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De Amerikaanse schrijver James Thurber werd geboren op 8 december 1894 in Columbus, Ohio. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006.xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
Uit: The Dog Department
I am not a dog lover. A dog lover to me means a dog that is in love with another dog. I am a great admirer of certain dogs, just as I am an admirer of certain men, and I dislike certain dogs as much as I dislike certain men. Mr. Stanley Walker" in his attack on dogs brought out the very sound contention that too much sentimental gush has been said and written about man's love for the dog and the dog's love for man. (This gush, I should say, amounts to about one ten-thousandth of the gush that has been printed and recited about man's love for woman, and vice versa, since Shelley wrote "0' lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fall! Let thy love in kisses rain on my lips and eyelids pale.") It is significant that none of the gush about dogs has been said or written by dogs. I once showed a copy of Senator Vest's oration to one of my dogs and he sniffed at it and walked away. No dog has ever gone around quoting any part of it. We see, then, that this first indictment of dogs ' that they have called forth so much sentimental woofumpoofum ' is purely and simply an indictment of men. I think we will find this to be true of most of Mr. Walker's indictments against the canine world: he takes a swing at dogs and socks men and women in the eye.
Mr. Walker began his onslaught with a one-sided and prejudiced account of how a little red chow on a leash (the italics are mine) pulled a knife on Mr. Gene Fowler, a large red man who has never been on a leash in his life. Neither the dog nor the woman who was leading the dog are quoted; we dont get their side of the brawl at all. The knife was not evenexamined for paw prints. Nobody proved anything. There isnt a judge in the world who wouldn't have thrown the case out of court, probably with a sharp reprimand for Mr. Fowler. So far, then, Mr. Walker hasn't got a leg to stand on.
James Thurber (8 december 1894 2 november 1961)
De Amerikaanse dichter en schrijver William Hervey Allen werd geboren op 8 december 1889 in Pittsburgh. Bekend werd hij door zijn fictioele oorlogsdagboek Toward the Flame uit 1926 en door Israfel, een biografie over Edgar Allan Poe. Zijn ontwikkelingsroman Antonio Adverso uit 1933 maakte hem echter wereldberoemd. Het werk bestrijkt in negen delen het tijdvak 1780 tot 1840 en beschrijft het leven van de held vanaf zijn jeugd in een weeshuis in Livorno, via het keizerlijke Frankrijk naar Zuid-Amerika, zijn reis naar Afrika als slavenhandelaar, tot uiteindelijk zijn vestiging in El Paso.
VOICE OF LIFE
Dear bird, you are the voice of life itself,
A living melody that calls to us
With untaught ecstasy; that sings a joy
Inherited with being, glorious.
Like girls at play, like laughter of a boy,
Your song derides the tired and baffled brain
That thinks itself to death; you sing again
With the immortal freshness of a breath
From morning stars above the mist of pain
That clings to song about the fields of earth.
What dusty thresholds to what vacant ears
Your ecstasy might sweep with song; what dearth
Of music starves them through long, silent years,
Who are eclipsed from you by birth!
Now from this lonely moor you have sprung up
Beyond our need, to pour; pour higher yet
Your melody into that tilted cup
Which all about with clustered gems is set.
Now I can hear it spilling back again,
Melodious excess through my casement bars,
Oh, what delirious madrigals are these
To wither out to nothing twixt the stars!
Such perfect music, and no ideal ear?
Listen! It is the earth that needs to hear.
William Hervey Allen (8 december 1889 28 december 1949)
De Noorse dichter, schrijver, journalist en politicus Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson werd geboren op 8 december 1832 in Kvikne bij Tynset. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006.
Ballad Of Tailor Nils
If you were born before yesterday,
Surely you've heard about Tailor Nils, who flaunts him so gay.
If it's more than a week that you've been here,
Surely you've heard how Knut Storedragen got a lesson severe.
Up on the barn of Ola-Per Kviste after a punchin':
"When Nils heaves you again, take with you some luncheon."
Hans Bugge, he was a man so renowned,
Haunting ghosts of his name spread alarm all around.
"Tailor Nils, where you wish to lie, now declare!
On that spot will I spit and lay your head right there."--
"Oh, just come up so near, that I know you by the scent!
Think not that by your jaw to earth I shall be bent!"
When first they met, 't was scarce a bout at all,
Neither man was ready yet to try to get a fall.
The second time Hans Bugge slipped his hold.
"Are you tired now, Hans Bugge? The dance will soon be bold."
The third time Hans fell headlong, and forth the blood did spurt.
"Why spit you now so much, man?" -- "Oh my, that fall did hurt!"--
Saw you a tree casting shadows on new-fallen snow?
Saw you Nils on a maiden smiling glances bestow?
Have you seen Tailor Nils when the dance he commences?
Are you a maiden, then go!--It's too late, when you've lost your senses.
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (8 december 1832 26 april 1910)
De Franse theaterauteur Georges Feydeau werd geboren op 8 december 1862 in Parijs. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006.
Uit : Le dindon
Acte I
À Paris, chez Vatelin. Un salon élégant. Porte au fond. Deux portes à droite, deux à gauche. Mobilier ad libitum. Au lever du rideau, la scène reste vide un instant. On ne tarde pas à entendre des rumeurs au fond, et Lucienne, en tenue de sortie, son chapeau un peu de travers sur la tête, fait irruption comme une femme affolée.
Scène I
Lucienne, Pontagnac. LUCIENNE, entrant comme une bombe et refermant la porte sur elle, mais pas assez vite pour empêcher une canne, passée par un individu quon ne voit pas, de se glisser entre le battant et le chambranle de la porte. Ah ! mon Dieu ! Allez-vous en, monsieur !... Allezvous en !...
PONTAGNAC, essayant de pousser la porte que chaque fois Lucienne repousse sur lui. Madame !... Madame !... je vous en prie !...
LUCIENNE. Mais jamais de la vie, monsieur !... Quest-ce que cest que ces manières ! (Appelant tout en luttant contre la porte.) Jean, Jean ! Augustine !... Ah ! mon Dieu, et personne !... PONTAGNAC. Madame ! Madame !
LUCIENNE. Non ! Non !
PONTAGNAC, qui a fini par entrer. Je vous en supplie, madame, écoutez-moi !
LUCIENNE. Cest une infamie !... Je vous défends, monsieur !... Sortez !...
PONTAGNAC. Ne craignez rien, madame, je ne vous veux aucun mal ! Si mes intentions ne sont pas pures, je vous jure quelles ne sont pas hostiles... bien au contraire. Il va à elle.
LUCIENNE, reculant. Ah çà ! monsieur, vous êtes fou !
PONTAGNAC, la poursuivant. Oui, madame, vous lavez dit, fou de vous ! Je sais que ma conduite est audacieuse, contraire aux usages, mais je men moque !... Je ne sais quune chose, cest que je vous aime et que tous les moyens me sont bons pour arriver jusquà vous.
LUCIENNE, sarrêtant. Monsieur, je ne puis en écouter davantage !... Sortez !...
PONTAGNAC. Ah ! Tout, madame, tout plutôt que cela ! Je vous aime, je vous dis ! (Nouvelle poursuite.) Il ma suffi de vous voir et ça été le coup de foudre ! Depuis huit jours je mattache à vos pas ! Vous lavez remarqué.
LUCIENNE, sarrêtant devant la table. Mais non, monsieur.
PONTAGNAC. Si, madame, vous lavez remarqué ! Une femme remarque toujours quand on la suit.
Georges Feydeau (8 december 1862 - 5 juni 1921)
De Amerikaanse schrijver Joel Chandler Harris werd geboren op 8 december 1848 in Eatonton, Georgia. Bekend werd hij vooral door zijn Uncle Remus vervolgverhalen, zoals Uncle Remus and His Friends (1892), and Uncle Remus and the Little Boy (1905) die eerst in de krant verschenen en na de opheffing van de rassenscheiding snel populair werden. Door het gebruik van dialect waren ze ook vernieuwend. Harris schreef ook novelle-achtige verhalen over het landleven in Georgia.
Uit: Stories of Georgia
So far as written records tell us, Hernando de Soto and his companions in arms were the first white men to enter and explore the territory now known on the map as the State of Georgia. Tradition has small voice in the matter, but such as it has tells another story. There are hints that other white men ventured into this territory before De Soto and his men beheld it. General Oglethorpe, when he came to Georgia with his gentle colony, which had been tamed and sobered by misfortune and ill luck, was firmly of the opinion that Sir Walter Raleigh, the famous soldier, sailor, and scholar, had been there before him. So believing, the founder of the Georgian Colony carried with him Sir Walter's diary. He
was confirmed in his opinion by a tradition, among the Indians of the Yamacraw tribe, that Raleigh had landed where Savannah now stands.
There are also traditions in regard to the visits of other white men to Georgia. These traditions may be true, or they may be the results of dreams, but it is certain that De Soto and his picked company of
Spaniards were the first to march through the territory that is now Georgia. The De Soto expedition was made up of the flower of Spanish chivalry,--men Used to war, and fond of adventure. Some of them were soldiers, anxious to win fame by feats of arms in a new land; some were missionaries, professing an anxiety for the souls of such heathen as they might encounter, but even these men were not unfamiliar with the use of the sword; some were physicians, as ready to kill as to heal; some were botanists, who knew as much about the rapier and the poniard as they did about the stamens, pistils, and petals of the flowers; and some were reporters, men selected to write the history of the expedition.
Joel Chandler Harris (8 december 1848 3 juli 1908)
De Romeinse dichter en schrijver Quintus Horatius Flaccus werd geboren op 8 december 65 v. Chr. Zie ook mijn blog van 8 december 2006.
Oden I.7
Laat andren 't roemrijk Rhodos, Mytilene
of Ephesus bezingen of Corinthe,
waar zee van Oost en West den muur bespoelt,
of 't Bacchisch Thebe, 't Apollinisch Delphi,
het lieflijk dal, waar de Peneios vloeit.
De stad der Jonkvrouw zij het levenswerk
van menig dichter, die van heind' en veer
olijvetakken tot een krans vergaart.
In veler mond leve tot Hera's eer
Mycene rijk aan goud, Argos aan paarden.
Mij heeft noch Sparta met zijn zwarte soep,
noch ook Larissa met zijn vette klei
zoo 't hart geroerd als 't ruischend Tivoli
met steilen waterval en duister woud,
met weelgen boomgaard langs de slingerbeek.
Zooals 't Zuidwesten soms geen regenvlagen,
maar blauwe lucht brengt, die het zwerk verscheurt,
laat zoo uw droefheid, Plancus, en uw zorg
verlichten door de wijsheid van den wijn,
te velde nu, straks thuis in Tivoli!
Teukros, die door zijn vader was verstooten,
heeft bij een laatst festijn op Salamis
geklonken met zijn treurende trawanten:
"Waar beter lot, dan hier in 't vaderhuis,
ons wenkt, daar gaan wij heen, mijn kameraden!
Vertwijfelt niet! Ik zal uw leider zijn.
Apollo waarborgt ons Nieuw-Salamis.
Helden, die met mij stondt voor heeter vuur,
drinkt thans den beker der vergetelheid!
Morgen begint opnieuw de groote reis."
Vertaald door Dr. A. Rutgers van der Loeff.
Horatius (8 december 65 v. Chr. - 27 november 8 v. Chr.)
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