Charles Dickens, Gay Talese, Christine Angot, Pjeroo Roobjee, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Lioba Happel, Rhijnvis Feith, Alban Nikolai Herbst

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit: Hard Times

“It wouldn’t hurt them, sir. They wouldn’t crush and wither, if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very pretty, and pleasant, and I would fancy — —” “Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn’t fancy,” cried the gentleman, quite elated by coming so happily to this point. “That’s it! You are never to fancy.” “Fact, fact, fact,” said the gentleman. “Fact, fact, fact,” repeated Mr. Gradgrind. “You are to be in all things regulated and governed,” said the gentleman, “by fact. We hope to have, before long, a board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact. You don’t walk upon flowers in fact; you can not be allowed to walk upon flowers in carpets. You don’t find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch upon your crockery; you can not be permitted to paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You must use for all these purposes combinations and modifications (in primary colours) of mathematical figures, which are susceptible of proof and demonstration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste.” Then Mr. M’Choakumchild was asked to teach his first lesson. He went to work in this preparatory lesson not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves: looking into all the vessels ranged before him, one after another, to see what they contained. Say, good M’Choakumchild, when from thy boiling store thou shalt fill each jar brim full by and by, dost thou think that thou wilt always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within — or sometimes only maim him and distort him? The “maiming and distorting” of the imagination filled Dickens with alarm. He recognised with great clearness the law that all evil springs from misused good, and he knew that if the imagination is not cultivated properly the child not only loses the many intellectual and spiritual advantages that would result from its true culture, but that it is exposed to the terrible danger of a distorted imagination. Tom Gradgrind is used as a type of the degradation that results from “the strangling of the imagination.” Its ghost lived on to drag him down “in the form of grovelling sensualities.” That which, truly used, has most power to ennoble, has also, when warped or dwarfed, most power to degrade. As Mr. Varden told his wife, “All good things perverted to evil purposes are worse than those which are naturally bad.” The five young Gradgrinds had little opportunity to develop their imaginations. They were watched too closely to have any imaginative plays; they were not allowed to read poetry or fiction; they heard no stories; they had no fairies or genii in their lives; they heard nothing of giants or such false things; no little Boy Blue ever blew his horn for them; no Jack Homer took a plum out of any pie in their experience; no such ridiculous person as Santa Claus ever put anything in their stockings; no cow ever performed the impossible feat of jumping over the moon, so far as they knew; they had never even heard of the cow with the crumpled horn that tossed the dog that worried the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.”

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Cover

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver en journalist Gay Talese werd geboren op 7 februari 1932 in Ocean City. Zie ook alle tags voor Gay Talese op dit blog.

Uit: Frank Sinatra Has a Cold

“I had seen something of this Sicilian side of Sinatra last summer at Jilly’s saloon in New York, which was the only other time I’d gotten a close view of him prior to this night in this California club. Jilly’s, which is on West Fifty-second Street in Manhattan, is where Sinatra drinks whenever he is in New York, and there is a special chair reserved for him in the back room against the wall that nobody else may use. When he is occupying it, seated behind a long table flanked by his closest New York friends—who include the saloonkeeper, Jilly Rizzo, and Jilly’s azure-haired wife, Honey, who is known as the “Blue Jew”—a rather strange ritualistic scene develops. That night dozens of people, some of them casual friends of Sinatra’s, some mere acquaintances, some neither, appeared outside of Jilly’s saloon. They approached it like a shrine. They had come to pay respect. They were from New York, Brooklyn, Atlantic City, Hoboken. They were old actors, young actors, former prizefighters, tired trumpet players, politicians, a boy with a cane. There was a fat lady who said she remembered Sinatra when he used to throw the Jersey Observer onto her front porch in 1933. There were middle-aged couples who said they had heard Sinatra sing at the Rustic Cabin in 1938 and “We knew then that he really had it!” Or they had heard him when he was with Harry James’s band in 1939, or with Tommy Dorsey in 1941 (“Yeah, that’s the song, ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’—he sang it one night in this dump near Newark and we danced…”); or they remembered that time at the Paramount with the swooners, and him with those bow ties, The Voice; and one woman remembered that awful boy she knew then—Alexander Dorogokupetz, an eighteen-year-old heckler who had thrown a tomato at Sinatra and the bobby-soxers in the balcony had tried to flail him to death. Whatever became of Alexander Dorogokupetz? The lady did not know.”


Gay Talese (Ocean City, 7 februari 1932)
Frank Sinatra

 

De Franse schrijfster Christine Angot werd geboren op 7 februari 1959 in Châteauroux. Zie ook alle tags voor Christine Angot op dit blog.

Uit:Un tournant de la vie

« Je traversais la rue… Vincent passait sur le trottoir d’en face. Je me suis arrêtée au milieu du carrefour. J’étais là, figée. Le cœur battant. Je regardais son dos qui s’éloignait. Torse large, hanches étroites, il avait une stature impressionnante. J’aurais pu courir, le rattraper. Il a tourné au coin de la rue. Je suis restée debout, les jambes coupées. Les yeux fixés sur la direction qu’il avait prise. Je tremblais. Je n’arrivais plus à respirer. J’ai pris mon téléphone dans mon sac, j’ai appelé une amie.
— Qu’est-ce qui se passe, t’as une petite voix ?
— Je viens de voir Vincent. Là. À l’instant. Dans la rue. Je sortais du métro, il marchait sur le trottoir d’en face. J’avais envie de l’appeler. Je l’ai pas fait.
— Il t’a vue ?
— Non.
— Il était seul ?
— Il était avec une fille. Je pense que j’aurais appelé sinon. Je suis dans un état là ! Si tu me voyais. Au milieu de la rue, avec mon téléphone. J’arrive plus à avancer.
— Tu veux que je te retrouve quelque part ?
— Ça va aller Claire, merci.
— T’es où exactement ?
— Ça s’est passé au croisement de la rue des Gardes et de la rue de la Goutte-d’Or. Je suis à deux pas de chez moi. Je vais rentrer. Ça m’a fait du bien de te parler. Je vais me calmer. Et je vais rentrer.
— Tu es sûre tu veux pas qu’on se retrouve ?
— Je pourrai pas parler. Il vaut mieux que je rentre. C’est la première fois que je le revois depuis neuf ans.
— Tu l’avais pas revu ? Depuis que vous vous étiez séparés. Tu l’avais jamais revu ?
— Jamais.
— Si vous vous revoyiez, vous pourriez être amis tu crois ?
— Je pense pas. C’est aussi pour ça que j’ai pas appelé. Il réessaierait…
— Ah oui !?
— Je me trompe peut-être, mais je pense oui… Ne serait-ce que par rivalité avec Alex… Enfin je sais pas. Franchement je sais pas.”

 
Christine Angot (Châteauroux, 7 februari 1959)

 

De Vlaamse schrijver, schilder, tekenaar, graficus, causeur, auteur, theatermaker, entertainer en zanger Pjeroo Roobjee (pseudoniem van Dirk De Vilder) werd geboren in Gent, op 7 februari 1945. Zie ook alle tags voor Pjeroo Roobjee op dit blog.

Uit: Niets te vieren

“Op stel en sprong wilde Roderick terstond de treurige mare uit zijn memorie weren. Middels enig wanbeheer in de gestie van zijn rede en begrip verhuisde in zijn klokhuis het heengaan van de bloedverwante, een besnorde tante van zijn ook al in de mistige hel van het natte Noorden toevende moeder, alras en met gemak naar de gewassen holte der vergetelheid. Tot, zowat anderhalve week na de aankomst van de doodsbrief ten kastele, Nanda in haar pathetisch omnipresente korte rokken en met verkrot gelaat nader tot hem trad en, hoe groot was zijn naar wijd en zijd uitdeinende ontsteltenis!, haar kaakgebeente spalkte om zonder dralen aan een tatering te beginnen. De hoogbejaarde minne was anders altijd even zwijgzaam. Behalve haar morgenvraag, wat ze dien dag koken moest en haar geen tegenstand duldend wederwoord wat ze dien dag koken zoude, hoorde hij verder nooit enig geklank van haar tong over het overjaars vlees harer lippen de buitenwereld binnendruppelen. En nu, ongedwongen plots en integraal redelijk miraculeus, leek het wel alsof Nanda Lumbroso’s babbelwater nimmermeer kon opdrogen. `Signore barone,’ zo luidde in het kort hertaald de complete inhoud van haar oeverloos gesnap, ‘die vuile luis van een Oreste Greppo, die cretino van mijn vunzigste voeten, awel, die en niemand anders was hier. En in al zijn staten, madre mia de Jesu de san grato, wat was hij in al zijn staten, die smerige cretino van mijn profijtig verschoond achterste portaal, quos Deus perdere vult! En ondertussen maakte hij mij al tuitend wijs dat gij, signore barone, binnen de kortste keren in het kabinet van rechter Zampone moet verschijnen om aldaar uw opwachting te maken. En hij bracht ook nog een brief in zijn afgezwijnde poten naar hier mede, die dweil, een rozig gebobbelde, met een of andere buitenlandse postzegel ontsierde enveloppe, waaromtrent dat waterhoofd van een benepen bambocheur mij wist te verklappen dat die op de griffie van de rechtbank is gearriveerd. Gepikeerd als ik was, heb ik met uw welnemen, signore barone, dat vermaledijd obsceen getint papieren ding verre van mij ergens ginderachter tegen de spiegel nedergekwakt. Of tegen iets heeltegans anders en elders.’ Met tot spleten vernauwde ogen volgde Roderick de richting die Nanda’s in het luchtruim circulerende index aanwees. Na een beestachtig lange zoektocht ontdekte hij op het marmer van de schoorsteenmantel de fameuze, wijvig bleekgeroodselde missive.”


Pjeroo Roobjee (Gent, 7 februari 1945)
In 2005

 

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Emma Lanier McLaughlin werd geboren op 7 februari 1974 in Elmira, New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Emma McLaughlin op dit blog.

Uit: How to Be a Grownup (Samen met Nicola Kraus)

“Marrying an actor was not something I’d set out to do.
It was, in fact, the embodiment of my parents’ worst fears—any parent’s, probably. Right up there with your child joining a cult—or having no sense of humor. Certainly for Sheryl and Randy McGovern of Oneonta, New York, this was nowhere in the plan. My parents had met at accounting school, and I’d like to be able to tell you they’re not exactly what you’re picturing—that they have a leather fetish or even high cholesterol. But they are exactly, endearingly, the people you would trust to keep you out of trouble with the IRS. So I lose a lot of time imagining what it was like for them the first day I came downstairs in the sparkly beret I salvaged from the YMCA lost-and-found and forced them to sit through my third-grade rendition of “Hey, Big Spender.”
Amazingly, they were supportive. Mystified. But supportive. Even when I decided I wanted to forgo a traditional college education to attend the performing arts conservatory at SUNY Purchase, where I discovered two unexpected things: first, set design. Second: Blake Turner.
The first time I saw him on campus, I thought I was hallucinating. I thought some potent combination of homesickness and paint thinner had conjured my teen crush, as if he were a genie sprung from the well-kissed pages of Tiger Beat magazine. I could not believe Blake Turner, the Blake Turner, was at my college.
As he slipped into his cafeteria chair in his ripped plaid shirt, dirty wool hat pulled low over his painfully beautiful features, only one sentence blared in my head: I will die if I don’t touch him. I immediately ran back to my room and called my seventh-grade best friend. Because it was 1992 and no one had e-mail yet.”


Emma McLaughlin (Elmira, 7 februari 1974)
Hier met Nicola Kraus (rechts)

 

De Nederlandse dichter en schrijver A. den Doolaard werd geboren op 7 februari 1901 in Hoenderloo. Zie ook alle tags voor A. den Doolaard op dit blog

Uit: De herberg met het hoefijzer

“Drie dagen later kwam Raine te Scutari aan. Zijn ganse bagage bestond uit een rugzak met zijn tekengerei, geologische instrumenten, kaartentas, wat ondergoed, een tandenborstel en een grote Steyrrevolver. De oosters uitziende stad bekoorde hem dadelijk, en hij sjouwde geduldig zijn drager na langs het blauwe bergmeer vol diepgroene drijvende eilandjes. Het was half twee in de hete namiddag, en gans Scutari scheen te slapen, op twee schildwachten voor de kazerne na, en drie in ’t wit geklede vrouwen die met gekruiste blote benen op het plaveisel zaten en Raine cocons van zijderupsen te koop aanboden. Het grote hotel was vol. Met een zucht van verlichting gaf hij zijn rugzak aan de drager, en weer slenterden zij de stoffige straten door. Op de hoek van een pleintje zonder naambord, recht tegenover een lage moskee met een afbladderende minaret, zag hij een aanlokkelijk donkere herberg. Op de rose pui stond in versleten letters ‘Grand Hotel London’. Raine lachte, betaalde de drager en ging naar binnen. Reeds sinds zijn studententijd had hij een passie voor kleine en donkere kroegen, waar hij rustig zijn benen op een tweede stoel kon leggen en zijn pijp tegen de tafelkant uitkloppen; en ‘Grand Hotel London’ zag er precies uit zoals hij het zich wenste. Bovendien wist hij uit ervaring dat hij in dit soort herbergen eenvoudige lieden uit het volk ontmoette, die hem voor het geven van inlichtingen dikwijls honderdmaal meer van nut waren dan de officiële persoonlijkheden wier namen en adressen hij netjes op een getypt lijstje meekreeg.
Rechts in de verlaten gelagkamer stond een scheerstoel bekleed met rood pluche, dat enige generaties Albanezen met ellebogen en ruggen zwartgesleten hadden. Daarboven een stel oleografieën van Mekka, Napoleon te Austerlitz, en een ijsberenjacht in de Poolzee, in lijstjes die kromgetrokken waren van de hitte. Raine plofte zijn rugzak neer en ging in de stoel zitten, om de oleografieën, die hij heimelijk liefhad, op zijn gemak te bewonderen. Tussen de kleurige prenten hing een spiegel vol vliegepoep, waarin hij plotseling zijn vertrokken gezicht zag. Hij streek ontsteld over zijn voorhoofd. Bezat hij werkelijk zoveel rimpels? Hij had nooit de gewoonte gehad zichzelf nauwkeurig te bekijken, en staarde nu verbaasd naar de diepe kerven opzij van zijn mond. Nog geen maand geleden was hij zorgeloos geweest en gelukkig. Zes weken daarvoor had hij gelachen om liefde en noodlot; en nu ontdekte hij zijn gezicht bol en bleek, in de halve schemering van de gelagkamer. Had dit afscheid hem zo aangepakt? Of was het de hitte, die hij sinds Mexico niet meer gewend was? Of zijn baard van twee dagen, die hem zo bleek maakte? Hij stampte op de vloer en riep luid: ‘Scheren!’ In de stilte die volgde, hoorde hij enkel het hoefgestamp van een paard.”


A. den Doolaard (7 februari 1901 – 26 juni 1994)

 

De Duitse dichteres, schrijfster en vertaalster Lioba Happel werd geboren op 7 februari 1957 in Aschaffenburg. Zie ook alle tags voor Lioba Happel op dit blog.

Du hängst mir schon lang’ zum Aug’ raus

Du hängst mir schon lang’ zum Aug’ raus
Und da hockst du auf einem Stuhl!

Und die Nacht lacht
Und ein Stern blakt –
Meinetwegen?
Deinetwegen?

Küss mich, wenn’s recht ist noch einmal –
Tick mir im Ohr!
Komm nochmal
Ohne Adjektive
Oder geh!

Ich spring auf die Beine –
Bittesehr ein Gedicht!
Tschüss, adieu, du Schmerzensreicher, Gehenkter
In meinem Nachtaug’ –
Tschüss, adieu!

Zärtlich wie du bist
Bin ich ganz rabiat!
Ich hab’ genug von dir
Ich öffne die Tür –
Draußen staubt’s!

 

Rechtender, Hochwohlvermögender
Dahergelaufener über die wermutblaue
& sakrosankte & Horizontlinie

Verfechten Sie doch nicht hier das rhythmisierteste
Weltenelend zur Besserung Ihres
Allgemeinbefindens, will sagen

Verzeihen Sie, ich kann keinen Reim für Sie finden

Ein Gedicht, mein Herr
ist eine Scheußlichkeit
Es hat sich der Schönheit verpflichtet

Es begnadigt nicht, ist
wie dieser strahlende Mittag über dem Meer
das böse Gewissen der Welt


Lioba Happel (Aschaffenburg, 7 februari 1957)

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Rhijnvis Feith werd geboren in Zwolle en daar op 7 februari 1753 gedoopt. Zie ook alle tags voor Rhijnvis Feith op dit blog.

Droom

Schoon elk hem weerstand bood,
En jammrend van hem vlood,
Hij ’s doof voor hun gekerm.
Hij neemt ze in zijne arm,
En brengt ze, rij na rij,
Gestaag aan de overzij.
Maar nauwlijks zijn ze daar,
Of ‘k zie de blijdste schaar.
De laatste zucht vervloog;
De zielrust blinkt in ’t oog,
De jongling wordt bemind
En is hun beste vrind.

Verbaasd van ’t vreemd gezicht,
Wens ik mijzelve licht.
‘k Dring tot de jongling door.
Verleen me een poos gehoor.
Wie zijt gij? (sprak mijn wens)
Een engel of een mens?

Hij zucht, en staart mij aan.
Ik zie in ’t oog een traan.
Wat vraagt gij naar mijn naam?
Niet dat ik mij hem schaam;
Maar, (ach, hier zonk zijn blik)
Hier wekt hij niets dan schrik;
Maar ginds (zijn oog herrees)
Vervangt verrukking vrees.
Hij zucht nog eens en vlood,
En zegt: “ik ben de dood.”

‘k Ontwaak met ene gil!
’t Is alles om mij stil.
Ik vinde in ’t eind mij weer,
Ik zie op ’t mensdom neer.
Ik zie al ’t foltrend wee.
Een bloed-en tranenzee
Bruist golvend mij voorbij;
Maar ‘k zie ook de overzij,
Hare eeuwig groene kust,
Hare ongestoorde rust,
Haar eindeloos verschiet,
Dat niets dan weelde biedt, —
Dáár juicht mijn hart tot God.
Ik draag gerust mijn lot.
Zijn engel brengt ook mij
Eerlang aan de overzij!


Rhijnvis Feith (7 februari 1753 – 8 februari 1824)
Cover

 

De Duitse schrijver Alban Nikolai Herbst (pseudoniem van Alexander Michael v. Ribbentrop) werd geboren op 7 februari 1955 in Refrath. Zie ook alle tags voor Alban Nikolai Herbst op dit blog.

Uit: Traumschiff

“Lange habe ich gedacht, dass wir einander erkennen. Aber das stimmt nicht. Wir verstehen uns nur. Dennoch lehne ich stets an der Reling des Promenadendecks, wenn die Reisegäste das Traumschiff verlassen. Und wenn die neuen eingeschifft werden, sehe ich mir jeden Menschen sehr genau an. Wie er seine Füße auf die Gangway setzt, zum Beispiel, ob fest, ob unsicher. Ob er sich am Geländer festhält.
Viele sind krank. Andere können nicht mehr richtig gehen und stützen sich auf rollbare Hilfen.
Ich möchte wissen, ob jemand das Bewusstsein schon mitbringt.
Ich habe es seit Barcelona. Das liegt lange zurück.
Einhundertvierundvierzig Passagiere von vierhundert, fünfhundert. Das ist ein Drittel, zumindest ein Viertel. Wie kann man sich da nicht erkennen?
»Vergangenheit«. Was für ein weiches Wort. »Gegenwart«. Was für ein hartes. Es bezeichnet doch alles, was ist. – Nicht aber alles auch, was war? Wissen das, frage ich mich, diese Menschen? Woran erkenne ich die, die es wissen? Erkennen sie mich?
Geht von den Neuen zufällig ein Blick zu mir hoch, schweift er meistens weiter. Als wäre ich nicht da oder niemand, der einem auffällt. Was auch stimmt. Auffällig bin ich wohl nicht. – Der einzige, der mich sofort bemerkte, und schneller als ich ihn, war Monsieur Bayoun. Dann war er abermals schneller, indem er mir vorausging.
Mein Rücken. Die Schulter. Das Bein. Von Frau Seiferts Gehstock sind unter meinen rechten Fingerwurzeln die schmalen Ballen zu Schwielen geworden. Sogar der Ring drückt. Wobei ich gar nicht weiß, wozu ich ihn noch trage. Von wem habe ich ihn? Schön ist er aber schon, mit diesem Mittwochs-Topas.
Obwohl er mir lieb ist, mag ich den Gehstock nicht.
An Monsieur Bayoun habe ich ein Gebrechen nie bemerkt. So etwas war zwischen uns kein Thema. Ich kam bei ihm auf gar nicht die Idee. So sehr hat seine Haut geglänzt, wie polierte Kaffeebohnen. Und wenn er lachte, musste man einfach mitlachen. Dann blitzten seine etwas schiefen, trotz der Cigarillos perlweißen Zähne. Er habe lange in Marseille gelebt, hat er mir erzählt. So leidenschaftlich sei sein Vater an den Unruhen beteiligt gewesen, dass seine Mutter mit ihm bis ganz nach dort habe fliehen müssen. Schieße deine Strahlen und schrecke sie! habe er oft ausgerufen.
Immer schwang ein Stolz mit, wenn Monsieur Bayoun seinen Vater erwähnte. Der meine, den ich nicht kenne, hat mich lebenslang beklemmt.“


Alban Nikolai Herbst (Refrath, 7 februari 1955)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 7e februari ook mijn blog van 7 maart 2017 en eveneens mijn blog van 7 februari 2016 deel 2 en eveneens deel 3.

Charles Dickens, Gay Talese, Christine Angot, Pjeroo Roobjee, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Lioba Happel, Rhijnvis Feith, Alban Nikolai Herbst

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit:The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby

“There once lived, in a sequestered part of the county of Devonshire, one Mr. Godfrey Nickleby: a worthy gentleman, who, taking it into his head rather late in life that he must get married, and not being young enough or rich enough to aspire to the hand of a lady of fortune, had wedded an old flame out of mere attachment, who in her turn had taken him for the same reason. Thus two people who cannot afford to play cards for money, sometimes sit down to a quiet game for love.
Some ill-conditioned persons who sneer at the life-matrimonial, may perhaps suggest, in this place, that the good couple would be better likened to two principals in a sparring match, who, when fortune is low and backers scarce, will chivalrously set to, for the mere pleasure of the buffeting; and in one respect indeed this comparison would hold good; for, as the adventurous pair of the Fives’ Court will afterwards send round a hat, and trust to the bounty of the lookers-on for the means of regaling themselves, so Mr. Godfrey Nickleby and his partner, the honeymoon being over, looked out wistfully into the world, relying in no inconsiderable degree upon chance for the improvement of their means. Mr. Nickleby’s income, at the period of his marriage, fluctuated between sixty and eighty pounds per annum.
There are people enough in the world, Heaven knows! and even in London (where Mr. Nickleby dwelt in those days) but few complaints prevail, of the population being scanty. It is extraordinary how long a man may look among the crowd without discovering the face of a friend, but it is no less true. Mr. Nickleby looked, and looked, till his eyes became sore as his heart, but no friend appeared; and when, growing tired of the search, he turned his eyes homeward, he saw very little there to relieve his weary vision. A painter who has gazed too long upon some glaring colour, refreshes his dazzled sight by looking upon a darker and more sombre tint; but everything that met Mr. Nickleby’s gaze wore so black and gloomy a hue, that he would have been beyond description refreshed by the very reverse of the contrast.
At length, after five years, when Mrs. Nickleby had presented her husband with a couple of sons, and that embarrassed gentleman, impressed with the necessity of making some provision for his family, was seriously revolving in his mind a little commercial speculation of insuring his life next quarter-day, and then falling from the top of the Monument by accident, there came, one morning, by the general post, a black-bordered letter to inform him how his uncle, Mr. Ralph Nickleby, was dead, and had left him the bulk of his little property, amounting in all to five thousand pounds sterling.”

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Scene uit de film “Nicholas Nickleby” uit 2002 met Jim Broadbent (Wackford Squeers) en Charlie Hunnam (Nicholas Nickleby)

Continue reading “Charles Dickens, Gay Talese, Christine Angot, Pjeroo Roobjee, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Lioba Happel, Rhijnvis Feith, Alban Nikolai Herbst”

Charles Dickens, Gay Talese, Christine Angot, Pjeroo Roobjee, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Lioba Happel, Rhijnvis Feith, Joachim du Bellay

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit:Hard Times

“Now, what I want is, Facts.  Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts.  Facts alone are wanted in life.  Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.  You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them.  This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children.  Stick to Facts, sir!’
The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker’s square forefinger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster’s sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellarage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s voice, which was inflexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speaker’s hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of firs to keep the wind from its shining surface, all covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speaker’s obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders,—nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was,—all helped the emphasis.
‘In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!’
The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and the third grown person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the inclined plane of little vessels then and there arranged in order, ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until they were full to the brim.”

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Standbeeld in Portsmouth

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Charles Dickens, Gay Talese, Christine Angot, Pjeroo Roobjee, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Rhijnvis Feith

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit: Great Expectations

„I had heard of Miss Havisham up town,–everybody for miles round had heard of Miss Havisham up town,–as an immensely rich and grim lady who lived in a large and dismal house barricaded against robbers, and who led a life of seclusion.
“Well to be sure!” said Joe, astounded. “I wonder how she come to know Pip!”
“Noodle!” cried my sister. “Who said she knew him?”
“–Which some individual,” Joe again politely hinted, “mentioned that she wanted him to go and play there.”
“And couldn’t she ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? Isn’t it just barely possible that Uncle Pumblechook may be a tenant of hers, and that he may sometimes–we won’t say quarterly or half-yearly, for that would be requiring too much of you—but sometimes–go there to pay his rent? And couldn’t she then ask Uncle Pumblechook if he knew of a boy to go and play there? And couldn’t Uncle Pumblechook, being always considerate and thoughtful for us–though you may not think it, Joseph,” in a tone of the deepest reproach, as if he were the most callous of nephews, “then mention this boy, standing Prancing here”–which I solemnly declare I was not doing–“that I have for ever been a willing slave to?”
“Good again!” cried Uncle Pumblechook. “Well put! Prettily pointed! Good indeed! Now Joseph, you know the case.”
“No, Joseph,” said my sister, still in a reproachful manner, while Joe apologetically drew the back of his hand across and across his nose, “you do not yet–though you may not think it–know the case. You may consider that you do, but you do not, Joseph. For you do not know that Uncle Pumblechook, being sensible that for anything we can tell, this boy’s fortune may be made by his going to Miss Havisham’s, has offered to take him into town to-night in his own chaise-cart, and to keep him to-night, and to take him with his own hands to Miss Havisham’s to-morrow morning. And Lor-a-mussy me!” cried my sister, casting off her bonnet in sudden desperation, “here I stand talking to mere Mooncalfs, with Uncle Pumblechook waiting, and the mare catching cold at the door, and the boy grimed with crock and dirt from the hair of his head to the sole of his foot!”

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Scene uit een driedelige Britse tv-serie, 2011

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Charles Dickens, Christine Angot, Peter Carey, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Gay Talese, Rhijnvis Feith

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit:The Pickwick Papers

„The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a dazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been conducted.
‘May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual Vice-President–Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following resolutions unanimously agreed to:– ‘That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman–Member Pickwick Club], entitled “Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats;” and that this Association does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same.
‘That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which must accrue to the cause of science, from the production to which they have just adverted–no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell–they cannot but entertain a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably result from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a wider field, from extending his travels, and, consequently, enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.“

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Portret door William Powell Frith, 1859

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Charles Dickens, Christine Angot, Peter Carey, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Gay Talese, Rhijnvis Feith

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

Uit: Oliver Twist

“The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”
“Lor bless her heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. “Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ‘em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb, do.”
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.”


Scene uit de film van Roman Polanski, 2005

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back- and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.
“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. “Poor dear!”
“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very likely it (r)will¯ * be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”

 
Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)
Standbeeld in Clark Park, Philadelphia

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Charles Dickens, Christine Angot, Peter Carey, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Gay Talese

De Engelse schrijver Charles Dickens werd geboren op 7 februari 1812 in Landport. Zie ook alle tags voor Charles Dickens op dit blog.

 

Uit: Bleak House

Mrs. Pardiggle, leading the way with a great show of moral determination, and talking with much volubility about the untidy habits of the people (though I doubted if the best of us could have been tidy in such a place), conducted us into a cottage at the farthest corner, the ground floor room of which we nearly filled. Besides ourselves, there were in this damp offensive room a woman with a black eye, nursing a poor little gasping baby by the fire; a man, stained with clay and mud, and looking very dissipated, lying at full length on the ground, smoking a pipe; a powerful young man, fastening a collar on a dog; and a bold girl, doing some kind of washing in very dirty water. They all looked up at us as we came in, and the woman seemed to turn her face toward the fire, as if to hide her bruised eye; nobody gave us any welcome. . . .

“Well, my friends,” said Mrs. Pardiggle; but her voice had not a friendly sound, I thought; it was much too business-like and systematic. “How do you do, all of you? I am here again. I told you, you couldn’t tire of me, you know. I am fond of hard work, and am true to my word.”

“There ain’t,” growled the man on the floor, whose head rested on his hand as he stared at us, “any more of you to come in, is there?”

 

Patrick Kennedy als Richard en Carey Mulligan als Ada in de BBC-serie “Bleak House”, 2005.

 

“No, my friend,” said Mrs. Pardiggle, seating herself on one stool and knocking down another. “We are all here.”

“Because I thought there warn’t enough of you, perhaps?” said the man, with his pipe between his lips as he looked round upon us.

The young man and the girl both laughed. Two friends of the young man, whom we had attracted to the doorway and who stood there with their hands in their pockets, echoed the laugh noisily.

“You can’t tire me, good people,” said Mrs. Pardiggle to these latter. “I enjoy hard work, and harder you make mine, the better I like it.”

“Then make it easy for her!” growled the man upon the floor. “I wants it done, and over. I wants a end of these liberties took with my place. I wants a end of being frawed like a badger. Now you’re a-going to pollpry and question according to custom I know what you’re a-going to be up to.”

 

Charles Dickens (7 februari 1812 – 9 juni 1870)

Continue reading “Charles Dickens, Christine Angot, Peter Carey, Emma McLaughlin, A. den Doolaard, Gay Talese”