Nadine Gordimer, Thomas Chatterton
Die Südafrikanische Schriftstellerin Nadine Gordimer wurde im Jahre 1923 in Springs, einem Stadtteil am Ostrand von Johannesburg, geboren. Ihr Vater war ein jüdischer Juwelier und ihre Mutter hatte ihre Ursprünge in Großbritanien. Im Alter von neun Jahren fing Nadine Gordimer an zu schreiben. Ihre erste Geschichte, „Kommen morgen wieder”, erschien in der Johannesburger Zeitung als sie vierzehn war. 1949 heiratete Nadine Gordimer und veröffentlichte ihre ersten Ansammlungen von Kurzgeschichten „Von Angesicht zu Angesicht”. Es folgten 1o Romane und mehr als 2oo kurze Geschichten, in denen sie auf die Probleme Südafrikas aufmerksam machte. Daher waren viele ihrer Bücher im Südafrika der Apartheidzeit verboten. Nadine Gordimer - Literaturnobelpreisträgerin (1991) - ist eine der bedeutendsten Autorinnen der Gegenwart. Sie lebt in Johannesburg und hat zwei Kinder.
Aus: Loot and other stories
„Once upon our time, there was an earthquake: but this one is the most powerful ever recorded since the invention of the Richter scale made it possible for us to measure apocalyptic warnings.
It tipped a continental shelf. These tremblings often cause floods; this colossus did the reverse, drew back the ocean as a vast breath taken. The most secret level of our world lay revealed: the sea-bedded-wrecked ships, facades of houses, ballroom candelabra, toilet bowl, pirate chest, TV screen, mail-coach, aircraft fuselage, cannon, marble torso, Kalashnikov, metal carapace of a tourist bus-load, baptismal font, automatic dishwasher, computer, swords sheathed in barnacles, coins turned to stone. The astounded gaze raced among these things; the population who had fled from their toppling houses to the maritime hills ran down. Where terrestrial crash and bellow had terrified them, there was naked silence. The saliva of the sea glistened upon these objects; it is given that time does not, never did, exist down here where the materiality of the past and the present as they lie has no chronological order, all is one, all is nothing-or all is possessible at once.
People rushed to take; take, take. This was-when, anytime, sometime-valuable, that might be useful, what was this, well someone will know, that must have belonged to the rich, it's mine now, if you don't grab what's over there someone else will, feet slipped and slithered on seaweed and sank in soggy sand, gasping sea-plants gaped at them, no-one remarked there were no fish, the living inhabitants of this unearth had been swept up and away with the water. The ordinary opportunity of looting shops which was routine to people during the political uprisings was no comparison. Orgiastic joy gave men, women and their children strength to heave out of the slime and sand what they did not know they wanted, quickened their staggering gait as they ranged, and this was more than profiting by happenstance, it was robbing the power of nature before which they had fled helpless. Take, take; while grabbing they were able to forget the wreck of their houses and the loss of time-bound possessions there. They had tattered the silence with their shouts to one another and under these cries like the cries of the absent seagulls they did not hear a distant approach of sound rising as a great wind does. And then the sea came back, engulfed them to add to its treasury.“
Nadine Gordimer (Springs. 20 november 1923)
Der englische Dichter Thomas Chatterton wurde am 20. November 1752 in Bristol als Sohn eines Küsters geboren und besuchte die Armenschule von Colston. Er schrieb mit elf Jahren bereits eine Satire auf einen Methodisten, der seines Vorteils halber seine Gemeinde verlassen hatte. Mit 14 Jahren nahm er eine Anstellung als Schreiber bei einem Rechtsanwalt in Bristol an und brachte bald darauf alte Gedichte zum Vorschein, die – nach seiner Behauptung – von einem Mönch des 15. Jahrhunderts namens Rowley verfasst worden waren und nun großes Aufsehen erregten. Darunter waren ein Festgedicht auf die Einweihung einer Brücke, die Fragmente eines Trauerspiels, Ella und balladenartige Kompositionen über Begebenheiten der normannischen Eroberung. Bald erklärte jedoch die philologische Kritik das Ganze für eine Fälschung. Daraufhin wurde er von seinem Arbeitgeber entlassen. Chatterton ging nach London in der Hoffnung, von Sir Horace Walpole unterstützt zu werden. Dieser war jedoch vor dem Knaben aus Bristol gewarnt und versagte ihm seine Unterstützung. Kurze Zeit später setzte Chatterton durch Gift seinem Leben ein Ende.
The Death of Chatterton von Henry Wallis
Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartes blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Thomas Chatterton (20. November 1752 - 25. August 1770)
Aus: Loot and other stories
„Once upon our time, there was an earthquake: but this one is the most powerful ever recorded since the invention of the Richter scale made it possible for us to measure apocalyptic warnings.
It tipped a continental shelf. These tremblings often cause floods; this colossus did the reverse, drew back the ocean as a vast breath taken. The most secret level of our world lay revealed: the sea-bedded-wrecked ships, facades of houses, ballroom candelabra, toilet bowl, pirate chest, TV screen, mail-coach, aircraft fuselage, cannon, marble torso, Kalashnikov, metal carapace of a tourist bus-load, baptismal font, automatic dishwasher, computer, swords sheathed in barnacles, coins turned to stone. The astounded gaze raced among these things; the population who had fled from their toppling houses to the maritime hills ran down. Where terrestrial crash and bellow had terrified them, there was naked silence. The saliva of the sea glistened upon these objects; it is given that time does not, never did, exist down here where the materiality of the past and the present as they lie has no chronological order, all is one, all is nothing-or all is possessible at once.
People rushed to take; take, take. This was-when, anytime, sometime-valuable, that might be useful, what was this, well someone will know, that must have belonged to the rich, it's mine now, if you don't grab what's over there someone else will, feet slipped and slithered on seaweed and sank in soggy sand, gasping sea-plants gaped at them, no-one remarked there were no fish, the living inhabitants of this unearth had been swept up and away with the water. The ordinary opportunity of looting shops which was routine to people during the political uprisings was no comparison. Orgiastic joy gave men, women and their children strength to heave out of the slime and sand what they did not know they wanted, quickened their staggering gait as they ranged, and this was more than profiting by happenstance, it was robbing the power of nature before which they had fled helpless. Take, take; while grabbing they were able to forget the wreck of their houses and the loss of time-bound possessions there. They had tattered the silence with their shouts to one another and under these cries like the cries of the absent seagulls they did not hear a distant approach of sound rising as a great wind does. And then the sea came back, engulfed them to add to its treasury.“
Nadine Gordimer (Springs. 20 november 1923)
Der englische Dichter Thomas Chatterton wurde am 20. November 1752 in Bristol als Sohn eines Küsters geboren und besuchte die Armenschule von Colston. Er schrieb mit elf Jahren bereits eine Satire auf einen Methodisten, der seines Vorteils halber seine Gemeinde verlassen hatte. Mit 14 Jahren nahm er eine Anstellung als Schreiber bei einem Rechtsanwalt in Bristol an und brachte bald darauf alte Gedichte zum Vorschein, die – nach seiner Behauptung – von einem Mönch des 15. Jahrhunderts namens Rowley verfasst worden waren und nun großes Aufsehen erregten. Darunter waren ein Festgedicht auf die Einweihung einer Brücke, die Fragmente eines Trauerspiels, Ella und balladenartige Kompositionen über Begebenheiten der normannischen Eroberung. Bald erklärte jedoch die philologische Kritik das Ganze für eine Fälschung. Daraufhin wurde er von seinem Arbeitgeber entlassen. Chatterton ging nach London in der Hoffnung, von Sir Horace Walpole unterstützt zu werden. Dieser war jedoch vor dem Knaben aus Bristol gewarnt und versagte ihm seine Unterstützung. Kurze Zeit später setzte Chatterton durch Gift seinem Leben ein Ende.
The Death of Chatterton von Henry Wallis
Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartes blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Thomas Chatterton (20. November 1752 - 25. August 1770)
froumen - 20. Nov, 22:33
