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Archive O-P

· Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: A Little Novel (in four little chapters) (Poem) · Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: Melody versus Malady (Poem) · Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Philatelist (Poem) · Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Lion (Poem) · Wilfred Owen: Strange Meeting (Poem) · Fernando Pessoa: Een spoor van mezelf. Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten · Thierry Laget: Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire · Luigi Pirandello: One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand · Genomineerd voor E. du Perronprijs 2018: Jan Leyers, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer en Jolande Withuis · Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem) · Wilfred Owen: Arms and the Boy (Poem) · Wilfred Owen: A Terre (Poem)

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Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: A Little Novel (in four little chapters) (Poem)


A Little Novel
(in four little chapters)


A little nook in garden shady;

A little squeeze of finger-tips ;
A little question to a lady;

A little “Yes** from rosy lips.


A little flirting with another;

A little shadow on a blind;
A little tiff, a little bother:

A little bit of Beauty’s mind.


A little coolness in the greeting;

A little rift within the lute;
A little hour of wild entreating;

A little lady, proudly mute.


A little note of sad upbraiding ;

A little poison in a glass;
A little willow-tree o’ershading

A little tomb-stone in the grass.


Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
Melody versus Malady (Poem)
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Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: Melody versus Malady (Poem)

Melody versus Malady

[The Lancet recently discussed the value of music in the
treatment of disease.]

Away with all doctors and physic-concocters !

Down with surgeons and down with physicians !
In future hautboys will replace • doctor’s boys,

And when ailing we’ll send for musicians.

The gentle guitar will soon banish catarrh,

The organ organic diseases ;
The ophicleide serves to establish the nerves,

The mandolin measles appeases.

If you catch influenza just try a cadenza
On the harmless and homely harmonium,

And if you complain of a sprain or a strain
Then summon the soothing euphonium.

Try the cornet for corns and for ague French horns,
And if you should feel very sick or low

Try an air on the lute, a few notes from the flute.
Or the piercing yet popular piccolo.

Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
Melody versus Malady (Poem)
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Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Philatelist (Poem)

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is victoria.jpeg

The Philatelist*

(*A man who collects stamps cares for nothing else in the world.)

” O come,” said Music, “come with me ;

To Adelina Patti list;
Melt in her magic melody ” —

“I shan’t !” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said the Gourmand, “come with me.

And try the varied Gatti-list;
I prithee, try Gastronomy” —

“I won’t!” quoth the Philatelist.

” Come,” said the Eightsman, ” come with me”,

And to the merry rattle list;
“Come, join our cheery crew, and we ” —

” Please go!” quoth the Philatelist.

” Come”, said the Farmer, ” come with me”.

And to my lowing cattle list :
“They’re’ slowly winding o’er the lea ” —

” Let them !” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said the Mother, “come with me,
And to my cherub’s prattle list ;

Come, take the babe upon thy knee” —
“No, thanks!” quoth the Philatelist

“Come,” said the Warrior, “come with me,

And to the roar of battle list;
Come, join our valiant company” —

“Not me!” quoth the Philatelist.

“Come,” said Society, “with me,

And to my tittle-tattle list;
“Come, try the World, the Flesh, the D— “

“Get out!” quoth the Philatelist.

Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
The Philatelist (Poem)
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Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott: The Lion (Poem)

 This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is pigott-turtle-mostyn.jpeg

The Lion

(Being an essay written by a pupil
in Dame Europa’s School)

The Lion is a kind of Ass,
His silliness is simply crass ;
He’s such a tame, long-suffering beast
You cannot rile him in the least,
For, though he’s very, very strong,
He never will resent a wrong ;
So, though he’s very, very big.
The other beasts don’t care a fig,
But pinch his tail and tweak his ear.
For he won’t mind — He’s such a dear !
They give him most tremendous snubs.
And kill whole litters of his cubs ;
He’ll sometimes give one little roar,

Montague Horatio Mostyn Turtle Pigott
The Lion (Poem)
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Wilfred Owen: Strange Meeting (Poem)


Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Strange Meeting (Poem)

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Fernando Pessoa: Een spoor van mezelf. Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten

Het Portugese woord pessoa komt van het Latijnse persona, dat zowel ‘mens’ als ‘masker’ betekent.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is pessoa-spoor.jpegPrecies daar moeten we Fernando Pessoa plaatsen, in de wereld van schijn, vermomming, spel, fictie. Hij vergelijkt zichzelf met een podium waarop allerlei acteurs rondlopen.

Zijn bekendste heteroniemen zijn Bernardo Soares (schrijver van het Boek der rusteloosheid) en de dichters Alberto Caeiro, Ricardo Reis en Álvaro de Campos. Pessoa heeft echter ook onder zijn eigen naam gedichten geschreven. Van dat orthonieme werk zag maar weinig het licht tijdens zijn leven.

Pas lang na zijn dood werden alle losse orthonieme gedichten bijeengebracht in drie delen van elk ruim vijfhonderd bladzijden.

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935) was een groot Portugees dichter. Bij leven publiceerde deze kantoorklerk uit Lissabon slechts enkele werken. Na zijn dood werd op zijn huurkamer een kist aangetroffen met 27 duizend vol gekrabbelde velletjes. Uit die chaos kon een kolossaal oeuvre worden samengesteld. Niet dat van één dichter, maar van zo’n 25 ‘heteroniemen’ – afzonderlijke ‘schrijverspersoonlijkheden’ met elk een eigen stijl en woordkeus. Pessoa stierf op 47-jarige leeftijd, hij dronk zich dood.

De Arbeiderspers heeft de exclusieve vertaalrechten op zijn oeuvre. August Willemsen (1936-2007) vertaalde het leeuwendeel daarvan en schreef als introductie op de Pessoa-bibliotheek: Het ik als vreemde.

Auteur: Fernando Pessoa
Een spoor van mezelf.
Een keuze uit de orthonieme gedichten
Vertaler: Harrie Lemmens
Uitgeverij: De Arbeiderspers
NUR: 306
296 pagina’s
ISBN: 9789029526456
Prijs: € 24,99
Publicatiedatum: 04-06-2019

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Thierry Laget: Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire

10 décembre 1919: le prix Goncourt est attribué à Marcel Proust pour À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs.

Aussitôt éclate un tonnerre de protestations : anciens combattants, pacifistes, réactionnaires, révolutionnaires, chacun se sent insulté par un livre qui, ressuscitant le temps perdu, semble dédaigner le temps présent.

Pendant des semaines, Proust est vilipendé dans la presse, brocardé, injurié, menacé. Son tort? Ne plus être jeune, être riche, ne pas avoir fait la guerre, ne pas raconter la vie dans les tranchées.

Retraçant l’histoire du prix et les manœuvres en vue de son attribution à Proust, s’appuyant sur des documents inédits, dont il dévoile nombre d’extraits savoureux, Thierry Laget fait le récit d’un événement inouï – cette partie de chamboule-tout qui a déplacé le pôle magnétique de la littérature – et de l’émeute dont il a donné le signal.

Thierry Laget
Proust, prix Goncourt. Une émeute littéraire
Collection Blanche, Gallimard
Parution : 04-04-2019
272 pages
140 x 205 mm
ISBN : 9782072846786
Genre : Essais
Prix €19,50

# new books
Thierry Laget
prix Goncourt

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Luigi Pirandello: One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand

Luigi Pirandello’s extraordinary final novel begins when Vitangelo Moscarda’s wife remarks that Vitangelo’s nose tilts to the right.

This commonplace interaction spurs the novel’s unemployed, wealthy narrator to examine himself, the way he perceives others, and the ways that others perceive him.

At first he only notices small differences in how he sees himself and how others do; but his self-examination quickly becomes relentless, dizzying, leading to often darkly comic results as Vitangelo decides that he must demolish that version of himself that others see.

Pirandello said of his 1926 novel that it “deals with the disintegration of the personality. It arrives at the most extreme conclusions, the farthest consequences.” Indeed, its unnerving humor and existential dissection of modern identity find counterparts in Samuel Beckett’s Molloy trilogy and the works of Thomas Bernhard and Vladimir Nabokov.

Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936) was an Italian author, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1934 for his “bold and brilliant renovation of the drama and the stage.” Pirandello’s works include novels, hundreds of short stories, and plays. Pirandello’s plays are often seen as forerunners for the theatre of the absurd.

One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand
Luigi Pirandello
Translated by William Weaver
Publisher Spurl Editions
Format Paperback
218 pages
ISBN-10 194367907X
ISBN-13 9781943679072

# new books
Title One, No One, and One Hundred Thousand
Author Luigi Pirandello
Translated by William Weaver

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Genomineerd voor E. du Perronprijs 2018: Jan Leyers, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer en Jolande Withuis

De schrijvers Jan Leyers, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer en Jolande Withuis zijn genomineerd voor de E. du Perronprijs 2018. De prijs wordt toegekend aan schrijvers, kunstenaars of instellingen die met een cultuuruiting in brede zin een bijdrage leveren aan een inclusieve samenleving. De uitreiking vindt plaats op dinsdagavond 16 april in de Glazen Zaal in de LocHal in Tilburg. Dan houdt Gloria Wekker de achtste E. du Perronlezing.

Jan Leyers ‒ Allah in Europa. Het reisverslag van een ongelovige (Uitgeverij Das Mag)

Leyers doet in dit boek verslag van een reis door Europa waarin hij op zoek gaat naar ‘een Europese versie van de islam’. Vier maanden lang wordt er gesproken met traditionele gelovigen en nieuwe bekeerlingen. Allah in Europa leest als een spannend verslag van gesprekken waarin verschillende denkbeelden tegen elkaar afgewogen worden. Knap is dat het boek nergens belerend of dwingend wordt, hoewel het overduidelijk een pleidooi is voor een open multicultureel Europa, dat de lezer aanzet tot nadenken.

Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer ‒ Grand Hotel Europa (Uitgeverij De Arbeiderspers)

In deze roman neemt Pfeijffer ons mee naar een hotel ergens in Europa waarin zijn alter ego zich verschanst na een stukgelopen liefde. Het hotel is vergane glorie, oude geschiedenis en een metaforisch beeld voor het continent, waarvan de geschiedenis fenomenaal is, maar het heden op allerlei manier ontspoort: er is te veel consumentisme, geen engagement, er zijn geen nieuwe idealen. Pfeijffer verweeft verschillende verhaallijnen met elkaar, en is op zijn best in de essayistische passages waarin hij kritiek geeft op het hedendaagse Europa en vooral op het massatoerisme.

Jolande Withuis ‒ Raadselvader. Kind in de koude oorlog (Uitgeverij De Bezige Bij)

Withuis schreef een indringende biografie over haar vader Berry Withuis (1920-2009), die tegelijk een autobiografische reflectie biedt. De vader was communist en redacteur van de Waarheid. Haar communistische jeugd en de loyaliteit jegens haar ouders hebben Withuis geleerd dat er verschillende kanten zitten aan een historisch narratief. Noch het ontkennen van de slechte behandeling van communisten in Nederland tijdens de Koude Oorlog, noch het slachtofferisme van de zijde van communisten zelf, is de waarheid. Maar ook leert zij dat via het eigen verhaal de geschiedenis van anderen aanknopingspunten biedt en legt ze uit dat totalitaire overtuigingen mensen verleiden onmenselijke misdaden te begaan en het eigen ethische kompas uit te schakelen.

E. du Perronprijs
De E. du Perronprijs is een initiatief van de gemeente Tilburg, de Tilburg School of Humanities & Digital Sciences en Kunstloc Brabant. De prijs is bedoeld voor personen of instellingen die, net als schrijver Du Perron, grenzen signaleren en doorbreken die wederzijds begrip tussen verschillende bevolkingsgroepen in de weg staan. De prijs bestaat uit een geldbedrag van 2500 euro en een textielobject, ontworpen door studio ‘by aaaa’ (Moyra Besjes en Natasja Lauwers) en vervaardigd bij het TextielMuseum. In 2017 won Margot Vanderstraeten de prijs voor haar boek Mazzel tov. Andere laureaten waren onder meer Stefan Hertmans (2016), Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer (2015), Warna Oosterbaan & Theo Baart (2014), Mohammed Benzakour (2013), Koen Peeters (2012) en Ramsey Nasr (2011).

E. du Perronlezing
Professor dr. Gloria Wekker is emeritus hoogleraar Gender en Etniciteit aan de faculteit Geesteswetenschappen van de Universiteit Utrecht. Ze houdt, op 16 april, na Antjie Krog, Paul Scheffer, Job Cohen, Sheila Sitalsing, Herman van Rompuy, Arnon Grunberg en Marja Pruis de achtste E. du Perronlezing.

Voor het bijwonen van de uitreiking kunnen belangstellenden en genodigden zich aanmelden via
Meer informatie over de prijs vindt u op:

# Literaire prijzen
E. du Perronprijs 2018
Jan Leyers
Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer
Jolande Withuis

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Wilfred Owen: Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem)


Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
— Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Anthem for Doomed Youth (Poem)

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Wilfred Owen: Arms and the Boy (Poem)


Arms and the Boy

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.

Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-leads,
Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.

For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Arms and the Boy (Poem)

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Wilfred Owen: A Terre (Poem)


A Terre

(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)

Sit on the bed; I’m blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can’t shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,—brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.

I tried to peg out soldierly,—no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That’s for your poetry book.)

A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we’d hate to live dead-old,—
Yet now … I’d willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I’d ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that’s what I learnt,—that, and making money.

Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I’ve got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.

My servant’s lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I’m lugged out, he’ll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I’ve thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I’d ask no night off when the bustle’s over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who’s prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms’ tan?
I’d love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

O Life, Life, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the lives rats lead—
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
“I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone,”
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
“Pushing up daisies,” is their creed, you know.

To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D’you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if …
Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me,— as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I’ll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.

Don’t take my soul’s poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here the thing’s best left at home with friends.

My soul’s a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

Carry my crying spirit till it’s weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.

Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
A Terre (Poem)

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