Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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James Joyce
(1882-1941)
Counterparts
The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:
“Send Farrington here!”
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk:
“Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs.”
The man muttered “Blast him!” under his breath and pushed back his chair to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the office with a heavy step.
He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here he halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried:
“Come in!”
The man entered Mr. Alleyne’s room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a little man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head up over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not lose a moment:
“Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain of you? May I ask you why you haven’t made a copy of that contract between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o’clock.”
“But Mr. Shelley said, sir—-“
“Mr. Shelley said, sir …. Kindly attend to what I say and not to what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before this evening I’ll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie…. Do you hear me now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you hear me now?… Ay and another little matter! I might as well be talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many courses do you want, I’d like to know…. Do you mind me now?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a good night’s drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man’s presence till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:
“Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you take things easy!”
“I was waiting to see…”
“Very good, you needn’t wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work.”
The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.
He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be… The evening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.
“It’s all right, Mr. Shelley,” said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the objective of his journey.
The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd’s plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O’Neill’s shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:
“Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow.”
The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it.
Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come while he was out in O’Neill’s. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness.
“Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you,” said the chief clerk severely. “Where were you?”
The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.
“I know that game,” he said. “Five times in one day is a little bit… Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne.”
This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne’s room. Miss Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: “That’s all right: you can go.”
The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be… and thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged him…. Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he wouldn’t give an advance…. He knew where he would meet the boys: Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before him:
“I know nothing about any other two letters,” he said stupidly.
“You–know–nothing. Of course you know nothing,” said Mr. Alleyne. “Tell me,” he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, “do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?”
The man glanced from the lady’s face to the little egg-shaped head and back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment:
“I don’t think, sir,” he said, “that that’s a fair question to put to me.”
There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarf s passion. He shook his fist in the man’s face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:
“You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I’ll make short work of you! Wait till you see! You’ll apologise to me for your impertinence or you’ll quit the office instanter! You’ll quit this, I’m telling you, or you’ll apologise to me!”
He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleyne for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet’s nest the office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded little Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour’s rest; his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr. Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn’t….
He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in O’Neill’s. He could not touch him for more than a bob — and a bob was no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of Terry Kelly’s pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn’t he think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly’s said A crown! but the consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully, making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of tram- gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the curling fumes punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which he would narrate the incident to the boys:
“So, I just looked at him — coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I looked back at him again — taking my time, you know. ‘I don’t think that that’s a fair question to put to me,’ says I.”
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne’s and, when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. After a while O’Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was repeated to them. O’Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was in Callan’s of Fownes’s Street; but, as the retort was after the manner of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was not as clever as Farrington’s retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in Farrington’s face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, “And here was my nabs, as cool as you please,” while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause. O’Halloran had money but neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. The three men pushed past the whining matchsellers at the door and formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. O’Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. O’Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington wouldn’t go because he was a married man; and Farrington’s heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan’s in Poolbeg Street.
When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan’s. They went into the parlour at the back and O’Halloran ordered small hot specials all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington’s relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the Tivoli. Farrington’s eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of one of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after a little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said “O, pardon!” in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of his friends.
When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said “Go!” each was to try to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and determined.
The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his opponent’s hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington’s dark wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at having been defeated by such a stripling.
“You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair,” he said.
“Who’s not playing fair?” said the other.
“Come on again. The two best out of three.”
The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington’s forehead, and the pallor of Weathers’ complexion changed to peony. Their hands and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again brought his opponent’s hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid familiarity:
“Ah! that’s the knack!”
“What the hell do you know about it?” said Farrington fiercely, turning on the man. “What do you put in your gab for?”
“Sh, sh!” said O’Halloran, observing the violent expression of Farrington’s face. “Pony up, boys. We’ll have just one little smahan more and then we’ll be off.”
A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O’Connell Bridge waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.
His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning to his home. When he went in by the side- door he found the kitchen empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:
“Ada! Ada!”
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five children. A little boy came running down the stairs.
“Who is that?” said the man, peering through the darkness.
“Me, pa.”
“Who are you? Charlie?”
“No, pa. Tom.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She’s out at the chapel.”
“That’s right…. Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?”
“Yes, pa. I –“
“Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are the other children in bed?”
The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son’s flat accent, saying half to himself: “At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!” When the lamp was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:
“What’s for my dinner?”
“I’m going… to cook it, pa,” said the little boy.
The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire.
“On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I’ll teach you to do that again!”
He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was standing behind it.
“I’ll teach you to let the fire out!” he said, rolling up his sleeve in order to give his arm free play.
The little boy cried “O, pa!” and ran whimpering round the table, but the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees.
“Now, you’ll let the fire out the next time!” said the man striking at him vigorously with the stick. “Take that, you little whelp!”
The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped his hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright.
“O, pa!” he cried. “Don’t beat me, pa! And I’ll… I’ll say a Hail Mary for you…. I’ll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don’t beat me…. I’ll say a Hail Mary….”
James Joyce stories
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More in: Joyce, James, Joyce, James
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Märchen der Brüder Grimm
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)
Die drei Sprachen
In der Schweiz lebte einmal ein alter Graf, der hatte nur einen einzigen Sohn, aber er war dumm und konnte nichts lernen. Da sprach der Vater: “Höre, mein Sohn, ich bringe nichts in deinen Kopf, ich mag es anfangen, wie ich will. Du mußt fort von hier, ich will dich einem berühmten Meister übergeben. der soll es mit dir versuchen.” Der Junge ward in eine fremde Stadt geschickt, und blieb bei dem Meister ein ganzes Jahr. Nach Verlauf dieser Zeit kam er wieder heim, und der Vater fragte: “Nun mein Sohn, was hast du gelernt?” – “Vater, ich habe gelernt, was die Hunde bellen,” antwortete er. “Daß Gott erbarm!” rief der Vater aus, “ist das alles, was du gelernt hast? ich will dich in eine andere Stadt zu einem andern Meister tun.”
Der Junge ward hingebracht, und blieb bei diesem Meister auch ein Jahr. Als er zurückkam, fragte der Vater wiederum: “Mein Sohn, was hast du gelernt?” Er antwortete: “Vater, ich habe gelernt, was die Vögli sprechen.” Da geriet der Vater in Zorn und sprach: “O, du verlorner Mensch, hast die kostbare Zeit hingebracht und nichts gelernt, und schämst dich nicht, mir unter die Augen zu treten? Ich will dich zu einem dritten Meister schicken, aber lernst du auch diesmal nichts, so will ich dein Vater nicht mehr sein.” Der Sohn blieb bei dem dritten Meister ebenfalls ein ganzes Jahr, und als er wieder nach Haus kam und der Vater fragte: “Mein Sohn, was hast du gelernt?” so antwortete er: “Lieber Vater, ich habe dieses Jahr gelernt, was die Frösche quaken.” Da geriet der Vater in den höchsten Zorn, sprang auf, rief seine Leute herbei und sprach:“Dieser Mensch ist mein Sohn nicht mehr, ich stoße ihn aus und gebiete euch, daß ihr ihn hinaus in den Wald führt und ihm das Leben nehmt.” Sie führten ihn hinaus, aber als sie ihn töten sollten, konnten sie nicht vor Mitleiden und ließen ihn gehen. Sie schnitten einem Reh Augen und Zunge aus, damit sie dem Alten die Wahrzeichen bringen konnten.
Der Jüngling wanderte fort und kam nach einiger Zeit zu einer Burg, wo er um Nachtherberge bat. “Ja,” sagte der Burgherr, “wenn du da unten in dem alten Turm übernachten willst, so gehe hin, aber ich warne dich, es ist lebensgefährlich, denn er ist voll wilder Hunde, die bellen und heulen in einem fort, und zu gewissen Stunden müssen sie einen Menschen ausgeliefert haben, den sie auch gleich verzehren.” Die ganze Gegend war darüber in Trauer und Leid, und konnte doch niemand helfen. Der Jüngling aber war ohne Furcht und sprach: “Laßt mich nur hinab zu den bellenden Hunden, und gebt mir etwas, das ich ihnen vorwerfen kann; mir sollen sie nichts tun.” Weil er nun selber nicht anders wollte, so gaben sie ihm etwas Essen für die wilden Tiere und brachten ihn hinab zu dem Turm. Als er hineintrat, bellten ihn die Hunde nicht an, wedelten mit den Schwänzen ganz freundlich um ihn herum, fraßen, was er ihnen hinsetzte, und krümmten ihm kein Härchen. Am andern Morgen kam er zu jedermanns Erstaunen gesund und unversehrt wieder zum Vorschein und sagte zu dem Burgherrn: “Die Hunde haben mir in ihrer Sprache offenbart, warum sie da hausen und dem Lande Schaden bringen. Sie sind verwünscht und müssen einen großen Schatz hüten, der unten im Turme liegt, und kommen nicht eher zur Ruhe, als bis er gehoben ist, und wie dies geschehen muß, das habe ich ebenfalls aus ihren Reden vernommen.” Da freuten sich alle, die das hörten, und der Burgherr sagte, er wollte ihn an Sohnes Statt annehmen, wenn er es glücklich vollbrächte. Er stieg wieder hinab, und weil er wußte, was er zu tun hatte, so vollführte er es und brachte eine mit Gold gefüllte Truhe herauf. Das Geheul der wilden Hunde ward von nun an nicht mehr gehört, sie waren verschwunden, und das Land war von der Plage befreit.
Über eine Zeit kam es ihm in den Sinn, er wollte nach Rom fahren. Auf dem Weg kam er an einem Sumpf vorbei, in welchem Frösche saßen und quakten. Er horchte auf, und als er vernahm, was sie sprachen, ward er ganz nachdenklich und traurig. Endlich langte er in Rom an, da war gerade der Papst gestorben, und unter den Kardinälen großer Zweifel, wen sie zum Nachfolger bestimmen sollten. Sie wurden zuletzt einig, derjenige sollte zum Papst erwählt werden, an dem sich ein göttliches Wunderzeichen offenbaren würde. Und als das eben beschlossen war, in demselben Augenblick trat der junge Graf in die Kirche, und plötzlich flogen zwei schneeweiße Tauben auf seine beiden Schultern und blieben da sitzen. Die Geistlichkeit erkannte darin das Zeichen Gottes und fragte ihn auf der Stelle, ob er Papst werden wolle. Er war unschlüssig und wußte nicht, ob er dessen würdig wäre, aber die Tauben redeten ihm zu, daß er es tun möchte, und endlich sagte er “Ja.” Da wurde er gesalbt und geweiht, und damit war eingetroffen, was er von den Fröschen unterwegs gehört und was ihn so bestürzt gemacht hatte, daß er der heilige Papst werden sollte. Darauf mußte er eine Messe singen und wußte kein Wort davon, aber die zwei Tauben saßen stets auf seinen Schultern und sagten ihm alles ins Ohr.
ENDE
Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
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Jack London
(1876-1916)
The Water Baby
I lent a weary ear to old Kohokumu’s interminable chanting of the
deeds and adventures of Maui, the Promethean demi-god of Polynesia
who fished up dry land from ocean depths with hooks made fast to
heaven, who lifted up the sky whereunder previously men had gone on
all-fours, not having space to stand erect, and who made the sun
with its sixteen snared legs stand still and agree thereafter to
traverse the sky more slowly–the sun being evidently a trade
unionist and believing in the six-hour day, while Maui stood for
the open shop and the twelve-hour day.
“Now this,” said Kohokumu, “is from Queen Lililuokalani’s own
family mele:
“Maui became restless and fought the sun
With a noose that he laid.
And winter won the sun,
And summer was won by Maui . . . “
Born in the Islands myself, I knew the Hawaiian myths better than
this old fisherman, although I possessed not his memorization that
enabled him to recite them endless hours.
“And you believe all this?” I demanded in the sweet Hawaiian
tongue.
“It was a long time ago,” he pondered. “I never saw Maui with my
own eyes. But all our old men from all the way back tell us these
things, as I, an old man, tell them to my sons and grandsons, who
will tell them to their sons and grandsons all the way ahead to
come.”
“You believe,” I persisted, “that whopper of Maui roping the sun
like a wild steer, and that other whopper of heaving up the sky
from off the earth?”
“I am of little worth, and am not wise, O Lakana,” my fisherman
made answer. “Yet have I read the Hawaiian Bible the missionaries
translated to us, and there have I read that your Big Man of the
Beginning made the earth, and sky, and sun, and moon, and stars,
and all manner of animals from horses to cockroaches and from
centipedes and mosquitoes to sea lice and jellyfish, and man and
woman, and everything, and all in six days. Why, Maui didn’t do
anything like that much. He didn’t make anything. He just put
things in order, that was all, and it took him a long, long time to
make the improvements. And anyway, it is much easier and more
reasonable to believe the little whopper than the big whopper.”
And what could I reply? He had me on the matter of reasonableness.
Besides, my head ached. And the funny thing, as I admitted it to
myself, was that evolution teaches in no uncertain voice that man
did run on all-fours ere he came to walk upright, that astronomy
states flatly that the speed of the revolution of the earth on its
axis has diminished steadily, thus increasing the length of day,
and that the seismologists accept that all the islands of Hawaii
were elevated from the ocean floor by volcanic action.
Fortunately, I saw a bamboo pole, floating on the surface several
hundred feet away, suddenly up-end and start a very devil’s dance.
This was a diversion from the profitless discussion, and Kohokumu
and I dipped our paddles and raced the little outrigger canoe to
the dancing pole. Kohokumu caught the line that was fast to the
butt of the pole and under-handed it in until a two-foot ukikiki,
battling fiercely to the end, flashed its wet silver in the sun and
began beating a tattoo on the inside bottom of the canoe. Kohokumu
picked up a squirming, slimy squid, with his teeth bit a chunk of
live bait out of it, attached the bait to the hook, and dropped
line and sinker overside. The stick floated flat on the surface of
the water, and the canoe drifted slowly away. With a survey of the
crescent composed of a score of such sticks all lying flat,
Kohokumu wiped his hands on his naked sides and lifted the
wearisome and centuries-old chant of Kuali:
“Oh, the great fish-hook of Maui!
Manai-i-ka-lani–“made fast to the heavens”!
An earth-twisted cord ties the hook,
Engulfed from lofty Kauiki!
Its bait the red-billed Alae,
The bird to Hina sacred!
It sinks far down to Hawaii,
Struggling and in pain dying!
Caught is the land beneath the water,
Floated up, up to the surface,
But Hina hid a wing of the bird
And broke the land beneath the water!
Below was the bait snatched away
And eaten at once by the fishes,
The Ulua of the deep muddy places!
His aged voice was hoarse and scratchy from the drinking of too
much swipes at a funeral the night before, nothing of which
contributed to make me less irritable. My head ached. The sun-
glare on the water made my eyes ache, while I was suffering more
than half a touch of mal de mer from the antic conduct of the
outrigger on the blobby sea. The air was stagnant. In the lee of
Waihee, between the white beach and the roof, no whisper of breeze
eased the still sultriness. I really think I was too miserable to
summon the resolution to give up the fishing and go in to shore.
Lying back with closed eyes, I lost count of time. I even forgot
that Kohokumu was chanting till reminded of it by his ceasing. An
exclamation made me bare my eyes to the stab of the sun. He was
gazing down through the water-glass.
“It’s a big one,” he said, passing me the device and slipping over-
side feet-first into the water.
He went under without splash and ripple, turned over and swam down.
I followed his progress through the water-glass, which is merely an
oblong box a couple of feet long, open at the top, the bottom
sealed water-tight with a sheet of ordinary glass.
Now Kohokumu was a bore, and I was squeamishly out of sorts with
him for his volubleness, but I could not help admiring him as I
watched him go down. Past seventy years of age, lean as a
toothpick, and shrivelled like a mummy, he was doing what few young
athletes of my race would do or could do. It was forty feet to
bottom. There, partly exposed, but mostly hidden under the bulge
of a coral lump, I could discern his objective. His keen eyes had
caught the projecting tentacle of a squid. Even as he swam, the
tentacle was lazily withdrawn, so that there was no sign of the
creature. But the brief exposure of the portion of one tentacle
had advertised its owner as a squid of size.
The pressure at a depth of forty feet is no joke for a young man,
yet it did not seem to inconvenience this oldster. I am certain it
never crossed his mind to be inconvenienced. Unarmed, bare of body
save for a brief malo or loin cloth, he was undeterred by the
formidable creature that constituted his prey. I saw him steady
himself with his right hand on the coral lump, and thrust his left
arm into the hole to the shoulder. Half a minute elapsed, during
which time he seemed to be groping and rooting around with his left
hand. Then tentacle after tentacle, myriad-suckered and wildly
waving, emerged. Laying hold of his arm, they writhed and coiled
about his flesh like so many snakes. With a heave and a jerk
appeared the entire squid, a proper devil-fish or octopus.
But the old man was in no hurry for his natural element, the air
above the water. There, forty feet beneath, wrapped about by an
octopus that measured nine feet across from tentacle-tip to
tentacle-tip and that could well drown the stoutest swimmer, he
coolly and casually did the one thing that gave to him and his
empery over the monster. He shoved his lean, hawk-like face into
the very centre of the slimy, squirming mass, and with his several
ancient fangs bit into the heart and the life of the matter. This
accomplished, he came upward, slowly, as a swimmer should who is
changing atmospheres from the depths. Alongside the canoe, still
in the water and peeling off the grisly clinging thing, the
incorrigible old sinner burst into the pule of triumph which had
been chanted by the countless squid-catching generations before
him:
“O Kanaloa of the taboo nights!
Stand upright on the solid floor!
Stand upon the floor where lies the squid!
Stand up to take the squid of the deep sea!
Rise up, O Kanaloa!
Stir up! Stir up! Let the squid awake!
Let the squid that lies flat awake! Let the squid that lies spread
out . . . “
I closed my eyes and ears, not offering to lend him a hand, secure
in the knowledge that he could climb back unaided into the unstable
craft without the slightest risk of upsetting it.
“A very fine squid,” he crooned. “It is a wahine” (female) “squid.
I shall now sing to you the song of the cowrie shell, the red
cowrie shell that we used as a bait for the squid–“
“You were disgraceful last night at the funeral,” I headed him off.
“I heard all about it. You made much noise. You sang till
everybody was deaf. You insulted the son of the widow. You drank
swipes like a pig. Swipes are not good for your extreme age. Some
day you will wake up dead. You ought to be a wreck to-day–“
“Ha!” he chuckled. “And you, who drank no swipes, who was a babe
unborn when I was already an old man, who went to bed last night
with the sun and the chickens–this day are you a wreck. Explain
me that. My ears are as thirsty to listen as was my throat thirsty
last night. And here to-day, behold, I am, as that Englishman who
came here in his yacht used to say, I am in fine form, in devilish
fine form.”
“I give you up,” I retorted, shrugging my shoulders. “Only one
thing is clear, and that is that the devil doesn’t want you.
Report of your singing has gone before you.”
“No,” he pondered the idea carefully. “It is not that. The devil
will be glad for my coming, for I have some very fine songs for
him, and scandals and old gossips of the high aliis that will make
him scratch his sides. So, let me explain to you the secret of my
birth. The Sea is my mother. I was born in a double-canoe, during
a Kona gale, in the channel of Kahoolawe. From her, the Sea, my
mother, I received my strength. Whenever I return to her arms, as
for a breast-clasp, as I have returned this day, I grow strong
again and immediately. She, to me, is the milk-giver, the life-
source–“
“Shades of Antaeus!” thought I.
“Some day,” old Kohokumu rambled on, “when I am really old, I shall
be reported of men as drowned in the sea. This will be an idle
thought of men. In truth, I shall have returned into the arms of
my mother, there to rest under the heart of her breast until the
second birth of me, when I shall emerge into the sun a flashing
youth of splendour like Maui himself when he was golden young.”
“A queer religion,” I commented.
“When I was younger I muddled my poor head over queerer religions,”
old Kohokumu retorted. “But listen, O Young Wise One, to my
elderly wisdom. This I know: as I grow old I seek less for the
truth from without me, and find more of the truth from within me.
Why have I thought this thought of my return to my mother and of my
rebirth from my mother into the sun? You do not know. I do not
know, save that, without whisper of man’s voice or printed word,
without prompting from otherwhere, this thought has arisen from
within me, from the deeps of me that are as deep as the sea. I am
not a god. I do not make things. Therefore I have not made this
thought. I do not know its father or its mother. It is of old
time before me, and therefore it is true. Man does not make truth.
Man, if he be not blind, only recognizes truth when he sees it. Is
this thought that I have thought a dream?”
“Perhaps it is you that are a dream,” I laughed. “And that I, and
sky, and sea, and the iron-hard land, are dreams, all dreams.”
“I have often thought that,” he assured me soberly. “It may well
be so. Last night I dreamed I was a lark bird, a beautiful singing
lark of the sky like the larks on the upland pastures of Haleakala.
And I flew up, up, toward the sun, singing, singing, as old
Kohokumu never sang. I tell you now that I dreamed I was a lark
bird singing in the sky. But may not I, the real I, be the lark
bird? And may not the telling of it be the dream that I, the lark
bird, am dreaming now? Who are you to tell me ay or no? Dare you
tell me I am not a lark bird asleep and dreaming that I am old
Kohokumu?”
I shrugged my shoulders, and he continued triumphantly:
“And how do you know but what you are old Maui himself asleep and
dreaming that you are John Lakana talking with me in a canoe? And
may you not awake old Maui yourself, and scratch your sides and say
that you had a funny dream in which you dreamed you were a haole?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Besides, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“There is much more in dreams than we know,” he assured me with
great solemnity. “Dreams go deep, all the way down, maybe to
before the beginning. May not old Maui have only dreamed he pulled
Hawaii up from the bottom of the sea? Then would this Hawaii land
be a dream, and you, and I, and the squid there, only parts of
Maui’s dream? And the lark bird too?”
He sighed and let his head sink on his breast.
“And I worry my old head about the secrets undiscoverable,” he
resumed, “until I grow tired and want to forget, and so I drink
swipes, and go fishing, and sing old songs, and dream I am a lark
bird singing in the sky. I like that best of all, and often I
dream it when I have drunk much swipes . . . “
In great dejection of mood he peered down into the lagoon through
the water-glass.
“There will be no more bites for a while,” he announced. “The
fish-sharks are prowling around, and we shall have to wait until
they are gone. And so that the time shall not be heavy, I will
sing you the canoe-hauling song to Lono. You remember:
“Give to me the trunk of the tree, O Lono!
Give me the tree’s main root, O Lono!
Give me the ear of the tree, O Lono!–“
“For the love of mercy, don’t sing!” I cut him short. “I’ve got a
headache, and your singing hurts. You may be in devilish fine form
to-day, but your throat is rotten. I’d rather you talked about
dreams, or told me whoppers.”
“It is too bad that you are sick, and you so young,” he conceded
cheerily. “And I shall not sing any more. I shall tell you
something you do not know and have never heard; something that is
no dream and no whopper, but is what I know to have happened. Not
very long ago there lived here, on the beach beside this very
lagoon, a young boy whose name was Keikiwai, which, as you know,
means Water Baby. He was truly a water baby. His gods were the
sea and fish gods, and he was born with knowledge of the language
of fishes, which the fishes did not know until the sharks found it
out one day when they heard him talk it.
“It happened this way. The word had been brought, and the
commands, by swift runners, that the king was making a progress
around the island, and that on the next day a luau” (feast) “was to
be served him by the dwellers here of Waihee. It was always a
hardship, when the king made a progress, for the few dwellers in
small places to fill his many stomachs with food. For he came
always with his wife and her women, with his priests and sorcerers,
his dancers and flute-players, and hula-singers, and fighting men
and servants, and his high chiefs with their wives, and sorcerers,
and fighting men, and servants.
“Sometimes, in small places like Waihee, the path of his journey
was marked afterward by leanness and famine. But a king must be
fed, and it is not good to anger a king. So, like warning in
advance of disaster, Waihee heard of his coming, and all food-
getters of field and pond and mountain and sea were busied with
getting food for the feast. And behold, everything was got, from
the choicest of royal taro to sugar-cane joints for the roasting,
from opihis to limu, from fowl to wild pig and poi-fed puppies–
everything save one thing. The fishermen failed to get lobsters.
“Now be it known that the king’s favourite food was lobster. He
esteemed it above all kai-kai” (food), “and his runners had made
special mention of it. And there were no lobsters, and it is not
good to anger a king in the belly of him. Too many sharks had come
inside the reef. That was the trouble. A young girl and an old
man had been eaten by them. And of the young men who dared dive
for lobsters, one was eaten, and one lost an arm, and another lost
one hand and one foot.
“But there was Keikiwai, the Water Baby, only eleven years old, but
half fish himself and talking the language of fishes. To his
father the head men came, begging him to send the Water Baby to get
lobsters to fill the king’s belly and divert his anger.
“Now this what happened was known and observed. For the fishermen,
and their women, and the taro-growers and the bird-catchers, and
the head men, and all Waihee, came down and stood back from the
edge of the rock where the Water Baby stood and looked down at the
lobsters far beneath on the bottom.
“And a shark, looking up with its cat’s eyes, observed him, and
sent out the shark-call of ‘fresh meat’ to assemble all the sharks
in the lagoon. For the sharks work thus together, which is why
they are strong. And the sharks answered the call till there were
forty of them, long ones and short ones and lean ones and round
ones, forty of them by count; and they talked to one another,
saying: ‘Look at that titbit of a child, that morsel delicious of
human-flesh sweetness without the salt of the sea in it, of which
salt we have too much, savoury and good to eat, melting to delight
under our hearts as our bellies embrace it and extract from it its
sweet.’
“Much more they said, saying: ‘He has come for the lobsters. When
he dives in he is for one of us. Not like the old man we ate
yesterday, tough to dryness with age, nor like the young men whose
members were too hard-muscled, but tender, so tender that he will
melt in our gullets ere our bellies receive him. When he dives in,
we will all rush for him, and the lucky one of us will get him,
and, gulp, he will be gone, one bite and one swallow, into the
belly of the luckiest one of us.’
“And Keikiwai, the Water Baby, heard the conspiracy, knowing the
shark language; and he addressed a prayer, in the shark language,
to the shark god Moku-halii, and the sharks heard and waved their
tails to one another and winked their cat’s eyes in token that they
understood his talk. And then he said: ‘I shall now dive for a
lobster for the king. And no hurt shall befall me, because the
shark with the shortest tail is my friend and will protect me.
“And, so saying, he picked up a chunk of lava-rock and tossed it
into the water, with a big splash, twenty feet to one side. The
forty sharks rushed for the splash, while he dived, and by the time
they discovered they had missed him, he had gone to bottom and come
back and climbed out, within his hand a fat lobster, a wahine
lobster, full of eggs, for the king.
“‘Ha!’ said the sharks, very angry. ‘There is among us a traitor.
The titbit of a child, the morsel of sweetness, has spoken, and has
exposed the one among us who has saved him. Let us now measure the
lengths of our tails!
“Which they did, in a long row, side by side, the shorter-tailed
ones cheating and stretching to gain length on themselves, the
longer-tailed ones cheating and stretching in order not to be out-
cheated and out-stretched. They were very angry with the one with
the shortest tail, and him they rushed upon from every side and
devoured till nothing was left of him.
“Again they listened while they waited for the Water Baby to dive
in. And again the Water Baby made his prayer in the shark language
to Moku-halii, and said: ‘The shark with the shortest tail is my
friend and will protect me.’ And again the Water Baby tossed in a
chunk of lava, this time twenty feet away off to the other side.
The sharks rushed for the splash, and in their haste ran into one
another, and splashed with their tails till the water was all foam,
and they could see nothing, each thinking some other was swallowing
the titbit. And the Water Baby came up and climbed out with
another fat lobster for the king.
“And the thirty-nine sharks measured tails, devoting the one with
the shortest tail, so that there were only thirty-eight sharks.
And the Water Baby continued to do what I have said, and the sharks
to do what I have told you, while for each shark that was eaten by
his brothers there was another fat lobster laid on the rock for the
king. Of course, there was much quarrelling and argument among the
sharks when it came to measuring tails; but in the end it worked
out in rightness and justice, for, when only two sharks were left,
they were the two biggest of the original forty.
“And the Water Baby again claimed the shark with the shortest tail
was his friend, fooled the two sharks with another lava-chunk, and
brought up another lobster. The two sharks each claimed the other
had the shorter tail, and each fought to eat the other, and the one
with the longer tail won–“
“Hold, O Kohokumu!” I interrupted. “Remember that that shark had
already–“
“I know just what you are going to say,” he snatched his recital
back from me. “And you are right. It took him so long to eat the
thirty-ninth shark, for inside the thirty-ninth shark were already
the nineteen other sharks he had eaten, and inside the fortieth
shark were already the nineteen other sharks he had eaten, and he
did not have the appetite he had started with. But do not forget
he was a very big shark to begin with.
“It took him so long to eat the other shark, and the nineteen
sharks inside the other shark, that he was still eating when
darkness fell, and the people of Waihee went away home with all the
lobsters for the king. And didn’t they find the last shark on the
beach next morning dead, and burst wide open with all he had
eaten?”
Kohokumu fetched a full stop and held my eyes with his own shrewd
ones.
“Hold, O Lakana!” he checked the speech that rushed to my tongue.
“I know what next you would say. You would say that with my own
eyes I did not see this, and therefore that I do not know what I
have been telling you. But I do know, and I can prove it. My
father’s father knew the grandson of the Water Baby’s father’s
uncle. Also, there, on the rocky point to which I point my finger
now, is where the Water Baby stood and dived. I have dived for
lobsters there myself. It is a great place for lobsters. Also,
and often, have I seen sharks there. And there, on the bottom, as
I should know, for I have seen and counted them, are the thirty-
nine lava-rocks thrown in by the Water Baby as I have described.”
“But–” I began.
“Ha!” he baffled me. “Look! While we have talked the fish have
begun again to bite.”
He pointed to three of the bamboo poles erect and devil-dancing in
token that fish were hooked and struggling on the lines beneath.
As he bent to his paddle, he muttered, for my benefit:
“Of course I know. The thirty-nine lava rocks are still there.
You can count them any day for yourself. Of course I know, and I
know for a fact.”
GLEN ELLEN.
October 2, 1916.
From Jack London: ON THE MAKALOA MAT/ISLAND TALES
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive K-L, London, Jack
Esther Porcelijn
Berlijn
Goed, voordat het 11 januari is en de nieuwjaarswensvermoeidheid toeslaat (11 januari is dan het magische getal, volgens mijn moeder), zal ik ook even mededelen waar ik ben geweest met oud en nieuw: In Berlijn.
Mijn Amsterdamse vrienden gapen zich rot als ze dit horen: “Berlijn ja? O, echt zoo 2011, iedereen is al in Berlijn geweest, en iedereen gaat altijd met oud en nieuw naar Berlijn.”
Het is waar, er waren veel Nederlanders in Berlijn en ik wist dat er ook kennissen in Berlijn zouden zijn. Dus, inderdaad, origineel is het niet. Maar het is wel ontzettend terecht om daar te zijn met oud en nieuw en eigenlijk altijd wel, Berlijn is namelijk waanzinnig!
De mensen zijn er open en vriendelijk en er zijn veel kunstenaars die ook daadwerkelijk leuke avonden organiseren en galeries in verlaten gebouwen openen. Er zijn heel veel feestjes en die worden vooral georganiseerd in clubs in industriële oude gebouwen. Zo gingen wij naar een feest dat plaatsvond in een oud zwembad, alle gangen en ketels waren paars of groen verlicht en er waren hele hallen met knoppen en wieltjes waar je aan kan draaien en de DJ draaide er minimal music of techno. De feestgangers staan er wel allemaal als autisten bij; hoofd richting de DJ en introvert minimalistisch aan het dansen, niemand danst er ‘samen’.
De drank is er goedkoop en ze hebben er wodka bij de Lidl. De metro rijdt er in het weekend de hele nacht en alles in Berlijn is hierdoor heel goed en snel bereikbaar. Je kan er betaalbaar wonen in prachtige grote appartementen die voornamelijk gedeeld worden als in een studentenhuis. De bewoners van die appartementen geven ook weer veel feesten waarbij het hele complex de deuren open stelt of anders wel hun kelder. De eerste studie daar is spotgoedkoop en studeren levert ook daar veel voordelen op met kortingen voor musea en zelfs verzekeringen.
En overal zijn leuke markten met tweedehands meubels en kleding, overal zijn antiekwinkeltjes en antiquariaten. Het enige nadeel als inwoner van Berlijn is dat ze in Duitsland geen minimumloon hanteren, sommige studenten werken er echt voor een peulenschil en zijn ook onverzekerd.
Met oud en nieuw zijn mijn vriendje en een vriend wel geslagen op straat. In Berlijn houden ze enorm van knallende rotjes en knallende vuurpijlen. Door de straten vliegen ze je om de oren en tegen de ramen en in de bomen, nog veel meer dan in Nederland. Wij probeerden ons hier een weg door te banen en toen mijn vriendje en de vriend achter ons liepen om naar een feestje te gaan, staken zij een rotje af en werden op hun bek geslagen. De vriend heeft toen een volle tas met drankflessen tegen het hoofd van de aanvaller gesmeten. Ik liep terug om ze te halen en zag hun bebloede hoofden met beurse ogen. Het gaat nu prima met ze, wat ijs tegen hun blauwe ogen hielp goed.
Verder is het dus geweldig in Berlijn, een aanrader voor iedereen.
En als je over de universiteitsterreinen loopt dan voel je een anarchistische sfeer die in Tilburg ver te zoeken is. Niks geen kale betonnen gebouwen en posters van zakensymposia maar druk discussiërende mensen en overal posters van debatten en lezingen, feesten en bijeenkomsten en dan met muziek die wel even iets verder gaat dan meatloaf of de top40. Ik wil niet als een oud wijf klinken maar onze Uni is echt heel heel braaf vergeleken met die in Duitsland.
Ik zou jullie allemaal naar Berlijn willen meenemen volgend oud en nieuw, maar jullie zijn er vast al heel vaak geweest en kennen de bruisende kunstzinnige vrije sfeer daar waarschijnlijk al door en door.
Happy New Year.
Esther Porcelijn in Univers Blog
photo jefvankempen
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Märchen der Brüder Grimm
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) & Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859)
Das Totenhemdchen
Es hatte eine Mutter ein Büblein von sieben Jahren, das war so schön und lieblich, daß es niemand ansehen konnte, ohne mit ihm gut zu sein, und sie hatte es auch lieber als alles auf der Welt. Nun geschah es, daß es plötzlich krank ward, und der liebe Gott es zu sich nahm; darüber konnte sich die Mutter nicht trösten und weinte Tag und Nacht. Bald darauf aber, nachdem es begraben war, zeigte sich das Kind nachts an den Plätzen, wo es sonst im Leben gesessen und gespielt hatte; weinte die Mutter, so weinte es auch, und wenn der Morgen kam, war es verschwunden. Als aber die Mutter gar nicht aufhören wollte zu weinen, kam es in einer Nacht mit seinem weißen Totenhemdchen, in welchem es in den Sarg gelegt war, und mit dem Kränzchen auf dem Kopf, setzte sich zu ihren Füßen auf das Bett und sprach ‘ach Mutter, höre doch auf zu weinen, sonst kann ich in meinem Sarge nicht einschlafen, denn mein Totenhemdchen wird nicht trocken von deinen Tränen, die alle darauf fallen.’ Da erschrak die Mutter, als sie das hörte, und weinte nicht mehr. Und in der andern Nacht kam das Kindchen wieder, hielt in der Hand ein Lichtchen und sagte ‘siehst du, nun ist mein Hemdchen bald trocken, und ich habe Ruhe in meinem Grab.’ Da befahl die Mutter dem lieben Gott ihr Leid und ertrug es still und geduldig, und das Kind kam nicht wieder, sondern schlief in seinem unterirdischen Bettchen.
ENDE
Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Grimm, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories, Grimm, Jacob & Wilhelm
Esther Porcelijn
WZDOJ?
In de trein.
Twee dames voor mij bespreken hun zorgen: “..Dus ík zeg tegen haar, je moet je kind juíst even laten huilen, anders raakt ze te gewend aan haar moeder die bij elke kik op haar afrent. Kinderen kunnen met je sollen hoor. Nou, wat ik tóen toch over mij heen kreeg! Dus ik zeg, kijk, het is maar míjn mening hoor. Ik denk dus, even tussen ons, dat ze echt overbezorgd is. Komt door de band met haar eigen moeder enzo.”
De andere vrouw antwoordt: “Maar, dan denk ik toch, waarom voel jij de behoefte om haar iets te vertellen over haar kind? Wat zegt dat over jou en jouw band met je moeder? Ik vraag het mij gewoon af hè, mijn mening.”
Ergens tussen de weilanden en de vrouwen vraag ik mij af of het waar is dat wat jij vindt van anderen en de wereld, meer zegt over jezelf dan over die wereld of die anderen.
Zou het?
Zou het zo zijn dat de tuttigheid waarin ik die vrouwen neerpen iets zegt over mij? Ben ik tuttig? Of juist bang voor tuttigheid? Moet ik daar dan iets aan doen?
Hoe wij kijken, waar onze aandacht naartoe gaat, zegt wellicht iets over onze interesses. En, filosofisch gezien, is er wat voor te zeggen dat wij zelfs alles wat wij zien/proeven/voelen, en waar wij een begrip van vormen, meer zegt over ons kenapparaat en onze hersens dan dat wij werkelijk alles waarnemen als exact beeld van de werkelijkheid. Wij kunnen bijvoorbeeld geen tijd waarnemen, maar wel verandering. Het feit dat we een concept vormen van tijd zegt iets over ons interne systeem (dat concepten op waarnemingen plakt), maar weinig over de ‘echte’ werkelijkheid.
Zou kunnen.
Maar, als je dit doortrekt dan is al onze beleving een gevolg van dit interne systeem. Al is het niet zo dat een Kantiaan je ooit, als je huilt om een zielige dierenreclame, zal beschuldigen van het bezitten van een eigenaardige verstandscategorie (interne concepten).
Het gaat hier dus niet om filosofie maar om psychologie.
Let op: De grond is hier ijskoud!
Mensen die deze: “Wat Zegt Het Over Jou”-methode toepassen bedoelen meestal dat het aanwijzen van een probleem met een ander mens, of fenomeen, in het leven iets zegt over jouw eigen angsten en problemen en dat heftige reacties op bepaald gedrag vaak wijzen op het feit dat je zelf misschien bang bent dat je zulk gedrag vertoont. Dat je iets stiekem herkent, of indirect reageert op een ander iemand uit je verleden (vader, moeder, opa). Dat je dit conflict van vroeger, dit trauma, projecteert op de persoon of het fenomeen in het heden.
‘Projectie’ is een woord wat heel veel gebruikt wordt in dit soort gesprekken. De mensen die deze WZDOJ-methode veel toepassen hebben namelijk allemaal een abonnement op het Psychologie Magazine.
Een paar voorbeelden:
Stel, je haat katten.
Vroeg of laat zal iemand vragen waarom je katten haat.
Je antwoordt dat je niet houdt van haren op je kleren en dat je hun scherpe nagels naar vindt.
De gesprekspartner zal dan vragen of er ooit iets in je leven is gebeurd (bij voorkeur in de jeugd) waardoor je nu deze gevoelens ervaart.
Dit geval is nog te doen want, inderdaad, je opa had een valse kat. Zelfs als je niet weet waarom je katten niet mag vind je het nog geen extreem domme vraag.
Dan, valt je bij het eten met vrienden in een restaurant op dat de ober heel gehaast is en amper aandacht aan je besteedt. Hij zegt niet eens ‘tot ziens’ nadat je de rekening hebt betaald.
Je vindt dit onbeleefd en klaagt erover bij je vrienden. Een vriend merkt op dat het restaurant erg vol was en dat de ober misschien met zijn handen in het haar zat door het harde werken. De vriend vindt dat jij het gedrag te snel als onbeleefd hebt afgedaan. Jij antwoordt dat je toch betaalt in een restaurant voor het eten en dat de aandacht van het personeel daarbij hoort. De vriend zegt nu dat de aandacht nu eenmaal niet altijd naar jou gericht kan zijn en hij vraagt zich af wat dit over jou zegt dat jij deze behoefte wel schijnt te hebben.
Dit laatste voorbeeld is meer een interpretatie en inlevingskwestie. Die vriend leeft zich in, jij niet. Dan nog is het zeer vervelend dat die vriend de bal naar jou kaatst en vraagt wat dit over jou zegt. Je vraagt je toch af waarom hij dit zou vragen, een ober hoort toch beleefd te zijn?
Nu, je bent zo iemand die weinig warme gevoeld koestert ten opzichte van het huwelijk.
Een vriendin van je gaat trouwen en, ondanks dat je blij bent voor haar, begrijp je werkelijk niets van die keuze, waarom zou iemand in deze tijd nog trouwen?
Je deelt je twijfels over de idee huwelijk met je vrienden en een vriendin merkt op dat dit wellicht iets over jou zou kunnen zeggen. “Ben jij zelf bang voor een commitment”, vraagt ze. Je zegt dat je denkt van niet, dat je gewoon niet snapt dat twee mensen zo’n ouderwetse afspraak nodig hebben om hun liefde te bevestigen. Je vriendin begint uiteraard weer te morren en zegt: “Klinkt toch als een indirecte vorm van bindingsangst hoor!”
Bij dit laatste voorbeeld is het zo vervelend als iemand deze methode toepast omdat je dus het hele inhoudelijke gesprek niet meer kan voeren. Je staat schaakmat. Wat je nu ook zegt, het zal allemaal een bevestiging zijn van haar vermoedens en diagnose: Bindingsangst. Zal wel.
Dan heb je nog de allerergste vorm: Het soort mensen dat minstens 5 jaar een abonnement heeft lopen op het Psychologie Magazine en de drang niet kan weerstaan om, als iemand anders in de ruimte de WZDOJ-methode heeft uitgekraamd, zelf nog even extra toegepast zegt: “Maar, wat zegt dit over jou dat jij zo begint over de achterliggende redenen van iemands gedrag?”
De opmerking lijkt scherp maar wordt jammer genoeg altijd net iets te schertsend gebracht, met een blik waaruit blijkt dat deze persoon zichzelf zeer opmerkzaam vindt, waardoor het heel naar wordt. Daarbij is het hier een retorisch trucje.
Laatst was ik op een feest en mijn vriendje had een enorme mep op zijn hoofd gekregen. Hij moest naar huis want hij knoeide bloed over de dansvloer.
Ik ging, ondanks dat ik nog wel zin had om te dansen, met hem mee naar huis.
Om afscheid te nemen van twee vriendinnen ging ik terug de dansvloer op. Ik riep dat ik naar huis ging. “Wat? Nu al??” vroeg de ene. Ik zei dat ik met mijn vriendje echt naar huis moest. “Oja!”, zei ze, “jij hebt natuurlijk een relatie!” Ik zei dat ik het zelf ook fijn zou vinden als hij met mij mee zou gaan als ik in die situatie zou zitten. Zij riep meteen uit, met de armen in de lucht op de dancemuziek: “God, wat ben ík blij dat ik geen relatie heb!” De andere vriendin riep mee. Ik kon niets meer zeggen. Ik wilde heel graag zeggen dat deze opmerking betuigt van exact het omgekeerde en dat iemand die zo’n opmerking maakt het allerliefste een vriendje zou willen hebben. Inclusief IKEA-huis met twee labradors, en wel zeven abbonementen op elke vorm van Libelle of psychowhatever, dat dit haast wel haar allergrootste droom moet zijn.
Maar ik zei het niet. Het deed pijn maar ik hield mij in.
De vraag is dus wat je aan dit fenomeen kan doen. Hoe krijgen we deze vreselijke methode van de aardbodem? Moet er wel iets aan gedaan worden?
Wat kun je nog zeggen op zo’n moment, misschien is er geen goed antwoord op de WZDOJ-methode te geven.
Is het een interessante vraag naar de fundamenten van de menselijke intentie of is het een retorisch trucje?
Wat zegt het?
Het zegt iets over mij dat ik inschat dat het nog meer over jou zegt. En zo zeggen we dingen over elkaar, prima.
Wat het over mij zegt dat ik hiermee zit?
Of ik iets heb meegemaakt waardoor ik nu..
Ja, inderdaad. Heb een enorm trauma.
Veel te groot om over te schrijven, letterlijk. Past niet op dit vel/scherm.
Gigantisch!
Esther Porcelijn: WZDOJ?
Eerder gepubliceerd in: Univers Blog
photo: fleursdumal.nl
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
James Joyce
(1882-1941)
Araby
North Richmond Street being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.
The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.
When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: “O love! O love!” many times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said she would love to go.
“And why can’t you?” I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.
“It’s well for you,” she said.
“If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.”
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:
“Yes, boy, I know.”
As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and. when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:
“I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.”
At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.
“The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,” he said.
I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:
“Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough as it is.”
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.
I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.
Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.
“O, I never said such a thing!”
“O, but you did!”
“O, but I didn’t!”
“Didn’t she say that?”
“Yes. I heard her.”
“O, there’s a . . . fib!”
Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:
“No, thank you.”
The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.
I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.
Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
James Joyce stories
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Joyce, James, Joyce, James
Henrik Ibsen
(1828-1906)
The miner
Beetling rock, with roar and smoke
Break before my hammer-stroke!
Deeper I must thrust and lower
Till I hear the ring of ore.
From the mountain’s unplumbed night,
Deep amid the gold-veins bright,
Diamonds lure me, rubies beckon,
Treasure-hoard that none may reckon.
There is peace within the deep–
Peace and immemorial sleep;
Heavy hammer, burst as bidden,
To the heart-nook of the hidden!
Once I, too, a careless lad,
Under starry heavens was glad,
Trod the primrose paths of summer,
Child-like knew not care nor cummer.
But I lost the sense of light
In the poring womb of night;
Woodland songs, when earth rejoiced her,
Breathed not down my hollow cloister.
Fondly did I cry, when first
Into the dark place I burst:
“Answer spirits of the middle
Earth, my life’s unending riddle!–“
Still the spirits of the deep
Unrevealed their answer keep;
Still no beam from out the gloomy
Cavern rises to illume me.
Have I erred? Does this way lead
Not to clarity indeed?
If above I seek to find it,
By the glare my eyes are blinded.
Downward, then! the depths are best;
There is immemorial rest.
Heavy hammer burst as bidden
To the heart-nook of the hidden!–
Hammer-blow on hammer-blow
Till the lamp of life is low.
Not a ray of hope’s fore-warning;
Not a glimmer of the morning.
Translation Fydell Edmund Garrett. New York, 1912.
Henrik Ibsen poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive I-J, Ibsen, Hendrik
Boekpresentatie Jef van Kempen
Op 16 december 2012 vond bij boekhandel Livius in Tilburg de presentatie plaats van de nieuwe dichtbundel van Jef van Kempen. Stadsdichter Esther Porcelijn en Jef van Kempen zelf droegen gedichten voor uit de bundel, die getiteld is: ‘Laatste Bedrijf. Een keuze uit de gedichten 1962-2012′. Verder reikte burgemeester Peter Noordanus aan Jef van Kempen een onderscheiding uit (de grote zilveren legpenning van de gemeente Tilburg) voor zijn verdiensten op het gebied van literatuur en cultuur. Collega-schrijver Ton van Reen hield een boeiende lezing over Jef van Kempen en zijn poëzie.
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Jef van Kempen, Kempen, Jef van, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Esther Porcelijn
Tijdmachine
(100 jaar bibliotheek Tilburg)
Als je een keer vragen hebt of ongelukkig bent
Je twijfelt of zekerheden zeker zijn,
En je wil dat iemand je verhalen deelt
Omdat je alleen bent met je ideeën.
Weet dan dat er een plek is, in elke stad
Waar je in de kast kan duiken.
Als je niet weet of nu 1988 of -89
De val van de muur en alle consequenties,
Of je dreigt te verliezen in een weddenschap
En je weet toch echt echt zeker dat die ene
Jongen uit de klas het mis had met de hoofdstad.
Weet dan dat er voor kennis een plek is.
Stel, je zoekt, terloops, de herkomst van lijden,
Je hebt een hond met allergie en vergeet steeds wie
Nou ook alweer de pasta had ontdekt,
En of fröbelen iets is wat volwassenen kunnen,
Of dat kinderbreinen kinderachtig durven zijn.
Weet dan dat je niet naar Wikipedia hoeft te surfen.
Maar dat je naar de BIEB kan.
Naar de Bieb. Naar de bieb dan!
Je kan er reizen door de tijd
Je kan er koffie drinken
Je kan er nagaan of drie maal drie wel negen is
Of de kerk zich in de mens vergist.
Je kan er lezen of het beter is je buurman te verlinken
Je kan er dromen tot je valt
Je kan er plaatjes kijken
Je kan verzinnen dat je koning bent van Nederland
Hoe een lucifer op Mars brandt,
Je kan er leren of je later op je moeder zal gaan lijken
Wat wil je bedenken? Alles? Er is vast wel iets over alles!
Wil je een taart gaan bakken? Kom maar!
Waargebeurde verhalen vertellen?
Hoe een meisje een jongen versiert?
Witte neushoorns, toekomst voorspellen,
Krachtmetingsfabels, Grote fanfares?
Hertenvlees en kattenverharing
Oude verhalen en krantenberichten
Kennis voor altijd, wat een verlichting!
Tijdmachines bouwen?
Vroeger en nu in één keer overzien:
De mensheid bekijken,
voyeuristisch, in ‘t geniep,
Het kan allemaal bij de Bieb.
Esther Porcelijn 3 maart 2013: 100 jaar bibliotheek Tilburg
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, City Poets / Stadsdichters, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Esther Porcelijn
Seconden later zijn wij allerbesten
Seconden later zijn wij allerbesten.
Hij spreekt alweer van vroeger en van toen,
van: “ weet je nog?” en onze eerste zoen.
Hij koos de mooiste, deelde wat er restte.
Wij lachend om die avond in ’t plantsoen,
de avond in het gras op Tilburg West en
ik kon niet wachten op mijn grootse test en
zag hem mijn liefje van haar goed ontdoen.
Terwijl hij alle mensen om zich rijgt,
zijn nonchalante ‘k-weet-’t-ook-niet-geste,
ben ik diegene die zacht grapt en zwijgt.
Zal ik dan toch de rake waarheid ketsen?
Hem laten zien dat ik hem overstijg?
Ach wat, ik blijf toch altijd de gekwetste.
Zevende sonnet van de Tilburgse sonnettenkrans 2012, aangeboden als gratis boekenweekgeschenk.
photo: monica richter
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther
Tilt 2013
Bijna alle mensen die iets kunnen gaan dood
Een zaal vol typemachines afkomstig uit de Scryption-collectie, met erachter bezoekers die voor het grootste deel opgegroeid zijn met tekstverwerkers en tablets. Terwijl de hamerkoppen van de machines op de papierrol slaan, draagt voorin de zaal de zwaar getatooeerde schrijver Mark Verver met verve een dictee voor. Een van de vervreemdende beelden die bijbleven van de derde editie van het festival TILT.
Op 23 maart 2013 was het Tilburgse poppodium 013 gevuld met een bont publiek aan cultuurliefhebbers. Naast publiekstrekkers zoals Kees van Kooten, Guus Kuijer en Nelleke Noordervliet was er genoeg ruimte voor minder bekende schrijvers en voor het experiment. Dichters Anneke Claus en Jaap Robben openden samen met een compleet harmonie-orkest de avond krachtig met het ambitieuze project Harmonie en Poëzie. Studenten van de Rockacademie lieten met hun muzikale bewerkingen van schrijversteksten zien dat hun talent ook richting kleinkunst uitstrekt. P.F. Thomese gaf samen met Martijn Neggers en Mathijs Leeuwis een eenmalige muziektheaterversie van zijn werk “Het Bamischandaal”.
Schrijver J.A. Dautzenberg wierp zijn pamflet over de rehabilitatie van Roothaert terzijde om plaats vrij te maken voor een door hem noodzakelijk geacht ingelast optreden. Het betrof de Antilliaanse schrijver Eardly van der Geld, die daarmee de boekenweek in Tilburg zowel hielp openen (met een lezing in de Tilburgse Bibliotheek) als hielp afsluiten. Jasper Henderson en Elfie Tromp praatten het geheel vlot aan elkaar.
Voor de liefhebber was het hard werken: rondlopen tussen de verschillende zalen, ondertussen genieten van de visuele kunstwerkjes van het project LetterLust XML – en vooral veel bijpraten en handen schudden. Vermaak met een grote V en af en toe pareltjes – zoals een half uur durende muzikale dialoog tussen een zwijgende Tom America, een pratend toetsenbord dat zijn stem had overgenomen en de flemende, twijfelende en verleidende dichteres Esther Porcelijn. “Laat maar, alles is toch al een keer gedacht”. Volgend jaar hopelijk weer.
Esther Porcelijn en Tom America
photos: fleursdumal.nl magazine
FLEURSDUMAL.NL magazine
More in: A.H.J. Dautzenberg, City Poets / Stadsdichters, Frank van Pamelen, Porcelijn, Esther, Porcelijn, Esther, THEATRE, Tilt Festival Tilburg, Tom America
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