Jan Eijkelboom, Elisabeth Borchers

De Nederlandse dichter, vertaler en journalist Jan Eijkelboom werd op 1 maart 1926 in Ridderkerk geboren. Zie ook alle tags voor Jan Eijkelboom op dit blog.

In het park

Zoals de schemering de stammen
vervaagt maar zelf nog vager is
zo hangt een dunne groene mist
tussen de nog te volgen takken.

Geen mens dan wij. Hoor onze stappen:
zoals gewoonlijk doelgericht
en tegelijk zo vederlicht.
Zin om te leven klinkt erin
en ook iets van de nieuwe plicht
om oude onrust af te vlakken.

Maar ’t is mij liever als verwarring
ons straffe lopen onderbreekt.
Hoor hoe een haan de maan toeschreeuwt.
Zie uit die boom zijn pluimstaart hangen.

 

Genezen

Toen uit het schimmenrijk
ik was teruggekomen
vielen de blaadren van de bomen,
stond hun skelet alweer te kijk.

Tegen een mast van roestvrij staal
klepperen hel twee nylon koorden,
geluid dat je als kind nooit hoorde.
Toen stond er nog een houten paal
en woei de wind ook uit een noorden
dat minder kil leek, minder schraal.

Toch dreven op het water schotsen
wanneer het later winter werd.
De haven werd ermee versperd
als nu mijn schrijftafel met
slordige papieren rotsen
vol dreiging, woede en verwijt,
die ik weer slim en koel bestrijd.

Ik ben, kortom, geheel terug.
God hielp mij toch de brug weer over,
de ijzige bedoening in
van leven-met-een-zin.

 

Meeuw

Een onverzettelijke speelbal, rijdt de meeuw
op golf na golf, de snavel in de wind,
zoals een kind hem op papier verzint.

Zijn oog kijkt roerloos om zich heen,
naar voren en tegelijk opzij.
De broodheer ziet hij ook meteen.

Zwijgend of krijsend, in de lucht
zie ik hem later
zoals hij toch maar liever is:

tegen de wolken als een vis
in het doorzichtigst water.

 

Jan Eijkelboom (1 maart 1926 – 28 februari 2008)

 

De Duitse schrijfster en dichteres Elisabeth Borchers werd geboren in Homberg op 27 februari 1926. . Zie ook alle tags voor Elisabeth Borchers op dit blog.

 

Maart

Er komt een tijd
dat het slecht afloopt
met de sneeuwman.

Hij verliest zijn zwarte hoed
hij verliest zijn rode neus,
en de bezem valt uit zijn hand.
Kleiner wordt hij van dag
tot dag.

Naast hem groeit iets groens
en nog iets groens
en nog iets groens.

De zon jaagt
vogels voor zich uit.
Die wensen de sneeuwman
een goede reis.

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Elisabeth Borchers (27 februari 1926 – 25 september 2013)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 1e maart ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2020 en ook mijn romenu blog van 1 maart 2019  en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2015 deel 1 en ook deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Cynan Jones, Elisabeth Borchers

De Welshe schrijver Cynan Jones werd geboren op 27 februari 1975 in Aberystwyth, Wales. Zie ook alle tags voor Cynan Jones op dit blog.

Uit: De wetten van water (Stillicide, vertaald door Jona Hoek)

“De droom is als een droge mond.
Het gesuis in het oortje bracht Branner bij zinnen, en hij zag de rode stip knipperen op de omgevingsscanner in zijn hand. Zo tegen de wilg bij de vijftigmetergrens aangedrukt was hij gedeeltelijk tegen de regen beschut. De regen kwam met bakken omlaag. Temperde het ochtendlicht.
De afleiding was een verademing. Toen hij de woorden van de dokter hoorde, klonken ze alsof ze onder water werden uitgesproken. Waren nadien elke seconde in omvang en soliditeit toegenomen. Leken nu te tikken tegen de schaal van de droom die hij al weken had. Een herhaling waartegen hij zich bij het slapen schrap zet. De droom lijkt inmiddels een waarschuwing.
‘Ik heb het gezien,’ zei Branner in zijn microfoontje.
Hij zag hoe de rode stip over de scanner gleed, aarzelde en toen schijnbaar tot rust kwam. Hoe een lichte condens aan de randen van het scherm ontstond.
Je kon op geen enkele manier weten wat de rode stip was, maar het was in de sector en groot genoeg om de sensoren te activeren.
Hert. Hond. Mens. Als het nog leefde en aanwezig was wanneer de watervracht passeerde, zou het afweergeschut van de trein automatisch vuren.
Ze namen nu geen enkel risico meer. Aanvallen op de spoorlijn waren toegenomen.
Branner stond voor de keuze om uit de buurt te blijven of om zelf het gevaar te neutraliseren. Hij kon schieten, of, als hij het als ongevaarlijk kon beoordelen, het bij de toren melden en dan konden zij het geschut van de trein uitschakelen.
‘Kun je er komen?’ De stem van de brigadier klonk door het oortje, door het tikken van de regen tegen Branners capuchon.
‘Ik kan er komen,’ antwoordde Branner. Het was redelijk dichtbij. Aan de andere kant van het spoor.
‘Laat het geschut van de trein het pakken,’ zei de brigadier.
Branner voelde hoe het oude litteken op zijn kaak lichtjes aan de voering van zijn capuchon bleef haken.
‘Nee, ik ga wel.’
Het zal een dier zijn, dacht Branner. Het hoeft niet onnodig te sterven.
De druppels kwamen samen en vielen log van de lange wilgenbladeren.
Branner controleerde zijn geweer en liep de regen in.”

 

Cynan Jones (Aberystwyth, 27 februari 1975)

 

De Duitse schrijfster en dichteres Elisabeth Borchers werd geboren in Homberg op 27 februari 1926. . Zie ook alle tags voor Elisabeth Borchers op dit blog.

 

Februari

Er komt een tijd

dan zegt de kraai
Ik maak nu een lange reis

Hij gaat op een ijsschots zitten
en drijft de rivier af
De wereld is wit

van louter sneeuw
alleen ik ben zwart

Krah-krah zegt de kraai
dit betekent
Zwart zwart
In de zomer wil ik wit zijn
sneeuwwit

In de zomer wil ik
een meeuw zijn
die zijn witte veren
over blauwe zeeën draagt

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 

Elisabeth Borchers (27 februari 1926 – 25 september 2013)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e februari ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2019 en eveneens mijn blog van 27 februari 2016 deel 2.

Cynan Jones, Mischa Andriessen, John Steinbeck, Ruy Belo, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell, Irwin Shaw

De Welshe schrijver Cynan Jones werd geboren op 27 februari 1975 in Aberystwyth, Wales. Zie ook alle tags voor Cynan Jones op dit blog.

Uit: The Long Dry

“He comes in, scraping his feet on the metal grill outside the back door, not because he needs to, but from habit. Or perhaps it is his announcement—a signal they have always had but never spoken of. They had many of these when they were younger.
She rinses the cafetière and warms the cup with water from the kettle, which she’s boiled several times while she has waited for him. She does not make the coffee. Some things she mustn’t do. She’s threatened by the coffee, about how strong to make it, how it tastes when it is made. He makes coffee every day, just for himself as no one else drinks it. He makes a strong potful of coffee at this time of the morning and it does him for the day, warming up the cupfuls in a pan as they are needed, which makes them stronger as the day goes on. No one else touches the pan. She says it’s why he does not sleep. His first coffee each morning is the remnants of the night before because he does not want to wake the house grinding the beans, and the children sleep above the thin ceiling of the kitchen.
He sits at the table with a loose fist and runs his thumb over the first joint of his forefinger in the way he has, so it makes a quiet purring sound, like rubbing leather.
“What about the dosing?”
“It’ll have to wait,” he says.
He rubs his finger. He does this always at the table, talking or reading a paper, even with the handle of a cup held there, so that this part of his finger is smooth and shines. Whenever he’s at rest.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve checked the obvious places and she’s not there. She’s got her head down and gone.”
He does not tell her about the stillborn calf.
“It’s typical. It has to be today,” she says. “I should have gotten up to check.”
“She would have gone anyway,” he says quietly.
He looks down at the missing part of his little finger on his right hand and makes the sound against his thumb again. She still blames herself for this damage to him. He was trying to free the bailer from the new tractor and she had done something and the catch had just bit down. He takes a mouthful of coffee. It was a clean cut and it healed well and he could have lost his hand instead. That’s how he looks at it. In some ways he loves it.”


Cynan Jones (Aberystwyth, 27 februari 1975)

 

De Nederlandse dichter Mischa Andriessen werd geboren in Apeldoorn op 27 februari 1970. Zie ook alle tags voor Mischa Andriessen op dit blog.

De vogelkoning

Het zijn normaal jonge jongens.
In de lente verlaten ze hun huizen
halsoverkop, alsof iemand hen riep.
Wie overleeft, herinnert zich niet
wat het was – het zachte wieken
van wijd uitgestrekte vleugels
een stille roep, zoals stenen zingen
in de hoofden van krankzinnigen.
Van sommigen zijn de vaders
eerder gegaan, er is geen kaart
een richting, geen route; soms
komt er een aan, keert terug
naar waar hij eens vertrok
vertelt het na, vervormd, gehavend
kleren tot op de draad kapot
de blik spreekt louter waanzin:
Een arendsnest op de rotsen
weggedraaide ogen, paarse lippen
heel het gastpad afgedwaald
om weer hier te zijn.
De mare wil dat ze luisteren.

 

Portaal

Vader stond buiten voor de deur.
De zoon stuurde hem weg, wachtte
lange dagen tot hij terugkwam
verjaagde hem telkens opnieuw
maar keek bij elke terugkeer langer
prentte zijn trekken in als zocht hij
ten slotte iets om zich te kunnen herinneren.
Toen vader toch weer op het tuinpad stond
schoot hij ogenblikkelijk zijn jas aan, ging
naar buiten, trok de deur achter zich dicht.
Ze liepen samen op, kenden de richting.


Mischa Andriessen (Apeldoorn, 27 februari 1970)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook alle tags voor John Steinbeck op dit blog.

Uit: The Grapes of Wrath

“And all the time the farms grew larger and the owners fewer. And there were pitifully few farmers on the land any more. And the imported serfs were beaten and frightened and starved until some went home again, and some grew fierce and were killed or driven from the country. And farms grew larger and the owners fewer.
And the crops changed. Fruit trees took the place of grain fields, and vegetables to feed the world spread out on the bottoms: lettuce, cauliflower, artichokes, potatoes–stoop crops. A man may stand to use a scythe, a plow, a pitchfork; but he must crawl like a bug between the rows of lettuce, he must bend his back and pull his long bag between the cotton rows, he must go on his knees like a penitent across a cauliflower patch.
And it came about that owners no longer worked on their farms. They farmed on paper; and they forgot the land, the smell, the feel of it, and remembered only that they owned it, remembered only what they gained and lost by it. And some of the farms grew so large that one man could not even conceive of them any more, so large that it took batteries of bookkeepers to keep track of interest and gain and loss; chemists to test the soil, to replenish; straw bosses to see that the stooping men were moving along the rows as swiftly as the material of their bodies could stand. Then such a farmer really became a storekeeper, and kept a store. He paid the men, and sold them food, and took the money back. And after a while he did not pay the men at all, and saved bookkeeping. “These farms gave food on credit. A man might work and feed himself; and when the work was done, he might find that he owed money to the company. And the owners not only did not work the farms any more, many of them had never seen the farms they owned.
And then the dispossessed were drawn west–from Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico; from Nevada and Arkansas families, tribes, dusted out, tractored out. Carloads, caravans, homeless and hungry; twenty thousand and fifty thousand and a hundred thousand and two hundred thousand.”


John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)
Poster voor de gelijknamige film uit 1940

 

De Portugese dichter, vertaler en essayist Ruy de Moura Belo werd geboren op 27 februari 1933 in São João da Ribeira, nabij Rio Maior. Zie ook alle tags voor Ruy Belo op dit blog.

Anniversary Mass

It’s been one year since your steps
last walked in our parish
Where do you who belonged to these fields
whose wheat is again turning ripe
belong now?
What’s your new name?
Can there be a more unusual weekend
than a saturday like this one that never ends?
How do you fill your time
now that all the time ahead of you is free?
What sort of steps might take you
behind the cooing of a dove in our skies?
Why have you never again had a birthday
even though the table is set and waiting for you
and the mulberry trees along the road are in bloom again?

That’s what his voice was like that’s how he talked
says the yellow-flowered broom that grows here
and that saw him walk on the pathways of childhood
next to his first flight of partridges

Now only in our neckties do we take you who are dead
to those paths where you left the mark of your feet
Only in our neckties. Your death
has stopped dressing us up completely
The summer you departed I clearly remember
thinking profound things
It’s summer again. You have ever less place
in this corner of us where every year
we will piously unearth you
Until the death of your death

 

Vertaald door Richard Zenith


Ruy Belo (27 februari 1933 – 8 augustus 1978)
Cover

 

De Britse dichter en schrijver Lawrence George Durrell werd geboren op 27 februari 1912 in Jalandhar in India. Zie ook alle tags voor Lawrence Durrell op dit blog.

Uit: Bitter Lemons of Cyprus

“Journeys, like artists, are born and not made. A thousand differing circumstances contribute to them, few of them willed or determined by the will — whatever we may think. They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures — and the best of them lead us not only outwards in space, but inwards as well. Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection … These thoughts belong to Venice at dawn, seen from the deck of the ship which is to carry me down through the islands to Cyprus; a Venice wobbling in a thousand fresh-water reflections, cool as a jelly. It was as if some great master, stricken by dementia, had burst his whole colour-box against the sky to deafen the inner eye of the world. Cloud and water mixed into each other, dripping with colours, merging, overlapping, liquefying, with steeples and balconies and roofs floating in space, like the fragments of some stained-glass window seen through a dozen veils of ricepaper. Fragments of history touched with the colours of wine, tar, ochre, blood, fire-opal and ripening grain. The whole at the same time being rinsed softly back at the edges into a dawn sky as softly as circumspectly blue as a pigeon’s egg. Mentally I held it all, softly as an abstract painting, cradling it in my thoughts — the whole encampment of cathedrals and palaces, against the sharply-focused face of Stendhal as he sits forever upon a stiff-backed chair at Florian’s sipping wine: or on that of a Corvo, flitting like some huge fruit-bat down these light-bewitched alleys … The pigeons swarm the belfries. I can hear their wings across the water like the beating of fans in a great summer ballroom. The vaporetto on the Grand Canal beats too, softly as a human pulse, faltering and renewing itself after every hesitation which marks a landing-stage. The glass palaces of the Doges are being pounded in a crystal mortar, strained through a prism. Venice will never be far from me in Cyprus — for the lion of Saint Mark still rides the humid airs of Famagusta, of Kyrenia. It is an appropriate point of departure for the traveller to the eastern Levant … But heavens, it was cold. Down on the grey flagged quay I had noticed a coffee-stall which sold glasses of warm milk and croissants. It was immediately opposite the gang-plank, so that I was in no danger of losing my ship. A small dark man with a birdy eye served me wordlessly, yawning in my face, so that in sympathy I was forced to yawn too. I gave him the last of my liras. There were no seats, but I made myself comfortable on an upended barrel and, breaking my bread into the hot milk, fell into a sleepy contemplation of Venice from this unfamiliar angle of vision across the outer harbour. A tug sighed and spouted a milky jet upon the nearest cloud.”


Lawrence Durrell (27 februari 1912 – 7 november 1990)
Cover

 

De Canadese dichter, schrijver en essayist André Roy werd geboren op 27 februari 1944 in Montréal. Zie ook alle tags van André Roy op dit blog.

Het is nog nacht

Het is nog nacht
de actieve droom,
de machine van actie;
de nacht in de bossen, de woestijnen, de steden.
Ik droomde van twee werelden:
een, zichtbaar en sterfelijk;
de andere, onzichtbaar, met fantomen
moe sinds de geboorte.
Ik observeer, ik zie de dans van de tijd,
de criminelen die ’s nachts terugkwamen.

 

In de nacht houden wij ons op

In de nacht houden wij ons op
jij, ik, wij, de anderen, die zijn zoals wij.
Nogmaals de actie,
de structuur van het denken in actie.
Moderne wereld van bossen en water.
Je behoort tot de reizende kooplieden,
onze voorouders de vampieren.
De steden, de huizen, de bedden,
waar we ons mysterieus, onmogelijk,
onsterfelijk waanden
wat een waanzin!
Het verlangen stroomt;
we zouden onszelf kunnen doden
voor de kennis van het verlangen.

 

Vertaald door Frans Roumen

 
André Roy (Montréal, 27 februari 1944)

 

De Duitse schrijfster en dichteres Elisabeth Borchers werd geboren in Homberg op 27 februari 1926. . Zie ook alle tags voor Elisabeth Borchers op dit blog.

Niemand behaupte

Niemand behaupte
ich sei taub.
Allabendlich höre ich
die Unrast der Sterne.

Niemand behaupte
ich sei blind oder lahm.
Ich nehme Stock und Stein
bis zum jähen Ereignis.

Niemand behaupte
ich hätte zu träumen versäumt.
Ich werde nicht nach Tibet reisen
und auch nicht nach Tanger.
Mir träumte
ich fände den Weg
nicht zurück.

 

An ein Kind

Wenn wir lange genug warten,
dann wird es kommen.
Heute noch, fragt das Kind.
Heut oder morgen. Ein Schiff,
mußt du wissen, braucht Zeit.
So weit und breit wie das Meer.
Dann bist du groß.
Dann steigen wir ein
und machen die Reise.
Zusammen. Wir beide.
Und jeder auf seine Weise.


Elisabeth Borchers (27 februari 1926 – 25 september 2013)

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Thomas Farrell werd geboren op 27 februari 1904 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor James T. Farrell op dit blog.

Uit: Father and Son

“When he’d come home, Bill was there, white and scared. But he hadn’t hit him. He’d talked to Bill like a father. Lizz had gone to see McCarthy, the police sergeant whose boys played with Bill and Danny, and McCarthy had quashed it all. He’d paid for the pocketbook, and it was all forgotten. After that, Bill had settled down. Now, you couldn’t want for a decenter boy. He looked at his leathery face in the mirror. He washed it, dried himself, cleaned out the wash bowl, and left the bathroom. He put on his khaki shirt, passed through the small hallway to the dining room, and was ready to eat. The dining-room table was covered with dishes and papers. In the center of it there was a large glass cake-dish, which contained crumbs and a stale chunk of cake. Lizz pushed dishes aside and set coffee, sugar buns, and a plate of ham and eggs before him. She wore an old apron and had a rag tied under her chin. She looked sloppy. Jim pitched into the ham and eggs. “I was over to see my mother yesterday,” Lizz remarked, sitting down to talk with him. He nodded, but said nothing. He bit into a sugar bun. He was waiting to see whether or not she’d had another scrap with her people. “Mother said that Al isn’t well,” she said. “You wouldn’t think he would be, having a doctor like Mike Geraghty,” Jim said, suddenly bitter. His face clouded. He remembered his Little Arty, now three years dead. All their good luck had to come after Arty was long since dead. He wiped up the yolk from the plate with a bun and ate it, and then he shoved his plate aside and handed Lizz his cup for more coffee. She returned with a filled cup and sat down. “Lizz, it’s a long time since the little fellow left us. You really ought to take off your mourning. If you do that you won’t be sad so often. You have to let time heal old wounds,” he said, his voice kindly. “Oh, Jim, I see the children playing on Calumet Avenue, and it breaks my heart. Not one of them is as beautiful as our Arty was.” “Come on now, Lizz, we’ve got to brace up. We’ve got lots to be thankful for, even with the tough breaks we had in the past,” he said, but the image of little Arty stood in his mind, a lovely, light-haired boy in a dirty dress, staring with those wonderful sad eyes and saying “Fither.” Lizz wiped her eyes with her apron. “Jim, I can’t help it. I look at our new house and I think of him. Oh, how he would have loved it. He’d be going to school this year or next. Everywhere I see, Jim, makes me think of him. I can’t help it. I can’t take off my mourning,” she said in tears.”

 
James T. Farrell (27 februari 1904 – 22 augustus 1979)
Cover

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver Irwin Shaw werd geboren op 27 februari 1913 als Irwin Gilbert Shamforoff in New York. Zie alle tags voor Irwin Shaw op dit blog.

Uit: Rich Man, Poor Man

“Boylan was standing at the bar in his tweed topcoat, staring at his glass, when Rudolph came down the little flight of steps from Eighth Street, carrying the overnight bag. There were only men standing at the bar and most of them were probably fairies. “I see you have the bag,” Boylan said. “She didn’t want it.” “And the dress?” “She took the dress.” “What are you drinking?” “A beer, please.” “One beer, please,” Boylan said to the bartender. “And I’ll continue with whiskey.” Boylan looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. His eyebrows were blonder than they had been last week. His face was very tan, as though he had been lying on a southern beach for months. Two or three of the fairies at the bar were equally brown. Rudolph knew about the sun lamp by now. “I make it a point to look as healthy and attractive as I can at all times,” Boylan had explained to Rudolph. “Even if I don’t see anybody for weeks on end. It’s a form of self-respect.” Rudolph was so dark, anyway, that he felt he could respect himself without a sun lamp. The bartender put the drinks down in front of them. Boylan’s fingers trembled a little as he picked up his glass. Rudolph wondered how many whiskies he had had. “Did you tell her I was here?” Boylan asked. “Yes.” “Is she coming?” “No. The man she was with wanted to come and meet you, but she didn’t.” There was no point in not being honest. “Ah,” Boylan said. “The man she was with.” “She’s living with somebody.” “I see,” Boylan said flatly. “It didn’t take long, did it?” Rudolph drank his beer. “Your sister is an extravagantly sensual woman,” Boylan said. “I fear for where it may lead her.” Rudolph kept drinking his beer. “They’re not married, by any chance?” “No. He’s still married to somebody else.” Boylan looked at himself in the mirror again for a while. A burly young man in a black turtle-neck sweater down the bar caught his eye in the glass and smiled. Boylan turned away slightly, toward Rudolph. “What sort of fellow is he? Did you like him?” “Young,” Rudolph said. “He seemed nice enough. Full ofjokes.” “Full of jokes,” Boylan repeated. “Why shouldn’t he be full of jokes? What sort of place do they have?” “Two furnished rooms in a walkup.” “Your sister has a romantic disregard of the advantages of money,” Boylan said. “She will regret it later. Among the other things she will regret.” “She seemed happy.” Rudolph found Boylan’s prophecies distasteful.”


Irwin Shaw (27 februari 1913 – 16 mei 1984)
Cover voor een omnibus

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 27e februari ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2018 en eveneens mijn blog van 27 februari 2016 deel 2.

Cynan Jones, John Steinbeck, Ruy Belo, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell, Irwin Shaw

De Welshe schrijver Cynan Jones werd geboren op 27 februari 1975 in Aberystwyth, Wales. Zie ook alle tags voor Cynan Jones op dit blog.

Uit: Cove

He swings the fish from the water, a wild stripe flicking and flashing into the boat, and grabs the line, twisting the hook out, holding the fish down in the footrests. It gasps, thrashes. Drums. Something rapid and primal, ceremonial, in the shallow of the open boat.
Flecks of blood and scales loosen, as if turning to rainbows in his hands as he picks up the fish and breaks its neck, feels the minute rim of teeth inside its jaw on the pad of his forefinger, puts his thumb behind the head and snaps.
The jaw splits and the gills splay, like an opening flower. He was sure he would catch fish. He left just a simple note, ‘Pick salad x’.
He looks briefly towards the inland cliffs, hoping the peregrine might be there, scanning as he patiently undoes the knot of traces, pares the feathers away from each other until they are free and feeds them out. The boat is flecked. Glittered. A heat come to the morning now, convincing and thick.
The kayak lilts. Weed floats. He thinks of her hair in water. The same darkened blonde colour.
It’s unusual to catch only one. Or it was just a straggler. The edge of the shoal.
He retrieves a carrier bag from the drybag in back and puts the fish safe, the metal of it dulling immediately to cloth in his hands. Then he bails out the blood-rusted water that has come into the boat.
Fish don’t have eyelids, remember. In this bright water, it’s likely they are deeper out. He’s been hearing his father’s voice for the last few weeks now. I’ve got this one, though. That’s enough. That’s lunch anyway. The bay lay just a little way north. It was a short paddle from the flat beach inland of him, with the caravans on the low fields above, but it felt private. His father long ago had told him they were the only ones that knew about the bay and that was a good thing between them to believe.
You’ll set the pan on a small fire and cook the mackerel as you used to do together, in the pats of butter you took from the roadside cafe. The butter will be liquid by now, and you will have to squeeze it from the wrapper like an ointment.
He smiled at catching the fish. That part of the day safe.
I should bring her here. All these years and I haven’t. It’s different now. I should bring her.
The bones in the cooling pan, fingers sticky with the toffee of burnt butter.

 
Cynan Jones (Aberystwyth, 27 februari 1975)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Cynan Jones, John Steinbeck, Ruy Belo, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell, Irwin Shaw”

Cynan Jones, John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell, Irwin Shaw

De Welshe schrijver Cynan Jones werd geboren op 27 februari 1975 in Aberystwyth, Wales. Zie ook alle tags voor Cynan Jones op dit blog.

Uit: The Dig

“The policeman opened the door, looked at the deep mud of the yard, and got deliberately out.
Set back from the window, the man watched him through the gap in the curtains. He watched him scan the place. The policeman was young and he was not a policeman the big man had seen before.
The policeman bent through the car door and pushed the horn twice.
What do I do here? thought the man. He wished he’d left one of the big dogs off but knew even through the coal it would scent the badger and bother it. If I stay in the house, he’ll start looking round, thought the man. Ag.
The policeman had started to walk toward the house from the car and the big man came out.
Afternoon, sir. It’s clearing up, the policeman said. The policeman looked at the man and looked out as if at the weather over the valley.
The big man just nodded.
Few questions, really, sir. The policeman was light and inoffensive the way they are and the man moved to bring him away from the house.
Can you tell me what you were doing last night, or early this morning?
The big man didn’t reply.
The policeman looked around at the yard and privately noticed the two sets of tire tracks that were cut into the mud and that were not filled with overnight rain. He saw the old red van and guessed one set belonged to that. The policeman took in the many dumped engines and tires and the wastage of vehicles and machines about.
We’ve had a report of fly-tipping. He waited. I just wanted to ask whether you would know anything about that.
What did they tip? asked the man.
The policeman didn’t respond. He was looking at the junk and the big man saw and said, Does it look like I throw things away?”

 
Cynan Jones (Aberystwyth, 27 februari 1975)

 

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Cynan Jones, John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell, Irwin Shaw”

John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook alle tags voor John Steinbeck op dit blog.

Uit: Cannery Row

“On the black earth on which the ice plants bloomed, hundreds of black stink bugs crawled. And many of them stuck their tails up in the air. “Look at all them stink bugs,” Hazel remarked, grateful to the bugs for being there.
“They’re interesting,” said Doc.
“Well, what they got their asses up in the air for?”
Doc rolled up his wool socks and put them in the rubber boots and from his pocket he brought out dry socks and a pair of thin moccasins. “I don’t know why,” he said. “I looked them up recently–they’re very common animals and one of the commonest things they do is put their tails up in the air. And in all the books there isn’t one mention of the fact that they put their tails up in the air or why.”
Hazel turned one of the stink bugs over with the toe of his wet tennis shoe and the shining black beetle strove madly with floundering legs to get upright again. “Well, why do you think they do it?”
“I think they’re praying,” said Doc.
“What!” Hazel was shocked.
“The remarkable thing,” said Doc, “isn’t that they put their tails up in the air–the really incredibly remarkable thing is that we find it remarkable. We can only use ourselves as yardsticks. If we did something as inexplicable and strange we’d probably be praying–so maybe they’re praying.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Hazel.”
(…)

“Hazel used his trick. “They got no starfish there?”
“They got no ocean there” said Doc.
“Oh!” said Hazel and he cast frantically about for a peg to hang a new question on. He hated to have a conversation die out like this. He wasn’t quick enough. While he was looking for a question Doc asked one. Hazel hated that, it meant casting about in his mind for an answer and casting about in Hazel’s mind was like wandering alone in a deserted museum. Hazel’s mind was choked with uncataloged exhibits. …”

 
John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)
Affiche voor de film “Cannary Row” uit 1982

Doorgaan met het lezen van “John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell”

John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook alle tags voor John Steinbeck op dit blog.

Uit: Travels with Charley

« The next passage in my journey is a love affair. I am in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection, but with Montana it is love, and it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it. Once, when I raptured in a violet glow given off by the Queen of the World, my father asked me why, and I thought he was crazy not to see. Of course I know now she was a mouse-haired, freckle-nosed, scabby-kneed little girl with a voice like a bat and the loving kindness of a gila monster, but then she lighted up the landscape and me. It seems to me that Montana is a great splash of grandeur. The scale is huge but not overpowering. The land is rich with grass and color, and the mountains are the kind I would create if mountains were ever put on my agenda. Montana seems to me to be what a small boy would think Texas is like from hearing Texans. Here for the first time I heard a definite regional accent unaffected by TV-ese, a slow-paced warm speech. It seemed to me that the frantic bustle of America was not in Montana. Its people did not seem afraid of shadows in a John Birch Society sense. The calm of the mountains and the rolling grasslands had got into the inhabitants. It was hunting season when I drove through the state. The men I talked to seemed to me not moved to a riot of seasonal slaughter but simply to be going out to kill edible meat. Again my attitude may be informed by love, but it seemed to me that the towns were places to live in rather than nervous hives. People had time to pause in their occupations to undertake the passing art of neighborliness.
I found I did not rush through the towns to get them over with. I even found things I had to buy to make myself linger. In Billings I bought a hat, in Livingston a jacket, in Butte a rifle I didn’t particularly need, a Remington bolt-action .22, secondhand but in beautiful condition.”

 
John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)
Hier met Charley

Doorgaan met het lezen van “John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell”

John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook alle tags voor John Steinbeck op dit blog.

Uit: Travels with Charley

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was on me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch. When years described me as mature, the remedy prescribed was middle age.In middle age I was assured greater age would calm my fever and now that I am fifty-eight perhaps senility will do the job. Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ships’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage. In other words, once a bum always a bum. I fear this disease incurable. I set this matter down not to instruct others but to inform myself….A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we not take a trip; a trip takes us.”
(…)

“Once a journey is designed, equipped, and put in process, a new factor enters and takes over. A trip, a safari, an exploration, is an entity, different from all other journeys. It has personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. Tour masters, schedules, reservations, brass-bound and inevitable, dash themselves to wreckage on the personality of the trip. Only when this is recognized can the blown-in-the glass bum relax and go along with it. Only then do the frustrations fall away. In this a journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”
(…)

“Once Charley fell in love with a dachshund, a romance racially unsuitable, physically ridiculous, and mechanically impossible. But all these problems Charley ignored. He loved deeply and tried dogfully.”

 
John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “John Steinbeck, Lawrence Durrell, André Roy, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers, James T. Farrell”

James T. Farrell, Elisabeth Borchers, Vera Friedlander, Irwin Shaw

De Amerikaanse schrijver James Thomas Farrell werd geboren op 27 februari 1904 in Chicago. Zie ook alle tags voor James T. Farrell op dit blog.

 

Uit: Young Lonigan

„Studs Lonigan, on the verge of fifteen, and wearing his first suit of long trousers, stood in the bathroom with a Sweet Caporal pasted in his mug. His hands were jammed in his trouser pockets, and he sneered. He puffed, drew the fag out of his mouth, inhaled and said to himself:

Well, I’m kissin’ the old dump goodbye tonight.

Studs was a small, broad-shouldered lad. His face was wide and planed; his hair was a light brown. His long nose was too large for his other features; almost a sheeny’s nose. His lips were thick and wide, and they did not seem at home on his otherwise frank and boyish face. He was always twisting them into his familiar tough-guy sneers. He had blue eyes; his mother rightly called them baby-blue eyes.

He took another drag and repeated to himself:

Well, I’m kissin’ the old dump goodbye.

The old dump was St. Patrick’s grammar school; and St. Patrick’s meant a number of things to Studs. It meant school, and school was a jailhouse that might just as well have had barred windows. It meant the long, wide, chalk-smelling room of the seventh- and eighth-grade boys, with its forty or fifty squirming kids. It meant the second floor of the tan brick, undistinguished parish building on Sixty-first Street that had swallowed so much of Studs’ life for the past eight years. It meant the black-garbed Sisters of Providence, with their rattling beads, their swishing strides, and the funny-looking wooden clappers they used, which made a dry snapping sound and which hurt like anything when a guy got hit over the head with one. It meant Sister Carmel, who used to teach fourth grade, but was dead now; and who used to hit everybody the edge of a ruler because she knew they all called her the bearded lady. It meant Studs, twisting in his seat, watching the sun come in the windows to show up the dust on the floor, twisting and squirming, and letting his mind fly to all kinds of places that were not like school. It meant Battleaxe Bertha talking and hearing lessons, her thin, sunken-jawed face white as a ghost, and sometimes looking like a corpse. It meant Bertha yelling in that creaky old woman’s voice of hers.“

 

James T. Farrell (27 februari 1904 – 22 augustus 1979)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “James T. Farrell, Elisabeth Borchers, Vera Friedlander, Irwin Shaw”

John Steinbeck, André Roy, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers

De Amerikaanse schrijver John Steinbeck werd geboren in Salinas, Californië, op 27 februari 1902. Zie ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2007 en ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2009 en ook mijn blog van 27 februari 2010.

 

Uit: East of Eden

 

“The Salinas Valley is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer-and what trees and seasons smelled like-how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding-unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn’t run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river.”

 

 

John Steinbeck (27 februari 1902 – 20 december 1968)

 

 

Doorgaan met het lezen van “John Steinbeck, André Roy, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Longfellow, Elisabeth Borchers”