Dolce far niente, William Saroyan, Sander Kok, Éric Zemmour, Wolfgang Hilbig

Dolce far niente

 


The End of Summer door Marjorie Laird, 1984

 

End of Summer

An agitation of the air,
A perturbation of the light
Admonished me the unloved year
Would turn on its hinge that night.

I stood in the disenchanted field
Amid the stubble and the stones,
Amazed, while a small worm lisped to me
The song of my marrow-bones.

Blue poured into summer blue,
A hawk broke from his cloudless tower,
The roof of the silo blazed, and I knew
That part of my life was over.

Already the iron door of the north
Clangs open: birds, leaves, snows
Order their populations forth,
And a cruel wind blows.

 

 
Stanley Kunitz (29 juli 1905 – 14 mei 2006)
Worcester, Massachusetts, de geboorteplaats van Stanley Kunitz

 

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Saroyan werdgeboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno, Californië. Zie ook alle tags voor William Saroyan op dit blog.

Uit: Madness in the Family

“Going mad was a specialty of the family. Until a man had gone mad, it was understood that he was still a boy. If he never did, he was not the equal of those who had. Only a few reached the age of thirty unseized, and, over a period of a cen-tury, only two or three members of the family went the whole distance unseized. More than a few took the trip several times, after which they were considered wise men, or perhaps even holy men, as if they had made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, as, in a sense, they had. With the women it was another matter, although most of them took the trip too; but with the help of the other women in the family, their journeying was fairly well con-cealed. Women on the trip tended to reject their children, their brothers and sisters, their parents, their parents’ parents, and themselves. Their madness was justified and reasonable, which may have made its concealment a relatively simple mat-ter. The demands on women for diplomatic behavior were so severe and so taken for granted by the men that madness was upon the women practically all of the time. With the men the madness took several traditional forms, including a repudiation of God, or rather of Jesus and Christianity, since nothing but trouble had come of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Church. Another com-mon form of the madness was a total rejection of the human race, based upon ancient and contemporary evidence that the human race was criminal and contemptible. Oddly. however, this rejection stopped at the threshold of the madman himself, who, during the seizure, whether brief or prolonged, consid-ered himself alone to be the only hope of the human race. His wife was a stranger—some crazy man’s daughter. His kids were tricks played on him by shabby genetics. His brothers and sisters were simpletons, his parents sleepwalkers. Yet another form of the madness was a conviction that all was in vain. all was corrupt, all was useless, all was hopeless. In Bitlis my father. Manak, was considered wise and worthy because he had made the trip to madness before he was twelve, which was uncommon. During the year of his rage. he went about his life and work pretty much the same a.5 (NM except that people avoided him, because anybody who looked him full in the face saw that he was on his way. and not receptive to small talk. But once the trip was over, there wasn’t an easier man to have around. Difficult questions were put to him by the oldest men, which he answered immediately, with unmistakable appropriateness. In the most complicated dis-putes, he was called upon to pass judgment, and his decisions were instantly accepted by both sides. When the tribe packed up and came to America, first to New York, and then to California, the family madness con-tinued, but the form changed. Of course, this was to be ex-pected. since America was another kind of place entirely. The whole family hadn’t one member buried here.”


William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)

 

De Nederlandse schrijver Sander Kok (ook bekend fotomodel) werd geboren in Arnhem op 31 augustus 1981. Zie ook alle tags voor Sander Kok op dit blog.

Uit: Smeltende vrouw

“De relatie tussen hemzelf en zijn vrouw was gelijkwaardiger. Elke zaterdag zag hij vanuit het raam van zijn werkkamer de buurman naast diens blauwe sportwagen staan en hem liefdevol wassen en opwrijven. De auto blonk als een gepoetst sieraad, in het dak scheen de zon. Soms moest hij het schouwspel een keer missen, omdat hij een afspraak had en een enkele keer omdat hij zelf bezig was zijn Neeltje te wassen. Dat deed hij dagelijks op niet-vaststaande tijden, dus het kwam voor dat het toevallig samenviel met het tijdstip waarop Andriessen zijn sportwagen waste. Ieder het zijne, dacht hij dan. Andriessens lijf was breed en lang als van een basketballer. Heel anders dan zijn eigen lijf, dat je gerust ondermaats kon noemen. De man liep elke zaterdag op dezelfde wijze rond zijn auto: peinzend, soms met een vinger de lak bestrijkend, tot hem iets in het oog sprong en hij daarop zijn volle aandacht richtte. De neuroot. Altijd stond dat rood-zwart gestippelde emmertje sop aan de voorkant van de auto en lag de groen-geel gestreepte tuinslang als een krul er voorlangs. Altijd de blauwe overall. Soms, zoals nu, was het koud en droeg de buurman er een fleecetrui onder en wanten aan zijn handen. Het vroor en het warme water dampte van de auto, alsof deze gevuld was met geesten die door het dak ontsnapten. Het was bijna aandoenlijk hoe liefdevol zijn buurman wekelijks met grote en kleine halen zijn auto waste en opwreef en nooit te hard leek te willen drukken; en hoe hij steeds hetzelfde patroon volgde. Eerst waste hij de velgen en de lampen, dan de ruiten en de lak, waarna hij zijn emmertje sop over het dak kieperde en over de licht gebolde motorkap, waarvan Reukens vermoedde dat het Andriessens lievelingsonderdeel was, omdat hij er extra aandacht aan besteedde. Daarna spoelde hij hem langdurig af met water uit de tuinslang en wreef hij hem nog langduriger op met een geel of blauw vezeldoekje, dat soms tijdens de beurt vervanging nodig had omdat het niet meer voldeed. Hij kuste hem niet en talkpoeder liet hij achterwege. Reukens liep naar de badkamer om de emmer te halen. De mens kan andermans geluk zien, maar niet begrijpen, dacht hij.
Voor de klas is geen dag hetzelfde, had een collega beweerd op Reukens’ eerste werkdag. Op het grijze gezicht van de man lag een prikkelbaar soort trots dat geen tegenspraak duldde. Reukens had niets gezegd. De man zijn trots duidde op angst dat zijn geloof aan het wankelen werd gebracht. Angst en trots liggen vlak naast elkaar, wist Reukens. Trots is een defensiemechanisme tegen angst, zoals angst misschien een defensiemechanisme is tegen een overdaad aan trots. Voor de klas staan was vermoeiend. Vijf dagen per week staarde hij in dezelfde dode ogen en bevocht de gedachte dat hij de wereld misschien beter van dienst kon zijn vanachter de glazen toonbank van een ijssalon of snackbar.”

 
Sander Kok (Arnhem, 31 augustus 1981)

 

De Franse schrijver en journalist Éric Zemmour werd geboren op 31 augustus 1958 in Montreuil-sous-Bois, vlakbij Parijs. Zie ook alle tags voor Éric Zemmour op dit blog.

Uit: Un quinquennat pour rien

« 17 novembre 2015
Bombarder Molenbeek
La guerre !, dit Hollande. La guerre !, dit Valls. La guerre dit Cazeneuve. Une guerre impitoyable, dit Hollande. Que nous allons gagner, dit Valls. Notre guerre, disent les médias. La guerre pour jouer au chef de guerre. La guerre pour appeler à l’unité nationale. La guerre pour remonter dans les sondages. La guerre. Quelques bombardements de plus ou de moins, dans une Syrie transformée en terrain vague. Une guerre française dans les fourgons de l’année américaine. Une guerre en Syrie qui s’ajoute à celle d’Irak et d’Afghanistan ou de Lybie qui ont aggravé le mal qu’elles étaient censées anni-hiler. Des guerres aux côtés de l’Arabie Saoudite, du Qatar, de la Turquie, qui ont fabriqué, équipé, financé la milice de Daech. Leur milice Comme ils avaient fabriqué, équipé, financé al-Qaida. Avec la bénédiction des services secrets de l’Oncle Sam. Nos alliés, nos amis, nos clients, qui partagent avec l’État islamique la même haine de l’Iran et la même conception rigoriste de l’islam. Daech applique le droit canonique du Moyen Âge, recon-nait l’imam de Bordeaux, Tareq Oubrou, grand ami d’Alain Juppé, et présenté comme l’incarnation d’un islam républicain en dépit de son appartenance à la confrérie des Frères musulmans. Mais l’islam, justement, n’a pas bougé depuis le Moyen Age. Il n’a pas été discuté, amendé, réformé, moder-nisé. Quand Daech cite des sourates du Coran pour légitimer ses actes sanglants, on peut dire que ce n’est pas le vrai islam. Mais c’est une vraie sourate dans le vrai Coran. La France est pour eux la quintessence du mal : à la fois pays des croisés, des blasphémateurs et des idolâtres. Comme au temps béni du califat où l’islam s’étendait de l’Inde à l’Espagne. Quand on prétend mener une guerre, il faut connaître l’ad-versaire pour le vaincre. François Hollande craint même de prononcer son nom I Parle de terroristes pour ne pas dire islamistes. Fustige Daech pour ne pas dire Etat islamique. Le gouvernement socialiste accepte de laisser en liberté sur notre territoire plus de dix mille terroristes potentiels, tous fichés par nos services de police sous la catégorie « S ». Ne pas les expul-ser. Ne pas les enfermer. Respect de l’État de droit. Pas d’amal-game. Le ministre de l’Intérieur Bernard Cazeneuve déclarait en 2014: « Ce n’est pas un délit de prôner le djihad. » Sa collègue de la place Vendôme prône une justice bienveillante évitant la prison qu’elle juge criminogène. Christiane Taubira a été entendue. lune’ Mostefai, l’un des tueurs du Bataclan, avait été condamné à huit reprises mais jamais emprisonné. Au moins, ce n’est pas en prison qu’il s’est radicalisé. Au lieu de bombarder Raqqa, la France devrait bombarder Molenbeek. Raqqa en Syrie, Molenbeek en Belgique, d’où sont venus les commandos du vendredi 13. Mais les frontières entre pays européens ne servent plus à rien depuis les accords de Schengen.”

 
Éric Zemmour (Montreuil-sous-Bois, 31 augustus 1958)
Cover

 

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Wolfgang Hilbig werd geboren in Meuselwitz op 31 augustus 1941. Zie ook alle tags voor Wolfgang Hilbich op dit blog.

Episode

im düstern kesselhaus im licht
rußiger lampen plötzlich auf dem brikettberg
saß ein grüner fasan
ein prächtiger clownsilbern und grün den leuchtend roten reif am hals mit
unverwandtem aug mit dem großen gelben schnabel aufmerksam
zielte er auf mich
so war er herrlicher und schöner
als ein surrealistischer regenschirm auf einer nähmaschine
wie er dort saß genau und furchtlos verirrt
auf seinem schwarzen gipfel

konversation fand nicht statt
ich bewegte mich und er flog davon durch die offene tür
doch von weit her den geruch der sonne den duft
seines farbigen gelächters ließ er hier in der nacht
und ich verwarf alle mühe das leben mythisch zu sehen

und als das kausale grinsen meines kopfes
von energie und frost gefressen in die nacht verschwand
glaubte ich nicht mehr an den untergang
der wahrnehmungen in der finsternis.

 

Episode

in het sombere ketelhuis in het licht
van beroete lampen op de brikettenberg plotseling
zat een groene fazant
een prachtige clown
zilver en groen de lichtend rode ring om zijn hals met
onafgewend oog met de grote gele snavel opmerkzaam
had hij het op mij gemunt
zo was hij heerlijker en schoner
dan een surrealistische paraplu op een naaimachine
zoals hij daar zat nauwkeurig en vreesloos verdwaald
op zijn zwarte bergtop

gesprek vond niet plaats
ik bewoog mij en hij vloog weg door de open deur
maar van verre de reuk van de zon de geur
van zijn kleurrijk gelach liet hij hier in de nacht
en alle moeite het leven mythisch te zien verwierp ik

en toen de causale grijns van mijn hoofd
door energie en vorst weggevreten in de nacht verdween
geloofde ik niet meer aan de ondergang
der waarnemingen in de duisternis.

 

Vertaald door Ad den Besten

 
Wolfgang Hilbig (31 augustus 1941 – 2 juni 2007)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 31e augustus ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2017.

William Saroyan, Éric Zemmour, Wolfgang Hilbig, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier, Raymond P. Hammond

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno, Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor William Saroyan op dit blog.

Uit: The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapez

“He (the living) dressed and shaved, grinning at himself in the mirror. Very unhandsome, he said; where is my tie? (He had but one.) Coffee and a gray sky, Pacific Ocean fog, the drone of a passing street car, people going to the city, time again, the day, prose and poetry. He moved swiftly down the stairs to the street and began to walk, thinking suddenly. It is only in sleep that we may know we live. There only, in that living death, do we meet ourselves and the far earth, God and the saints, the names of our fathers, the substance of remote moments: it is there that the centuries merge in the moment, that the vast becomes the tiny, tangible atom of eternity.
He walked into the day as alertly as might be, making a definite noise with his heels, perceiving with his eyes the superficial truth of streets and structures, the trivial truth of reality. Helplessly his mind sang, He flies through the air with the greatest of ease, the daring young man on the flying trapeze, then laughed with all the might of his being. It was really a splendid morning: gray, cold, and cheerless, a morning for inward vigor; ah, Edgar Guest, he said, how I long for your music.
In the gutter he saw a coin which proved to be a penny dated 1923, and placing it in the palm of his hand he examined it closely, remembering that year and thinking of Lincoln, whose profile was stamped upon the coin. There was almost nothing a man could do with a penny. I will purchase a motor-car, he thought. I will dress myself in the fashion of a fop, visit the hotel strumpets, drink and dine, and then return to the quiet. Or I will drop the coin into a slot and weigh myself.
It was good to be poor, and the Communists-but it was dreadful to be hungry. What appetites they had, how fond they were of food! Empty stomachs. He remembered how greatly he needed food. Every meal was bread and coffee and cigarettes, and now he had no more bread. Coffee without bread could never honestly serve as supper, and there were no weeds in the park that could be cooked as spinach is cooked.
If the truth were known, he was half starved, and there was still no end of books he ought to read before he died. He remembered the young Italian in a Brooklyn hospital, a small sick clerk named Mollica, who had said desperately, I would like to see California once before I die. And he thought earnestly, I ought at least to read Hamlet once again; or perhaps Huckleberry Finn.”

 
William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)
Standbeeld in Jerevan

Doorgaan met het lezen van “William Saroyan, Éric Zemmour, Wolfgang Hilbig, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier, Raymond P. Hammond”

Dolce far niente, Ernst Stadler, William Saroyan, Éric Zemmour, Wolfgang Hilbig, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier, Raymond P. Hammond

Dolce far niente

 

 
The Swan Pond Chiswick door Adebanji Alade, 2011

 

Die Efeulauben flimmern

Der Sommermittag lastet auf den weißen
Terrassen und den schlanken Marmortreppen
die Gitter und die goldnen Kuppeln gleißen
leis knirscht der Kies. Vom müden Garten schleppen
sich Rosendüfte her – wo längs der Hecken
der schlaffe Wind entschlief in roten Matten
und geisternd strahlen zwischen Laubverstecken
die Götterbilder über laue Schatten.
Die Efeulauben flimmern. Schwäne wiegen
und spiegeln sich in grundlos grünen Weihern
und große fremde Sonnenfalter fliegen
traumhaft und schillernd zwischen Düfteschleiern.

 

 
Ernst Stadler (11 augustus 1883 – 30 oktober 1914)
Colmar. Ernst Stadler werd geboren in Colmar

Doorgaan met het lezen van “Dolce far niente, Ernst Stadler, William Saroyan, Éric Zemmour, Wolfgang Hilbig, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier, Raymond P. Hammond”

William Saroyan, Wolfgang Hilbig, Raymond P. Hammond, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno, Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor William Saroyan op dit blog.

 

Uit: The Human Comedy

 

“Dear Homer: First of all. everything of mine at home is yours – to give to Ulysses when you no longer want them : my books, my phonogram, my records, my clothes when you’re ready to fit into them, my bycicle, my microscope, my fishing tackle, my collection of rocks from Piedra, and all the other things of mine at home. They’re yours because you are now the man of the Macauley family of Ithaca. The money I made last year at the packing house I have given to Ma of course, to help out. It is not nearly enough, though. I don’t know how you are going to be able to keep our family together and go to high school at the same time, But I believe you will find a way. My army pay goes to Ma, except for a few dollars that I must have, but this money is not enough either. It isn’t easy for me to hope for so much from you, when I myself did not begin to work until I was 19, but somehow I believe that you will be able to do what I didn’t do.

I miss you of course and I think of you all the time. I am OK and even though I have never believed in wars – and know them foolish even when they are necessary – I am proud that I am involved, since so many others are and this is what’s happening. I do not recognize any enemy which is human, for no human being can be my enemy. Whoever he is, he is my friend. My quarrel is not with him, but with that unfortunate part of him which I seek to destroy in myself first.

I do not feel like a hero. I have no talent for such feelings. I hate no one. I do not feel patriotic either, for I have always loved my country, its people, its towns, my home, and my family. I would rather I were not in the Army. I would rather there were no War. I have no idea what is ahead, but whatever it is I am resigned and ready for it.

I’m terribly afraid – I must tell you this – but I believe that when the time comes I shall do what is right for me. I shall obey no command other than the command of my own heart.”

 

 

 

William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)

Standbeeld in Jerevan

Bewaren

Bewaren

Doorgaan met het lezen van “William Saroyan, Wolfgang Hilbig, Raymond P. Hammond, Elizabeth von Arnim, Théophile Gautier”

William Saroyan

De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno, Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2010 en eveneens alle tags voor William Saroyan op dit blog.

 

To the Voice of Shah-Mouradian

 

I. EPISTLE

To the man this humble word:

Great soul, I your voice have heard.

If in fact I stand alone,

My clamor will the wrong atone.

Before your own my voice is small:

You sing, while my poor words must fall

Like so much sodden clay or mud

Into the rush of thought’s swift flood.

Yours is the flowing of the ancient soul.

While mine is but the lisping of the mind.

Yet if music the deaf cannot make whole,

The print shall give hearing to those not blind.

II. WHILE HE SINGS “MAYR ARAKSIE”

No art is lost and yours shall never be,

For when you sing, you sing at least for me.

And when at last my mortal day is done

Remember, friend, that I shall leave a son,

Tutored to seek the glory of his race

(Wherever he may go, to what strange place)

In your clear voice, which is the very pith

Of our old legend and our deathless myth.

And if the mother of his son shall be

A daughter of our ancient family,

I think she’ll teach him in his early years

That when you sing, though he be moved to tears,

He will yet know how once in strength we stood,

And stand forever in her motherhood.

 

William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)

 

Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 31e augustus ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2011.

Wolfgang Hilbig, Raymond P. Hammond, Elizabeth von Arnim, William Saroyan, Théophile Gautier

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Wolfgang Hilbig werd geboren in Meuselwitz op 31 augustus 1941. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Mittag

Balance der eingelegten reglos ruhenden Ruder
von denen blendend weiße Tropfen fallen
auf den zitternden Spiegel der See
in der unwirklichen Stille des lotrechten Lichts –
während in der Tiefe die Nacht sich wälzt mit ihrem Gewürm –
o dieser Augenblick im Gleichgewicht der den Atem anhält
bevor das Bild kentert.

 

Hinter Mir

Hinter meiner Mauer
im Rücken meiner Undurchdringlichkeit
im Licht
drehen sich Gottes Spielzeuge um sich selbst …
Hinter mir diese Karusselle von Desastern: grell bemalt
und von den blauen Netzen der Sonne verhüllt
und fern in verstockter Musik.

 

Matière de la poésie

Das Meer verhüllt von Licht: verhüllt von Helligkeit …
im Sinn von Licht: ein Lilienweiß um nichts zu sein
als Weiß der Lilien – und Meer um nichts als Meer
zu sein und ohne Maß: und Mond-Abwesenheit –
welch Leuchten das seine langer Überfahrt antritt
und jedes Land vergisst auf nichts bedacht als Ewigkeit –
das Meer: das nicht mehr Tag noch Nacht ist sondern Zeit.

 hilbig

Wolfgang Hilbig (31 augustus 1941 – 2 juni 2007)

 

 De Amerikaanse dichter, criticus en tijdschriftredacteur Raymond P. Hammond werd geboren op 31 augustus 1964 in Roanoke, Virginia. Hij volgde William Packard op bij de New York Quarterly na diens overlijden in 2002. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

 

I love how the snow slightly

I love how the snow slightly
salts on shoulders, in hair
of the darkly draped women
whose sole earlier accent
of color was powder blue
pink, red, green, fuchsia scarves, hats
a contrast of dark to light
daguerreotype to color
old, young, ancient to modern
a colorized timelessness
of vision that I can pass
through and get chillingly wet

 

Crows Crouched

Crows crouched
on Southern Crosses
erected by some other
crazy christian

whose pyrrhic vision
told him to paint
the two smaller ones blue
and the center one gold

whose base is now rotten
and leaning toward
the theif who didn’t
repent

Richard of St. Victor’s
dark and fluttering souls
held fast
to this earth
by the weightless
gravity of sin

hammond

Raymond P. Hammond (Roanoke, 31 augustus 1964)

 

De Engelse schrijfster Elizabeth von Arnim werd op 31 augustus 1866 geboren in Kirribilli Point in de buurt van Sydney. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Uit: The Enchanted April

„It began in a Woman’s Club in London on a February afternoon–an uncomfortable club, and a miserable afternoon–when Mrs. Wilkins, who had come down from Hampstead to shop and had lunched at her club, took up The Times from the table in the smoking-room, and running her listless eye down the Agony Column saw this:

To Those Who Appreciate Wistaria and Sunshine. Small mediaeval Italian Castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be Let furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain. Z, Box 1000, The Times.

That was its conception; yet, as in the case of many another, the conceiver was unaware of it at the moment.

So entirely unaware was Mrs. Wilkins that her April for that year had then and there been settled for her that she dropped the newspaper with a gesture that was both irritated and resigned, and went over to the window and stared drearily out at the dripping street.

Not for her were mediaeval castles, even those that are specially described as small. Not for her the shores in April of the Mediterranean, and the wisteria and sunshine. Such delights were only for the rich. Yet the advertisement had been addressed to persons who appreciate these things, so that it had been, anyhow addressed too to her, for she certainly appreciated them; more than anybody knew; more than she had ever told. But she was poor. In the whole world she possessed of her very own only ninety pounds, saved from year to year, put by carefully pound by pound, out of her dress allowance. She had scraped this sum together at the suggestion of her husband as a shield and refuge against a rainy day. Her dress allowance, given her by her father, was L100 a year, so that Mrs. Wilkins’s clothes were what her husband, urging her to save, called modest and becoming, and her acquaintance to each other, when they spoke of her at all, which was seldom for she was very negligible, called a perfect sight.

Mr. Wilkins, a solicitor, encouraged thrift, except that branch of it which got into his food. He did not call that thrift, he called it bad housekeeping. But for the thrift which, like moth, penetrated into Mrs. Wilkins’s clothes and spoilt them, he had much praise. “You never know,” he said, “when there will be a rainy day, and you may be very glad to find you have a nest-egg. Indeed we both may.”

arnim

Elizabeth von Arnim (31 augustus 1866 – 9 februari 1941)
Cover

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno,Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006  Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Uit: One Day in the Afternoon of the World

“You didn’t come to New York to tell the man you don’t want to make a deal, did you?”

“I came to New York because he sent me a check for a thousand dollars, with no strings attached. I came to meet him, to hear him out, to examine the contract.”

“What kind of contract do you want?”

“What kind does he want? This is his idea, not mine. All he’s got to do is put a deal in writing. All I’ve got to do is read it carefully and say yes or no. I made that very clear in my letter.”

“What about the play?”

“What about it?”

“What kind of a play is it going to be?”

“If the contract’s okay, and I sign it, it’s going to be a play that I write.”

“What kind of play, though?”

“The play isn’t written. We’ll know the kind it is when it is written.”

“He wants you to write a play something like one of the plays of Shaw. I forget which one, but he feels you’re the only playwright in the world who can write a play like that.”

“I don’t write a play like a play somebody else once wrote. I write a play, that’s all.”

“Have you got an idea for a play?”

“I don’t need an idea. For fifteen years I’ve written at least one new play a year. I haven’t earned a penny from any of them. You’ve looked up this man in Dun and Bradstreet, and he’s worth a lot of money. He wants me to write a play. He wants me to do something for him, for money, that I do anyway, for no money. I don’t ask him how he’s going to make his next million. I don’t ask him anything. Until you phoned and wired and wrote, and he phoned and wired, I didn’t even know he was alive. Now it turns out he is, and for some reason he wants me to write a play. All he’s got to do is let me see the contract.”

“Suppose you don’t like the contract?”

“I won’t sign it.”

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saroyan

William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)
Portret door Nareh Balian

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Théophile Gautier werd op 31 augustus 1811 geboren in Tarbes (departement Hautes-Pyrénées). Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006  Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2009.

Albertus, I

Sur le bord d’un canal profond dont les eaux vertes
Dorment, de nénufars et de bateaux couvertes,
Avec ses toits aigus, ses immenses greniers,
Ses tours au front d’ardoise où nichent les cigognes,
Ses cabarets bruyants qui regorgent d’ivrognes,
Est un vieux bourg flamand tel que les peint Teniers.
– Vous reconnaissez-vous ? – Tenez, voilà le saule,
De ses cheveux blafards inondant son épaule
Comme une fille au bain, l’église et son clocher,
L’étang où des canards se pavane l’escadre ;
– Il ne manque vraiment au tableau que le cadre
Avec le clou pour l’accrocher. –

 

Albertus, II

Confort et far-niente ! – toute une poésie
De calme et de bien-être, à donner fantaisie
De s’en aller là-bas être Flamand ; d’avoir
La pipe culottée et la cruche à fleurs peintes,
Le vidrecome large à tenir quatre pintes,
Comme en ont les buveurs de Brawer, et le soir
Près du poêle qui siffle et qui détonne, au centre
D’un brouillard de tabac, les deux mains sur le ventre,
Suivre une idée en l’air, dormir ou digérer,
Chanter un vieux refrain, porter quelque rasade,
Au fond d’un de ces chauds intérieurs, qu’Ostade
D’un jour si doux sait éclairer !

 gauthier

Théophile Gautier (31 augustus 1811 – 23 oktober 1872)
Portret door Auguste de Châtilon

 

Wolfgang Hilbig, Raymond P. Hammond, Elizabeth von Arnim, William Saroyan, Théophile Gautier

De Duitse dichter en schrijver Wolfgang Hilbig werd geboren in Meuselwitz op 31 augustus 1941.

 

Palimpsest     

 

Die Klage? – Sie liegt still über den Dächern im August –

wir haben sie nicht vernommen sie hat uns vernommen.

Lautlos haben sich die Tage geordnet: sie schwimmen

weit hinaus der Sommer ist entlassen aus der Macht.

Ein Sprung ein unsichtbarer Haarriss im Azur

hoch über uns: mißtönend Glas

                                           Ein Sicheln von Zikaden

hoch über uns im verschleuderten Licht …

vorbei das Jahrhundert mehr als hundert Jahre alt –

das Jahrhundert der Männer: am Ende verkommen

zu Neurasthenie. Der Rubikon ist überschritten!

 

Und bald gehört die Stadt den Stimmen unbekannter Sterne –

Der Hafen glimmt: ein Licht zur Ausfahrt angeschirrt …

Ausfahrt unentwegt wenn das Jahr zu enden anfängt

Bei Tag und Nacht herrscht aufgeräumte Fahrt von Farben

Ausfahrt von Sonnen still über den Dächern im August

Sommers Ausfahrt all jene erbleichenden Bläuen hinab

Und über die maßlosen Wasserfälle der Horizonte hinab –

o diese Gleitbahnen der Zeit diese unsichtbaren Ränder

hoch über uns in der großen Lichtvergeudung vor Abend –

und wir allein sind festgemacht in unentwegter Flaute:

wir haben die Klage den sterblichen Göttern überlassen.

 

 

 

Hier ist der Hafen ohne Hoffnung auf die Wiederkehr der Schiffe –

August vorbei

                      o noch ein letzter Tag vor dem September

der eintrifft wie ein Abend in wüster Verstimmung

dessen Sonne noch einmal die Zwietracht von Anfängen sät –

Anfänge die in schneller Flucht durch alle Flure eilen

ein Ende suchend in der Wirrsal von Treppenhäusern ohne Mitte

vor dem Rotbraun von Brandmauern aufgetakelt mit Schrott

wo wir entmannt sind festgemacht im Staub der Etagen

und es tritt der Mond auf oben am
Rand des Jahrhunderts

konturlos glimmend

                                 ein optischer Zufall vor Nachtbeginn –

und nun hebt ein toter Baum seine Kandelaber herauf

und zündet sich an: die schwarze Explosion des September

unaufhörlich in den Hinterhöfen tief wie Brunnen ohne Widerhall.

 

Ach welch düsteres Geäderzeichen für das Jahrhundert –

dieser Gespensterbaum dieser entgeisterte Illuminator

der jetzt die Lichter der Sterne anbrennt vielarmig verzweigt

dem Ende des Sommers zu leuchten dem Ende der mannhaften Fahrt.

Und er schreibt seine unlesbaren Runen in den leeren Azur …

Umschrift des Sommers

                                 Sie bedeckt den Kurs der Männer

Löst auf der Sonne Ausgeburt entmachtet Ziel und Klage …

Wir haben sie den Zikaden überlassen dem irren Abhub ihres Lieds –

Der Rubikon ist überschritten.

 

 

Dunstküste. Lautlos ziehn die Tage im Geleit.

Sie schwinden weit ins Offne mit dem Strom. Am Abend

Das flüchtige Gelichter der Wasser. Davor ein Baum im Rauch

Im kurzen Atem der Zikaden die sich widerrufen.

Und dann die Nacht in der wir nicht mehr sichtbar sind.

 

Hilbig

Wolfgang Hilbig (31 augustus 1941 – 2 juni 2007)

 

 

 De Amerikaanse dichter, criticus en tijdschriftredacteur Raymond P. Hammond werd geboren op 31 augustus 1964 in Roanoke, Virginia. Hij volgde William Packard op bij de New York Quarterly na diens overlijden in 2002.

 

Uit: The New York Quarterly, Number 64

 

Poetry proved upon the pulses, the pulse of life, the pulse of the l
ife of the poet. How can one experience a poem if the poet has not experienced life? One of the greatest achievements of the last thirty some years of The New York Quarterly is the close association of its poets and poetry to the real world. The vast majority of the poems published in The New York Quarterly over those years were born in the dirt, grime or rainbow of reality. The poets have come from diverse backgrounds and experiences: from postal workers, like Bukowski, to lawyers, to cops, to factory workers, to strippers, to housewives; real people leading real lives.
In his Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke admonishes: “Write about what your everyday life offers you,” but then he goes on to interject, “if your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself.” We have as much responsibility to live a life to “the ripest, fullest experience that one is capable,” as John Keats said, as we do to writing the best poetry. In fact, the two are inseparable.
To be a poet like Archilochos who, as a mercenary, led troops into battle only to leave his shield behind and then write a poem about it:

Some Saian mountaineer
Struts today with my shield.
I threw it down by a bush and ran
When the fighting got hot.
Life seemed somehow more precious.
It was a beautiful shield.
I know where I can buy another
Exactly like it, just as round.

To know that life is precious, poetry is precious, and when to fight and when to run! To be the Renaissance of Renaissance. Not just to write a poem to be writing a poem, but to write the poetry of poetry, to be a man or woman among mankind. As William Packard always reminded us, Aeschylus’s epitaph only mentioned his bravery at the Battle of Marathon—not that he was a great playwright.
Keeping our poetry and ourselves real, having lives, living them, remembering that the sunset, sunrise, midday on a Manhattan sidewalk, the human touch of the one true lover, a major league baseball game, children, dogs barking in the alleyway, a dying father, scuba diving, working overtime, seafoam, moonbeams, dirty jobs, filthier sex, duty – are all poetry in and of themselves. It is up to us, the poets, to glean the beauty.
And then write.”

 

Hammond

Raymond P. Hammond (Roanoke, 31 augustus 1964)
Boekomslag (Geen porttret beschikbaar)

 

 

De Engelse schrijfster Elizabeth von Arnim werd op 31 augustus 1866 geboren in Kirribilli Point in de buurt van Sydney.

 

Uit: The Solitary Summer

 

„May 2nd.—Last night after dinner, when we were in the garden, I said, “I want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of life. I want to be as idle as I can, so that my soul may have time to grow. Nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if any one calls they will be told that I am out, or away, or sick. I shall spend the months in the garden, and on the plain, and in the forests. I shall watch the things that happen in my garden, and see where I have made mistakes. On wet days I will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines I’ll lie on the heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. I shall be perpetually happy, because there will be no one to worry me. Out there on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence I have discovered there is peace.”

“Mind you do not get your feet damp,” said the Man of Wrath, removing his cigar.

It was the evening of May Day, and the spring had taken hold of me body and soul. The sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and the borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. All day there had been a breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had been sailing across the blue. Now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing and hushing it into silence.

The Man of Wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least indulgently, and I stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial.

“Shall you take a book with you?” he asked.

“Yes, I shall,” I replied, slightly nettled by his tone. “I am quite ready to admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to teach, I am not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are incapable of seeing things that at other times are quite plain.”

“And then you read?”

“And then I read. Well, dear Sage, what of that?”

But he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars.

“See,” he said, after a pause, during which I stood looking at him and wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and did not think about me at all, “see how bright the stars are to-night. Almost as though it might freeze.”

 

ElisabethVonArnim

Elizabeth von Arnim (31 augustus 1866 – 9 februari 1941)

 

 

De Amerikaanse schrijver William Saroyan werd geboren op 31 augustus 1908 in Fresno, Californië. Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006 

Uit: The Time Of Your Life

 

“In the time of your life, live — so that in good time there shall be no ugliness or death for yourself or for any life your life touches. Seek goodness everywhere, and when it is found, bring it out of its hiding-place and let it be free and unashamed. Place in matter and in flesh the least of the values, for these are things that hold death and must pass away. Discover in all things that which shines and is beyond corruption. Encourage virtue in whatever heart it may have been driven into secrecy and sorrow by the shame and terror of the world. Ignore the obvious, for it is unworthy of the clear eye and the kindly heart. Be the inferior of no man, nor of any man be the superior. Remember that every man is a variation of yourself. No man’s guilt is not yours, nor is any man’s innocence a thing apart. Despise evil and ungodliness, but not men of ungodliness or evil. These, understand. Have no shame in being kindly and gentle, but if the time comes in the time of your life to kill, kill and have no regret. In the time of your life, live — so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it.”

 

saroyan

William Saroyan (31 augustus 1908 – 18 mei 1981)

 

 

De Franse dichter en schrijver Théophile Gautier werd op 31 augustus 1811 geboren in Tarbes (departement Hautes-Pyrénées). Zie ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2006 

 

 

A deux beaux yeux

 

Vous avez un regard singulier et charmant ;

Comme la lune au fond du lac qui la reflète,

Votre prunelle, où brille une humide paillette,

Au coin de vos doux yeux roule languissamment ;

 

Ils semblent avoir pris ses feux au diamant ;

Ils sont de plus belle eau qu’une perle parfaite,

Et vos grands cils émus, de leur aile inquiète,

Ne voilent qu’à demi leur vif rayonnement.

 

Mille petits amours, à leur miroir de flamme,

Se viennent regarder et s’y trouvent plus beaux,

Et les désirs y vont rallumer leurs flambeaux.

 

Ils sont si transparents, qu’ils laissent voir votre âme,

Comme une fleur céleste au calice idéal

Que l’on apercevrait à travers un cristal

 

 

La chimère

 

Une jeune chimère, aux lèvres de ma coupe,
Dans l’orgie, a donné le baiser le plus doux
Elle avait les yeux verts, et jusque sur sa croupe
Ondoyait en torrent l’or de ses cheveux roux.

Des ailes d’épervier tremblaient à son épaule
La voyant s’envoler je sautai sur ses reins ;
Et faisant jusqu’à moi ployer sou cou de saule,
J’enfonçai comme un peigne une main dans ses crins.

Elle se démenait, hurlante et furieuse,
Mais en vain. Je broyais ses flancs dans mes genoux ;
Alors elle me dit d’une voix gracieuse,
Plus claire que l’argent : Maître, où donc allons-nous ?

Par-delà le soleil et par-delà l’espace,
Où Dieu n’arriverait qu’après l’éternité ;
Mais avant d’être au but ton aile sera lasse :
Car je veux voir mon rêve en sa réalité.

 

gautier01

Théophile Gautier (31 augustus 1811 – 23 oktober 1872
Illustratie door Laurent Paturaud

 

Zie voor bovenstaande schrijversook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2007 en ook mijn blog van 31 augustus 2008.