John Donne - The Good Morrow

I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ?
'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

William Shakespeare - Sonnet XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Edmund Spenser - Sonnet 75

Edmund Spenser - Sonnet 75

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,

But came the waves and washed it away:

Again I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Vain man, said she, that doest in vain assay

A mortal thing so to immortalize,

For I myself shall like to this decay,

And eek my name be wiped out likewise.

Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise

To die in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heavens write your glorious name.

Where whenas Death shall all the world subdue,

Out love shall live, and later life renew.

The First Autumn

by Erskine Caldwell

De tekst van die verhaal konden wij niet op het internet vinden.

The Secret life of Walter Mitty

by James Thurber

"We're going through!" The Commander's voice was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can't make it, sir. It's spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me." "I'm not asking you, Lieutenant Berg," said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8,500! We're going through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. "The old man will get us through" they said to one another. "The Old Man ain't afraid of Hell!" . . . "Not so fast! You're driving too fast!" said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?" "Hmm?" said Walter Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don't like to go more than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. "You're tensed up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It's one of your days. I wish you'd let Dr. Renshaw look you over." Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building where his wife went to have her hair done. "Remember to get those overshoes while I'm having my hair done," she said. "I don't need overshoes," said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. "We've been all through that," she said, getting out of the car. "You're not a young man any longer." He raced the engine a little. "Why don't you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?" Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light, he took them off again. "Pick it up, brother!" snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his way to the parking lot. . . . "It's the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan," said the pretty nurse. "Yes?" said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. "Who has the case?" "Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and Mr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over." A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. "Hello, Mitty," he said. "We're having the devil's own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you'd take a look at him." "Glad to," said Mitty. In the operating room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Mr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty." "I've read your book on streptothricosis," said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. "A brilliant performance, sir." "Thank you," said Walter Mitty. "Didn't know you were in the States, Mitty," grumbled Remington. "Coals to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary." "You are very kind," said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. "The new anesthetizer is giving way!" shouted an intern. "There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!" "Quiet, man!" said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. "Give me a fountain pen!" he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen in its place. "That will hold for ten minutes," he said. "Get on with the operation." A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn pale. "Coreopsis has set in," said Renshaw nervously. "If you would take over, Mitty?" Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists. "If you wish," he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . . "Back it up, Mac! Look out for that Buick!" Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. "Wrong lane, Mac," said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. "Gee. Yeh," muttered Mitty. He began cautiously to back out of the lane marked "Exit Only." "Leave her sit there," said the attendant. "I'll put her away." Mitty got out of the car. "Hey, better leave the key." "Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where it belonged. They're so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking along Main Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to the garage to have the chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I'll wear my right arm in a sling; they won't grin at me then. I'll have my right arm in a sling and they'll see I couldn't possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk. "Overshoes," he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store. When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other thing was his wife had told him to get. She had told him, twice, before they set out from their house for Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to town-he was always getting something wrong. Kleenex, he thought, Squibb's, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, cardorundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it up. But she would remember it. "Where's the what's-its-name," she would ask. "Don't tell me you forgot the what's-its-name." A newsboy went by shouting something about the Waterbury trial. . . . "Perhaps this will refresh your memory." The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the quiet figure on the witness stand. "Have you ever seen this before?" Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. "This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80," he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge rapped for order. "You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the District Attorney, insinuatingly. "Objection!" shouted Mitty's attorney. "We have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that he wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the fourteenth of July." Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled. "With any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left hand." Pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. A woman's scream rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty's arms. The District Attorney struck at her savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point of the chin. "You miserable cur!" . . . "Puppy biscuit," said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of the misty courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman who was passing laughed. "He said 'Puppy biscuit'," she said to her companion. "That man said 'Puppy biscuit' to himself." Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A&P, not the first one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. "I want some biscuit for small, young dogs," he said to the clerk. "Any special brand, sir?" The greatest pistol shot in the world thought a moment. "It says 'Puppies Bark for It' on the box," said Walter Mitty. His wife would be through at the hairdresser's in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had trouble drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it. She didn't like to get to the hotel first; she would want him to be there waiting for her as usual. He found a big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put the overshoes and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy of Liberty and sank down into the chair. "Can Germany Conquer the World Through the Air?" Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes and of ruined streets. . . . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. "Get him to bed," he said wearily. "With the others. I'll fly alone." "But you can't, sir," said the sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman's circus is between here and Saulier." "Somebody's got to get that ammunition dump," said Mitty. "I'm going over. Spot of brandy?" He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. "A bit of a near thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly. "The box barrage is closing in," said the sergeant. "We only live once, Sergeant," said Mitty with his faint, fleeting smile. "Or do we?" He poured another brandy and tossed it off. "I never see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir," said the sergeant. "Begging your pardon, sir." Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. "It's forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant. Mitty finished one last brandy. "After all," he said softly, "what isn't?" The pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "AuprËs de Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant. "Cheerio!" he said. . . Something struck his shoulder. "I've been looking all over this hotel for you," said Mrs. Mitty. "Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did you expect me to find you?" "Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely. "What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the what's-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What's in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty. "Couldn't you have put them on in the store?" "I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?" She looked at him. "I'm going to take your temperature when I get you home," she said. They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, "Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won't be a minute." She was more than a minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking . . . He put his shoulders back and his heels together. "To hell with the handkerchief," said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

The Open Window

By Saki

“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction, came into the nice division.
“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.
“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”
“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
“It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”
“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day’s shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’s voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back some day, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window – ”
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
“I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said.
“She has been very interesting,” said Framton.
“I hope you don’t mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They’ve been out for snipe in the marshes to-day, so they’ll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you men-folk, isn’t it?”
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic; he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who laboured under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one’s ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued.
“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention – but not to what Framton was saying.
“Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don’t they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window; they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall-door, the gravel-drive, and the front gate were dimly-noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid an imminent collision.
“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window; “fairly muddy, but most of it’s dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”
“A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of good-bye or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”
“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone their nerve.”
Romance at short notice was her speciality.

Cat in the Rain

by Ernest Hemingway

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out at the empty square.The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.“I’m going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said.“I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed.“No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty is out trying to keep dry under the table.”The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.“Don’t get wet,” he said.The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.“Il piove,” the wife said. She liked the hotelkeeper.“Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.”He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along to the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.“You must not get wet,” she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.“Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?” “There was a cat,” said the American girl.“A cat?”“Si, il gatto.”“A cat?” the maid laughed. “A cat in the rain?”“Yes,” she said, “under the table.” Then, “Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.”When she talked English the maid’s face tightened.“Come, Signora,” she said. “We must get back inside. You will be wet.”“I suppose so,” said the American girl.They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed reading.“Did you get the cat?” he asked, putting the book down.“It was gone.”“Wonder where it went to,” he said, resting his eyes from reading. She sat down on the bed.“I wanted it so much,” she said. “I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.”George was reading again.She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s.“I like it the way it is.”“I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak.“You look pretty darn nice,” he said. She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.“I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,” she said. “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.”“Yeah?” George said from the bed.“And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”“Oh, shut up and get something to read,” George said. He was reading again.His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees.“Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.”George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.Someone knocked at the door.“Avanti,” George said. He looked up from his book. In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.“Excuse me,” she said, “the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.”

Cat in the Rain

by Ernest Hemingway

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the cafe a waiter stood looking out at the empty square.The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.“I’m going down and get that kitty,” the American wife said.“I’ll do it,” her husband offered from the bed.“No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty is out trying to keep dry under the table.”The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.“Don’t get wet,” he said.The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.“Il piove,” the wife said. She liked the hotelkeeper.“Si, si, Signora, brutto tempo. It is very bad weather.”He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the cafe. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along to the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.“You must not get wet,” she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.“Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?” “There was a cat,” said the American girl.“A cat?”“Si, il gatto.”“A cat?” the maid laughed. “A cat in the rain?”“Yes,” she said, “under the table.” Then, “Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.”When she talked English the maid’s face tightened.“Come, Signora,” she said. “We must get back inside. You will be wet.”“I suppose so,” said the American girl.They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed reading.“Did you get the cat?” he asked, putting the book down.“It was gone.”“Wonder where it went to,” he said, resting his eyes from reading. She sat down on the bed.“I wanted it so much,” she said. “I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.”George was reading again.She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass. She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck.“Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?” she asked, looking at her profile again.George looked up and saw the back of her neck, clipped close like a boy’s.“I like it the way it is.”“I get so tired of it,” she said. “I get so tired of looking like a boy.”George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak.“You look pretty darn nice,” he said. She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark.“I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,” she said. “I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.”“Yeah?” George said from the bed.“And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.”“Oh, shut up and get something to read,” George said. He was reading again.His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees.“Anyway, I want a cat,” she said, “I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.”George was not listening. He was reading his book. His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.Someone knocked at the door.“Avanti,” George said. He looked up from his book. In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoise-shell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.“Excuse me,” she said, “the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.”

Elizabeth Jennings - A Death

‘His face is shone’ she said,
‘Three days I had him in my house,
Three days before they took him from his bed,
And never have I felt so close.’

‘Always alive he was
A little drawn away from me.
Looks are opaque when living and his face
Seemed hiding something, carefully.

‘But those three days before
They took his body out, I used to go
And talk to him. That shining from him bore
No secrets. Living, he never looked or answered so.’

Sceptic I listened, then
Noted what peace she seemed to have,
How tenderly she put flowers on his grave
But not as if he might return again
Or shine or seem quite close:
Rather to please us were the flowers she gave

Barry Cole - Reported Missing

Can you give me a precise description?
Said the policeman. Her lips, I told him,
Were soft. Could you give me, he said, pencil
Raised, a metaphor? Soft as an open mouth,
I said. Were there any noticeable
Peculiarities? he asked. Her hair hung
Heavily, I said. Any particular
Colour? he said. I told him I could recall
Little but its distinctive scent. What do
You mean, he asked, by distinctive? It had
The smell of woman's hair, I said. Where
Were you? he asked. Closer than I am to
Anyone at present, I said, level
With her mouth, level with her eyes. Her eyes?
He said, what about her eyes? There were two,
I said, both black. It has been established,
He said, that eyes cannot, outside common
Usage, be black; are you implying that
Violence was used? Only the gentle
Hammer blow of her kisses, the scent
Of her breath, the ... Quite, said the policeman,
Standing, but I regret that we know of
No one answering to that description.

Siegfried Sassoon - Does it Matter

Does it matter?—losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter ?—losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.

That Women are but Men's Shadows

By Ben Jonson

Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly then
Styled but the shadows of us men?

At morn and even shades are longest,
At noon they are or short or none;
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they’re not known.
Say, are not women truly then
Styled but the shadows of us men?

Boekverslag 3 Danielle

Falling for you

1. Beschrijvingsopdracht

A. Complete titelbeschrijving
Jill Mansell, Falling for you, London 2003 (eerste druk)
B. Korte motivatie
Ik heb dit boek gekozen, omdat ik vind dat Jill Mansell leuke boeken schrijft. Ik heb in het Nederlands ook wat boeken van haar gelezen en die vond ik altijd heel leuk. Het zijn humoristische boeken die makkelijk lezen. Ik hoopte dat dat in het Engels ook zou zijn, daarom heb ik dit boek gekozen.
C. Korte weergave van de inhoud
Jaren geleden is April, de oudste zus van Maddy en Jake dood gereden door Den Mckinnon, de broer van Kerr Mckinnon. De Mckinnon’s hebben nooit sorry gezegd of laten blijken dat ze het erg vonden dat April dood was. Dit kon Aprils stiefmoeder, Marcella, nooit vergeten. Haar hele leven had ze een afkeer van de familie Mckinnon.
Als Maddy een feestje heeft, ontmoet ze een man. Ze was over een heg geklommen om te plassen. Het lukte Maddy niet meer om terug te klimmen over de heg, dus ze begon om hulp te roepen. Een man redt haar, maar ze weet niet precies wie, omdat ze geen lenzen in had. Ze krijgt wel een visitekaartje van hem. Daardoor weet ze dat hij bij Callaghan and Fox werkt. Maddy gaat met broodjes van de lunchroom waar ze werkt langs bij dit bedrijf. Dan komt ze erachter dat het Kerr Mckinnon was die haar had gered. Ze worden verliefd op elkaar, maar ze moeten wel in het geheim met elkaar afspreken. Als Marcella erachter komt dat Maddy met een Mckinnon omgaat, breekt de hel los.
Ondertussen is Kate aangekomen in Ashcombe. Kate was vroeger de vriendin van Maddy, totdat ze naar een andere school ging. Daar kreeg ze nieuwe vrienden en die lachten Maddy allemaal uit. Kate was vroeger heel knap en kon veel mannen krijgen. Maar dan krijgt ze een auto-ongeluk en is de helft van haar gezicht verminkt. Ze zit daar heel erg mee en ze durft bijna niet buiten te komen. Als haar moeder Estelle ermee instemt dat de hond van kennissen een paar weken bij hun blijft logeren, komt Kate al meer buiten omdat de hond uitgelaten moet worden.
Dexter en Nuala hebben een pub in Ashcombe. Dexter behandelt Nuala niet erg goed, maar Nuala laat gewoon over zich heen lopen. Als Nuala op een dag van de trap af valt, breekt ze haar schouder en is haar hele gezicht blauw. Heel veel mensen denken dan Dexter het heeft gedaan. Nuala kan niet meer werken in de pub en Dexter zoekt vervanging. Hij vraagt of Kate in de pub wil komen werken. Kate stemt in en gaat bij Dexter werken. Kate laat alleen niet zo over zich heen lopen als Nuala en dat kan Dexter wel waarderen. Ze gaat steeds minder aan haar littekens denken en ze wordt ook weer aardiger.
Op een dag besluit Kate om naar Kerr Mckinnon’s huis te gaan. Kerr was het vroegere vriendje van Kate. Als Kate bij zijn huis aankomt, ziet zij de auto staan die altijd bij het huis van Jake en Maddy staat. Ze kijkt naar binnen en dan ziet ze Maddy bij Kerr zitten. Kate is dus onbewust achter hun geheim gekomen.
Als Kate Jake tegenkomt, vertelt zij het van Kerr en Maddy. Maar Maddy had iedereen wijsgemaakt dat ze iets met een getrouwde man had. Jake snapt dus eerst niet wat Kate bedoelt, totdat Kate Kerr’s naam zegt. Jake vertelt even later tegen Maddy dat hij het weet en hij zegt dat ze ermee moet stoppen voor Marcella.
Maddy heeft haar ‘geheim’ alleen tegen Nuala en Juliet verteld. Juliet is een goede vriendin van haar en Jake. Maddy denkt dat Nuala het door heeft verteld aan Jake, omdat Juliet dat nooit zou doen. Maddy wordt boos op Nuala, maar ze komt er later achter dat dat onterecht was.
Juliet heeft een zoontje Tiff. Op een dag is Tiff heel ziek. Juliet brengt hem naar het ziekenhuis waar blijkt dat hij Meningitis heeft. Niemand, behalve Juliet weet wie de vader van Tiff is, totdat hij wordt opgebeld door het ziekenhuis. Dan weet heel Ashcombe het, Tiff’s vader is Oliver Taylor-Trent, de man van Estelle.
Estelle is geschokt door het nieuws. Ze wil Oliver verlaten en gaat naar Will, de documentairemaker. Ze voelden zich al langer tot elkaar aangetrokken. Estelle heeft het heel leuk bij Will totdat ze uit eten gaan en er allemaal journalisten hun op staan te wachten. In de krant komt te staan dat Estelle Taylor-Trent, de vrouw van de bekende Oliver Taylor-Trent, in de charmes van Will is getrapt. Een vrouw die ook in zijn charmes is getrapt, ziet haar in de krant staan en zij neemt contact met Estelle op. Estelle komt erachter dat Will alles heeft gelogen en alleen op haar geld uit was. Ze verlaat hem en gaat terug naar Ashcombe om de rest van haar spullen te pakken en daarna naar een hotel te gaan.
Ondertussen ligt Tiff nog steeds in het ziekenhuis. Zijn toestand is eerst kritiek, maar daarna gaat het weer beter. Sophie, de dochter van Jake en het vriendinnetje van Tiff, weet ook dat Oliver de vader van Tiff is. Ze komt op Tiff’s kamer en vertelt doodleuk dat Oliver haar vader is. Tiff neemt het allemaal goed op en Juliet heeft weer een zorg minder, omdat zij niet wist hoe zij het Tiff moest vertellen.
Jake gaat met Juliet uit eten en daar bekent hij dat hij haar al vanaf de eerste keer dat hij haar zag leuk vond. Daarna is het officieel: Jake en Juliet hebben iets met elkaar.
Oliver gaat weer naar huis vanuit het ziekenhuis, omdat Tiff weer helemaal beter is.
Daar is Estelle haar spullen aan het zoeken, zonder dat hij het weet. De taxichauffeur van Estelle belt aan en hij vraagt naar haar. Oliver weet niet dat zij thuis is, omdat ze zich in de kast had verstopt. Ondertussen had zij haar hoofd gestoten en komt er allemaal bloed uit de zijkant van haar hoofd. Estelle komt uiteindelijk naar de voordeur zodat de taxichauffeur ziet dat Oliver haar niks heeft aangedaan. De taxichauffeur gaat weg en Oliver en Estelle maken het weer goed.
Marcella gaat naar de lunchroom van Juliet en Maddy. Zij denkt nog steeds dat Maddy iets met een getrouwde man heeft en begint daar iets over te vragen aan Juliet, want Maddy is er niet. Juliet praat, zonder het te weten, haar mond voorbij. Marcella weet eindelijk dat Maddy iets met Kerr Mckinnon heeft. Ze zegt tegen Maddy dat ze de relatie moet verbreken en Maddy doet dit.
Ondertussen heeft Pauline, de moeder van Kerr en Den, gevraagd of Kerr Den wil opzoeken. Den zit ergens in Australië. Kerr heeft hem gevonden, hij vertelt Den dat hun moeder stervende is en dat ze Den nog een keer wilt zien. Uiteindelijk neemt Den een vliegtuig naar Engeland. Als Kerr en Den bij Pauline in het bejaardenhuis zitten, komt de waarheid aan het licht. Den zat helemaal niet achter het stuur toen April verongelukte. Het was Pauline en zij had gedronken. Pauline had aan Den gevraagd of hij ervoor wou opdraaien en Den ging naar de gevangenis. Nu alles aan het licht is, heeft Den een verzoek: Pauline moet met Marcella praten en alles uitleggen.
Op de dag van het welkom-thuis-feestje van Tiff gaat Marcella naar Pauline toe. Marcella komt erachter dat alles door Pauline komt en dat Den en Kerr Mckinnon helemaal geen schuld hebben. Ook komt ze erachter dat Den wel degelijk zijn verontschuldigingen had aangeboden, maar haar man had dit nooit verteld.
Ze gaat met Den naar het bedrijf waar Kerr werkt en Marcella legt uit dat ze niet meer boos is.
Ondertussen hebben Dexter en Kate ook iets gekregen.
Op het feestje van Tiff is Maddy bezig met alle hapjes en drankjes. Ze weet niet waar Marcella uithangt, maar Marcella is samen met Den en Kerr onderweg naar het feestje.
Marcella roept dat Maddy de badkamer uit moet komen en dan ziet ze Kerr staan. Ze is helemaal geschrokken. Marcella legt alles uit wat Pauline haar heeft verteld en Maddy en Kerr kunnen eindelijk bij elkaar zijn.



2. Verdiepingsopdracht

Het verhaal heeft meer verhaallijnen, dus ook meer hoofdpersonen. Daarom schrijf ik niet maar een brief. Dit zijn de personages die ik het belangrijkst vind.

Brief 1
Beste Maddy Harvey,

Ik heb gelezen hoe je hebt gehandeld, gedurende het verhaal en ik heb een paar kritische punten aan te merken.
Het is raar dat je zonder je lenzen naar een feestje gaat. Je kan dan helemaal niks zien en dat is niet erg praktisch. Het was natuurlijk wel handig dat je Kerr niet kon zien, anders was je meteen weggelopen. Waarom had je je bril niet gewoon opgedaan? Zo lelijk zal het toch niet zijn? En het is ook handig om altijd een extra paar lenzen achter de hand te hebben, voor als je er eentje kwijtraakt. Ik hoop dat je dat voortaan maar doet.
Ook is het nogal vreemd dat je over de heg van het buurhuis klimt om te plassen. Het is nogal onbeschoft om bij andere mensen in de tuin te gaan plassen. Wel een geluk dat Kerr langskwam om je uit de tuin te halen. Anders had je daar nu nog gezeten.
Toen ontmoette je Kerr echt. Jij kon zien wie hij was, hij kwam erachter wie jij was. Je had Marcella meteen moeten vertellen over Julie relatie. Misschien had ze het dan wel goed gevonden als je had uitgelegd dat Kerr excuses aan kwam bieden na het ongeluk en als je had gezegd dat hij er verder niks mee te maken had. Maar aan de andere kant was het wel slim dat je Marcella niks vertelde. Stel dat ze het niet goed had gevonden..
Verder is er niet echt iets aan te merken op je gedrag, maar zorg dat je altijd een extra paar lenzen in huis hebt!

Met vriendelijke groeten,
Danielle Hofman

Brief 2
Hallo Kate Taylor-Trent,

Op jouw gedrag zijn een paar dingen aan te merken, net zoals op dat van Maddy Harvey.
Eerst was je vrienden met Maddy, totdat je naar een andere school ging waar alleen rijkelui op zaten. Daar kreeg je nieuwe vrienden. Deze vrienden lachten Maddy uit, omdat ze niet de knapste was en jij deed gewoon mee. Hoe zou jij je gevoeld hebben als je beste vriendin je ineens uit ging lachen met haar nieuwe vrienden? Dat zou jij ook niet leuk vinden toch? Maar goed, je was nog jong dat kan je wel als excuus zien.
Na je ongeluk werd je niet erg aardig. Je moeder was zelfs geïntimideerd door je. Je dacht ook dat iedereen je lelijk vond door je littekens, maar dit viel reuze mee. Je was gewoon de oude, chagrijnige Kate. Totdat je wat meer buiten kwam en in de pub van Dexter ging werken. Je kwam erachter dat de mensen je gewoon als de oude Kate zagen en je vergat je littekens zelfs. Dus eigenlijk was het een goede keuze om in de pub te gaan werken. Je werd ook weer aardiger en zelfs vrienden met Nuala en Maddy. Dus eigenlijk ben je op een goede manier veranderd.
Ook vond ik het goed dat je het geheim van Maddy en Kerr voor je hield.
Dit was het eigenlijk wel.

Met vriendelijke groeten,
Danielle Hofman


3. Evaluatie

A. Kort eindoordeel
Falling for you is een heel leuk boek. Het leest makkelijk weg en er zit veel humor in. Echt een boek om op een regenachtige dag in één ruk uit te lezen. Eigenlijk is het verhaal van Kerr en Maddy een soort Romeo en Julia in een modern jasje; onbereikbare liefde. Ik vond het een goede boekkeuze van mezelf.
B. Oordeel verdiepingsopdracht
De verdiepingsopdracht was niet erg moeilijk om te doen. Je moest gewoon het gedrag van personages beschrijven en bekritiseren; wat hadden ze beter kunnen doen, wat was goed, wat was slecht. Niet erg moeilijk dus. Je hebt altijd wel een mening over het denken en doen van mensen, dus kon je makkelijk een brief schrijven daarover.
C. Het was wel raar om een brief te schrijven aan een hoofdpersoon van een boek. Hij bestaat niet echt, je schrijft een brief naar een niet-bestaand persoon. Dat is wel raar. Maar verder was er niet echt iets raars aan de verdiepingsopdracht. Alleen had ik wel meerdere hoofdpersonages, waardoor het niet bij één brief bleef.

Boekverslag 3, Inge

Nothing lasts forever

1.Beschrijvingsopdracht

a. Complete titelbeschrijving
S. Sheldon, Nothing lasts forever. Londen 1995 (1ste druk)

b. Korte motivatie
Ik heb voor dit boek gekozen, omdat de boeken van Sidney Sheldon mij altijd aanspreken. Mijn moeder raadde dit boek aan, omdat het vlot doorleest en het altijd leuke verhalen zijn. Ook de achterflap maakte mij nieuwsgierig naar dit boek.

C Korte weergave van de inhoud
In het verhaal staan drie vrouwelijke doctoren centraal, genaamd Paige Taylor, Honey Taft en Kat Hunter. Ze werken allen in het Embarcadero County Hospital in San Francisco. Gedurende vier jaar volg je de drie doktoren met alles wat ze tegen komen op het gebied van patiënten, werkdruk en liefde.

Het verhaal begint in de rechtszaal, waar Paige wordt beschuldigd van moord op een patiënt. Je komt dan ook te weten dat Kat in het verhaal dood gaat,omdat ze er niet bij is in de rechtszaal. De uitspraak van de rechter kom je pas te weten aan het einde van het boek

Vanaf hoofdstuk 2 begint het verhaal bij het begin (de gebeurtenissen voor de rechtszaal). Paige, Kat en Honey ontmoeten elkaar in het ziekenhuis en besluiten samen een appartement te delen. Vanaf het begin in het werk in het ziekenhuis erg zwaar. De zorgwereld wordt gedomineerd door mannen en de werktijden zijn slopend.

Honey is eigenlijk niet in staat een goede dokter te zijn, omdat ze altijd onvoldoendes heeft gehaald tijdens haar studie. Door haar lichaam in de strijd te gooien, wist ze echter te slagen met de hoogste cijfers die ooit gehaald waren. Veel dokters twijfelen aan haar bekwaamheid, maar door haar lichaam weet ze steeds haar baan te behouden.

Kat is tijdens haar jeugd verkracht. Ze heeft daarom besloten zich nooit meer te laten aanraken door een man, totdat ze een uitdaging aangaat met een man die haar in bed denkt te krijgen. Ken Mallory verklaard haar te liefde en zegt met Kat te willen trouwen. Kat zwicht voor Mallory, terwijl Mallory haar eigenlijk afzet. Kat raakt zwanger van Ken. Ken krijgt een aanbod van een rijke familie met een rijke dochter te trouwen en een privépraktijk te beginnen. Kat staat hierbij in de weg en daarom vermoord Ken haar.

Paige is opgegroeid in landen over de hele wereld als dochter van een dokter van het WHO. Haar hele jeugd leefde ze met Alfred en ze hadden altijd de droom later met elkaar te trouwen. Als Alfred haar komt opzoeken, is hij plots getrouwd met een ander. Paige kan Alfred moeilijk uit haar hoofd zetten, maar later in het verhaal komt ze Jason tegen. Jason steunt Paige in alles en Paige wordt verliefd op hem.
Paige is een goede dokter, ze houdt van haar werk. Met één van haar patiënten is ze zo betrokken dat ze vertrouwelijk gesprekken met hem krijgt over zijn leven. De patiënt, John Cronin, is ernstig ziek en heeft nog maar een paar weken te leven. Tijdens een nacht wordt Paige gebeld. John wil haar spreken. Hij wil dood. Paige besluit naar twijfelen hem te helpen en zorgt dat hij vredig sterft. Vervolgens wordt er een rechtszaak tegen Paige aangespannen. Ze zou John vermoord hebben.

Het boek eindigt verrassend. Het lijkt alsof Paige ten dode is opgeschreven, maar als Lawrence Barker, de dokter waarvan het leek dat hij Paige niet mocht, komt getuigen in de rechtszaal, wordt ze toch vrijgesproken.


2.Verdiepingsopdracht

Milsbeek, 19 oktober 2008

Hallo Paige,

Ik heb pas jouw verhaal gelezen en heb naar aanleiding daarvan schrijf ik deze brief. Allereerst wil ik zeggen dat ik je een fantastische dokter vind. Je bent zo betrokken bij je patiënten. Een dokter zijn is voor jou echt je leven. Wat ik jammer vond, was dat je zo lang in je verdriet om Alfred bleef hangen. Het had mij leuk geleken als je wraak op hem had genomen samen met Jason.

Toen Kat overleed, vond ik het heel goed dat je het niet zo naast je neer legde, maar echt actie ondernam. Jammer dat de politie niet naar je luisterde, maar dat is tegenwoordig altijd zo. De politie wil overal hard bewijs voor en als je dat niet kunt leveren, dan kom je nergens. Toch heb jij je best gedaan en meer dan jij deed, kon bijna niet. Mijn complimenten!

Je had altijd een hekel aan Lawrence Barker. Dat vond ik vaak terecht, omdat hij je echt gemeen behandelde. Ik heb wel altijd mijn twijfels gehad over Lawrence het allemaal wel zo gemeen bedoelde. Misschien had je eerder met hem moeten praten om je gevoelens te uiten.

Jouw betrokkenheid met mensen heeft je bijna je eigen leven gekost. Wat ik me eigenlijk afvraag is: Waarom heb je niet aan andere doktoren verteld over de euthanasie van John Cronin? Zij hadden het vast begrepen. Dan had het niet zo ver hoeven komen in de rechtszaal. Gelukkig kon Lawrence Barker ervoor zorgen dat je uiteindelijk vrij gesproken werd. Het was dus toch niet zo’n hele gemene man.

Ik hoop dat je nog lang en gelukkig mag verder leven met Jason!

Groetjes,
Inge Bruggers

3.Evaluatie

a. Eindoordeel
Ik vind ‘Nothing lasts forever’ een heel leuk boek. Het is spannend, humoristisch en het heeft karakter. Het boek is vlot door te lezen en je kunt het amper wegleggen. Ik heb nooit een punt gehad dat ik het saai vond worden. Ik zou dit boek dus zeker aanraden. Vooral aan meisjes/vrouwen, want jongens houden er niet zo van denk ik.

b+ c Oordeel uitvoeren verdiepingsopdracht
Ik heb geen problemen gehad met het uitvoeren van de verdiepingsopdracht. Als je het verhaal goed doorleest, dan weet je wat de hoofdpersoon meemaakt en is het niet verwarrend of moeilijk daar je oordeel over te geven.

Sonnet 50

Written by Shakespeare

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travel's end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say:'
Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend.'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side.
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind

Break of day

Written by John Donne

'TIS true, 'tis day ; what though it be?
O, wilt thou therefore rise from me?
Why should we rise because 'tis light?
Did we lie down because 'twas night?
Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye ;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say,
That being well I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so
That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?
O ! that's the worst disease of love,
The poor, the foul, the false, love can
Admit, but not the busied man.He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

September '11

‘September 11’ van Hillary A. Craig

I was sitting in school on that day in September
It was the day all Americans soon would remember
I watched the twin towers as they were hit by those planes
And I watched everything around them burst into flames
Everyone running and screaming in horror
Not knowing what to do or what was in store
Families were torn and loved ones were lost
Some wanted revenge, no matter the cost
All the lives that would never be the same
Stood back and watched as the firemen came
So much destruction, so much left undone
On September 11, 2001.

No Tomorrow

by Angel Towe

I am going to die tomorrow,
But yet I haven't been born.
My mother shows no sorrow,
For I am a product of love torn.

I will never see the light of day,
I will never smell a flower,
I will never walk along a waters bay,
Or feel the drop of an Aprils shower.

It hurts for no one to show me love,
I will never be hugged or kissed,
When I have gone to the heavens above,
I wonder if I will be missed.

Today is my last day to live,
My last thought, my last breath.
Just think of all I could give,
But tomorrow I'll be put to rest.

Wedding

Auteur: Alice Oswald

From time to time our love is like a sail
and when the sail begins to alternate
from tack to tack, it’s like a swallowtail
and when the swallow flies it’s like a coat;
and if the coat is yours, it has a tear
like a wide mouth and when the mouth begins
to draw the wind, it’s like a trumpeter
and when the trumpet blows, it blows like millions....
and this, my love, when millions come and go
beyond the need of us, is like a trick;
and when the trick begins,
it’s like a toetip-toeing on a rope, which is like luck;
and when the luck begins, it’s like a wedding,
which is like love, which is like everything

Maria Goodin - Someone to care for

My friend Natalie can't see the point in you. She says that all you do is burp, fart, dribble, grin inanely and emit a series if unintelligible noises. Admittedly she hasn't seen you at your best, but I still think that's a little harsh. The first time Natalie came to visit you were asleep on your back, gurgling little spit bubbles, a thin strand of drool running down your chin. Natalie just stared at you as if you were a creature from another planet. She made no secret of the fact that she wasn't impressed. The second time she came to visit you crawled across the carpet towards her and vomited on her expensive new shoes. I tried to make light of it, explaining that it's mainly just liquid and wipes off easily, but she really did look quite appalled. Natalie likes being a career woman, rushing between meetings in her power suit, clutching her Starbucks Coffee and her laptop. She's never wanted a husband or a baby, but if she could see you on a good day I'm sure she'd feel differently. If she could see the way you clap your hands and squeal with excitement when Scooby-Doo comes on the telly then she'd find you just as adorable as I do. Instead she thinks you're smelly and have a strange shaped head. She looked revolted when I said you like putting your toes in your mouth, and finds it disturbing that you're always staring greedily at my breasts. It upsets her even more when you stare greedily at her breasts. I tried to explain that you're a man and that's what men do, but she wasn't having any of it. If I'm honest, I think you could have made a bit more of an effort when Natalie first visited our house. I know it was the morning after Spongey's stag do, but I thought you could have at least lugged yourself into the bedroom instead of lying sprawled on the sofa in a curly wig, a pair of women's shoes and a t-shirt with a photo of Spongey's bare bottom on the front. If you'd had some trousers on it might not have been so bad. Natalie and I were comfortable enough perched on the wooden chairs, but it was quite distracting to have you snoring over our conversation, and I think Natalie was a bit uncomfortable when you started mumbling and fiddling with yourself.
< 2 > When Natalie left, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a look of pity before rushing off for an appointment with her personal trainer, I removed your stilettos, covered you with a blanket and wiped the drool from your chin. Later, when you woke up screaming about a pain in your head which you assumed must be a brain haemorrhage, I gently explained that you had simply consumed an excessive amount of alcohol. I then sat by your side, holding your hand and stroking your forehead in a bid to reassure you. Three days later when you had recovered, I firmly reiterated this link between lager and suffering and said I hoped you had learnt your lesson. You looked ashamed, said you wouldn't do it again and then promptly went out and got wasted. I'd secretly hoped that things would be better the next time Natalie came to visit. I thought she might like you better if you had your trousers on and were conscious. To be fair you didn't let me down on either of those counts, but if I'm going to be picky then I wish you'd been sober and hadn't vomited on her. I assumed that when I told you she was coming for dinner you would come home from the pub before ten o'clock, but of course you bumped into Spongey down at the Queens Head and the two of you decided to celebrate the fact that you were wearing the same socks. I understand how important these things are to you, and I do appreciate the fact that you phoned me from the pub six times with a string of terrible excuses, but could you not have come for the Chicken Chasseur I had prepared? Instead you fell through the front door three hours late, addressed Natalie as Bob, crawled towards her on all fours and then chucked up all over her feet. It wiped off just as I said it would, but I don't think that made Natalie like you any better. Once Natalie had left - which she did at great pace - I cleared up the mess and sat you down at the kitchen table. You clutched my fingers tightly and tried to put one of them in your mouth, mistaking it for the digestive biscuit I offered you. I should have been furious, but when you grinned stupidly at me, your mouth surrounded by biscuit crumbs, my heart softened and I forgave you. At the end of the day, however badly you behave, you're mine and I still love you.
< 3 >I can understand why Nathalie thinks you're an idiot, but it's easy for her to judge. She already has everything she ever desired. I never wanted the impressive job title, the sports car or the big flashy house. All I ever really wanted was to be a mother. You might not be the most sophisticated man in the world, but you have a good heart and all the other necessary parts to help me fulfil that dream. I know exactly why having a baby is so important to me: I want someone I can take care of. I find it incredible that another flailing, helpless human being could rely on me to look after them. Babies are so utterly incapable of looking after themselves, so dependent on others for their wellbeing. From their failure to control their bodily functions to their inability to use their tiny undeveloped brains, they are so completely useless without someone to care for them. I want to be needed like that. Natalie says I don't need a baby to fulfil my dream. She says I'm already there. I have no idea what she means. I just don't think these career women understand.

Esther Claes - The Star

When the world started to end, you were ashamed of yourself for weeping bitterly in your bedroom for an entire day. You saw the president crying and begging on TV and it sent you into a panic. You lay in bed with the blankets pulled up to your nose, crying, refusing to answer the door when the maid, your manager, your assistant, and finally your parents begged you to come out. After twenty-four hours, your father took the door off its hinges and dragged you down the stairs into your sunken living room with the white carpet and leather couches. You kicked and screamed until he had to pick you up and carry you over his shoulder. You called him a motherfucker and threatened to take back the Mercedes you'd purchased for him last Christmas. Your mother sat solemnly on the couch, her hands clenched into fists on top of the newspaper in her lap. She said it was all over. You glowered and glared; you asked what the hell is happening, and will you still be on the talk show circuit next month? The television stations are all color bars and static. Your father says that the talk shows are all gone, and not to worry. He tells you that there are far more important things happening right now. How can you not worry? You were supposed to debut your new fragrance next month to coincide with the release of your latest album. Your mother tells you that the album isn't going to happen, and she clenches her fists even tighter than before. You can't believe what she's saying. How can she say that? There will always be an album, and there will always be television. You tell your parents they're idiots, and that this will all blow over in a few days, as soon as they replace that pussy of a president. Your mother says that the world is ending. They dropped bombs, she says darkly. There are diseases and radiation poisoning spreading all over the country, your father says. Not in LA you shout defiantly. Your mother holds up the newspapers one at a time. WAR is on the cover of each one, along with speculations on the doomed fate of the country, including LA. You feel sick, you're dizzy. You want to know what you did to deserve this, and how anyone could possibly do such a thing before you had a chance to accomplish the things that mean so much to you.
< 2 >
*Two days later, your mother and father are discussing survival, and filling jugs with water from the tap just in case. Your father is worried about the electricity holding out. You sit in the living room wondering why all the servants quit the day before, and if your assistant is ever going to call you back. The only connection to the outside world is the radio, and it's hard to get real information between the crying and praying on almost every channel. On the pop station, the dj says over and over that it's only a matter of time. Your father tells you to switch to the AM band because they have more sense on AM, goddammit. You hear reports of death and destruction all over the country, and all you can think is that you hope LA is okay. Even after reports of people dead in their cars, you imagine Rodeo Drive the same as it ever was, untouched by nasty things like war, sickness and death. How could a place a beautiful as Hollywood ever be destroyed? No one messes with LA, you say, and your father won't look you in the eye. When the electricity goes out that night, your eyes fill with frustrated tears, and you light the scented candles you'd been saving for a special occasion. The radio runs on batteries, but they won't last long. Your father tells you to conserve them, and stop leaving the radio on so much. You tell him to shut up, and that you can afford thousands of batteries. The man on the radio says that much of the east coast is destroyed, along with Detroit and Chicago. He says that the radiation is coming west at an alarming rate, and you wish you had a map so you'd know what that meant. Instead of worrying, you get out that limited edition pink nail polish and give yourself a pedicure. It isn't until you spill the bottle, and nail polish gets all over the carpet that you realize you can't stop crying. In the morning, your dad tells you that your mother is very sick, and he doesn't feel so well himself. You roll your eyes and tell them to take some pepto, but on the inside, you can't deal with the possibility of them dying and leaving you alone, so you go back to your room and sit in front of the window. Your yard looks the same. There is no death and destruction on your property, but you wonder what's changed outside of your front gates.
< 3 > In the afternoon, you bring your four gold records and three Grammy awards up to your room so you can look at them. Your finger traces your name on the awards over and over, and you can't comprehend how someone who has accomplished so much in such a short time should be allowed to go through something as horrible as this. You're a star, for God's sake, you deserve better than this. Your father is calling your name in the hall. He sounds sick. His voice breaks repeatedly, and he's gagging between words. You don't want him to throw up on the carpet in the hall, but you keep your mouth shut. If he does, the cleaning woman will take care of it tomorrow. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes. Your father's voice sounds farther and farther away now as you clutch the Grammy close to your chest and squeeze your eyes shut. Tomorrow you'll wake up and things will be better. Tomorrow you'll be on the Tonight Show, and be as charming as ever. Tomorrow your agent will apologize for not calling. Tomorrow you'll still be a star.

Eliza Riley - Return to Paradise

Lisa gazed out over the Caribbean Sea, feeling the faint breeze against her face - eyes shut, the white sand warm between her bare toes. The place was beautiful beyond belief, but it was still unable to ease the grief she felt as she remembered the last time she had been here. She had married James right here on this spot three years ago to the day. Dressed in a simple white shift dress, miniature white roses attempting to tame her long dark curls, Lisa had been happier than she had ever thought possible. James was even less formal but utterly irresistible in creased summer trousers and a loose white cotton shirt. His dark hair slightly ruffled and his eyes full of adoration as his looked at his bride to be. The justice of the peace had read their vows as they held hands and laughed at the sheer joy of being young, in love and staying in a five star resort on the Caribbean island of the Dominican Republic. They had seen the years blissfully stretching ahead of them, together forever. They planned their children, two she said, he said four so they compromised on three (two girls and a boy of course); where they would live, the travelling they would do together - it was all certain, so they had thought then. But that seemed such a long time ago now. A lot can change in just a few years - a lot of heartache can change a person and drive a wedge through the strongest ties, break even the deepest love. Three years to the day and they had returned, though this time not for the beachside marriages the island was famous for but for one of its equally popular quickie divorces. Lisa let out a sigh that was filled with pain and regret. What could she do but move on, find a new life and new dreams? - the old one was beyond repair. How could this beautiful place, with its lush green coastline, eternity of azure blue sea and endless sands be a place for the agony she felt now? The man stood watching from the edge of the palm trees. He couldn't take his eyes of the dark-haired woman he saw standing at the water's edge, gazing out to sea as though she was waiting for something - or someone. She was beautiful, with her slim figure dressed in a loose flowing cotton dress, her crazy hair and bright blue eyes not far off the colour of the sea itself. It wasn't her looks that attracted him though; he came across many beautiful women in his work as a freelance photographer. It was her loneliness and intensity that lured him. Even at some distance he was aware that she was different from any other woman he could meet.
< 2 > Lisa sensed the man approaching even before she turned around. She had been aware of him standing there staring at her and had felt strangely calm about being observed. She looked at him and felt the instant spark of connection she had only experienced once before. He walked slowly towards her and they held each other's gaze. It felt like meeting a long lost friend - not a stranger on a strange beach. Later, sitting at one of the many bars on the resort, sipping the local cocktails they began to talk. First pleasantries, their hotels, the quality of the food and friendliness of the locals. Their conversation was strangely hesitant considering the naturalness and confidence of their earlier meeting. Onlookers, however, would have detected the subtle flirtation as they mirrored each other's actions and spoke directly into each other's eyes. Only later, after the alcohol had had its loosening effect, did the conversation deepen. They talked of why they were here and finally, against her judgement, Lisa opened up about her heartache of the past year and how events had led her back to the place where she had married the only man she believed she could ever love. She told him of things that had been locked deep inside her, able to tell no one. She told him how she had felt after she had lost her baby. She was six months pregnant and the happiest she had ever been when the pains had started. She was staying with her mother as James was working out of town. He hadn't made it back in time. The doctor had said it was just one of those things, that they could try again. But how could she when she couldn't even look James in the eye. She hated him then, for not being there, for not hurting as much as her but most of all for looking so much like the tiny baby boy that she held for just three hours before the took him away. All through the following months she had withdrawn from her husband, family, friends. Not wanting to recover form the pain she felt - that would have been a betrayal of her son. At the funeral she had refused to stand next to her husband and the next day she had left him.
< 3 > Looking up, Lisa could see her pain reflected in the man's eyes. For the first time in months she didn't feel alone, she felt the unbearable burden begin to lift from her, only a bit but it was a start. She began to believe that maybe she had a future after all and maybe it could be with this man, with his kind hazel eyes, wet with their shared tears. They had come here to dissolve their marriage but maybe there was hope. Lisa stood up and took James by the hand and led him away from the bar towards the beech where they had made their vows to each other three years ago. Tomorrow she would cancel the divorce; tonight they would work on renewing their promises.

Charlie Fish - Death By Scrabble

It's a hot day and I hate my wife. We're playing Scrabble. That's how bad it is. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble. I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. I don't think I've spoken to anyone except my wife since Thursday morning. On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman. My letters are crap. I play, appropriately, BEGIN. With the N on the little pink star. Twenty-two points. I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Clack, clack, clack. I hate her. If she wasn't around, I'd be doing something interesting right now. I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something. She plays JINXED, with the J on a double-letter score. 30 points. She's beating me already. Maybe I should kill her. If only I had a D, then I could play MURDER. That would be a sign. That would be permission. I start chewing on my U. It's a bad habit, I know. All the letters are frayed. I play WARMER for 22 points, mainly so I can keep chewing on my U. As I'm picking new letters from the bag, I find myself thinking - the letters will tell me what to do. If they spell out KILL, or STAB, or her name, or anything, I'll do it right now. I'll finish her off. My rack spells MIHZPA. Plus the U in my mouth. Damn. The heat of the sun is pushing at me through the window. I can hear buzzing insects outside. I hope they're not bees. My cousin Harold swallowed a bee when he was nine, his throat swelled up and he died. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat. She plays SWEATIER, using all her letters. 24 points plus a 50 point bonus. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now. I am getting sweatier. It needs to rain, to clear the air. As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I find a good word. HUMID on a double-word score, using the D of JINXED. The U makes a little splash of saliva when I put it down. Another 22 points. I hope she has lousy letters.
< 2 >She tells me she has lousy letters. For some reason, I hate her more. She plays FAN, with the F on a double-letter, and gets up to fill the kettle and turn on the air conditioning. It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle. This is why I hate my wife. I play ZAPS, with the Z doubled, and she gets a static shock off the air conditioning unit. I find this remarkably satisfying. She sits back down with a heavy sigh and starts fiddling with her letters again. Clack clack. Clack clack. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I am going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I am going to start hitting her again and again and again. The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. My heart is beating. I'm sweating. I think my face actually twitches. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair. The kettle starts whistling. As the whistle builds it makes me feel hotter. She plays READY on a double-word for 18 points, then goes to pour herself a cup of tea. No I do not want one. I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack. She gives me a suspicious look. She sits back down with her cup of tea, making a cup-ring on the table, as I play an 8-letter word: CHEATING, using the A of READY. 64 points, including the 50-point bonus, which means I'm beating her now. She asks me if I cheated. I really, really hate her. She plays IGNORE on the triple-word for 21 points. The score is 153 to her, 155 to me. The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I try to make murderous words with the letters on my rack, but the best I can do is SLEEP. My wife sleeps all the time. She slept through an argument our next-door neighbours had that resulted in a broken door, a smashed TV and a Teletubby Lala doll with all the stuffing coming out. And then she bitched at me for being moody the next day from lack of sleep.
< 3 >If only there was some way for me to get rid of her. I spot a chance to use all my letters. EXPLODES, using the X of JINXED. 72 points. That'll show her. As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails. My heart is racing, but not from the shock of the bang. I don't believe it - but it can't be a coincidence. The letters made it happen. I played the word EXPLODES, and it happened - the air conditioning unit exploded. And before, I played the word CHEATING when I cheated. And ZAP when my wife got the electric shock. The words are coming true. The letters are choosing their future. The whole game is - JINXED. My wife plays SIGN, with the N on a triple-letter, for 10 points. I have to test this. I have to play something and see if it happens. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. My rack is ABQYFWE. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I start frantically chewing on the B. I play FLY, using the L of EXPLODES. I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, waiting for the sensation of rising up from my chair. Waiting to fly. Stupid. I open my eyes, and there's a fly. An insect, buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. That proves nothing. The fly could have been there anyway. I need to play something unambiguous. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. Something absolute and final. Something terminal. Something murderous. My wife plays CAUTION, using a blank tile for the N. 18 points. My rack is AQWEUK, plus the B in my mouth. I am awed by the power of the letters, and frustrated that I cannot wield it. Maybe I should cheat again, and pick out the letters I need to spell SLASH or SLAY. Then it hits me. The perfect word. A powerful, dangerous, terrible word. I play QUAKE for 19 points. I wonder if the strength of the quake will be proportionate to how many points it scored. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I am commanding fate. I am manipulating destiny. My wife plays DEATH for 34 points, just as the room starts to shake. I gasp with surprise and vindication - and the B that I was chewing on gets lodged in my throat. I try to cough. My face goes red, then blue. My throat swells. I draw blood clawing at my neck. The earthquake builds to a climax. I fall to the floor. My wife just sits there, watching.

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Alvast bedankt,
Inge & Danielle