, une nouvelle dépêche.
— D’où vient-elle ?
— De Tomsk.
— Le fil est coupé au delà de cette ville ?
— Il est coupé depuis hier.
— D’heure en heure, général, fais passer un télégramme à Tomsk, et que l’on me tienne au courant.
— Oui, sire, » répondit le général Kissoff.
Ces paroles étaient échangées à deux heures du matin, au moment où la fête, donnée au Palais-Neuf, était dans toute sa magnificence.
Pendant cette soirée, la musique des régiments de Préobrajensky et de Paulowsky n’avait cessé de jouer ses polkas, ses mazurkas, ses scottischs et ses valses, choisies parmi les meilleures du répertoire. Les couples de danseurs et de danseuses se multipliaient à l’infini à travers les splendides salons de ce palais, élevé a quelques pas de la « vieille maison de pierres », où tant de drames terribles s’étaient accomplis autrefois, et dont les échos se réveillèrent, cette nuit-là, pour répercuter des motifs de quadrilles.
Le grand maréchal de la cour était, d’ailleurs, bien secondé dans ses délicates fonctions. Les grands-ducs et leurs aides de camp, les chambellans de service, les officiers du palais présidaient eux-mêmes à l’organisation des danses. Les grandes-duchesses, couvertes de diamants, les dames d’atour, revêtues de leurs costumes de gala, donnaient vaillamment l’exemple aux femmes des hauts fonctionnaires militaires et civils de l’ancienne « ville aux blanches pierres ». Aussi, lorsque le signal de la « polonaise » retentit, quand les invités de tout rang prirent part à cette promenade cadencée, qui, dans les solennités de ce genre, a toute l’importance d’une danse nationale, le mélange des longues robes étagées de dentelles et des uniformes chamarrés de décorations offrit-il un coup d’œil indescriptible, sous la lumière de cent lustres que décuplait la réverbération des glaces.”

Jules Verne (8 februari 1828 – 24 maart 1905)
Raimund Harmstorf als Michel Strogoff in de tv-serie uit 1975


De Amerikaanse schrijfster Kate Chopin (pseudoniem van Katherine O’Flaherty) werd geboren op 8 februari 1851 in St. Louis. Zie ook alle tags voor Kate Chopin op dit blog.

Uit: The Story of an Hour

« She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.”

Kate Chopin (8 februari 1851 – 22 augustus 1904)
Cover luisterboek


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 8e februari ook mijn blog van 8 februari 2015 deel 1 en ook deel 2.

Zie voor bovenstaande schrijvers ook mijn blog van 8 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 8 februari 2008 en eveneens mijn blog van 8 februari 2009.