In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  1. AUDIO, 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
  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 & co, fairy tales, art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, ideal women
  20. WAR & PEACE
  21. ·




  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

Archive W-X

· Karel van de Woestijne: Vlaanderen, o welig huis (Gedicht) · H. G. Wells: The Flying Man · Karel van de Woestijne: De Dichter (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: Er komt iemand bij mij (Gedicht) · Karel van de Woestijne: De meiskens uit de taveernen (Gedicht) · Genomineerd voor E. du Perronprijs 2018: Jan Leyers, Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer en Jolande Withuis · Carina van der Walt: LocHal (gedicht) · Useless Magic: Lyrics and Poetry by Florence Welch · In de man zit nog een jongen. Willem Wilmink – De biografie door Elsbeth Etty · The Annotated Prison Writings of Oscar Wilde · Unwritten: Caribbean Poems After the First World War edited by Karen McCarthy Woolf · Dennis Whitehead: SHELL SHOCK. Twin Sisters Struck Down by the Horrors of World War I

»» there is more...

Karel van de Woestijne: Vlaanderen, o welig huis (Gedicht)

Vlaanderen, o welig huis

Vlaandren, o welig huis waar we zijn als genoden
aan rijke taaflen! – daar nu glooiend zijn de weiên
van zomer-granen, die hunne aêmende ebbe breien
naar malvend Ooste’ en statig dagerade-roden,
dewijl de morge’ ontwaakt ten hemel en ter Leië -:
wie kan u weten, en in ‘t harte niet verblijên;
niet danke’ om dagen, schoon als jonge zege-goden,
gelijk een beedlaar dankt om warme tarwe-broden?…

o Vlaandren, blijde van uw gevens-rede handen,
zwaar, daar ge delend gaat, in paarse en gele wade,
der krachten die uw schoot als rodend ooft beladen.
– Vlaandren, wie wéet u en de zomer-dageraden,
en voelt geen rilde liefde in zijne leden branden
‘lijk deze morgen door de veië Leië-landen?

 

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Vlaanderen, o welig huis

Portret van Karel van de Woestijne (1937) door Henri van Straten (1892 – 1944)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de


H. G. Wells: The Flying Man

The Flying Man

The Ethnologist looked at the bhimraj feather thoughtfully. “They seemed loth to part with it,” he said.

“It is sacred to the Chiefs,” said the lieutenant; “just as yellow silk, you know, is sacred to the Chinese Emperor.”

The Ethnologist did not answer. He hesitated. Then opening the topic abruptly, “What on earth is this cock-and-bull story they have of a flying man?”

The lieutenant smiled faintly. “What did they tell you?”

“I see,” said the Ethnologist, “that you know of your fame.”

The lieutenant rolled himself a cigarette. “I don’t mind hearing about it once more. How does it stand at present?”

“It’s so confoundedly childish,” said the Ethnologist, becoming irritated. “How did you play it off upon them?”

The lieutenant made no answer, but lounged back in his folding-chair, still smiling.

“Here am I, come four hundred miles out of my way to get what is left of the folk-lore of these people, before they are utterly demoralised by missionaries and the military, and all I find are a lot of impossible legends about a sandy-haired scrub of an infantry lieutenant. How he is invulnerable — how he can jump over elephants — how he can fly. That’s the toughest nut. One old gentleman described your wings, said they had black plumage and were not quite as long as a mule. Said he often saw you by moonlight hovering over the crests out towards the Shendu country. — Confound it, man!”

The lieutenant laughed cheerfully. “Go on,” he said. “Go on.”

The Ethnologist did. At last he wearied. “To trade so,” he said, “on these unsophisticated children of the mountains. How could you bring yourself to do it, man?”

“I’m sorry,” said the lieutenant, “but truly the thing was forced upon me. I can assure you I was driven to it. And at the time I had not the faintest idea of how the Chin imagination would take it. Or curiosity. I can only plead it was an indiscretion and not malice that made me replace the folk-lore by a new legend. But as you seem aggrieved, I will try and explain the business to you.

“It was in the time of the last Lushai expedition but one, and Walters thought these people you have been visiting were friendly. So, with an airy confidence in my capacity for taking care of myself, he sent me up the gorge — fourteen miles of it — with three of the Derbyshire men and half a dozen Sepoys, two mules, and his blessing, to see what popular feeling was like at that village you visited. A force of ten — not counting the mules — fourteen miles, and during a war! You saw the road?”

“Road!” said the Ethnologist.

“It’s better now than it was. When we went up we had to wade in the river for a mile where the valley narrows, with a smart stream frothing round our knees and the stones as slippery as ice. There it was I dropped my rifle. Afterwards the Sappers blasted the cliff with dynamite and made the convenient way you came by. Then below, where those very high cliffs come, we had to keep on dodging across the river — I should say we crossed it a dozen times in a couple of miles.

“We got in sight of the place early the next morning. You know how it lies, on a spur halfway between the big hills, and as we began to appreciate how wickedly quiet the village lay under the sunlight, we came to a stop to consider.

“At that they fired a lump of filed brass idol at us, just by way of a welcome. It came twanging down the slope to the right of us where the boulders are, missed my shoulder by an inch or so, and plugged the mule that carried all the provisions and utensils. I never heard such a death-rattle before or since. And at that we became aware of a number of gentlemen carrying matchlocks, and dressed in things like plaid dusters, dodging about along the neck between the village and the crest to the east.

“‘Right about face,’ I said. ‘Not too close together.’

“And with that encouragement my expedition of ten men came round and set off at a smart trot down the valley again hitherward. We did not wait to save anything our dead had carried, but we kept the second mule with us — he carried my tent and some other rubbish — out of a feeling of friendship.

“So ended the battle — ingloriously. Glancing back, I saw the valley dotted with the victors, shouting and firing at us. But no one was hit. These Chins and their guns are very little good except at a sitting shot. They will sit and finick over a boulder for hours taking aim, and when they fire running it is chiefly for stage effect. Hooker, one of the Derbyshire men, fancied himself rather with the rifle, and stopped behind for half a minute to try his luck as we turned the bend. But he got nothing.

“I’m not a Xenophon to spin much of a yarn about my retreating army. We had to pull the enemy up twice in the next two miles when he became a bit pressing, by exchanging shots with him, but it was a fairly monotonous affair — hard breathing chiefly — until we got near the place where the hills run in towards the river and pinch the valley into a gorge. And there we very luckily caught a glimpse of half a dozen round black heads coming slanting-ways over the hill to the left of us — the east that is — and almost parallel with us.

“At that I called a halt. ‘Look here,’ says I to Hooker and the other Englishmen; ‘what are we to do now?’ and I pointed to the heads.

“‘Headed orf, or I’m a nigger,’ said one of the men.

“‘We shall be,’ said another. ‘You know the Chin way, George?’

“‘They can pot every one of us at fifty yards,’ says Hooker, ‘in the place where the river is narrow. It’s just suicide to go on down.’

“I looked at the hill to the right of us. It grew steeper lower down the valley, but it still seemed climbable. And all the Chins we had seen hitherto had been on the other side of the stream.

“‘It’s that or stopping,’ says one of the Sepoys.

“So we started slanting up the hill. There was something faintly suggestive of a road running obliquely up the face of it, and that we followed. Some Chins presently came into view up the valley, and I heard some shots. Then I saw one of the Sepoys was sitting down about thirty yards below us. He had simply sat down without a word, apparently not wishing to give trouble. At that I called a halt again; I told Hooker to try another shot, and went back and found the man was hit in the leg. I took him up, carried him along to put him on the mule — already pretty well laden with the tent and other things which we had no time to take off. When I got up to the rest with him, Hooker had his empty Martini in his hand, and was grinning and pointing to a motionless black spot up the valley. All the rest of the Chins were behind boulders or back round the bend. ‘Five hundred yards,’ says Hooker, ‘if an inch. And I’ll swear I hit him in the head.’

“I told him to go and do it again, and with that we went on again.

“Now the hillside kept getting steeper as we pushed on, and the road we were following more and more of a shelf. At last it was mere cliff above and below us. ‘It’s the best road I have seen yet in Chin Lushai land,’ said I to encourage the men, though I had a fear of what was coming.

“And in a few minutes the way bent round a corner of the cliff. Then, finis! the ledge came to an end.

“As soon as he grasped the position one of the Derbyshire men fell a-swearing at the trap we had fallen into. The Sepoys halted quietly. Hooker grunted and reloaded, and went back to the bend.

“Then two of the Sepoy chaps helped their comrade down and began to unload the mule.

“Now, when I came to look about me, I began to think we had not been so very unfortunate after all. We were on a shelf perhaps ten yards across it at widest. Above it the cliff projected so that we could not be shot down upon, and below was an almost sheer precipice of perhaps two or three hundred feet. Lying down we were invisible to anyone across the ravine. The only approach was along the ledge, and on that one man was as good as a host. We were in a natural stronghold, with only one disadvantage, our sole provision against hunger and thirst was one live mule. Still we were at most eight or nine miles from the main expedition, and no doubt, after a day or so, they would send up after us if we did not return.

“After a day or so . . . ”

The lieutenant paused. “Ever been thirsty, Graham?”

“Not that kind,” said the Ethnologist.

“H’m. We had the whole of that day, the night, and the next day of it, and only a trifle of dew we wrung out of our clothes and the tent. And below us was the river going giggle, giggle, round a rock in mid stream. I never knew such a barrenness of incident, or such a quantity of sensation. The sun might have had Joshua’s command still upon it for all the motion one could see; and it blazed like a near furnace. Towards the evening of the first day one of the Derbyshire men said something — nobody heard what — and went off round the bend of the cliff. We heard shots, and when Hooker looked round the corner he was gone. And in the morning the Sepoy whose leg was shot was in delirium, and jumped or fell over the cliff. Then we took the mule and shot it, and that must needs go over the cliff too in its last struggles, leaving eight of us.

“We could see the body of the Sepoy down below, with the head in the water. He was lying face downwards, and so far as I could make out was scarcely smashed at all. Badly as the Chins might covet his head, they had the sense to leave it alone until the darkness came.

“At first we talked of all the chances there were of the main body hearing the firing, and reckoned whether they would begin to miss us, and all that kind of thing, but we dried up as the evening came on. The Sepoys played games with bits of stone among themselves, and afterwards told stories. The night was rather chilly. The second day nobody spoke. Our lips were black and our throats afire, and we lay about on the ledge and glared at one another. Perhaps it’s as well we kept our thoughts to ourselves. One of the British soldiers began writing some blasphemous rot on the rock with a bit of pipeclay, about his last dying will, until I stopped it. As I looked over the edge down into the valley and saw the river rippling I was nearly tempted to go after the Sepoy. It seemed a pleasant and desirable thing to go rushing down through the air with something to drink — or no more thirst at any rate — at the bottom. I remembered in time, though, that I was the officer in command, and my duty to set a good example, and that kept me from any such foolishness.

“Yet, thinking of that, put an idea into my head. I got up and looked at the tent and tent ropes, and wondered why I had not thought of it before. Then I came and peered over the cliff again. This time the height seemed greater and the pose of the Sepoy rather more painful. But it was that or nothing. And to cut it short, I parachuted.

“I got a big circle of canvas out of the tent, about three times the size of that table-cover, and plugged the hole in the centre, and I tied eight ropes round it to meet in the middle and make a parachute. The other chaps lay about and watched me as though they thought it was a new kind of delirium. Then I explained my notion to the two British soldiers and how I meant to do it, and as soon as the short dusk had darkened into night, I risked it. They held the thing high up, and I took a run the whole length of the ledge. The thing filled with air like a sail, but at the edge I will confess I funked and pulled up.

“As soon as I stopped I was ashamed of myself — as well I might be in front of privates — and went back and started again. Off I jumped this time — with a kind of sob, I remember — clean into the air, with the big white sail bellying out above me.

“I must have thought at a frightful pace. It seemed a long time before I was sure that the thing meant to keep steady. At first it heeled sideways. Then I noticed the face of the rock which seemed to be streaming up past me, and me motionless. Then I looked down and saw in the darkness the river and the dead Sepoy rushing up towards me. But in the indistinct light I also saw three Chins, seemingly aghast at the sight of me, and that the Sepoy was decapitated. At that I wanted to go back again.

“Then my boot was in the mouth of one, and in a moment he and I were in a heap with the canvas fluttering down on the top of us. I fancy I dashed out his brains with my foot. I expected nothing more than to be brained myself by the other two, but the poor heathen had never heard of Baldwin, and incontinently bolted.

“I struggled out of the tangle of dead Chin and canvas, and looked round. About ten paces off lay the head of the Sepoy staring in the moonlight. Then I saw the water and went and drank. There wasn’t a sound in the world but the footsteps of the departing Chins, a faint shout from above, and the gluck of the water. So soon as I had drunk my full I started off down the river.

“That about ends the explanation of the flying man story. I never met a soul the whole eight miles of the way. I got to Walters’ camp by ten o’clock, and a born idiot of a sentinel had the cheek to fire at me as I came trotting out of the darkness. So soon as I had hammered my story into Winter’s thick skull, about fifty men started up the valley to clear the Chins out and get our men down. But for my own part I had too good a thirst to provoke it by going with them.

“You have heard what kind of a yarn the Chins made of it. Wings as long as a mule, eh? — And black feathers! The gay lieutenant bird! Well, well.”

The lieutenant meditated cheerfully for a moment. Then he added, “You would scarcely credit it, but when they got to the ridge at last, they found two more of the Sepoys had jumped over.”

“The rest were all right?” asked the Ethnologist.

“Yes,” said the lieutenant; “the rest were all right, barring a certain thirst, you know.”

And at the memory he helped himself to soda and whisky again.

Herbert George Wells
(1866-1946)
The Stolen Bacillus and other incidents
short stories

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book Lovers, Archive W-X, H.G. Wells, Tales of Mystery & Imagination, Wells, H.G.


Karel van de Woestijne: De Dichter (Gedicht)

De Dichter

Geen zomer-schaâuwe is schoon als ‘t beeld, in volle teilen,
der welv’ge melk die ront, van roerig licht ommaald.
Mijn schamel huis, waar zoel een geur van peren draalt,
weegt teerder in mijn schroom dan ‘t hele herfst-verwijlen.

En, waar van ‘t winter-dak een schone mane daalt,
‘n weifelt ijl een hele lente in hare wijle,
o mijn gezóende blik, en moe van eigen-peilen?
– Geen zoen is goed, dan die vergeten zorg verhaalt…

Aldus wie zijn geluk in ‘t noden van een teken
gelijk een geurig brood meewarig-blij durft breken,
en nut de zuurste zemel-korst in heil’ge waan;

om bij het heil dat weende en ‘t vreemde leed dat lachte,
en in de hoede van uw deemstren, o Gedachte,
eens, als een schone vraag, glim-lachend heen te gaan.

De Boom-Gaard der Vogelen en der Vruchten (1903 – 1905)

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
De Dichter

Portret van Karel van de Woestijne (1937) door Henri van Straten (1892 – 1944)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de


Karel van de Woestijne: Er komt iemand bij mij (Gedicht)

 

Er komt iemand bij mij

Er komt iemand bij mij, die ‘k nimmer zag,
en uit-der-mate vriendlijk, die mij zegt:
‘Gij weet, ik berg iemand in mijne woon.
Neen: er verbergt zich iemand in mijn woon.
Ik zie hem niet, maar ben in hem begaan.
Ik ken hem, en hij is mijn liefst bezit…’
– Ik durf niet zeggen dat die vreemdling liegt.
Ik durf niet zeggen dat zijn gast de mijne is. Ach!
ik durf niet zèggen dat hij niet bestaat, misschien.

Want hij bestaat in mij.

 

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
Er komt iemand bij mij

Portret: Karel van de Woestijne, Ramah – Journal Het Roode Zeil, 15 April 1920

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de


Karel van de Woestijne: De meiskens uit de taveernen (Gedicht)

 

De meiskens uit de taveernen

De meiskens uit de taveernen,
Zij hebben een malsen schoot.
Zij zien er de jongens geerne.
Zij baren haar kindren dood.

Zij dragen van vurige zijde
een keursken dat spant en splijt.
We ontwaken aan haar zijde
met den houten mond van de spijt.

De ronde zee waar wij zwalken,
die eindeloos wenkt en geeuwt,
en ons doet van begeren balken,
en ons verre vrouwe verweêwt:

wij ankren in de taveernen
waar geniepig een rust ons smijt.
Daar wachten ons rood de deernen.
Daar raken wij ‘t leven kwijt.

 

Karel van de Woestijne
(1878 – 1929)
De meiskens uit de taveernen

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de


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 www.kunstlocbrabant.nl/eduperron
Meer informatie over de prijs vindt u op: www.tilburguniversity.edu/duperronprijs

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

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book Lovers, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive K-L, Archive O-P, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Awards & Prizes, Literary Events


Carina van der Walt: LocHal (gedicht)

 

LocHal
(naar Majakovski)

planten druipen
gordijnen vallen
gewoven in vislijn
zilveren ringen
zilveren haken

vissen mensen van het beton
vangen ze op uit het café à la kroeg
schrapen ze van de dansvloer af
hijsen ze langs de trappen op

mens! ga toch lezen
zoek een woord op
luister naar een lezing
door een oververhit brein
blaas een kubus van glas

kennis is zacht als hout
kennis is hard als staal
BARST
door je eigen glazen plafond

 

Carina van der Walt
Gedicht: LocHal (naar Majakovski)

# new poetry
Carina van der Walt is a South-African born
poet and writer. Since many years she
lives and works in Tilburg NL.
LocHal is a historical Locomotive Shelter in Tilburg
that has been rebuild into a public library.
photo: cvdw2019

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Carina van der Walt, Majakovsky, Vladimir, Photography, Walt, Carina van der


Useless Magic: Lyrics and Poetry by Florence Welch

Songs can be incredibly prophetic, like subconscious warnings or messages to myself, but I often don’t know what I’m trying to say till years later.

Or a prediction comes true and I couldn’t do anything to stop it, so it seems like a kind of useless magic.

The first book from songwriter and Florence + the Machine frontwoman Florence Welch, Useless Magic brings together 288 pages of lyrics, never-before-seen poetry and sketches.

Taken from Welch’s own scrapbook-style journals, the book offers an extraordinary chance to see inside the creative alchemy behind some of Florence + The Machine’s chart-topping anthems.

It also offers unique personal insights into Welch’s own life from her experiences of suffering with an eating disorder to her thoughts on love and what it means to live your life in the glare of the spotlight. .

Useless Magic:
Lyrics and Poetry
by Florence Welch
Publisher Penguin Books Ltd
Imprint Fig Tree
London, 5 July 2018
Number of pages: 288
Language English
ISBN-10: 0241347939
ISBN-13: 978-0241347935
€ 28,95

# New books
Florence Welch
Lyrics and Poetry

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Florence Welch


In de man zit nog een jongen. Willem Wilmink – De biografie door Elsbeth Etty

Willem Wilmink (1936-2003) is een van de meest geliefde dichters van Nederland.

Zijn eenvoudige maar treffende gedichten en liedjes, veelal geschreven voor legendarische tv-programma’s als De Stratemakeropzeeshow, J.J. de Bom en De film van Ome Willem, spreken iedereen aan. ‘De oude school’, ‘Deze vuist op deze vuist’ en ‘Ben Ali Libi’ behoren tot de canon van de Nederlandse literatuur. Hetzelfde geldt voor Wilminks hertalingen van Middeleeuwse klassiekers. Hij was een groot kenner van poëzie uit alle tijdvakken en in al haar verschijningsvormen.

Zijn werk is doortrokken van heimwee naar een veilige kinderwereld die nooit heeft bestaan. Naar eigen zeggen is Wilmink altijd elf jaar gebleven, wat aanvankelijk zijn loopbaan en privéleven ernstig frustreerde, maar tegelijkertijd zijn poëtische kapitaal bleek. Met humor en zelfspot maakte hij zijn lange tijd door miskenning en afwijzing getekende leven leefbaar.

Voor In de man zit nog een jongen sprak neerlandicus en journalist Elsbeth Etty met tientallen tijdgenoten en intimi van Wilmink. Het resultaat is een intiem en niets verhullend portret.

Elsbeth Etty (1951) is literair criticus, columnist en voormalig bijzonder hoogleraar literaire kritiek. Ze publiceerde o.a. verschillende essay- en columnbundels. Voor Liefde is heel het leven niet, haar biografie van Henriette Roland Holst, werd ze genomineerd voor de AKO Literatuurprijs en bekroond met de Gouden Uil en de Busken Huetprijs.

In de man zit nog een jongen
Willem Wilmink – De biografie
Auteur: Elsbeth Etty
Uitgeverij: Nijgh & van Ditmar
NUR: 321
Taal Nederlands
Bladzijden 552 pp.
Bindwijze Hardcover
ISBN: 9789038806112
Publicatiedatum: 22-01-2019
Prijs: € 34,99

# New books
Willem Wilmink – De biografie
Auteur: Elsbeth Etty

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Biography Archives, - Book News, - Book Stories, - Bookstores, Archive E-F, Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, Willem Wilmink


The Annotated Prison Writings of Oscar Wilde

“And I? May I say nothing, my lord?” With these words, Oscar Wilde’s courtroom trials came to a close. The lord in question, High Court justice Sir Alfred Wills, sent Wilde to the cells, sentenced to two years in prison with hard labor for the crime of “gross indecency” with other men.

As cries of “shame” emanated from the gallery, the convicted aesthete was roundly silenced.

But he did not remain so. Behind bars and in the period immediately after his release, Wilde wrote two of his most powerful works—the long autobiographical letter De Profundis and an expansive best-selling poem, The Ballad of Reading Gaol.

In The Annotated Prison Writings of Oscar Wilde, Nicholas Frankel collects these and other prison writings, accompanied by historical illustrations and his rich facing-page annotations. As Frankel shows, Wilde experienced prison conditions designed to break even the toughest spirit, and yet his writings from this period display an imaginative and verbal brilliance left largely intact.

Wilde also remained politically steadfast, determined that his writings should inspire improvements to Victorian England’s grotesque regimes of punishment. But while his reformist impulse spoke to his moment, Wilde also wrote for eternity.

At once a savage indictment of the society that jailed him and a moving testimony to private sufferings, Wilde’s prison writings—illuminated by Frankel’s extensive notes—reveal a very different man from the famous dandy and aesthete who shocked and amused the English-speaking world.

Nicholas Frankel is Professor of English at Virginia Commonwealth University.

“Frankel provides a valuable service in comprehensively editing these works for a fresh generation of readers.” — Joseph Bristow, University of California, Los Angeles

The Annotated Prison Writings of Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde
Edited by Nicholas Frankel
Harvard University Press
Paperback
408 pages
Publication: May 2018
ISBN 9780674984387
€17.00

# more books
The Annotated Prison Writings of Oscar Wilde
-Clemency Petition to the Home Secretary, 2 July 1896
-De Profundis
-Letter to the Daily Chronicle, 27 May 1897
-The Ballad of Reading Gaol
-Letter to the Daily Chronicle, 23 March 1898

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Book Stories, Archive W-X, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News, CRIME & PUNISHMENT, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS, Wilde, Oscar, Wilde, Oscar


Unwritten: Caribbean Poems After the First World War edited by Karen McCarthy Woolf

What does it mean to fight for a ‘mother country’ that refuses to accept you as one of its own?

Britain’s First World War poets changed the way we view military conflict and had a deep impact on the national psyche. Yet the stories of the 15,600 volunteers who signed up to the British West Indian Regiment remain largely unknown. Sadly, these citizens of empire were not embraced as compatriots on an equal footing. Instead they faced prejudice, injustice and discrimination while being confined to menial and auxiliary work, regardless of rank or status.

As a collaborative project, co-commissioned by 14-18 NOW, BBC Contains Strong Language and the British Council, Unwritten Poems invited contemporary Caribbean and Caribbean diaspora poets to write into that vexed space, and explore the nature of war and humanity – as it exists now, and at a time when Britain’s colonial ambitions were still at a peak. Unwritten: Caribbean Poems After the First World War is a result of that provocation and also includes new material written for broadcast and live performance.

Unwritten:
Caribbean Poems After the First World War
by Karen McCarthy Woolf (Author, Editor)
With contributions from Jay Bernard, Malika Booker, Kat Francois, Jay T. John, Anthony Joseph, Ishion Hutchinson, Charnell Lucien, Vladimir Lucien, Rachel Manley, Tanya Shirley and Karen McCarthy Woolf.
Paperback
Publisher: Nine Arches Press
4 Oct. 2018
Poetry
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1911027298
ISBN-13: 978-1911027294
Product Dimensions: 16.3 x 1 x 23 cm
160 pages
Price: £14.99

# new book
Caribbean Poems After the First World War
• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, #More Poetry Archives, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive W-X, Art & Literature News


Dennis Whitehead: SHELL SHOCK. Twin Sisters Struck Down by the Horrors of World War I

 

The true story of twin sisters, Dorothea and Gladys Cromwell, born into New York’s Gilded Age, living lives of wealth and privilege, as told by Dennis Whitehead.

Amid the fervor of America’s entry into the First World War, the sisters volunteered for service with the American Red Cross in France, a country they knew and loved. To French soldiers seeking refreshment and solace in the Red Cross canteen, the identical twins were known as anges jumeaux, the twin angels.

Witnessing the non-stop horrors in the worst fighting in the war, the sisters were utterly exhaustion, both mentally and physically, when they boarded the SS La Lorraine for the return journey home. They had wished to continue their service to the people of France after the fighting stopped but were convinced to return to New York by their brother.

What happened on that ship, on that frigid January 1919 evening, almost one-hundred years ago, is one of the great untold stories of World War I, and the impact that modern warfare had upon not just the men in the trenches, but upon its women and other non-combatants, as well as civilians, that remained unrecognized until the Vietnam War.

Dennis Whitehead: A native of Cincinnati and a graduate of Ohio University, Dennis Whitehead is a writer, photographer, and media producer in Arlington, Virginia.

 

Shell Shock: Twin Sisters Born Into New York’s Gilded Age Struck Down by the Horrors of War
by Dennis Whitehead
Kindle Edition
$2,99
Available for download
Language: English
File Size: 27502 KB
Print Length: 52 pages
Publisher: MMImedia LLC (July 18, 2018)
Publication Date: July 18, 2018
Amazon Digital

# More information and link with Amazon Kindle Edition

Shell Shock is the story of the twin Cromwell sisters who served with the American Red Cross in World War I France. Witnessing the unrelenting horrors of war, the Cromwell sisters illustrate the unrecognized trauma wrought upon non-combatants in the First World War. Gladys Cromwell (1885-1919) was a very talented poet.

# Digital biography
American writers
Gladys Cromwell

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Biography Archives, *War Poetry Archive, - Book Stories, Archive C-D, Archive W-X, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Gladys Cromwell, Photography, WAR & PEACE


Older Entries »

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