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Archive W-X

«« Previous page · Jan Wagner: Der verschlossene Raum. Beiläufige Prosa · Words and the First World War. Language, Memory, Vocabulary, by: Julian Walker · Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse für Natascha Wodin mit ‘Sie kam aus Mariupol’ · Lies Jane Austen Told Me by: Julie Wright · Frank Behrendt: Die Winnetou-Strategie Werde zum Häuptling deines Lebens · Alison Weir: Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession. A Novel · Peter Jordens: Hendrik Werkman en De Ploeg. The Next Call en het constructivisme · Onno Blom: Het litteken van de dood (Biografie Jan Wolkers) · Oscar WILDE: The Teacher of Wisdom · HET LEVEN VAN ELISABETH SIDDAL VERTELD DOOR EVA WANJEK IN DE ROMAN ‘LIZZIE’ · FLEUR DE WEERD WINNAAR VAN BOB DEN UYL PRIJS 2016 VOOR BESTE REISBOEK · VIRGINIA WOOLF: KEW GARDENS

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Jan Wagner: Der verschlossene Raum. Beiläufige Prosa

Wüsste man nichts von Jan Wagners lyrischem Werk, man würde überhaupt nur noch Essays von ihm lesen wollen.

Ob er über Bibliotheken, Buchhandlungen, Lyrik oder Kunst schreibt, ob er literarische Postkarten aus Rom oder Los Angeles sendet oder die Epiphanie eines Rosmarins im schwäbischen Garten feiert – man glaubt diesem charmanten Geschichtenerzähler alles.

Es bleibt kaum Zeit, die rhetorische Fingerfertigkeit zu bewundern, mit der da zwischen souveräner Gelehrsamkeit unerwartet die nächste Anekdote aus dem Ärmel gezogen wird, und man kann nicht anders als staunen über die Trouvaillen, die Jan Wagner von seinen Entdeckungsreisen quer durch Epochen und Kontinente mitbringt.

Jan Wagner, 1971 in Hamburg geboren, lebt in Berlin. 2001 erschien sein erster Gedichtband Probebohrung im Himmel. Es folgten Guerickes Sperling (2004), Achtzehn Pasteten (2007), Australien (2010), Die Eulenhasser in den Hallenhäusern (2012) und zuletzt der Sammelband Selbstporträt mit Bienenschwarm (2016). Zudem ist er Mitherausgeber der Minnesang-Anthologie Unmögliche Liebe (Die Kunst des Minnesangs in neuen Übertragungen, 2017). Für seine Lyrik wurde Jan Wagner vielfach ausgezeichnet. Mit seinem Gedichtband Regentonnenvariationen (2014) gewann er 2015 den Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse, außerdem wurde er 2017 mit dem Georg-Büchner-Preis ausgezeichnet.

Jan Wagner:
Der verschlossene Raum.
Beiläufige Prosa
EAN: 9783446254756
ISBN: 3446254757
Libri: 2557154
Hanser Berlin
2017 – 268 Seiten
gebunden € 22,00

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Words and the First World War. Language, Memory, Vocabulary, by: Julian Walker

“The experiences could be understood only as being of such extremity that they stood beyond written words; it was not a failure of language, but a view that, for the individual, language, particularly written words, and the enormity of the experience were not matched.”

First World War expert Julian Walker looks at how the conflict shaped English and its relationship with other languages. He considers language in relation to mediation and authenticity, as well as the limitations and potential of different kinds of verbal communication.

Walker also examines:
– How language changed, and why changed language was used in communications
– Language used at the Front and how the ‘language of the war’ was commercially exploited on the Home Front
– The relationship between language, soldiers and class
– The idea of the ‘indescribability’ of the war and the linguistic codes used to convey the experience

‘Languages of the front’ became linguistic souvenirs of the war, abandoned by soldiers but taken up by academics, memoir writers and commentators, leaving an indelible mark on the words we use even today.

Julian Walker is a writer, researcher, artist and educator. He is an Honorary Research Associate at University College, London, UK. He is the co-author of Languages and the First World War: Communicating in a Transnational War (2016), the author of The Roar of the Crowd (2016) and Trench Talk (2012) among many others.  His website is www.julianwalker.net

Writes: Lexicology, First World War, Sociolinguistics and Linguistic Anthropology, World History, Heritage

Author of : Words and the First World War, Team Talk, Discovering Words in the Kitchen, Discovering Words

“This is a substantial book, dense but always accessible, covering both time and space. Gratifyingly, it sidesteps an all too common error that entraps books on words, of becoming no more than a padded dictionary.” – The Daily Telegraph

Words and the First World War
Language, Memory, Vocabulary
By: Julian Walker
Published: 28-12-2017
Format: Paperback
Edition: 1st
Extent: 416
ISBN: 9781350001923
Imprint: Bloomsbury Academic
Illustrations: 50 bw images
Dimensions: 216 x 138 mm
Prize: £14.99

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Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse für Natascha Wodin mit ‘Sie kam aus Mariupol’

“Wenn du gesehen hättest, was ich gesehen habe” – Natascha Wodins Mutter sagte diesen Satz immer wieder und nahm doch, was sie meinte, mit ins Grab. Da war die Tochter zehn und wusste nicht viel mehr, als dass sie zu einer Art Menschenunrat gehörte, zu irgendeinem Kehricht, der vom Krieg übriggeblieben war. Wieso lebten sie in einem der Lager für “Displaced Persons”, woher kam die Mutter, und was hatte sie erlebt? Erst Jahrzehnte später öffnet sich die Blackbox ihrer Herkunft, erst ein bisschen, dann immer mehr.

“Sie kam aus Mariupol” ist das außergewöhnliche Buch einer Spurensuche. Natascha Wodin geht dem Leben ihrer ukrainischen Mutter nach, die aus der Hafenstadt Mariupol stammte und mit ihrem Mann 1943 als “Ostarbeiterin” nach Deutschland verschleppt wurde. Sie erzählt beklemmend, ja bestürzend intensiv vom Anhängsel des Holocaust, einer Fußnote der Geschichte: der Zwangsarbeit im Dritten Reich. Ihre Mutter, die als junges Mädchen den Untergang ihrer Adelsfamilie im stalinistischen Terror miterlebte, bevor sie mit ungewissem Ziel ein deutsches Schiff bestieg, tritt wie durch ein spätes Wunder aus der Anonymität heraus, bekommt ein Gesicht, das unvergesslich ist. “Meine arme, kleine, verrückt gewordene Mutter”, kann Natascha Wodin nun zärtlich sagen, und auch für uns Leser wird begreifbar, was verlorenging. Dass es dieses bewegende, dunkel-leuchtende Zeugnis eines Schicksals gibt, das für Millionen anderer steht, ist ein literarisches Ereignis.

“Das erinnert nicht von ungefähr an die Verfahrensweise, mit der W. G. Sebald, der große deutsche Gedächtniskünstler, verlorene Lebensläufe der Vergessenheit entriss.” (Sigrid Löffler in ihrer Laudatio auf Natascha Wodin bei der Verleihung des Alfred-Döblin-Preises 2015)

Natascha Wodin, 1945 als Kind sowjetischer Zwangsarbeiter in Fürth/Bayern geboren, wuchs erst in deutschen DP-Lagern, dann, nach dem frühen Tod der Mutter, in einem katholischen Mädchenheim auf. Nach dem Abschluss einer Sprachenschule übersetzte sie aus dem Russischen und lebte zeitweise in Moskau. Auf ihr Romandebüt “Die gläserne Stadt”, das 1983 erschien, folgten etliche Veröffentlichungen, darunter die Romane “Einmal lebt ich”, “Die Ehe” und “Nachtgeschwister”. Ihr Werk wurde unter anderem mit dem Hermann-Hesse-Preis, dem Brüder-Grimm-Preis und dem Adelbert-von-Chamisso-Preis ausgezeichnet, für “Sie kam aus Mariupol” wurde ihr der Alfred-Döblin-Preis, der Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse und der August-Graf-von-Platen-Preis verliehen. Natascha Wodin lebt in Berlin und Mecklenburg.

Preis der Leipziger Buchmesse
Preisträger 2017 in der Kategorie Belletristik
Natascha Wodin: “Sie kam aus Mariupol”
Rowohlt Verlag)

Die Begründung der Jury: In „Sie kam aus Mariupol“ forscht Natascha Wodin nach den Lebensspuren ihrer ukrainischen Mutter Jewgenia – und stößt auf das Schicksal ihrer Tante Lidia. Während die Mutter 1943 mit ihrem russischen Mann als Zwangsarbeiterin in ein Leipziger Montagewerk für Kriegsflugzeuge verschleppt wurde, kam die Tante zehn Jahre zuvor in ein sowjetisches Straflager. Das ist die ungeheuerliche Parallelität, die die Familiengeschichte zerteilt. „Sie kam aus Mariupol“ ist nicht aus einem Guss, weil es angesichts der Brüche des 20. Jahrhunderts gar nicht aus einem Guss sein kann. In vier hart gefügten Teilen treibt es aus unterschiedlichen Richtungen seine Stollen durch ein Massiv kollektiver und individueller Gewalt. Dieses Buch trägt auch ausdrücklich nicht die Bezeichnung Roman. Doch an der Grenze von Fiktion und Nichtfiktion, wo es angesiedelt ist, betreibt es autobiografisches Schreiben mit einem hohen Maß an Selbstreflexion und romanhaftes Schreiben auf der Grundlage von Lidias Tagebüchern. In diesem genreüberschreitenden Sinn ist es unerhört zeitgenössisch. Erinnerungsarbeit als Widerstand gegen das eigene Zerbrechen: Die Rettung, die sich Natascha Wodin davon erhofft, bleibt aus. Aber die Tapferkeit, mit der sie den Dämonen ins Gesicht sieht, die sie bannen muss, hat auch etwas ungemein Ermutigendes. Davon kann sich jeder Leser von „Sie kam aus Mariupol“ überzeugen.

Natascha Wodin
‘Sie kam aus Mariupol’
EAN: 9783498073893
ISBN: 3498073893
Libri: 2561776
Rowohlt Verlag GmbH
2017, 363 Seiten
gebunden, €19,95

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Lies Jane Austen Told Me by: Julie Wright

Ever since Emma read Pride and Prejudice, she’s been in love with Mr. Darcy and has regarded Jane Austen as the expert on all things romantic.

So naturally when Emma falls for Blake Hampton and he invites her home to meet his parents, she is positive an engagement is in her future. After all, Blake is a single man in possession of a good fortune, and thus must be in want of a wife.



But when it turns out that what Blake actually wants is more of a hook-up than a honeymoon, Emma is hurt, betrayed, and furious. She throws herself deeper into her work as CMO of Kinetics, the fastest growing gym franchise in the nation. She loves her work, and she’s good at it, which is why she bristles when her boss brings in a consultant to help her spearhead the new facilities on the East Coast. Her frustration turns to shock when that consultant turns out to be Blake’s younger brother, Lucas.

Emma is determined not to fall for Lucas, but as she gets to know him, she realizes that Lucas is nothing like his brother. He is kind and attentive and spends his time and money caring for the less fortunate.



What she can’t understand is why Lucas continues to try to push her back into Blake’s arms when he so clearly has fallen as hard for her as she has fallen for him. It isn’t until Lucas reveals to Emma that he was adopted into the Hampton family that she begins to understand his loyalty to Blake as well as his devotion to the child April-she is Lucas’s biological niece.



Emma opens up to Lucas about the feelings of abandonment she has harbored ever since she was a child and her mother left the family. As she helps Lucas deal with his past demons, she is able to exorcise some of her own.

Realizing that her love life is as complicated as anything Jane Austen could have dreamed up, Emma must find a way to let Blake know that it’s time for him to let her go and to let Lucas know it’s time for him to love her back.

Julie Wright wrote her first book when she was fifteen, and has since written twenty-three novels. She has a husband, three kids, a dog, and a varying amount of fish, frogs, and salamanders (depending on attrition). She loves writing, reading, traveling, speaking at schools, hiking, playing with her kids, and watching her husband make dinner.

Julie Wright
Lies Jane Austen Told Me
Published: 2017
Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781629723426
Publisher: Shadow Mountain

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Frank Behrendt: Die Winnetou-Strategie Werde zum Häuptling deines Lebens

“Führe dich selbst in eine gute Zukunft. Wie ein guter Häuptling seinen Stamm.” (Frank Behrendt)

Frank Behrendt ist seit seiner Jugend leidenschaftlicher Winnetou-Fan – der »Guru der Gelassenheit« hat sich in vielen Lebenslagen von dem stolzen Apachen-Häuptling und anderen Figuren des Schriftstellers Karl May inspirieren lassen.

Auch von anderen Persönlichkeiten im echten Leben hat Frank Behrendt viel gelernt. Ihre Haltung, Klugheit und Weisheit hat er übernommen und für seinen eigenen Weg erfolgreich adaptiert. Selbstbestimmt und selbst-entschieden zu leben, tatsächlich Häuptling des eigenen Lebens zu sein, war immer sein Ziel.

In unterhaltsamen Geschichten erzählt Frank Behrendt an konkreten Beispielen, wie ihn die Helden seiner Kindheit nachhaltig beeinflusst haben. Eine Inspiration für jeden und ein flammender Appell an alle, Ausschau zu halten nach den Helden am Wegesrand – den fiktionalen und den realen.

Frank Behrendt, geb. 1963, ist seit gut 20 Jahren ausgewiesener PR- und Kommunikationsfachmann mit intensiven Kontakten zu Medien, Wirtschaft und Politik. Nach Stationen bei BILD, Dornier, Henkel, RTL Television und Universal Music war der Absolvent der Deutschen Journalistenschule in München Deutschland-Chef bei KetchumPleon, bevor er 2011 als Vorstand zur fischerAppelt AG wechselte. Seit Februar 2017 ist er in der Serviceplan-Gruppe tätig. Im März 2017 wurde er von der Deutschen Public Relations Gesellschaft (DPRG) als “PR-Kopf des Jahres” ausgezeichnet. Frank Behrendt lebt mit seiner Frau und seinen drei Kindern in Köln.

Frank Behrendt
Die Winnetou-Strategie Werde zum Häuptling deines Lebens
Seitenzahl: 221
Oktober 2017
Deutsch
Abmessung: 218mm x 139mm x 25mm
Gebundenes Buch mit Schutzumschlag
ISBN-13: 9783579086811
ISBN-10: 3579086812
Verlag: Gütersloher Verlagshaus

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Alison Weir: Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession. A Novel

In this second novel of Alison Weir’s epic Six Tudor Queens series, the acclaimed author and historian weaves exciting new research into the story of Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII’s most infamous wife, a woman ahead of her time whose very life—and death—forever changed a nation.

Born into a noble English family, Anne is barely a teenager when she is sent from her family’s Hever Castle to serve at the royal court of the Netherlands. This strategic move on the part of her opportunistic father also becomes a chance for the girl to grow and discover herself. There, and later in France, Anne thrives, preferring to absorb the works of progressive writers rather than participate in courtly flirtations. She also begins to understand the inequalities and indignities suffered by her gender.

Anne isn’t completely inured to the longings of the heart, but her powerful family has ambitious plans for her future that override any wishes of her own. When the King of England himself, Henry VIII, asks Anne to be his mistress, she spurns his advances—reminding him that he is a married man who has already conducted an affair with her sister, Mary. Anne’s rejection only intensifies Henry’s pursuit, but in the absence of a male heir—and given an aging Queen Katherine—the opportunity to elevate and protect the Boleyn family, and to exact vengeance on her envious detractors, is too tempting for Anne to resist, even as it proves to be her undoing.

While history tells of how Anne Boleyn died, this compelling new novel reveals how fully she lived.

“This is a stunning, engaging, comprehensive and convincing novel. . . . [Alison] Weir’s characterisation is superb, and this complex novel will be, without doubt, one of the most admired works of historical fiction of 2017.” – Historical Novels Review

Alison Weir is the New York Times bestselling author of numerous historical biographies, including The Lost Tudor Princess, Elizabeth of York, Mary Boleyn, The Lady in the Tower, Mistress of the Monarchy, Henry VIII, Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Life of Elizabeth I, and The Six Wives of Henry VIII, and the novels Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession; Katherine of Aragon, The True Queen; The Marriage Game; A Dangerous Inheritance; Captive Queen; The Lady Elizabeth; and Innocent Traitor. She lives in Surrey, England, with her husband.

Anne Boleyn, A King’s Obsession
A Novel
By Alison Weir
Part of Six Tudor Queens
Historical Fiction – Literary Fiction
Paperback
Publ. Penquin Random House
May 01, 2018
576 Pages

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Peter Jordens: Hendrik Werkman en De Ploeg. The Next Call en het constructivisme

Hendrik Nicolaas Werkman (1882-1945) wordt in 1919 lid van de ‘Groninger Kunstkring De Ploeg’.

Men waardeert hem vooral als drukker. In 1922, wanneer hij zakelijk een stap terug moet doen, maakt Werkman kennis met het gebruik van typografisch zetmateriaal als vorm van drukkunst. Hij begint de mogelijkheden ervan te onderzoeken.

De eerste proeve van zijn kunnen is de uitgave van The Next Call, een serie van negen achtbladige cahiers bestaande uit teksten en abstracte composities die hij tussen 1923 en 1926 aan vrienden en andere mogelijk geïnteresseerden toestuurt. Talrijk zijn de aanwijzingen dat Werkman zich daarbij heeft laten inspireren door het dadaïstische en constructivistische idioom van de internationale avant-garde. Een modernistisch tijdschrift als een van de vele andere is The Next Call niet. Teksten en druksels laten zien dat het gaat over Werkman zelf, over wat hem in deze cruciale periode van zijn leven wezenlijk beroert

Peter Jordens:
Hendrik Werkman en De Ploeg.
The Next Call en het constructivisme
Dit boek verschijnt in oktober 2017
€ 22,50
ISBN 9789462582286
Formaat: 20 x 26,5 cm
Aantal pagina’s 176
In samenwerking met Museum Belvédère
Circa 150 afbeeldingen in kleur
Jaar 2017
Uitvoering: Gebonden
Uitg.: wbooks

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Onno Blom: Het litteken van de dood (Biografie Jan Wolkers)

Nederland vormde Jan Wolkers, en Jan Wolkers vormde Nederland.

Zijn kunstenaarschap ontstond uit woede tegen de God van zijn gereformeerde vader in Oegstgeest, bloeide op in Amsterdam, en vond harmonie op Texel.
Zijn romans werden verguisd, bejubeld en bekroond. Wereldwijd werden honderdduizenden exemplaren verkocht van Kort Amerikaans, Een roos van vlees en Turks fruit.
Wolkers werd opgeleid als beeldhouwer. Hij maakte vele beelden in brons en glas, en liet een schitterend oeuvre van kleurrijke schilderijen na. Zoals hij beeldhouwde met woorden, zo schreef hij met verf.

Meer dan tien jaar lang werkte Onno Blom aan Wolkers’ biografie. Op basis van een schat aan materiaal schetst hij een rebels, obsessief en zinnelijk leven in de greep van liefde en dood. Wolkers had onstuimige relaties met vrouwen en meisjes. De dood van zijn oudste broer en die van zijn tweejarige dochtertje bleven hem tot zijn laatste dag als demonen achtervolgen.

Onno Blom (1969) studeerde in 1994 cum laude af in de Nederlandse taal- en letterkunde en Culturele Studies. Na een aantal jaren te hebben gewerkt als literair redacteur bij dagblad Trouw en korte tijd als hoofdredacteur van Uitgeverij Prometheus Bert Bakker en adjunct-directeur van De Bezige Bij, is hij werkzaam als freelance journalist en literair criticus. Hij maakte voor Teleac een aantal radioprogramma’s en treedt op als interviewer en presentator bij literaire bijeenkomsten in het land. Blom is de officiële biograaf van Jan Wolkers.

‘Arme Onno. Zweet, bloed en tranen zullen langs zijn rug lopen,’ zei Wolkers vlak voor zijn dood in NRC Handelsblad.

Verwacht – 19 oktober 2017 – handelseditie
Het litteken van de dood
Onno Blom
Aantal pagina’s 1168
Uitvoering: Gebonden
ISBN 9789023454588
Uitgever De Bezige Bij
Druk vanaf 1e
Taal Nederlands
Bladzijden 1168 pp.
Bindwijze Hardcover
Genre Literaire non-fictie
€39,99

Naast de toegankelijke ‘volkseditie’ verschijnt een luxe editie in cassette, met daarin de biografie in een gebonden uitgave, een gebonden beeldboek met leven en werk van Jan Wolkers aan de hand van foto’s, portretten, kunstwerken en egodocumenten, en een facsimiledruk van een zelfportret van Jan Wolkers uit 1945.

Deze luxe editie verschijnt in een eenmalige oplage van 1500 exemplaren, wordt genummerd en voorzien van de handtekeningstempel van Wolkers.

Verwacht – 19 oktober 2017 – luxe uitgave
Het litteken van de dood
Onno Blom
ISBN 9789023456568
Uitgever De Bezige Bij
Druk vanaf 1e
Taal Nederlands
Bindwijze Hardcover
Genre Biografieën
€129,99

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Oscar WILDE: The Teacher of Wisdom

fdm_oscarwilde3Oscar Wilde
(1854 – 1900)

The Teacher of Wisdom

From his childhood he had been as one filled with the perfect knowledge of God, and even while he was yet but a lad many of the saints, as well as certain holy women who dwelt in the free city of his birth, had been stirred to much wonder by the grave wisdom of his answers.

And when his parents had given him the robe and the ring of manhood he kissed them, and left them and went out into the world, that he might speak to the world about God. For there were at that time many in the world who either knew not God at all, or had but an incomplete knowledge of Him, or worshipped the false gods who dwell in groves and have no care of their worshippers.

And he set his face to the sun and journeyed, walking without sandals, as he had seen the saints walk, and carrying at his girdle a leathern wallet and a little water-bottle of burnt clay.

And as he walked along the highway he was full of the joy that comes from the perfect knowledge of God, and he sang praises unto God without ceasing; and after a time he reached a strange land in which there were many cities.

And he passed through eleven cities. And some of these cities were in valleys, and others were by the banks of great rivers, and others were set on hills. And in each city he found a disciple who loved him and followed him, and a great multitude also of people followed him from each city, and the knowledge of God spread in the whole land, and many of the rulers were converted, and the priests of the temples in which there were idols found that half of their gain was gone, and when they beat upon their drums at noon none, or but a few, came with peacocks and with offerings of flesh as had been the custom of the land before his coming.

Yet the more the people followed him, and the greater the number of his disciples, the greater became his sorrow. And he knew not why his sorrow was so great. For he spake ever about God, and out of the fulness of that perfect knowledge of God which God had Himself given to him.

And one evening he passed out of the eleventh city, which was a city of Armenia, and his disciples and a great crowd of people followed after him; and he went up on to a mountain and sat down on a rock that was on the mountain, and his disciples stood round him, and the multitude knelt in the valley.

And he bowed his head on his hands and wept, and said to his Soul, ‘Why is it that I am full of sorrow and fear, and that each of my disciples is as an enemy that walks in the noonday?’

And his Soul answered him and said, ‘God filled thee with the perfect knowledge of Himself, and thou hast given this knowledge away to others. The pearl of great price thou hast divided, and the vesture without seam thou hast parted asunder. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself. He is as one who giveth his treasure to a robber. Is not God wiser than thou art? Who art thou to give away the secret that God hath told thee? I was rich once, and thou hast made me poor. Once I saw God, and now thou hast hidden Him from me.’

And he wept again, for he knew that his Soul spake truth to him, and that he had given to others the perfect knowledge of God, and that he was as one clinging to the skirts of God, and that his faith was leaving him by reason of the number of those who believed in him.

And he said to himself, ‘I will talk no more about God. He who giveth away wisdom robbeth himself’

And after the space of some hours his disciples came near him and bowed themselves to the ground and said, ‘Master, talk to us about God, for thou hast the perfect knowledge of God, and no man save thee hath this knowledge.’

And he answered them and said, ‘I will talk to you about all other things that are in heaven and on earth, but about God I will not talk to you. Neither now, nor at any time, will I talk to you about God.’

And they were wroth with him and said to him, ‘Thou hast led us into the desert that we might hearken to thee. Wilt thou send us away hungry, and the great multitude that thou hast made to follow thee?’

And he answered them and said, ‘I will not talk to you about God.’

And the multitude murmured against him and said to him ‘Thou hast led us into the desert, and hast given us no food to eat. Talk to us about God and it will suffice us.’

But he answered them not a word. For he knew that if he spake to them about God he would give away his treasure.

And his disciples went away sadly, and the multitude of people returned to their own homes. And many died on the way.

And when he was alone he rose up and set his face to the moon, and journeyed for seven moons, speaking to no man nor making any answer. And when the seventh moon had waned he reached that desert which is the desert of the Great River. And having found a cavern in which a Centaur had once dwelt, he took it for his place of dwelling, and made himself a mat of reeds on which to lie, and became a hermit. And every hour the Hermit praised God that He had suffered him to keep some knowledge of Him and of His wonderful greatness.

Now, one evening, as the Hermit was seated before the cavern in which he had made his place of dwelling, he beheld a young man of evil and beautiful face who passed by in mean apparel and with empty hands. Every evening with empty hands the young man passed by, and every morning he returned with his hands full of purple and pearls. For he was a Robber and robbed the caravans of the merchants.

And the Hermit looked at him and pitied him. But he spake not a word. For he knew that he who speaks a word loses his faith.

And one morning, as the young man returned with his hands full of purple and pearls, he stopped and frowned and stamped his foot upon the sand, and said to the Hermit: ‘Why do you look at me ever in this manner as I pass by? What is it that I see in your eyes? For no man has looked at me before in this manner. And the thing is a thorn and a trouble to me.’

And the Hermit answered him and said, ‘What you see in my eyes is pity. Pity is what looks out at you from my eyes.’

And the young man laughed with scorn, and cried to the Hermit in a bitter voice, and said to him, ‘I have purple and pearls in my hands, and you have but a mat of reeds on which to lie. What pity should you have for me? And for what reason have you this pity?’

‘I have pity for you,’ said the Hermit, ‘because you have no knowledge of God.’

‘Is this knowledge of God a precious thing?’ asked the young man, and he came close to the mouth of the cavern.

‘It is more precious than all the purple and the pearls of the world,’ answered the Hermit.

‘And have you got it?’ said the young Robber, and he came closer still.

‘Once, indeed,’ answered the Hermit, ‘I possessed the perfect knowledge of God. But in my foolishness I parted with it, and divided it amongst others. Yet even now is such knowledge as remains to me more precious than purple or pearls.’

And when the young Robber heard this he threw away the purple and the pearls that he was bearing in his hands, and drawing a sharp sword of curved steel he said to the Hermit, ‘Give me, forthwith, this knowledge of God that you possess, or I will surely slay you. Wherefore should I not slay him who has a treasure greater than my treasure?’

And the Hermit spread out his arms and said, ‘Were it not better for me to go unto the uttermost courts of God and praise Him, than to live in the world and have no knowledge of Him? Slay me if that be your desire. But I will not give away my knowledge of God.’

And the young Robber knelt down and besought him, but the Hermit would not talk to him about God, nor give him his Treasure, and the young Robber rose up and said to the Hermit, ‘Be it as you will. As for myself, I will go to the City of the Seven Sins, that is but three days’ journey from this place, and for my purple they will give me pleasure, and for my pearls they will sell me joy.’ And he took up the purple and the pearls and went swiftly away.

And the Hermit cried out and followed him and besought him. For the space of three days he followed the young Robber on the road and entreated him to return, nor to enter into the City of the Seven Sins.

And ever and anon the young Robber looked back at the Hermit and called to him, and said, ‘Will you give me this knowledge of God which is more precious than purple and pearls? If you will give me that, I will not enter the city.’

And ever did the Hermit answer, ‘All things that I have I will give thee, save that one thing only. For that thing it is not lawful for me to give away.

And in the twilight of the third day they came nigh to the great scarlet gates of the City of the Seven Sins. And from the city there came the sound of much laughter.

And the young Robber laughed in answer, and sought to knock at the gate. And as he did so the Hermit ran forward and caught him by the skirts of his raiment, and said to him: ‘Stretch forth your hands, and set your arms around my neck, and put your ear close to my lips, and I will give you what remains to me of the knowledge of God.’ And the young Robber stopped.

And when the Hermit had given away his knowledge of God, he fell upon the ground and wept, and a great darkness hid him from the city and the young Robber, so that he saw them no more.

And as he lay there weeping he was ware of One who was standing beside him; and He who was standing beside him had feet of brass and hair like fine wool. And He raised the Hermit up, and said to him: ‘Before this time thou hadst the perfect knowledge of God. Now thou shalt have the perfect love of God. Wherefore art thou weeping?’ And He kissed him.

Oscar Wilde, 1894
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HET LEVEN VAN ELISABETH SIDDAL VERTELD DOOR EVA WANJEK IN DE ROMAN ‘LIZZIE’

De kunstenaar en zijn muze: liefde, begeerte, desillusie en onontkoombare verbondenheid

lizzy_wanjekEen onconventionele relatie tussen twee bijzondere mensen leidt hen naar de toppen van de roem, maar ook naar afgronden van ellende en vertwijfeling: van drank, opium en vooral wederzijdse afhankelijkheid. Het is de symbiotische relatie van een gedreven kunstenaar die alles – ook zijn eigen geluk en dat van anderen – opoffert voor de kunst, en een vrouw die haar bestaansrecht ontleent aan haar uitzonderlijke schoonheid, terwijl ze faalt in haar eigen artistieke ambities.

Lizzie geeft een levendig en panoramisch beeld van het bruisende Londen van de 19de eeuw, met zijn culturele elite, zijn bohémiens en zijn zelfkant. Hij biedt zowel kostuumdrama en ‘Gothic horror’ als erotische en indringende psychologische scènes. Het is een groots opgezet drama, van de allereerste ontmoeting in 1849 tussen het onbekende naaistertje en het aanstormende genie, tot aan diens dood als beroemde, maar eenzame weduwnaar in 1882.

Lizzie is een boeiende roman, die alle facetten van een man-vrouwrelatie toont, van prille liefde en begeerte, via wederzijdse ontrouw, vervreemding en desillusie tot aan het besef van absolute lotsverbondenheid.

Eva Wanjek is het pseudoniem waaronder twee auteurs van Uitgeverij Wereldbibliotheek hun krachten hebben gebundeld: de romanschrijver Martin Michael Driessen en de dichteres Liesbeth Lagemaat.

De pers over Lizzie:
‘Een samenwerkingsverband tussen Martin Michael Driessen en Liesbeth Lagemaat leidt tot een historische roman waarin kunstzinnige verhevenheid en de liefde het pijnlijk afleggen tegen de zelfdestructie. ****’ NRC Handelsblad
‘De auteurs hebben dit tranentrekkende, vuistdikke verhaal schittering opgebouwd. beelden trekken als een film aan je voorbij en laten je niet los. En al ben je broodnuchter, raak je door hun liefdesgeschiedenis die gedoemd is te mislukken, bedwelmd, en leest die in één gelukzalige roes uit.’ Baarnsche Courant

Een fragment uit: ‘Lizzie’

lizzy_wanjek03En als Miss Siddall maar lang genoeg in dit water ligt terwijl ik schilder, en vergeet waar ze is, dan krijg ik misschien juist de uitdrukking die ik zoek. Die van vergetelheid, van opgave, alsof ze op de wateren van de Lethe drijft. Misschien helpt een beetje laudanum. En ze is mooi genoeg om ook dan nog begeerlijk te zijn. Want dat is waarom het gaat. Ophelia moet in haar dood begeerlijk zijn. Want alleen dan is het tragisch dat niemand haar ooit zal beminnen.
Hij vroeg zich af wie van hen Miss Siddall als eerste bezitten zou. Ik niet, dacht hij, ze is zo kwetsbaar, daar zit je voor de rest van je leven aan vast. Hunt was te rechtschapen, die zou alleen met zijn wettige echtgenote naar bed gaan. En Deverell ook niet. Walter was idolaat van haar, maar hij was een ziek man. Het zou Dante wel zijn. Lizzie was Dante’s meisje.

Nog een fragment uit: ‘Lizzie’

lizzy_wanjek04Ik ben Rossetti,’ zegt hij en ik hoor zijn stem vertraagd, alsof hij weerkaatst wordt door een gewelf. ‘Mijn naam is Dante Gabriel Rossetti, u zult wel nooit van mij gehoord hebben. Ik ben dichter en schilder.

Er is een beweging, de Prerafaëlitische Broederschap… zo noemen we ons… waarvan ik de leider ben. En nu ik u heb gezien, wil ik u vragen…’

Als een mens ooit werd opgetild van de aarde, dan werd ik het, nu. Ik wist niet wat me overkwam. Maar ik wist wel wat ik nu wilde zeggen…

Ze glimlachte en reciteerde – bevangen, als iemand die onwennig op een bruiloft of uitvaart spreekt en bang is iets verkeerds te zeggen – twee van zijn eigen verzen, uit ‘The Blessed Damozel’:

I’ll take his hand and go with him
To the deep wells of light…

Hij knielde voor haar en kuste haar hand. Het was voor het eerst in haar leven dat een man voor haar knielde. Nu mocht en kon er niets meer gezegd worden.
In de deuropening draaide hij zich om. Ze zat nog steeds op haar stoel, haar ene hand op het tafelblad, blank en haast doorschijnend, als door een Hollandse meester geschilderd. Ze keek over haar schouder naar het beroete raam, dat nauwelijks licht doorliet, en scheen weer onbereikbaar, in haar eigen gedachten verzonken. Was ze zo, of poseerde ze? Wat het ook was, ze deed het goed.

Voordat Dante de deur weer sloot, maakte hij met zachte stem de strofe af:

As unto a stream we will step down,
And bathe there in God’s sight

lizzy_wanjek02Eva Wanjek:
Lizzie
paperback met flappen
15×23 cm.
464 pagina’s
ISBN 9789028426160
prijs € 24,95

Uitgeverij Wereldbibliotheek
Johannes Vermeerstraat 63, 1071 DN Amsterdam
Tel: 020 570 61 00
Fax: 020 570 61 99
E-mail: info@wereldbibliotheek.nl

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FLEUR DE WEERD WINNAAR VAN BOB DEN UYL PRIJS 2016 VOOR BESTE REISBOEK

WEERD_HETLANDDATFleur de Weerd: Het land dat maar niet wil lukken.
Een reis door het grillige Oekraïne
Winnaar Bob den Uyl Prijs 2016 voor beste reisboek

Schrijfster Fleur de Weerd heeft de VPRO Bob den Uyl Prijs uitgereikt gekregen voor haar boek Het land dat maar niet wil lukken (Atlas/Contact). De prijs, voor het beste Nederlandstalige reisboek uit het afgelopen kalenderjaar, bestaat uit een geldbedrag van 7500 euro.

Fleur de Weerd (1985) ontving de prijs uit handen van juryvoorzitter Clairy Polak. De jury prijst de wijze waarop ze het ontwrichte Oekraïne portretteert aan de hand van vele ontmoetingen met gewone Oekraïners: boeren, feministen, ultranationalisten, huwelijksmakelaars, kozakken en prostituees. Onbevangen beweegt De Weerd zich langs de grenzen van het conflict, zonder de menselijke verhoudingen uit het oog te verliezen. Gaandeweg begint de lezer iets te begrijpen van dit land en zijn grillige geschiedenis, om uiteindelijk te beseffen dat een oplossing voor dit conflict nog heel ver weg is.

De vijf genomineerde titels waren:
Laurens SamsomTegendraadse dromen. Dwars door Israël en de Palestijnse gebieden (Prometheus)
Sandra SmallenburgExpeditie Land Art. Landschapskunst in Amerika, Groot-Brittannië en Nederland (De Bezige Bij)
Laura StarinkDe schaduw van de grote broer. Letten en Russen, Joden in Polen, Duits Kaliningrad, Oorlog om Oekraïne (Atlas/Contact)
Fleur de WeerdHet land dat maar niet wil lukken. Een reis door het grillige Oekraïne (Atlas/Contact)
Tommy WieringaHonorair Kozak (De Bezige Bij)

De jury werd dit jaar gevormd door Clairy Polak (voorzitter), Karin Amatmoekrim (schrijver en letterkundige), Mathijs Deen (schrijver en radiomaker), Alexander Reeuwijk (schrijver) en Rosan Smits (hoofd Conflict Research Unit bij Clingendael).

In de pers: Een huiveringwekkend beeld van ontwrichte maatschappijen door de toename van haat, angst, corruptie en cynisme. (…) Over het land naast het nieuws, waarin zij diverse groepen mensen ontmoet, confronterende vragen stelt, aandachtig luistert en zo telkens tot nieuwe eigen inzichten komt. **** – NRC Handelsblad

Paperback 288 blz.
ISBN 9789045029900
juni 2016
Uitgeverij Atlas Contact
€ 21,99

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VIRGINIA WOOLF: KEW GARDENS

Virginia_Woolf12Virginia Woolf
(1882-1941)

7. Kew Gardens
(from: Monday or Tuesday)

From the oval-shaped flower-bed there rose perhaps a hundred stalks spreading into heart-shaped or tongue-shaped leaves half way up and unfurling at the tip red or blue or yellow petals marked with spots of colour raised upon the surface; and from the red, blue or yellow gloom of the throat emerged a straight bar, rough with gold dust and slightly clubbed at the end. The petals were voluminous enough to be stirred by the summer breeze, and when they moved, the red, blue and yellow lights passed one over the other, staining an inch of the brown earth beneath with a spot of the most intricate colour.

The light fell either upon the smooth, grey back of a pebble, or, the shell of a snail with its brown, circular veins, or falling into a raindrop, it expanded with such intensity of red, blue and yellow the thin walls of water that one expected them to burst and disappear. Instead, the drop was left in a second silver grey once more, and the light now settled upon the flesh of a leaf, revealing the branching thread of fibre beneath the surface, and again it moved on and spread its illumination in the vast green spaces beneath the dome of the heart-shaped and tongue-shaped leaves. Then the breeze stirred rather more briskly overhead and the colour was flashed into the air above, into the eyes of the men and women who walk in Kew Gardens in July.

The figures of these men and women straggled past the flower-bed with a curiously irregular movement not unlike that of the white and blue butterflies who crossed the turf in zig-zag flights from bed to bed. The man was about six inches in front of the woman, strolling carelessly, while she bore on with greater purpose, only turning her head now and then to see that the children were not too far behind. The man kept this distance in front of the woman purposely, though perhaps unconsciously, for he wished to go on with his thoughts.

“Fifteen years ago I came here with Lily,” he thought. “We sat somewhere over there by a lake and I begged her to marry me all through the hot afternoon. How the dragonfly kept circling round us: how clearly I see the dragonfly and her shoe with the square silver buckle at the toe. All the time I spoke I saw her shoe and when it moved impatiently I knew without looking up what she was going to say: the whole of her seemed to be in her shoe. And my love, my desire, were in the dragonfly; for some reason I thought that if it settled there, on that leaf, the broad one with the red flower in the middle of it, if the dragonfly settled on the leaf she would say “Yes” at once. But the dragonfly went round and round: it never settled anywhere — of course not, happily not, or I shouldn’t be walking here with Eleanor and the children — Tell me, Eleanor. D’you ever think of the past?”

“Why do you ask, Simon?”

“Because I’ve been thinking of the past. I’ve been thinking of Lily, the woman I might have married . . . Well, why are you silent? Do you mind my thinking of the past?”

“Why should I mind, Simon? Doesn’t one always think of the past, in a garden with men and women lying under the trees? Aren’t they one’s past, all that remains of it, those men and women, those ghosts lying under the trees . . . one’s happiness, one’s reality?”

“For me, a square silver shoe buckle and a dragonfly —”

“For me, a kiss. Imagine six little girls sitting before their easels twenty years ago, down by the side of a lake, painting the water-lilies, the first red water-lilies I’d ever seen. And suddenly a kiss, there on the back of my neck. And my hand shook all the afternoon so that I couldn’t paint. I took out my watch and marked the hour when I would allow myself to think of the kiss for five minutes only — it was so precious — the kiss of an old grey-haired woman with a wart on her nose, the mother of all my kisses all my life. Come, Caroline, come, Hubert.”

They walked on the past the flower-bed, now walking four abreast, and soon diminished in size among the trees and looked half transparent as the sunlight and shade swam over their backs in large trembling irregular patches.

In the oval flower bed the snail, whose shelled had been stained red, blue, and yellow for the space of two minutes or so, now appeared to be moving very slightly in its shell, and next began to labour over the crumbs of loose earth which broke away and rolled down as it passed over them. It appeared to have a definite goal in front of it, differing in this respect from the singular high stepping angular green insect who attempted to cross in front of it, and waited for a second with its antenna trembling as if in deliberation, and then stepped off as rapidly and strangely in the opposite direction. Brown cliffs with deep green lakes in the hollows, flat, blade-like trees that waved from root to tip, round boulders of grey stone, vast crumpled surfaces of a thin crackling texture — all these objects lay across the snail’s progress between one stalk and another to his goal. Before he had decided whether to circumvent the arched tent of a dead leaf or to breast it there came past the bed the feet of other human beings.

This time they were both men. The younger of the two wore an expression of perhaps unnatural calm; he raised his eyes and fixed them very steadily in front of him while his companion spoke, and directly his companion had done speaking he looked on the ground again and sometimes opened his lips only after a long pause and sometimes did not open them at all. The elder man had a curiously uneven and shaky method of walking, jerking his hand forward and throwing up his head abruptly, rather in the manner of an impatient carriage horse tired of waiting outside a house; but in the man these gestures were irresolute and pointless. He talked almost incessantly; he smiled to himself and again began to talk, as if the smile had been an answer. He was talking about spirits — the spirits of the dead, who, according to him, were even now telling him all sorts of odd things about their experiences in Heaven.

“Heaven was known to the ancients as Thessaly, William, and now, with this war, the spirit matter is rolling between the hills like thunder.” He paused, seemed to listen, smiled, jerked his head and continued:—

“You have a small electric battery and a piece of rubber to insulate the wire — isolate? — insulate? — well, we’ll skip the details, no good going into details that wouldn’t be understood — and in short the little machine stands in any convenient position by the head of the bed, we will say, on a neat mahogany stand. All arrangements being properly fixed by workmen under my direction, the widow applies her ear and summons the spirit by sign as agreed. Women! Widows! Women in black —”

Here he seemed to have caught sight of a woman’s dress in the distance, which in the shade looked a purple black. He took off his hat, placed his hand upon his heart, and hurried towards her muttering and gesticulating feverishly. But William caught him by the sleeve and touched a flower with the tip of his walking-stick in order to divert the old man’s attention. After looking at it for a moment in some confusion the old man bent his ear to it and seemed to answer a voice speaking from it, for he began talking about the forests of Uruguay which he had visited hundreds of years ago in company with the most beautiful young woman in Europe. He could be heard murmuring about forests of Uruguay blanketed with the wax petals of tropical roses, nightingales, sea beaches, mermaids, and women drowned at sea, as he suffered himself to be moved on by William, upon whose face the look of stoical patience grew slowly deeper and deeper.

Following his steps so closely as to be slightly puzzled by his gestures came two elderly women of the lower middle class, one stout and ponderous, the other rosy cheeked and nimble. Like most people of their station they were frankly fascinated by any signs of eccentricity betokening a disordered brain, especially in the well-to-do; but they were too far off to be certain whether the gestures were merely eccentric or genuinely mad. After they had scrutinised the old man’s back in silence for a moment and given each other a queer, sly look, they went on energetically piecing together their very complicated dialogue:

“Nell, Bert, Lot, Cess, Phil, Pa, he says, I says, she says, I says, I says, I says —”

“My Bert, Sis, Bill, Grandad, the old man, sugar, Sugar, flour, kippers, greens, Sugar, sugar, sugar.”

The ponderous woman looked through the pattern of falling words at the flowers standing cool, firm, and upright in the earth, with a curious expression. She saw them as a sleeper waking from a heavy sleep sees a brass candlestick reflecting the light in an unfamiliar way, and closes his eyes and opens them, and seeing the brass candlestick again, finally starts broad awake and stares at the candlestick with all his powers. So the heavy woman came to a standstill opposite the oval-shaped flower bed, and ceased even to pretend to listen to what the other woman was saying. She stood there letting the words fall over her, swaying the top part of her body slowly backwards and forwards, looking at the flowers. Then she suggested that they should find a seat and have their tea.

The snail had now considered every possible method of reaching his goal without going round the dead leaf or climbing over it. Let alone the effort needed for climbing a leaf, he was doubtful whether the thin texture which vibrated with such an alarming crackle when touched even by the tip of his horns would bear his weight; and this determined him finally to creep beneath it, for there was a point where the leaf curved high enough from the ground to admit him. He had just inserted his head in the opening and was taking stock of the high brown roof and was getting used to the cool brown light when two other people came past outside on the turf. This time they were both young, a young man and a young woman. They were both in the prime of youth, or even in that season which precedes the prime of youth, the season before the smooth pink folds of the flower have burst their gummy case, when the wings of the butterfly, though fully grown, are motionless in the sun.

“Lucky it isn’t Friday,” he observed.

“Why? D’you believe in luck?”

“They make you pay sixpence on Friday.”

“What’s sixpence anyway? Isn’t it worth sixpence?”

“What’s ‘it’— what do you mean by ‘it’?”

“O, anything — I mean — you know what I mean.”

Long pauses came between each of these remarks; they were uttered in toneless and monotonous voices. The couple stood still on the edge of the flower bed, and together pressed the end of her parasol deep down into the soft earth. The action and the fact that his hand rested on the top of hers expressed their feelings in a strange way, as these short insignificant words also expressed something, words with short wings for their heavy body of meaning, inadequate to carry them far and thus alighting awkwardly upon the very common objects that surrounded them, and were to their inexperienced touch so massive; but who knows (so they thought as they pressed the parasol into the earth) what precipices aren’t concealed in them, or what slopes of ice don’t shine in the sun on the other side? Who knows? Who has ever seen this before? Even when she wondered what sort of tea they gave you at Kew, he felt that something loomed up behind her words, and stood vast and solid behind them; and the mist very slowly rose and uncovered — O, Heavens, what were those shapes? — little white tables, and waitresses who looked first at her and then at him; and there was a bill that he would pay with a real two shilling piece, and it was real, all real, he assured himself, fingering the coin in his pocket, real to everyone except to him and to her; even to him it began to seem real; and then — but it was too exciting to stand and think any longer, and he pulled the parasol out of the earth with a jerk and was impatient to find the place where one had tea with other people, like other people.

“Come along, Trissie; it’s time we had our tea.”

“Wherever does one have one’s tea?” she asked with the oddest thrill of excitement in her voice, looking vaguely round and letting herself be drawn on down the grass path, trailing her parasol, turning her head this way and that way, forgetting her tea, wishing to go down there and then down there, remembering orchids and cranes among wild flowers, a Chinese pagoda and a crimson crested bird; but he bore her on.

Thus one couple after another with much the same irregular and aimless movement passed the flower-bed and were enveloped in layer after layer of green blue vapour, in which at first their bodies had substance and a dash of colour, but later both substance and colour dissolved in the green-blue atmosphere. How hot it was! So hot that even the thrush chose to hop, like a mechanical bird, in the shadow of the flowers, with long pauses between one movement and the next; instead of rambling vaguely the white butterflies danced one above another, making with their white shifting flakes the outline of a shattered marble column above the tallest flowers the glass roofs of the palm house shone as if a whole market full of shiny green umbrellas had opened in the sun; and in the drone of the aeroplane the voice of the summer sky murmured its fierce soul. Yellow and black, pink and snow white, shapes of all these colours, men, women, and children were spotted for a second upon the horizon, and then, seeing the breadth of yellow that lay upon the grass, they wavered and sought shade beneath the trees, dissolving like drops of water in the yellow and green atmosphere, staining it faintly with red and blue. It seemed as if all gross and heavy bodies had sunk down in the heat motionless and lay huddled upon the ground, but their voices went wavering from them as if they were flames lolling from the thick waxen bodies of candles. Voices. Yes, voices. Wordless voices, breaking the silence suddenly with such depth of contentment, such passion of desire, or, in the voices of children, such freshness of surprise; breaking the silence? But there was no silence; all the time the motor omnibuses were turning their wheels and changing their gear; like a vast nest of Chinese boxes all of wrought steel turning ceaselessly one within another the city murmured; on the top of which the voices cried aloud and the petals of myriads of flowers flashed their colours into the air.

Virginia_Woolf_sign11

Monday or Tuesday, by Virginia Woolf
7. Kew Gardens

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