A dishwasher from Nancy, Vital Frerotte, who had just come back from Lourdes cured forever of tuberculosis, died Sunday by mistake.
First Slave Rebellion in America.
It happens at the beginning of the sixteenth century.
A couple of days after Christmas, the slaves rise up at a sugar mill in Santo Domingo owned by the son of Christopher Columbus.
Following the victory of Divine Providence and James the Apostle, the roads are lined with black men, hanged.
.......the potato was a root grown in the depths of the earth, where hell has its caves. Doctors knew it caused leprosy and syphilis. In Irland, if a pregnant woman ate a potato at night, in the morning she would give birth to a monster. Until the end of the eighteenth century, the potato was fed only to prisoners, lunatics, and the dying.
Mr. Google ser deg overalt. Jeg og i-paden oppholder oss i Santo Domingo og bokelskerne.no flyter over av reklame på spansk. Det ser ut til at Mr. Google er litt usikker på mine behov siden jeg har fått tilbud om alt fra "hvordan få vekk magefettet" og "nye sporty bildekk" til "aftener med alt inkludert". ;)
Men så lenge annonsene er med på å holde hjulene i gang hos bokelskerne.no får en la irritasjonene ligge - og heller se humoristisk på det hele.
We are what we do, especially what we do to change what we are.........
Carson McCullers glemmes ikke av sine lesere - heller ikke av Charles Bukowski.
Carson McCullers
she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.
all her books of
terrified loneliness
all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love
were all that was left
of her
as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body
notified the captain
and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship
as everything
continued just
as
she had written it.
-Charles Bukowski
Et interessant referat - verdt å lese.
On the bowling lawn a stroke leveled M. Andre, 75, of Levallois.
While his ball was still rolling
he was no more.
One of the earliest proverbs, written in the langue of the Sumerians, exonerates drink in case of accident:
Beer is good.
What's bad is the road.
En artikkel til om debutanten Yahya Hassan, denne gangen fra NRK.
Det er ikke alltid like greit å bli utsatt for "beleste bedrevitere" i en viss alder. :)
For hundre år siden, den gang jeg var en irriterende og oppesen ung tenåring, deklamerte jeg ofte disse "dype" linjene fra Brecht's Buckowerelegiene, til de som sto var ved "et veiskille" og måtte ta valg som ikke dreide seg om rosa eller hvit leppestift på neste fest eller siste ukes forelskelse.
Hjulskiftet
Jeg sitter i veikanten.
Sjåføren skifter ut et hjul.
Jeg liker meg ikke der jeg var.
Jeg liker meg ikke der jeg skal.
Hvorfor ser jeg på hjulskiftet
med utålmodighet?
Mange bokelskere har nok fått med seg at Yahya Hassan's diktsamling har gitt ham både debutantpris og dødstrusler.
Her er en artikkel fra Morgenbladet - ført i pennen av Maren Næss Olsen - om den 18 år gamle dikteren.
"Your sentiments are those of a god ," she said guietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her.
Trying to recover his temper, he said,"India likes gods."
"And Englishmen like posing as gods."
Jeg sovnet med Lady Chatterlys elsker.
"Bribes?"
"Did you not know that when they were lent to Central India over a Canal Scheme, some Rajah or other gave her a sewing machine in solid gold so that the water should run through his state?"
"And does it?"
"No, that is where Mrs. Turton is so skilful. When we poor blacks take bribes, we perform what are bribed to perform, and the law discovers us in consequence. The English take and do nothing. I admire them."
Not a single path leads back
To the garden of our youth.
The sole purpose of all the cruel things that happen is to kill off miserable, outward-directed desires which, whether they be pride or hunger, joy or pity, only pull us away from the fire that each one of us has the potential to start within him.
A BOOK.
He ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.
He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What Liberty
A loosened spirit brings!
Emily Dickinson