|
De Canadese schrijver Morley Callaghan werd geboren op 22 februari 1903 in Toronto. Zie ook alle tags voor Morley Callaghan op dit blog.
Uit:All the Years of Her Life
“The drug store was beginning to close for the night. Young Alfred Higgins who worked in the store was putting on his coat, getting ready to go home. On his way out, he passed Mr. Sam Carr, the little gray hair man who owned the store. Mr. Carr looked up at Alfred as he passed and said in a very soft voice, ''Just a moment, Alfred, one moment before you go.''
Mr. Carr spoke so quietly that he worried Alfred. ''What is it, Mr. Carr?''
''Maybe you'd be good enough to take a few things out of your pockets and leave them here before you go.'' Said Mr. Carr.
''What things? What are you talking about?''
''You've got a compact and a lipstick and at least two tubes of toothpaste in your pockets, Alfred.''
''What do you mean?'' Alfred answered. ''Do you think I am crazy?'' His face got red.
Mr. Carr kept looking at Alfred, coldly. Alfred did not know what to say and tried to keep his eyes from meeting the eyes of his boss. After a few moments, he put his hand into his pockets and took out the things he had stolen.
''Petty thieving, eh, Alfred?'' said Mr. Carr. ''And maybe you'd be good enough to tell me how long this has been going on.''
''This is the first time I ever took anything.''
Mr. Carr was quick to answer, ''So now you think you tell me a lie? What kind of a fool do I look like, hah? I don't know what goes on in my own store, eh? I/ tell you, you have been doing this for a long time.'' Mr. Carr had a strange smile on his face. ''I don’t like to call the police,'' he said, ''but maybe I should call your father and let him know I'm going to have to put you in jail.''
''My father is not home, he is a printer, he works nights.''
Morley Callaghan (22 februari 1903 – 25 augustus 1990)
De Amerikaanse letterkundige en literatuurwetenschapper Wayne Clayton Booth werd geboren op 22 februari 1921 in American Fork, Utah. Zie ook alle tags voor Wayne C. Booth op dit blog.
Uit: Confessions of an Aging, Hypocritical Ex-Missionary
“Until I was far into my teens, I was an utterly unquestioning Mormon. My parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles were all visibly, audibly, aggressively devout--all except one uncle, a smoker, a "black sheep." For our family, non-Mormons were beyond the pale--to be tolerated, of course, even treated kindly if they behaved themselves, viewed perhaps as potential converts, but never courted or married, and never even visited socially. They were certainly not destined, like us, to enter the celestial kingdom. We knew that in the next life those lost souls would not even be allowed to come near us, as we all continued our eternal progression, pursuing knowledge and righteousness--concepts that when defined correctly turned out to be the same thing.
What I remember as most important to me was that in heaven the non-Mormon or non-devout males down there in the lower kingdoms would have no hope for what I had a strong hope for, if I kept my nose clean: becoming the god of another world, accompanied by a pious female helpmate. Meanwhile, here and now, non-Mormons were so far beneath us that it was dangerous even to get near them. I remember feeling scared to walk too close to the one non-Mormon church in my home town, American Fork, Utah. I would always cross the road and walk on the other side, to avoid contamination, and I was thankful that we lived in another ward, far from that wicked place.
In short, until my first questioning began at about fourteen, I was a 100 percent devotee of what might be called an exclusivist, or particularist, anti-ecumenical version of Mormonism. That boy, the very young Wayne Booth, would perhaps these days be called by non-Mormons a fundamentalist (the word wasn't in our vocabulary, I'm quite sure). Born and reared in the pre-Darwinian nineteenth century, as you might say, he was for about fifteen years unaware of what had been happening to western thought from long before he was born.”
Wayne C. Booth (22 februari 1921 – 9 oktober 2005)
De Franse schrijver Jules Renard werd geboren op 22 februari 1864 in Châlons-du-Maine. Zie ook alle tags voor Jules Renard op dit blog.
Uit: Journal de Jules Renard 1905-1910
“Je lui ai fait donner les palmes. Il dit aux gens de son village :
- Mes amis, les palmes me font bien plaisir, mais ce n'est rien à côté de vos félicitations.
L'esprit inquiet mais clairvoyant, c'est-à-dire actif et sain, de l'homme qui ne travaille pas.
Le poëte Ponge me dit :
- Quelques personnes m'ont dit qu'on ferait mieux de m'offrir un bureau de tabac que les palmes académiques. Moi, à cause de mes enfants, je préfère les palmes. Le bureau de tabac, je ne pourrais pas le tenir moi-même parce que mon travail des champs m'en empêcherait ; s'il fallait le faire tenir par un autre, le gain n'en vaudrait plus la peine.
Ragotte m'a apporté de l'eau chaude. Je lui dis :
- Mais la bouillote fuit !
- Oh ! je le sais bien, dit-elle.
Le médecin lui a dit de prendre chez le pharmacien de la denrée qu'elle boira. Elle profite, pour se coucher, d'un instant où je ne suis pas dans la cuisine. Dans le coin, elle ôte sa jupe, met son bonnet. Je vois ses pieds nus dans ses savates.
Leur manie de cacher qu'ils sont malades. Leur ignorance en face de la maladie. En dehors de « J'ai mal aux reins, je ne peux pas dormir ni manger », ils ne savent rien.
Cette odeur de peau raclée de gens qui ne se lavent jamais.
Philippe. Ses oreilles gèlent, cuisent et pèlent.
Toute la campagne tremble de froid.”
Jules Renard (22 februari 1864 – 22 mei 1910)
Portret door Delannoy, 1903
De Amerikaanse dichter, essayist, uitgever en diplomaat James Russell Lowell werd geboren op 22 februari 1819 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Zie ook alle tags voor James Russell Lowell op dit blog.
Midnight
The moon shines white and silent
On the mist, which, like a tide
Of some enchanted ocean,
O'er the wide marsh doth glide,
Spreading its ghost-like billows
Silently far and wide.
A vague and starry magic
Makes all things mysteries,
And lures the earth's dumb spirit
Up to the longing skies:
I seem to hear dim whispers,
And tremulous replies.
The fireflies o'er the meadow
In pulses come and go;
The elm-trees' heavy shadow
Weighs on the grass below;
And faintly from the distance
The dreaming cock doth crow.
All things look strange and mystic,
The very bushes swell
And take wild shapes and motions,
As if beneath a spell;
They seem not the same lilacs
From childhood known so well.
The snow of deepest silence
O'er everything doth fall,
So beautiful and quiet,
And yet so like a pall;
As if all life were ended,
And rest were come to all.
O wild and wondrous midnight,
There is a might in thee
To make the charmed body
Almost like spirit be,
And give it some faint glimpses
Of immortality!
James Russell Lowell (22 februari 1819 – 12 augustus 1891)
Borstbeeld door William Wetmore Story, 1892
De Amerikaanse dichteres en schrijfster Edna St. Vincent Millay werd geboren op 22 februari 1892 in Rockland, Maine. Zie ook alle tags voor Edna St. Vincent Millay op dit blog.
What lips my lips have kissed
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Nee, liefde is niet blind
Nee, liefde is niet blind. Jouw lelijkheid
Hoe mooi die vrouwen zijn, ik zie het goed
Dat jouw gezicht aan regels niet voldoet
Te hoog je voorhoofd en uiteen te wijd
Je ogen. En geschoold in lieflijkheid
Maakt dat het hiermee te zijn opgevoed
Mij nu jouw fouten niet ontkennen doet
En lief moet hebben tot het eind der tijd
Subtieler is de oppermacht der liefde
Betrapt men mij als ik iets lelijk vind
’t Is net alsof ik zeg dat niets meer zint
Niet hoogstaand is, kan schrijven. Men mag vrezen
Wat dan die schoonheid is die mannen blieven
Waarom wordt die alom door hen geprezen
Vertaald door Ans Bouter
Edna St. Vincent Millay (22 februari 1892 – 19 oktober 1950)
Cover biografie
De Duitse dichteres en schrijfster Ottilie Wildermuth werd geboren op 22 februari 1817 in Rottenburg am Neckar. Zie ook alle tags voor Ottilie Wildermuth op dit blog.
Der Hausfrau Frühlingsfeier - I
Der Frühling schaut zu uns herab
Dort aus den blauen Hallen;
Er lässt als Gruß die milde Luft
Durch alle Lande wallen.
Er lockt hervor das grüne Gras,
Verscheucht viel alte Schmerzen;
Er weckt die Hoffnung und die Lust
In tausend jungen Herzen.
Die Hausfrau aber hat nicht Zeit,
Dass sie im Frühling schwärme;
Nun müssen Thür und Fenster auf,
Damit die Sonne Wärme.
Nun muß der alte Winterstaub
Aus jeglichem Gemache;
Nun soll es hell und sauber sein,
Hinauf bis unter'm Dache.
Da räumt sie aus, da räumt sie ein
In Kisten und in Schränken;
Fürwahr, sie hat vergessen ganz
Noch an den Lenz zu denken.
Ottilie Wildermuth (22 februari 1817 – 12 juli 1877)
|
