In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. CINEMA, RADIO & TV
  2. DANCE
  3. DICTIONARY OF IDEAS
  4. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  5. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  6. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  7. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  8. MONTAIGNE
  9. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  10. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra
  11. MUSEUM OF PUBLIC PROTEST- photos, texts, videos, street poetry
  12. MUSIC
  13. PRESS & PUBLISHING
  14. REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS
  15. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  16. STREET POETRY
  17. THEATRE
  18. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  19. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm and others, fairy tales, the art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, the ideal woman
  20. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm and others, fairy tales, the art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, the ideal woman

«« Previous page · David Lagercrantz: The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye · Christine L. Corton: London Fog. The Biography · Leif GW Persson: The Dying Detective. A Mystery · Sleeping Beauties. A Novel by Stephen King and Owen King · Mary Shelley: The Invisible Girl · De oriënt verkend. Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer · ‘De duistere winkel’ – 124 dromen van Georges Perec · Koen Hilberdink: J.B.W.P. Het leven van Johan POLAK · Anders RYDELL: De grote boekenroof. Een zoektocht naar Europa’s verdwenen bibliotheken · Tentoonstelling over MARIA in Museum Catharijneconvent in Utrecht · PULITZER Prizes 2017 · P.C. Hooft-prijs 2017 voor BAS HEIJNE

»» there is more...

David Lagercrantz: The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye

From the author of the #1 international best seller The Girl in the Spider’s Web: the new book in the Millennium series, which began with Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Lisbeth Salander, the girl with the dragon tattoo, the brilliant hacker, the obstinate outsider, the volatile seeker of justice for herself and others—even she has never been able to uncover the most telling facts of her traumatic childhood, the secrets that might finally, fully explain her to herself. Now, when she sees a chance to uncover them once and for all, she enlists the help of Mikael Blomkvist, the editor of the muckraking, investigative journal Millennium. And she will let nothing stop her—not the Islamists she enrages by rescuing a young woman from their brutality; not the prison gang leader who passes a death sentence on her; not the deadly reach of her long-lost twin sister, Camilla; and not the people who will do anything to keep buried knowledge of a sinister pseudoscientific experiment known only as The Registry. Once again, Lisbeth Salander and Mikael Blomkvist, together, are the fierce heart of a thrilling full-tilt novel that takes on some of the most insidious problems facing the world at this very moment.

David Lagercrantz was born in 1962 and is an acclaimed author and journalist. He has written numerous biographies (including the internationally best-selling I Am Zlatan Ibrahimović, for which he was the ghostwriter) and four novels, including Fall of Man in Wilmslow, and the #1 best-selling The Girl in the Spider’s Web.

“Lagercrantz’s excellent second contribution to Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series [is a] complicated, fascinating mystery.” Publisher’s Weekly

The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye
A Lisbeth Salander novel,
continuing Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Series
By David Lagercrantz
Suspense & Thriller – Crime Mysteries

Paperback
Sep 12, 2017
512 Pages

Hardcover
Sep 12, 2017
368 Pages

new books
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


Christine L. Corton: London Fog. The Biography

In popular imagination, London is a city of fog. The classic London fogs, the thick yellow “pea-soupers,” were born in the industrial age of the early nineteenth century.

The first globally notorious instance of air pollution, they remained a constant feature of cold, windless winter days until clean air legislation in the 1960s brought about their demise. Christine L. Corton tells the story of these epic London fogs, their dangers and beauty, and their lasting effects on our culture and imagination.

As the city grew, smoke from millions of domestic fires, combined with industrial emissions and naturally occurring mists, seeped into homes, shops, and public buildings in dark yellow clouds of water droplets, soot, and sulphur dioxide. The fogs were sometimes so thick that people could not see their own feet.

By the time London’s fogs lifted in the second half of the twentieth century, they had changed urban life. Fogs had created worlds of anonymity that shaped social relations, providing a cover for crime, and blurring moral and social boundaries.

They had been a gift to writers, appearing famously in the works of Charles Dickens, Henry James, Oscar Wilde, Robert Louis Stevenson, Joseph Conrad, and T. S. Eliot. Whistler and Monet painted London fogs with a fascination other artists reserved for the clear light of the Mediterranean.

Corton combines historical and literary sensitivity with an eye for visual drama—generously illustrated here—to reveal London fog as one of the great urban spectacles of the industrial age.

Christine L. Corton is a Senior Member of Wolfson College, Cambridge, and a freelance writer. She worked for many years at publishing houses in London.

London Fog
The Biography
Christine L. Corton
Paperback – 2017
408 pages
28 color illustrations, 63 halftones
Belknap Press / Harvard University Press
ISBN 9780674979819

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive C-D, Art & Literature News, Arthur Conan Doyle, Charles Dickens, FDM in London, Natural history, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


Leif GW Persson: The Dying Detective. A Mystery

Lars Martin Johansson is a living legend. Cunning and perceptive, always one step ahead, he was known in the National Criminal Police as “the man who could see around corners.” But now Johansson is retired, living in the country, his police days behind him.

Or so he thinks.

After suffering a stroke, Johansson finds himself in the hospital. Tests show heart problems as well. And the only thing that can save him from despair is his doctor’s mention of an unsolved murder case from years before. The victim: an innocent nine-year-old girl.

Johansson is determined to solve the case, no matter his condition. With the help of his assistant, Matilda, an amateur detective, and Max, an orphan with a personal stake in the case, he launches an informal investigation from his hospital bed. Racing against time, he uncovers a web of connections that links sex tourism to a dead opera singer and a self-made millionaire. And as Johansson draws closer to solving the crime, he finds that he will have to confront not just a mystery but his own mortality as well.

Leif G.W. Persson’s previous novels include Backstrom: He Who Kills the Dragon, Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End, and Another Time, Another Life. He has served as an adviser to the Swedish ministry of justice and is Sweden’s most renowned psychological profiler. A professor at the Swedish National Police Board, he is considered the country’s foremost expert on crime.

The Dying Detective
A Mystery
By Leif GW Persson
Translated by Neil Smith
Category: Crime Mysteries
Paperback + Hardback
May 2017
432 Pages
Published by Transworld Publishers Ltd
ISBN10 085752089X
ISBN13 9780857520890

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


Sleeping Beauties. A Novel by Stephen King and Owen King

In this spectacular father/son collaboration, Stephen King and Owen King tell the highest of high-stakes stories: what might happen if women disappeared from the world of men?

In a future so real and near it might be now, something happens when women go to sleep; they become shrouded in a cocoon-like gauze. If they are awakened, if the gauze wrapping their bodies is disturbed or violated, the women become feral and spectacularly violent; and while they sleep they go to another place… The men of our world are abandoned, left to their increasingly primal devices. One woman, however, the mysterious Evie, is immune to the blessing or curse of the sleeping disease. Is Evie a medical anomaly to be studied? Or is she a demon who must be slain? Set in a small Appalachian town whose primary employer is a women’s prison, Sleeping Beauties is a wildly provocative, gloriously absorbing father/son collaboration between Stephen King and Owen King.

Sleeping Beauties
A Novel
by Stephen King and Owen King
hardcover
Scribner publisher
720 pages
ISBN 9781501163401
September 2017
List Price $32.50

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive K-L, Art & Literature News, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, Stephen King, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


Mary Shelley: The Invisible Girl

shelley-marij-fdmThe Invisible Girl
by Mary Shelley

This slender narrative has no pretensions o the regularity of a story, or the development of situations and feelings; it is but a slight sketch, delivered nearly as it was narrated to me by one of the humblest of the actors concerned: nor will I spin out a circumstance interesting principally from its singularity and truth, but narrate, as concisely as I can, how I was surprised on visiting what seemed a ruined tower, crowning a bleak promontory overhanging the sea, that flows between Wales and Ireland, to find that though the exterior preserved all the savage rudeness that betokened many a war with the elements, the interior was fitted up somewhat in the guise of a summer-house, for it was too small to deserve any other name.

It consisted but of the ground-floor, which served as an entrance, and one room above, which was reached by a staircase made out of the thickness of the wall. This chamber was floored and carpeted, decorated with elegant furniture; and, above all, to attract the attention and excite curiosity, there hung over the chimney-piece — for to preserve the apartment from damp a fire-place had been built evidently since it had assumed a guise so dissimilar to the object of its construction — a picture simply painted in water-colours, which seemed more than any part of the adornments of the room to be at war with the rudeness of the building, the solitude in which it was placed, and the desolation of the surrounding scenery. This drawing represented a lovely girl in the very pride and bloom of youth; her dress was simple, in the fashion of the day — (remember, reader, I write at the beginning of the eighteenth century), her countenance was embellished by a look of mingled innocence and intelligence, to which was added the imprint of serenity of soul and natural cheerfulness. She was reading one of those folio romances which have so long been the delight of the enthusiastic and young; her mandoline was at her feet — her parroquet perched on a huge mirror near her; the arrangement of furniture and hangings gave token of a luxurious dwelling, and her attire also evidently that of home and privacy, yet bore with it an appearance of ease and girlish ornament, as if she wished to please. Beneath this picture was inscribed in golden letters, “The Invisible Girl.”

Rambling about a country nearly uninhabited, having lost my way, and being overtaken by a shower, I had lighted on this dreary looking tenement, which seemed to rock in the blast, and to be hung up there as the very symbol of desolation. I was gazing wistfully and cursing inwardly my stars which led me to a ruin that could afford no shelter, though the storm began to pelt more seriously than before, when I saw an old woman’s head popped out from a kind of loophole, and as suddenly withdrawn: — a minute after a feminine voice called to me from within, and penetrating a little brambly maze that skreened a door, which I had not before observed, so skilfully had the planter succeeded in concealing art with nature I found the good dame standing on the threshold and inviting me to take refuge within. “I had just come up from our cot hard by,” she said, “to look after the things, as I do every day, when the rain came on — will ye walk up till it is over?” I was about to observe that the cot hard by, at the venture of a few rain drops, was better than a ruined tower, and to ask my kind hostess whether “the things” were pigeons or crows that she was come to look after, when the matting of the floor and the carpeting of the staircase struck my eye. I was still more surprised when I saw the room above; and beyond all, the picture and its singular inscription, naming her invisible, whom the painter had coloured forth into very agreeable visibility, awakened my most lively curiosity: the result of this, of my.exceeding politeness towards the old woman, and her own natural garrulity, was a kind of garbled narrative which my imagination eked out, and future inquiries rectified, till it assumed the following form.

Some years before in the afternoon of a September day, which, though tolerably fair, gave many tokens of a tempestuous evening, a gentleman arrived at a little coast town about ten miles from this place; he expressed his desire to hire a boat to carry him to the town of about fifteen miles further on the coast. The menaces which the sky held forth made the fishermen loathe to venture, till at length two, one the father of a numerous family, bribed by the bountiful reward the stranger promised — the other, the son of my hostess, induced by youthful daring, agreed to undertake the voyage. The wind was fair, and they hoped to make good way before nightfall, and to get into port ere the rising of the storm. They pushed off with good cheer, at least the fishermen did; as for the stranger, the deep mourning which he wore was not half so black as the melancholy that wrapt his mind. He looked as if he had never smiled — as if some unutterable thought, dark as night and bitter as death, had built its nest within his bosom, and brooded therein eternally; he did not mention his name; but one of the villagers recognised him as Henry Vernon, the son of a baronet who possessed a mansion about three miles distant from the town for which be was bound. This mansion was almost abandoned by the family; but Henry had, in a romantic fit, visited it about three years before, and Sir Peter had been down there during the previous spring for about a couple of months.

The boat did not make so much way as was expected; the breeze failed them as they got out to sea, and they were fain with oar as well as sail, to try to weather the promontory that jutted out between them and the spot they desired to reach. They were yet far distant when the shifting wind began to exert its strength, and to blow with violent though unequal puffs. Night came on pitchy dark, and the howling waves rose and broke with frightful violence, menacing to overwhelm the tiny bark that dared resist their fury. They were forced to lower every sail, and take to their oars; one man was obliged to bale out the water, and Vernon himself took an oar, and rowing with desperate energy, equalled the force of the more practised boatmen. There had been much talk between the sailors before the tempest came on; now, except a brief command, all were silent. One thought of his wife and children, and silently cursed the caprice of the stranger that endangered in its effects, not only his life, but their welfare; the other feared less, for he was a daring lad, but he worked hard, and had no time for speech; while Vernon bitterly regretting the thoughtlessness which had made him cause others to share a peril, unimportant as far as he himself was concerned, now tried to cheer them with a voice full of animation and courage, and now pulled yet more strongly at the oar he held. The only person who did not seem wholly intent on the work he was about, was the man who baled; every now and then he gazed intently round, as if the sea held afar off, on its tumultuous waste, some object that he strained his eyes to discern. But all was blank, except as the crests of the high waves showed themselves, or far out on the verge of the horizon, a kind of lifting of the clouds betokened greater violence for the blast. At length he exclaimed — “Yes, I see it! — the larboard oar! — now! if we can make yonder light, we are saved!” Both the rowers instinctively turned their heads, — but cheerless darkness answered their gaze.

“You cannot see it,” cried their companion, ‘but we are nearing it; and, please God, we shall outlive this night.” Soon he took the oar from Vernon’s hand, who, quite exhausted, was failing in his strokes. He rose and looked for the beacon which promised them safety; — it glimmered with so faint a ray, that now he said, “I see it;” and again, “it is nothing:” still, as they made way, it dawned upon his sight, growing more steady and distinct as it beamed across the lurid waters,.which themselves be came smoother, so that safety seemed to arise from the bosom of the ocean under the influence of that flickering gleam.

“What beacon is it that helps us at our need?” asked Vernon, as the men, now able to manage their oars with greater ease, found breath to answer his question.

“A fairy one, I believe,” replied the elder sailor, “yet no less a true: it burns in an old tumble-down tower, built on the top of a rock which looks over the sea. We never saw it before this summer; and now each night it is to be seen, — at least when it is looked for, for we cannot see it from our village; — and it is such an out of the way place that no one has need to go near it, except through a chance like this. Some say it is burnt by witches, some say by smugglers; but this I know, two parties have been to search, and found nothing but the bare walls of the tower.

All is deserted by day, and dark by night; for no light was to be seen while we were there, though it burned sprightly enough when we were out at sea.

“I have heard say,” observed the younger sailor, “it is burnt by the ghost of a maiden who lost her sweetheart in these parts; he being wrecked, and his body found at the foot of the tower: she goes by the name among us of the ‘Invisible Girl.'”

The voyagers had now reached the landing-place at the foot of the tower. Vernon cast a glance upward, — the light was still burning. With some difficulty, struggling with the breakers, and blinded by night, they contrived to get their little bark to shore, and to draw her up on the beach:

they then scrambled up the precipitous pathway, overgrown by weeds and underwood, and, guided by the more experienced fishermen, they found the entrance to the tower, door or gate there was none, and all was dark as the tomb, and silent and almost as cold as death.

“This will never do,” said Vernon; “surely our hostess will show her light, if not herself, and guide our darkling steps by some sign of life and comfort.”

“We will get to the upper chamber,” said the sailor, “if I can but hit upon the broken down steps: but you will find no trace of the Invisible Girl nor her light either, I warrant.”

“Truly a romantic adventure of the most disagreeable kind,” muttered Vernon, as he stumbled over the unequal ground: “she of the beacon-light must be both ugly and old, or she would not be so peevish and inhospitable.”

With considerable difficulty, and, after divers knocks and bruises, the adventurers at length succeeded in reaching the upper story; but all was blank and bare, and they were fain to stretch themselves on the hard floor, when weariness, both of mind and body, conduced to steep their senses in sleep.

Long and sound were the slumbers of the mariners. Vernon but forgot himself for an hour; then, throwing off drowsiness, and finding his roughcouch uncongenial to repose, he got up and placed himself at the hole that served for a window, for glass there was none, and there being not even a rough bench, he leant his back against the embrasure, as the only rest he could find. He had forgotten his danger, the mysterious beacon, and its invisible guardian: his thoughts were occupied on the horrors of his own fate, and the unspeakable wretchedness that sat like a night-mare on his heart.

It would require a good-sized volume to relate the causes which had changed the once happy Vernon into the most woeful mourner that ever clung to the outer trappings of grief, as slight though cherished symbols of the wretchedness within. Henry was the only child of Sir Peter Vernon, and as much spoiled by his father’s idolatry as the old baronet’s violent and tyrannical temper would permit. A young orphan was educated in his father’s house, who in the same way was treated with generosity and kindness, and yet who lived in deep awe of Sir Peter’s authority, who was a widower; and these two children were all he had to exert his power over, or to whom.to extend his affection. Rosina was a cheerful-tempered girl, a little timid, and careful to avoid displeasing her protector; but so docile, so kind-hearted, and so affectionate, that she felt even less than Henry the discordant spirit of his parent. It is a tale often told; they were playmates and companions in childhood, and lovers in after days. Rosina was frightened to imagine that this secret affection, and the vows they pledged, might be disapproved of by Sir Peter. But sometimes she consoled herself by thinking that perhaps she was in reality her Henry’s destined bride, brought up with him under the design of their future union; and Henry, while he felt that this was not the case, resolved to wait only until he was of age to declare and accomplish his wishes in making the sweet Rosina his wife. Meanwhile he was careful to avoid premature discovery of his intentions, so to secure his beloved girl from persecution and insult. The old gentleman was very conveniently blind; he lived always in the country, and the lovers spent their lives together, unrebuked and uncontrolled. It was enough that Rosina played on her mandoline, and sang Sir Peter to sleep every day after dinner; she was the sole female in the house above the rank of a servant, and had her own way in the disposal of her time. Even when Sir Peter frowned, her innocent caresses and sweet voice were powerful to smooth the rough current of his temper. If ever human spirit lived in an earthly paradise, Rosina did at this time: her pure love was made happy by Henry’s constant presence; and the confidence they felt in each other, and the security with which they looked forward to the future, rendered their path one of roses under a cloudless sky. Sir Peter was the slight drawback that only rendered their tête — à — tête more delightful, and gave value to the sympathy they each bestowed on the other. All at once an ominous personage made its appearance in Vernon-Place, in the shape of a widow sister of Sir Peter, who, having succeeded in killing her husband and children with the effects of her vile temper, came, like a harpy, greedy for new prey, under her brother’s roof. She too soon detected the attachment of the unsuspicious pair. She made all speed to impart her discovery to her brother, and at once to restrain and inflame his rage. Through her contrivance Henry was suddenly despatched on his travels abroad, that the coast might be clear for the persecution of Rosina; and then the richest of the lovely girl’s many admirers, whom, under Sir Peter’s single reign, she was allowed, nay, almost commanded, to dismiss, so desirous was he of keeping her for his own comfort, was selected, and she was ordered to marry him. The scenes of violence to which she was now exposed, the bitter taunts of the odious Mrs. Bainbridge, and the reckless fury of Sir Peter, were the more frightful and overwhelming from their novelty. To all she could only oppose a silent, tearful, but immutable steadiness of purpose: no threats, no rage could extort from her more than a touching prayer that they would not hate her, because she could not obey.

“There must he something we don’t see under all this,” said Mrs. Bainbridge, “take my word for it, brother, — she corresponds secretly with Henry. Let us take her down to your seat in Wales, where she will have no pensioned beggars to assist her; and we shall see if her spirit be not bent to our purpose.”

Sir Peter consented, and they all three posted down to , — shire, and took up their abode in the solitary and dreary looking house before alluded to as belonging to the family. Here poor Rosina’s sufferings grew intolerable: — before, surrounded by well-known scenes, and in perpetual intercourse with kind and familiar faces, she had not despaired in the end of conquering by her patience the cruelty of her persecutors; — nor had she written to Henry, for his name had not been mentioned by his relatives, nor their attachment alluded to, and she felt an instinctive wish to escape the dangers about her without his being annoyed, or the sacred secret of her love being laid bare, and wronged by the vulgar abuse of his aunt or the bitter curses of his father. But when she was taken to Wales, and made a prisoner in her apartment, when the flinty.mountains about her seemed feebly to imitate the stony hearts she had to deal with, her courage began to fail. The only attendant permitted to approach her was Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid; and under the tutelage of her fiend-like mistress, this woman was used as a decoy to entice the poor prisoner into confidence, and then to be betrayed. The simple, kind-hearted Rosina was a facile dupe, and at last, in the excess of her despair, wrote to Henry, and gave the letter to this woman to be forwarded. The letter in itself would have softened marble; it did not speak of their mutual vows, it but asked him to intercede with his father, that he would restore her to the kind place she had formerly held in his affections, and cease from a cruelty that would destroy her. “For I may die,” wrote the hapless girl, “but marry another — never!” That single word, indeed, had sufficed to betray her secret, had it not been already discovered; as it was, it gave increased fury to Sir Peter, as his sister triumphantly pointed it out to him, for it need hardly be said that while the ink of the address was yet wet, and the seal still warm, Rosina’s letter was carried to this lady. The culprit was summoned before them; what ensued none could tell; for their own sakes the cruel pair tried to palliate their part. Voices were high, and the soft murmur of Rosina’s tone was lost in the howling of Sir Peter and the snarling of his sister. “Out of doors you shall go,” roared the old man; “under my roof you shall not spend another night.” And the words “infamous seductress,” and worse, such as had never met the poor girl’s ear before, were caught by listening servants; and to each angry speech of the baronet, Mrs. Bainbridge added an envenomed point worse than all.

More dead than alive, Rosina was at last dismissed. Whether guided by despair, whether she took Sir Peter’s threats literally, or whether his sister’s orders were more decisive, none knew, but Rosina left the house; a servant saw her cross the park, weeping, and wringing her hands as she went. What became of her none could tell; her disappearance was not disclosed to Sir Peter till the following day, and then he showed by his anxiety to trace her steps and to find her, that his words had been but idle threats. The truth was, that though Sir Peter went to frightful lengths to prevent the marriage of the heir of his house with the portionless orphan, the object of his charity, yet in his heart he loved Rosina, and half his violence to her rose from anger at himself for treating her so ill. Now remorse began to sting him, as messenger after messenger came back without tidings of his victim; he dared not confess his worst fears to himself; and when his inhuman sister, trying to harden her conscience by angry words, cried, “The vile hussy has too surely made away with herself out of revenge to us;” an oath, the most tremendous, and a look sufficient to make even her tremble, commanded her silence. Her conjecture, however, appeared too true: a dark and rushing stream that flowed at the extremity of the park had doubtless received the lovely form, and quenched the life of this unfortunate girl. Sir Peter, when his endeavours to find her proved fruitless, returned to town, haunted by the image of his victim, and forced to acknowledge in his own heart that he would willingly lay down his life, could he see her again, even though it were as the bride of his son — his son, before whose questioning he quailed like the veriest coward; for when Henry was told of the death of Rosina, he suddenly returned from abroad to ask the cause — to visit her grave, and mourn her loss in the groves and valleys which had been the scenes of their mutual happiness. He made a thousand inquiries, and an ominous silence alone replied. Growing more earnest and more anxious, at length he drew from servants and dependants, and his odious aunt herself, the whole dreadful truth. From that moment despair struck his heart, and misery named him her own. He fled from his father’s presence; and the recollection that one whom he ought to revere was guilty of so dark a crime, haunted him, as of old the Eumenides tormented the souls of men given up to their torturings.

His first, his only wish, was to visit Wales, and to learn if any new discovery had been made, and.whether it were possible to recover the mortal remains of the lost Rosina, so to satisfy the unquiet longings of his miserable heart. On this expedition was he bound, when he made his appearance at the village before named; and now in the deserted tower, his thoughts were busy with images of despair and death, and what his beloved one had suffered before her gentle nature had been goaded to such a deed of woe.

While immersed in gloomy reverie, to which the monotonous roaring of the sea made fit accompaniment, hours flew on, and Vernon was at last aware that the light of morning was creeping from out its eastern retreat, and dawning over the wild ocean, which still broke in furious tumult on the rocky beach. His companions now roused themselves, and prepared to depart. The food they had brought with them was damaged by sea water, and their hunger, after hard labour and many hours fasting, had become ravenous. It was impossible to put to sea in their shattered boat; but there stood a fisher’s cot about two miles off, in a recess in the bay, of which the promontory on which the tower stood formed one side, and to this they hastened to repair; they did not spend a second thought on the light which had saved them, nor its cause, but left the ruin in search of a more hospitable asylum. Vernon cast his eves round as he quitted it, but no vestige of an inhabitant met his eye, and he began to persuade himself that the beacon had been a creation of fancy merely. Arriving at the cottage in question, which was inhabited by a fisherman and his family, they made an homely breakfast, and then prepared to return to the tower, to refit their boat, and if possible bring her round. Vernon accompanied them, together with their host and his son. Several questions were asked concerning the Invisible Girl and her light, each agreeing that the apparition was novel, and not one being able to give even an explanation of how the name had become affixed to the unknown cause of this singular appearance; though both of the men of the cottage affirmed that once or twice they had seen a female figure in the adjacent wood, and that now and then a stranger girl made her appearance at another cot a mile off, on the other side of the promontory, and bought bread; they suspected both these to be the same, but could not tell. The inhabitants of the cot, indeed, appeared too stupid even to feel curiosity, and had never made any attempt at discovery. The whole day was spent by the sailors in repairing the boat; and the sound of hammers, and the voices of the men at work, resounded along the coast, mingled with the dashing of the waves. This was no time to explore the ruin for one who whether human or supernatural so evidently withdrew herself from intercourse with every living being. Vernon, however, went over the tower, and searched every nook in vain; the dingy bare walls bore no token of serving as a shelter; and even a little recess in the wall of the staircase, which he had not before observed, was equally empty and desolate.

Quitting the tower, he wandered in the pine wood that surrounded it, and giving up all thought of solving the mystery, was soon engrossed by thoughts that touched his heart more nearly, when suddenly there appeared on the ground at his feet the vision of a slipper. Since Cinderella so tiny a slipper had never been seen; as plain as shoe could speak, it told a tale of elegance, loveliness, and youth. Vernon picked it up; he had often admired Rosina’s singularly small foot, and his first thought was a question whether this little slipper would have fitted it. It was very strange! — it must belong to the Invisible Girl. Then there was a fairy form that kindled that light, a form of such material substance, that its foot needed to be shod; and yet how shod? — with kid so fine, and of shape so exquisite, that it exactly resembled such as Rosina wore! Again the recurrence of the image of the beloved dead came forcibly across him; and a thousand home-felt associations, childish yet sweet, and lover-like though trifling, so filled Vernon’s heart, that he threw himself his length on the ground, and wept more bitterly than ever the miserable fate of the sweet orphan.

In the evening the men quitted their work, and Vernon returned with them to the cot where.they were to sleep, intending to pursue their voyage, weather permitting, the following morning.

Vernon said nothing of his slipper, but returned with his rough associates. Often he looked back; but the tower rose darkly over the dim waves, and no light appeared. Preparations had been made in the cot for their accommodation, and the only bed in it was offered Vernon; but he refused to deprive his hostess, and spreading his cloak on a heap of dry leaves, endeavoured to give himself up to repose. He slept for some hours; and when he awoke, all was still, save that the hard breathing of the sleepers in the same room with him interrupted the silence. He rose, and going to the window, — looked out over the now placid sea towards the mystic tower; the light burning there, sending its slender rays across the waves. Congratulating himself on a circumstance he had not anticipated, Vernon softly left the cottage, and, wrapping his cloak round him, walked with a swift pace round the bay towards the tower. He reached it; still the light was burning. To enter and restore the maiden her shoe, would be but an act of courtesy; and Vernon intended to do this with such caution, as to come unaware, before its wearer could, with her accustomed arts, withdraw herself from his eyes; but, unluckily, while yet making his way up the narrow pathway, his foot dislodged a loose fragment, that fell with crash and sound down the precipice. He sprung forward, on this, to retrieve by speed the advantage he had lost by this unlucky accident. He reached the door; he entered: all was silent, but also all was dark. He paused in the room below; he felt sure that a slight sound met his ear. He ascended the steps, and entered the upper chamber; but blank obscurity met his penetrating gaze, the starless night admitted not even a twilight glimmer through the only aperture. He closed his eyes, to try, on opening them again, to be able to catch some faint, wandering ray on the visual nerve; but it was in vain. He groped round the room: he stood still, and held his breath; and then, listening intently, he felt sure that another occupied the chamber with him, and that its atmosphere was slightly agitated by an-other’s respiration. He remembered the recess in the staircase; but, before he approached it, he spoke: — he hesitated a moment what to say. “I must believe,” he said, ‘that misfortune alone can cause your seclusion; and if the assistance of a man — of a gentleman — “

An exclamation interrupted him; a voice from the grave spoke his name — the accents of Rosina syllabled, “Henry! — is it indeed Henry whom I hear?”

He rushed forward, directed by the sound, and clasped in his arms the living form of his own lamented girl — his own Invisible Girl he called her; for even yet, as he felt her heart beat near his, and as he entwined her waist with his arm, supporting her as she almost sank to the ground with agitation, he could not see her; and, as her sobs prevented her speech, no sense, but the instinctive one that filled his heart with tumultuous gladness, told him that the slender, wasted form he pressed so fondly was the living shadow of the Hebe beauty he had adored.

The morning saw this pair thus strangely restored to each other on the tranquil sea, sailing with a fair wind for L — , whence they were to proceed to Sir Peter’s seat, which, three months before, Rosina had quitted in such agony and terror. The morning light dispelled the shadows that had veiled her, and disclosed the fair person of the Invisible Girl. Altered indeed she was by suffering and woe, but still the same sweet smile played on her lips, and the tender light of her soft blue eyes were all her own. Vernon drew out the slipper, and shoved the cause that had occasioned him to resolve to discover the guardian of the mystic beacon; even now he dared not inquire how she had existed in that desolate spot, or wherefore she had so sedulously avoided observation, when the right thing to have been done was, to have sought him immediately, under whose care, protected by whose love, no danger need be feared. But Rosina shrunk from him as he spoke, and a death-like pallor came over her cheek, as she faintly whispered, ‘Your father’s curse — your father’s dreadful threats!” It appeared, indeed, that Sir Peter’s violence, and the cruelty of Mrs. Bainbridge, had succeeded in impressing Rosina with wild and unvanquishable terror. She had fled from their house without plan or forethought — driven by frantic horror and overwhelming fear, she had left it with scarcely any money, and there seemed to her no possibility of either returning or proceeding onward. She had no friend except Henry in the wide world; whither could she go? — to have sought Henry would have sealed their fates to misery; for, with an oath, Sir Peter had declared he would rather see them both in their coffins than married. After wandering about, hiding by day, and only venturing forth at night, she had come to this deserted tower, which seemed a place of refuge. I low she had lived since then she could hardly tell; — she had lingered in the woods by day, or slept in the vault of the tower, an asylum none were acquainted with or had discovered: by night she burned the pine-cones of the wood, and night was her dearest time; for it seemed to her as if security came with darkness. She was unaware that Sir Peter had left that part of the country, and was terrified lest her hiding-place should be revealed to him. Her only hope was that Henry would return — that Henry would never rest till he had found her. She confessed that the long interval and the approach of winter had visited her with dismay; she feared that, as her strength was failing, and her form wasting to a skeleton, that she might die, and never see her own Henry more.

An illness, indeed, in spite of all his care, followed her restoration to security and the comforts of civilized life; many months went by before the bloom revisiting her cheeks, and her limbs regaining their roundness, she resembled once more the picture drawn of her in her days of bliss, before any visitation of sorrow. It was a copy of this portrait that decorated the tower, the scene of her suffering, in which I had found shelter. Sir Peter, overjoyed to be relieved from the pangs of remorse, and delighted again to see his orphan-ward, whom he really loved, was now as eager as before he had been averse to bless her union with his son: Mrs. Bainbridge they never saw again. But each year they spent a few months in their Welch mansion, the scene of their early wedded happiness, and the spot where again poor Rosina had awoke to life and joy after her cruel persecutions. Henry’s fond care had fitted up the tower, and decorated it as I saw; and often did he come over, with his “Invisible Girl,” to renew, in the very scene of its occurrence, the remembrance of all the incidents which had led to their meeting again, during the shades of night, in that sequestered ruin.

Mary Shelley (1797 – 1851)
The Invisible Girl
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Mary Shelley, Shelley, Mary, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


De oriënt verkend. Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer

Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer woonden allebei lange tijd in Den Haag, maar kwamen elkaar daar nooit tegen.

Toch waren zij zielsverwanten: zij smachtten beiden naar de pracht en praal van het betoverende Oosten, de sprookjeswereld van Duizend-en-één-nacht. Ter gelegenheid van de honderdvijftigste geboortedag van Marius Bauer organiseert het Louis Couperus Museum alsnog een adembenemende ontmoeting, op de tentoonstelling De Oriënt verkend. Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer, van 21 mei t/m 8 oktober 2017.

Marius Bauer (1867-1932) werd al in zijn eigen tijd gezien als een formidabel kunstenaar. Op zijn reizen door India, Egypte, Turkije, Rusland, Noord-Afrika en Palestina maakte hij vele schetsen en tekeningen. Die werkte hij thuis uit tot oriëntaalse olieverfschilderijen, etsen en aquarellen die bij het publiek zeer in de smaak vielen. Drie keer bezocht Bauer Algerije, de laatste twee keren begin jaren twintig. Rond diezelfde tijd heeft Louis Couperus (1863-1923) ook in Algerije een half jaar rondgereisd. Hij schreef over de Franse kolonie eenentwintig reisbrieven, die in het weekblad Haagsche Post (en later in boekvorm) zijn verschenen. Net als Bauer zag hij in Algerije veel van zijn oosterse dromen terug. Maar was zijn droom ook bestand tegen de harde realiteit?

Op de tentoonstelling volgen we de reizigers Couperus en Bauer aan de hand van manuscripten, unieke reisdocumenten en oude foto’s, afgewisseld met schetsen, aquarellen en schilderijen van Marius Bauer. In de vitrines liggen ook reisverslagen van tijdgenoten, oude reisgidsen, ansichtkaarten, sieraden en andere kostbare voorwerpen uit de Oriënt, uit zowel museale als particuliere collecties. In de tuinkamer van het museum is een ware Oriëntaalse kamer ingericht.

De Oriënt verkend. Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer wordt samengesteld door José Buschman en Willemien de Vlieger-Moll. Bij de tentoonstelling verscheen het boek Couperus in de Oriënt van José Buschman

De oriënt verkend.
Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer
21 mei 2017 – 8 oktober 2017
Louis Couperus Museum
Javastraat 17
2585 AB Den Haag
070-3640653
Openingstijden
Woensdag t/m zondag 12.00-17.00 uur
Voor groepen ook op afspraak
# meer info op website louis couperus museum

Nieuwe publicatie door José Buschman:
Couperus in de Oriënt

Ter gelegenheid van de tentoonstelling De Oriënt verkend. Op reis met Louis Couperus en Marius Bauer in het Louis Couperus Museum heeft José Buschman haar eerdere, veelgeprezen onderzoek Een dandy in de Oriënt. Louis Couperus in Afrika hernieuwd. Met vele onbekende foto’s, recente vondsten en verrassende citaten reconstrueert zij Couperus’ lange tocht door de woestijn.

Door hun levendigheid hebben de reisboeken van Louis Couperus altijd de aandacht getrokken maar het curieuze Met Louis Couperus in Afrika uit 1921 vormt hierop de uitzondering. Couperus reisde zes maanden rond in Algerije en Tunesië, de Haagse schilder Marius Bauer bezocht Noord-Afrika een jaar later. Zijn schetsen ademen de oosterse schoonheid die ook Couperus zo kon bekoren. Anders dan bij Bauer lijkt bij Couperus de oriëntaalse vervoering gaandeweg te zijn verdwenen. Was zijn esthetische kijk wel opgewassen tegen de realiteit van de Franse overheersing, de islam en de armoede?

José Buschman is historica. Zij was medeoprichtster van het Louis Couperus Genootschap. Naast literaire gidsen door het Den Haag van Couperus en F. Bordewijk publiceerde zij Couperus Culinair, de lievelingsgerechten van Louis Couperus.

192 pagina’s
16,8 X 22 cm
ca. 80 afbeeldingen
gebonden met stofomslag
geheel in kleur
vormgeving Bart van den Tooren
Uitg. Bas Lubberhuizen
ISBN 9789059375017
2017, € 19,99

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive C-D, Art & Literature News, Exhibition Archive, Illustrators, Illustration, Louis Couperus, Tales of Mystery & Imagination


‘De duistere winkel’ – 124 dromen van Georges Perec

Georges Perec (1936-1982) was ernstig getraumatiseerd door het verdwijnen van zijn ouders tijdens de Tweede Wereldoorlog, en onderging diverse psychoanalytische behandelingen tijdens zijn leven.

Het verklaart iets van het belang dat hij hechtte aan zijn dromen, die hij tussen mei 1968 en augustus 1972 noteerde in zijn dagboek, ook om in het reine te komen met een stukgelopen liefde

Perec kwam al doende een nieuwe manier van schrijven op het spoor die een verontrustende intensiteit had. De gefragmenteerde grondstof van nachtelijke hersenspinsels vormt in De duistere winkel een compleet verhaal, gedrenkt in humor en overlopend van stilistische hoogstandjes.

Georges Perec geldt als een van de meest ingenieuze moderne Franse schrijvers. Hij legde zich bij het schrijven vaak bewust formele restricties op. In De dingen bijvoorbeeld wordt geen dialoog gebruikt, wat aan het verhaal een fascinerende, zuiver epische transparantie geeft. Hij liet zich erop voorstaan dat hij nooit twee eendere boeken had geschreven. Toch draagt elk van zijn boeken het onloochenbare stempel van zijn scheppend vernuft.

Van Perec verschenen voortreffelijke vertalingen van de hand van Edu Borger, o.a. Het leven een gebruiksaanwijzing en De dingen.

Georges Perec
De duistere winkel
124 dromen
vertaling Edu Borger
Privé-domein nr 293
Uitgeverij De Arbeiderspers, Amsterdam
ISBN 9789029507554
240 pag. – juni 2017
paperback € 24,99

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Georges Perec, OULIPO (PATAFYSICA), Tales of Mystery & Imagination


Koen Hilberdink: J.B.W.P. Het leven van Johan POLAK

Johan Bertus Wouter Polak (1928-1992) was een legendarische en extravagante uitgever, essayist, bibliofiel, vertaler en mecenas.

Hij groeide op in ‘een zeer liberaal joods milieu met sterk atheïstische en sociaaldemocratische inslag’. Dit ogenschijnlijk idyllische bestaan werd bruut verstoord door de vroege dood van Johans vader en de Duitse bezetting vlak daarna. Deze ingrijpende gebeurtenissen en de verhouding met zijn moeder bepaalden voor een groot deel Polaks verdere leven.

De drama’s uit zijn jeugd worden door Hilberdink in verband gebracht met de oprichting van uitgeverij Polak & Van Gennep in 1962. Hij gaf op fraaie wijze het werk uit van onder anderen P.C. Boutens, J.H. Leopold, Herman Gorter en J.C. Bloem. En dat van Gerard Reve, die hij van alle naoorlogse auteurs het meest bewonderde en met wie hij een uiterst complexe verhouding kreeg.

Daarnaast begon Polak in 1966 de al even vermaarde Athenaeum Boekhandel op het Spui in Amsterdam. Het werd een centrum van activiteiten, zowel politiek als literair, en Johan werd een bekende Amsterdammer.
Uitvoerig komt ook Polaks rol aan de orde in de emancipatie van homoseksuelen en de strijd tegen het antisemitisme.

Zijn persoonlijke seksuele bevrijding wordt openlijk beschreven. Johans emancipatiestrijd was verbonden met de strijd tegen het antisemitisme. Hij schreef: ‘Er is in homosexuelen een hypersensitiviteit voor taal en schoonheid aanwezig, juist nu. De kans bestaat dat zij instinctief reeds voelen, zoals de Joden voorheen, dat zij getekend zijn en reeds op het punt staan als verworpenen te worden uitgeroeid. Ik ben op dat punt pessimistisch en zie allerlei onrustbarende tekenen.’

J.B.W.P. – De biografie van uitgever Johan Polak

Koen Hilberdink is literatuurwetenschapper en werkzaam bij de Koninklijke Nederlandse Akademie van Wetenschappen. Hij promoveerde op Ik ben een vreemdeling. Ik sta apart. Een biografie van Paul Rodenko (2000). In 2007 verscheen zijn biografie over dichter Hans Lodeizen.

Koen Hilberdink
J.B.W.P.
Het leven van Johan Polak
Uitgeverij Van Oorschot, Amsterdam
Juni 2017, gebonden, € 29,99
ISBN 9789028261846

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book Lovers, - Bookstores, Art & Literature News, Johan Polak, PRESS & PUBLISHING, The Art of Reading


Anders RYDELL: De grote boekenroof. Een zoektocht naar Europa’s verdwenen bibliotheken

Op 10 mei 1933 staken nazi’s op de Opernplatz in Berlijn, onder toeziend oog van 40.000 toeschouwers, zo’n 25.000 boeken in de fik.

Het was het startsein voor een reeks boekverbrandingen overal in Duitsland.

Over die gebeurtenis is veel geschreven, maar onbekend is het veel sinisterder plan dat de nazi’s in heel Europa ten uitvoer brachten: het plunderen van bibliotheken en privébezit, met als doel de literatuur in te zetten als wapen in de vernietigingsmachinerie. 

Tegenstanders werden zo niet alleen van hun vrijheid beroofd maar ook van hun literatuur, hun verhalen, hun emotionele en intellectuele geschiedenis.

In De grote boekenroof volgt Anders Rydell het spoor van de boekenplunderaars door Europa. Hij reist onder meer naar Den Haag en Amsterdam, struint door de bibliotheken van Berlijn en Parijs en gaat op zoek naar de mysterieus verdwenen Joodse bibliotheek in Rome.

Zo vertelt Rydell het verhaal van een van de meest angstaanjagende nazi-ambities op het gebied van kunst, cultuur en onderwijs.

Anders Rydell
De grote boekenroof
Vertaling door Robert Starke
Afm. 26x210x135 mm
Verschijningsdatum:
april 2017
Paperback = 27,99
ISBN10 9045031914
ISBN13 9789045031910
Atlas Contact, Uitgeverij

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book Stories, Archive Q-R, Art & Literature News, DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, The Art of Reading


Tentoonstelling over MARIA in Museum Catharijneconvent in Utrecht

Iedereen weet hoe Maria eruitziet en zal haar beeltenis kunnen herkennen. Ook is bekend dat ze de moeder van Jezus is. Maar over haar leven weten we niet veel. Waarom is ze al eeuwenlang zo populair? Hoe doet ze dat? En wat zegt dat over ons?

De tentoonstelling Maria blijft ruim 6 maanden open om heel Maria-minnend Nederland de kans te geven haar te ontmoeten. Want ongeacht cultuur of religie, Maria is van alle tijden en van iedereen. Mooie en verrassende verbeeldingen van Maria in de kunst vertellen haar meer dan wonderlijke levensverhaal. Ga met Maria op een inspirerende reis door twee millennia, vol nieuwe kennis en inzichten over de meest invloedrijke en meest afgebeelde vrouw ter wereld.

Maria brengt veel fascinerende Maria’s uit nationale en internationale collecties samen, waarbij gekozen is voor spannende combinaties. Er komen schitterende Maria’s uit o.a. de Koninklijke Musea voor Schone Kunsten van België, Museum Boijmans van Beuningen, het Van Gogh Museum, het Mauritshuis en natuurlijk uit Museum Catharijneconvent zelf.

Ontdek hoe veelzijdig deze wereldvrouw is: zij is onderwerp van ikonen en schilderijen, manuscripten, sculpturen, tatoeages en video-installaties. En het zijn niet de minsten die zich door Maria lieten inspireren: o.a. Rubens, Pieter de Grebber, Rembrandt, Jan Toorop, Bill Viola, Jan Fabre en Maria Roosen zijn vertegenwoordigd.

Maria’s wonderlijke levensverhaal loopt als een rode draad door de tentoonstelling die de gehele bovenverdieping van het museum beslaat. Vanaf de conceptie tot aan haar tenhemelopneming is Maria in uitingen van kunst te volgen. Ook thema’s als devotie en bedevaart passeren de revue. De tentoonstelling laat zien hoe zeer Maria een mondiaal symbool is voor liefde, vrouw-zijn, gezin, angst, verdriet, troost en bescherming.

Waarom is Maria misschien wel de machtigste vrouw op de wereld? In ieder geval de meest afgebeelde vrouw en moeder, daar kan geen popster tegenop. Je zou haar een cultureel fenomeen kunnen noemen. U ontmoet Maria ook in relatie tot andere hedendaagse religies. Maria komt zelfs meer voor in de Koran dan in de Bijbel.

Het gevoel, de warme associaties en emoties die Maria oproept komen in de tentoonstelling naar voren in de persoonlijke verhalen of ervaringen van diverse bekende en onbekende Nederlanders. Deze verhalen komen samen in bijzondere filmpjes die door de tentoonstelling heen verweven zijn.

Geen dag zonder Maria is een reis door het hele jaar, waarbij de lezer elke dag wordt verrast door Maria: met een feest of een legende, een mooi gedicht of gebed, een opmerkelijk weetje, een Mariaverschijning, een lach en een traan, een bijzonder recept. Het boek laat zien waar de wereldwijde verering van Maria vandaan komt en hoe Maria mensen tot op de dag van vandaag inspireert.  Dit rijk geïllustreerde boek is vanaf 10 februari in de museumshop verkrijgbaar. Prijs: € 24,95

Sinds de start bezochten al ruim 30.000 mensen de tentoonstelling Maria. De grootste tentoonstelling uit de geschiedenis van Museum Catharijneconvent is met recht een succes te noemen. Het veelbewogen leven van Maria, verbeeld door beroemde kunstenaars als Joos van Cleve, Rubens, Rembrandt, Jan Toorop en Bill Viola, weet mensen tot vandaag de dag nog steeds te raken.

Nog te zien t/m 20 augustus 2017
Tentoonstelling: Maria
Museum Catharijneconvent
Lange Nieuwstraat 38
3512 PH Utrecht
Bel: 030 231 38 35
info@catharijneconvent.nl

  #  meer info op website Museum Catharijneconvent  

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, CATHEDRALS, DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, Exhibition Archive, FDM Art Gallery, The Ideal Woman


PULITZER Prizes 2017

Pulitzer Prizes

Pulitzer Prize administrator Mike Pride has announced today (april 10) the winners of the 2017 Pulitzer Prizes in the World Room at Columbia University in New York, N.Y.

This announcement marks the 101st year of the prizes. The Pulitzer Prizes have been awarded by Columbia University each spring since 1917.

The awards are chosen by a board of jurors for Journalism, Letters, Music and Drama.

The 2017 Winners in Letters, Drama and Music:

Fiction
The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead
From prize-winning, bestselling author Colson Whitehead, a magnificent tour de force chronicling a young slave’s adventures as she makes a desperate bid for freedom in the antebellum South.

Poetry
Olio by Tyehimba Jess
Part fact, part fiction, Tyehimba Jess’s much anticipated second book weaves sonnet, song, and narrative to examine the lives of mostly unrecorded African American performers, musicians and artists directly before and after the Civil War up to World War I. Olio is an effort to understand how they met, resisted, complicated, co-opted, and sometimes defeated attempts to minstrelize them.

History
Blood in the Water: The Atica Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy by Heather Ann Thompson
On September 9, 1971, nearly 1,300 prisoners took over the Attica Correctional Facility in upstate New York to protest years of mistreatment. Drawing from more than a decade of extensive research, historian Heather Ann Thompson sheds new light on every aspect of the uprising and its legacy, giving voice to all those who took part in this forty-five-year fight for justice.

Nonfiction
Evicted by Matthew Desmond
Staff Pick: In this brilliant, heartbreaking book, Matthew Desmond takes us into the poorest neighborhoods of Milwaukee to tell the story of eight families on the edge.

Biography or Autobiography
The Return: Fathers, Sons and the Land in Between by Hisham Matar
The Return is at once an exquisite meditation on history, politics, and art, a brilliant portrait of a nation and a people on the cusp of change, and a disquieting depiction of the brutal legacy of absolute power. Above all, it is a universal tale of loss and love and of one family’s life.

List of all this years Pulitzer Prize winners:

Journalism
Public Service: The staff of the New York Daily News and ProPublica.
Breaking News Reporting: The staff of East Bay Times.
Investigative Reporting: Eric Eyre, the Charleston Gazette-Mail.
Explanatory Reporting: The Panama Papers, by the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists, McClatchy and the Miami Herald.
Local Reporting: The staff of The Salt Lake Tribune.
National Reporting: David Fahrenthold, The Washington Post.
International Reporting: The staff of The New York Times.
Feature Writing: C.J. Chivers of The New York Times.
Commentary: Peggy Noonan, The Wall Street Journal.
Criticism: Hilton Als, The New Yorker.
Editorial Writing: Art Cullen, The Storm Lake Times.
Editorial Cartooning: Jim Morin, Miami Herald.
Breaking News Photography: Daniel Berehulak, The New York Times.
Feature Photography: E. Jason Wambsgans, Chicago Tribune.

 

Letters, Drama, & Music
Fiction: The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead.
Drama: Sweat, by Lynn Nottage.
History: Blood in the Water: The Attica Prison Uprising of 1971 and Its Legacy, by Heather Ann Thompson.
Biography or Autobiography: The Return, by Hisham Matar.
Poetry: Olio, by Tyehimba Jess.
General Nonfiction: Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City, by Matthew Desmond.
Music: Angel’s Bone, by Du Yun.

#  more  information  on  website  pulitzer

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, Awards & Prizes, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, Illustrators, Illustration, MONTAIGNE, MUSIC, Photography, PRESS & PUBLISHING, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS, The Art of Reading, THEATRE


P.C. Hooft-prijs 2017 voor BAS HEIJNE

pchooftHet bestuur van de Stichting P.C. Hooft-prijs voor Letterkunde heeft maandag 12 december besloten de P.C. Hooft-prijs 2017 toe te kennen aan Bas Heijne (Nijmegen, 1960).

Deze oeuvreprijs is dit jaar bestemd voor beschouwend proza en wordt uitgereikt op een feestelijke bijeenkomst in het Literatuurmuseum, op donderdag 18 mei 2017, 3 dagen vóór de sterfdag van de naamgever van de prijs, de dichter P.C. Hooft (1581-1647), onze grootste renaissancedichter.

De P.C. Hooft-prijs 2017 voor het gehele oeuvre van Bas Heijne is toegekend op voordracht van een jury bestaande uit Jacqueline Bel, Kees ’t Hart, Kristien Hemmerechts, David Van Reybrouck (voorzitter) en Dirk van Weelden. Recente eerdere laureaten in het genre beschouwend proza waren Willem Jan Otten (2014), H.J.A. Hofland (2011) en Abram de Swaan (2008). Aan de prijs is een bedrag verbonden van € 60.000.

heijne-hooftpr2017-01Uit het juryrapport: “Bas Heijne is een schrijver met een bijzondere positie als columnist en essayist, die over een enorme verscheidenheid aan actuele onderwerpen en kwesties schrijft. Hij volgt de hedendaagse cultuur op een geëngageerde manier. Hij schrijft over haatvloggers en De Ring van Wagner, over Hollywoodfilms en Couperus, over Europese referenda en de toekomst van de roman. Zijn werk geeft een vernieuwende impuls aan wat literatuur in maatschappelijke zin betekenen kan. […] Vooral de vorm waarin hij dat doet is bijzonder: hij schrijft als een denker én denkt als een lezer.”

De P.C. Hooft-prijs voor Letterkunde behoort tot de belangrijke literatuurprijzen in het Nederlandse taalgebied. Hij wordt uitgereikt door de Stichting P.C. Hooft-prijs voor Letterkunde. Deze oeuvreprijs wordt jaarlijks afwisselend toegekend voor proza, essayistiek en poëzie. De P.C. Hooft-prijs is ingesteld in 1947. In dat jaar werd op 21 mei de 300ste sterfdag van Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft herdacht. De prijs wordt jaarlijks rond de sterfdag van P.C. Hooft uitgereikt en bedraagt € 60.000. Daarnaast looft de Stichting sinds 1988 de driejaarlijkse Theo Thijssen-prijs uit voor jeugdliteratuur. De prijs bedraagt € 60.000.
Vanaf september 2007 wordt de driejaarlijkse Max Velthuijs-prijs voor boekillustratoren uitgereikt. Ook deze prijs bedraagt € 60.000.’

# Meer informatie op website PC Hooftprijs
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Art & Literature News, Bas Heijne, NONFICTION: ESSAYS & STORIES, PRESS & PUBLISHING, The Art of Reading


Older Entries »« Newer Entries

Thank you for reading FLEURSDUMAL.NL - magazine for art & literature