Richard Bach, Cornelia Schmerle, Wolfgang Koeppen, Urs Jaeggi, Robert C. Hunter, Hanneke van Eijken, Will Shutt

De Amerikaanse schrijver Richard Bach werd geboren in Oak Park, Illinois op 23 juni 1936. Zie ook alle tags voor Richard Bach op dit blog.

Uit: The Bridge Across Forever

“Dearest Richard,
It’s so difficult to know how and where to begin. I’ve been thinking long and hard through many ideas trying to find a way. . .
I finally struck one little thought, a musical metaphor, through which I have been able to think clearly and find understanding, if not satisfaction, and I want to share it with you. So please bear with me while we have yet an­other music lesson.
The most commonly used form for large classical works is sonata form. It is the basis of almost all symphonies and concertos. It consists of three main sections: the ex­position or opening, in which little ideas, themes, bits and pieces are set forth and introduced to each other; the development, in which these tiny ideas and motifs are explored to their fullest, expanded, often go from major (happy) to minor (unhappy) and back again, and are developed and woven together in greater complexity until at last there is: the recapitulation, in which there is a restatement, a glorious expression of the full, rich ma­turity to which the tiny ideas have grown through the development process.
How does this apply to us, you may ask, if you haven’t already guessed.
I see us stuck in a never-ending opening. At first, it was the real thing, and sheer delight. It is the part of a rela­tionship in which you are at your best: fun, charming, excited, exciting, interesting, interested. It is a time when you’re most comfortable and most lovable because you do not feel the need to mobilize your defences, so your partner gets to cuddle a warm human being instead of a giant cactus. It is a time of delight for both, and it’s no wonder you like openings so much you strive to make your life a series of them.
But beginnings cannot be prolonged endlessly; they can­not simply state and restate and restate themselves. They must move on and develop—or die of boredom. Not so, you say. You must get away, have changes, other people, other places so you can come back to a rela­tionship as if it were new, and have constant new begin­nings.”


Richard Bach (Oak Park, 23 juni 1936)
Cover

 

De Duitse dichteres Cornelia Schmerle werd geboren op 23 juni 1973 in Berlijn. Zie ook alle tags voor Cornelia Schmerle op dit blog.

 

Mono, perspektiv

Der Diskurs ist nicht.
Du hast den Diskurs nicht eingeplant; das Fahrtenbuch
auf den Knien, die Zigarre ansteckbereit
zwischen lesenden Fingern – doch

der Diskurs rechnet sich selbst ein, sagst du.
(Wie könnte er?)

Von Zwangsläufigkeit ist die Rede, von der ich
nichts verstehe, nur

die Wolken seh, die aufziehn, sich
übern Kranich schlieren.

 

Welpe

diese puppe trägt einen namen –
bis gänzlich über die unbeschriebene stirn. schon
kriecht er ins weichplastik oder läuft aus

den sinnen. läuft nach: voraus. sicher aus
der stativen plastik; raunend in die gebärde.

 


Cornelia Schmerle (Berlijn, 23 juni 1973)

 

De Duitse schrijver en essayist Wolfgang Arthur Reinhold Koeppen (eig. Köppen) werd geboren op 23 juni 1906 in Greifswald. Zie ook alle tags voor Wolfgang Koeppen op dit blog.

Uit: Amerikafahrt und andere Reisen in die Neue Welt

„In Paris auf dem Bahnhof St. Lazare, dicht bei Balzacs alter Rue d’Amsterdam, blühte Frankreich, spannte sich von Pfeiler zu Pfeiler das Netz der Hirngespinste, faulte Geschichte. Die lange, wie von milchig zerfließendem Absinth überglaste Passage war neunzehntes Jahrhundert, sie verkörperte eine große französische Epoche, sie war lächerlich und bewundernswert, sie war anrüchig und verführerisch.
Das kleine helle Irrlicht der Aufklärung und die rührende bunte Wunderlampe der Literatur leuchteten. Sie leuchteten immer noch. Ich fragte mich, wie lange noch? Das Blut der Gloire und der Freiheit hatte den Boden gedüngt, das Blut war von Schicht zu Schicht gesickert. Der Duft des Huhn-im-Topf lag in der Luft, wie der Wolfshauch des Hungers, der Atem der Erhebung, der Mief der Malaise, das schalgewordene Parfüm der Skandale und der saure Geruch der Macht, die seit Jahrhunderten um die Bastille wehen. Ich fühlte mich hier zu Hause. Ich hatte gelesen, daß nur wer im achtzehnten Jahrhundert in Frankreich gelebt habe, die Lust des Daseins kenne; dennoch liebte man in Paris die Revolution, den nie endenden Sturm auf alle Zwingburgen, die Geister des Aufstandes waren von altersher zum Bankett geladen, man wünschte die Unruhe, hier war ich Europäer, und ich wollte es bleiben. Einer Maus wurde eine Schale Milch hingestellt, eine Katze sah der Maus begehrlich und träge zu. Algerien und die Folter waren fern und nah. An den Zeitungsständen war das Wort des Gewissens affichiert, Sartre und Mauriac riefen Zolas »J’accuse«, und der General sang vor hundert Kamera-augen die Marseillaise. Vor einem Bistro luden wacklige Stühle zu gemütlichem Verweilen ein. Man schenkte den herben Weißwein aus, den nach Georges Simenon die Kommissare der französischen Kriminalpolizei lieben, was ihnen einen menschlichen Zug verleiht, der am Quai des Orfevres enttäuscht. Frauen, für Umarmungen geboren, eilten mit ernstem Berufsgesicht zur Arbeit. Auf einem Leuchtbild warb eine üppige Blondine aus dem Samen Renoirs und als Matrose gekleidet für ein schäumendes Bier.“


Wolfgang Koeppen (23 juni 1906 – 15 maart 1996)
Cover

 

De Zwitserse schrijver, kunstenaar en socioloog Urs Jaeggi werd geboren op 23 juni 1931 in Solothurn. Zie ook alle tags voor Urs Jeaggi op dit blog.

Uit: Kunst

“Die Provinz kennen wir. Teils kommen wir von dort, haben sie ertragen, gehasst, geliebt und verflucht, teils trieb uns der Brotberuf in die Inseln der Langeweile und der Enge, die als Gefängnisse wirken. Es sind aber auch die Orte, wo wir unsere Körper entdeckt haben, und die Fremden, den Anderen, die Andere. Und wo ein Septembernachmittag mit seiner melancholisch milden Sonne etwas von dem vermittelt hat, was wir anspruchsvoll, aber uns angemessen scheinend das »Erhabene« oder das »Transzendente« nannten, das Intensivere als alles übrige. Sehen, riechen, spüren, fühlen. Hier lernten wir mit der Nase umzugehen und mit dem Kopf, hier lernten wir mit den Händen und Füssen uns zu wehren. Hier hörten wir zum ersten Mal Töne und Tonfolgen, die uns weghoben, zerfetzten und wieder zusammenfügten, die uns tanzen liessen. Be high. Be hot. Be in the groove, ohne speed, nur mit schwarzer Musik.
Tougher than the rest. In der Provinz ist das für die, die es wissen möchten, intellektuelle und künstlerische ‘Pflicht’.
In der Pheripherie heisst das: Überleben, Kampf (Kampf bis aufs Messer, wenn es so ist und anders nicht geht). Peripherien sind gemessen an der deftigeren, sinnlicheren Provinz abstrakter, flüchtiger, maroder und moderner, zukunftseuphorischer und apokaliptischer. Es sind glitschige, abschüssige, hochbrisante und langweilige Terrains, Orte des extrem Gewaltätigen, Exzessiven, Kriminellen, aber auch der flüchtigen Zärtlichkeit und Poesie; Explosives, Resignatives und, ja, es sind auch Orte der Liebe und des bizarr Schönen.“

 
Urs Jaeggi (Solothurn, 23 juni 1931)

 

De Amerikaanse dichter, vertaler en tekstschrijver Robert C. Hunter werd geboren op 23 juni 1941 in San Luis Obispo, California. Zie ook alle tags voor Robert C. Hunterop dit blog.

 

Love in the afternoon

Love – Love in the afternoon
Outside the window
an organ grinder’s tune

Rhythm, wine
A touch of Jamaica
Twilight time with a Kingston lady
All the time in the world
for me and that girl

Sweet – She sang sweetly
Come back soon
Come back for more of that love
in the afternoon

Breezes blow by me
in the afternoon
She sings sweetly
an organ grinder’s tune

Finally recovered from last years round
of bye bye baby blues
All I crave today
Some love in the afternoon

Love – Love in the afternoon
It’s easy as she goes
like an organ grinder’s tune

Gone with the moon
any old trouble
can’t leave too soon
Trouble’s no part of what I want
especially in the afternoon
Singing
Sleeping till two
Waking to make more
love in the afternoon

 
Robert C. Hunter (San Luis Obispo, 23 juni 1941)

 

Onafhankelijk van geboortedata

De Nederlandse dichteres Hanneke van Eijken werd geboren in 1981 in Amersfoort. Zie ook alle tags voor Hanneke van Eijken op dit blog.

 

Op de rug van een stier

Iemand zei dat Europa niets meer is
dan een grillige vlek op een wereldkaart
zonder te beseffen
dat goden van alle tijden zijn

dat Europa vele vormen kent
ze is een eiland in de Indische Oceaan
een maan bij Jupiter
zevenentwintig landen die als koorddansers
in evenwicht proberen te blijven

er leven godenkinderen die vergeten zijn
wie hun vader is

Europa is een vrouw
met een kast vol jurken
ze houdt er niet van een vlek genoemd te worden

over de wraak van goden en vrouwen met jurken
kun je beter niet lichtzinnig doen

 


Hanneke van Eijken (Amersfoort, 1981)

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Will Shutt werd geboren in 1981 in New York. Zie ook alle tags voor Will Shutt op dit blog.

 

American Window Dressing

Half a dozen pestamals hanging on hooks,
a cuckoo clock twigged from scrap metal,
a single copy of Everyman’s Haiku-
the letters pit the cover’s look-at-me
moon sheen-and the poems I love
inside: spartan, semitransparent, nature’s fools,
like faraway countries in full disclosure.

“Put everything into it.” My father’s
words on Sunday visits. Man of few words.
Those were the days work took him
as far as Chungking and he sported
a straight green army coat he called
his Mao Suit. His hair was still parted
straight to one side and he could

still lift me up so that I stood eyelevel
with row after row of ducks, like smokers’
lungs, in the restaurant windows
off Confucius Plaza-thick tar up top
swizzed into brown and rose gold.
A metal sling dug under their wings ended
in a hole the heads were put through.

Knowledge of them was terrible.
Everything looked terrible: the heads
of bok choy noosed in rubber bands
and pale-eyed fish laid out on ice. Terrible
things put delicately, like polite fictions
families invent. The words stand behind
great portals and are seen to yet untouchable.

 

 
Will Shutt (New York, 1981)

David Leavitt, Jo Govaerts, Rafik Shami, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken

De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit:While England Sleeps

“To start with, at that time I’d gone to bed with probably three dozen boys, all of them either German or English; never with a woman. Nonetheless — and incredible thought it may seem — I still assumed that a day would come when I would fall in love with some lovely, intelligent girl, whom I would marry and who would bear me children. And what of my attraction to men? To tell the truth, I didn’t worry much about it. I pretended my homosexuality was a function of my youth, that when I “grew up” it would fall away, like baby teeth, to be replaced by something more mature and permanent. I, after all, was no pansy; the boy in Croydon who hanged himself after his father caught him in makeup and garters, he was a pansy, as was Oscar Wilde, my first-form Latin tutor, Channing’s friend Peter Lovesey’s brother. Pansies farted differently, and went to pubs where the barstools didn’t have seats, and had very little in common with my crowd, by which I meant Higel and Horst and our other homosexual friends, all of whom were aggressively, unreservedly masculine, reveled in all things male, and held no truck with sissies and fairies, the overrefined Rupert Halliwells of the world. To the untrained eye nothing distinguished us from “normal” men.
Though I must confess that by 1936 the majority of my friends had stopped deluding themselves into believing their homosexuality was merely a phase. They claimed, rather, to have sworn off women, by choice. For them, homosexuality was an act of rebellion, a way of flouting the rigid mores of Edwardian England, but they were also fundamentally misogynists who would have much preferred living in a world devoid of things feminine, where men bred parthenogenically. Women, according to these friends, were the “class enemy” in a sexual revolution. Infuriated by our indifference to them (and to the natural order), they schemed to trap and convert us*, thus foiling the challenge we presented to the invincible heterosexual bond.
Such thinking excited me – anything smacking of rebellion did – but it also frightened me. It seemed to me then that my friends’ misogyny blinded them to the fact that heterosexual men, not women, had been up until now, and would probably always be, their most relentless enemies. My friends didn’t like women, however, and therefore couldn’t acknowledge that women might be truer comrades to us than the John Northrops whose approval we so desperately craved. So I refused to make the same choice they did, although, crucially, I still believed it was a choice.”

 
David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)
Cover

Doorgaan met het lezen van “David Leavitt, Jo Govaerts, Rafik Shami, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken”

David Leavitt, Rafik Schami, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken

De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit: The Two Hotel Francforts

“So that was how we came to be at the Suica that morning-the Suica, the café that, of all the cafés in Lisbon, we foreigners had chosen to colonize. We were sitting outdoors, having breakfast and watching the traffic go round the oval of the Rossio, and it was this notion of settling in Portugal that Julia was going on about, as I drank my coffee and ate a second of those delicious little flan-filled tartlets in which the Suica specializes, and she laid out a hand of solitaire, which she played incessantly, using a special set of miniature cards. Slopes-lap went the cards; natternatter went her voice, as for the hundredth time she related her mad scheme to rent an apartment or a villa in Estoril; and as I explained to her, for the hundredth time, that it was no good, because at any moment Hitler might forge an alliance with Franco, in which case Portugal would be swallowed up by the Axis. And how funny to think that when all was said and done, she was right and I was wrong! For we would have been perfectly safe in Portugal. Well, it is too late for her to lord that over me now.
It was then that the pigeons swooped-so many of them, flying so low, that I had to duck. In ducking, I knocked her cards off the table. “It’s all right, I’ll get them,” I said to Julia, and was bending to do so when my glasses fell off my face. A passing waiter, in his effort to keep his trayful of coffee cups from spilling, kicked the glasses down the pavement, right into Edward Freleng’s path. It was he who stepped on them.
“Oh, damn,” he said, picking up what was left of the frames.
“Whose are these?
“They’re mine,” I said, from the ground, where Iwas still trying to collect the cards: no mean feat, since a breeze had just come up-or perhaps the pigeons had churned it up-and scattered them the length of the sidewalk.
“Let me help you with that,” Edward said, and got down on his knees next to me.”

David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)

 

Bewaren

Doorgaan met het lezen van “David Leavitt, Rafik Schami, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken”

David Leavitt, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken

De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit: The Two Hotel Francforts

“Hotel rooms were nearly impossible to come by. People were staying up all night at the casino in Estoril, gambling, and sleeping all day on the beach. Yet we were lucky — we had a room, and a comfortable one at that. Yes, it was all right with me.
Not with Julia, though. She loathed Portugal. She loathed the shouting of the fishwives and the smell of the salted cod. She loathed the children who chased her with lottery tickets. She loathed the rich refugees who had rooms at better hotels than ours and the poor refugees who had no rooms at all and the mysterious woman on our floor who spent most of every day leaning out her door into the dark corridor, smoking — “like Messalina waiting for Silius,” Julia aid. But what she loathed most — what she loathed more than any of these — was the prospect of going home.
Oh, how she didn’t want to go home! It had been this way from the beginning. First she had tried to convince me to stay in Paris; then, when the bombs started dropping on Paris, to resettle in the South of France; then, when Mussolini started making noises about invading the South of France, to sail to En gland, which the Neutrality Act forbade us from doing (for which she would not forgive Roo se velt). And now she wanted to stay on in Portugal. Portugal!
I should mention — I can mention, since Julia is dead now and cannot stop me — that my wife was Jewish, a fact she preferred to keep under wraps. And it is true, in Portugal there was no anti- Semitism to speak of, quite simply because there were no Jews. The Inquisition had taken care of that little problem. And so she had decided that this country in which she was so disinclined to spend a few weeks would be a perfectly agreeable place to sit out the rest of the war. For she had sworn, when we had settled in Paris fifteen years before, that she would never go home again as long as she lived.
Well, she never did.“

 
David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “David Leavitt, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken”

David Leavitt, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken

De Amerikaanse schrijver David Leavitt werd geboren in Pittsburgh op 23 juni 1961. Zie ook alle tags voor David Leavitt op dit blog.

Uit: The Two Hotel Francforts

“We met the Frelengs in Lisbon, at the Café Suiça. This was in June 1940, when we were all in Lisbon waiting for the ship that was coming to rescue us and take us to New York. By us I mean, of course, us Americans, expatriates of long standing mostly, for whom the prospect of returning home was a bitter one. Now it seems churlish to speak of our plight, which was as nothing compared with that of the real refugees – the Europeans, the Jews, the European Jews. Yet at the time we were too worried about what we were losing to care about those who were losing more.
Julia and I had been in Lisbon almost a week. I am from Indianapolis; she grew up on Central Park West but had dreamed, all through her youth, of a flat in Paris. Well, I made that dream come true for her — to a degree. That is to say, we had the flat. We had the furniture. Yet she was never satisfied, my Julia. I always supposed I was the piece that didn’t fit.
In any case, that summer, Hitler’s invasion of France had compelled us to abandon our Paris establishment and fly headlong to Lisbon, there to await the SS Manhattan, which the State Department had commandeered and dispatched to retrieve stranded Americans. At the time, only four steamships—the Excalibur, the Excambion, the Exeter, and the Exochorda—were making the regular crossing to New York. They were so named, it was joked, because they carried ex-Europeans into exile. Each had a capacity of something like 125 passengers, as opposed to the Manhattan’s 1, 20 0, and, like the Clipper flights that took offeach week from the Tag us, you couldn’t get a booking on one for love or money unless you were a diplomat or a VIP.
And so we had about a week to kill in Lisbon until the Manhattan arrived, which was fine by me, since we had had quite a time of it up until then, dodging shellfire and mortar fire all the way across France, then running the gantlet of the Spanish border crossing and contending with the Spanish customs agents, who in their interrogation tactics were determined to prove themselves more Nazi than the Nazis. And Lisbon was a city at peace, which meant that everything that was scarce in France and Spain was plentiful there: meat, cigarettes, gin. The only trouble was overcrowding.”

 
David Leavitt (Pittsburgh, 23 juni 1961)

Doorgaan met het lezen van “David Leavitt, Aart van der Leeuw, Pascal Mercier, Franca Treur, Jean Anouilh, Richard Bach, Anna Achmatova, Hanneke van Eijken”