Geborreld met de collega's in De Colonie (hierboven de toiletjuffrouw). Erg gezellig, zo gezellig dat ik na afloop een taxi naar huis moest nemen omdat er geen bussen meer reden, maar er waren dan ook veertig vertalers en voor je die allemaal gesproken hebt...
zondag 13 december 2009
12 december
Geborreld met de collega's in De Colonie (hierboven de toiletjuffrouw). Erg gezellig, zo gezellig dat ik na afloop een taxi naar huis moest nemen omdat er geen bussen meer reden, maar er waren dan ook veertig vertalers en voor je die allemaal gesproken hebt...
zaterdag 12 december 2009
11 december
Met zijn zessen 'voorgeborreld' tijdens de Vertaaldagen. Morgen volgt de echte borrel. Op de foto Richard en Leen. Onder: de button die de commissie Bar & Boos (die o.a. strijdt voor het behoud van het auteursrecht voor vertalers) heeft gemaakt om meer boekvertalers de weg naar de lijst te wijzen.
donderdag 10 december 2009
10 december
Nog maar eentje van de kerstboom, als illustratie bij het verhaal dat Anne gaat inzenden voor de Young Writers Competition 2009 (niet dat dat iets met kerst te maken heeft, maar eh... *verzint verband* de boom staat ook in een bak met aarde).
Soiled
‘No, you oughta put ‘em that way.’ She bends down and re-arranges the flowers so they look better. I suppose she should know.
‘That’s better,’ she says, satisfied. She smiles to me. I want to take that smile and put it in a box and preserve it forever.
‘What do you reckon we should do now?’ I say. ‘They’re all gone to eat.’
‘You shouldn’t of stayed here,’ she says. ‘They’ll come looking.’
‘So what?’ I say. I kick in a slow rhythm against the stone. It does not move. It is solid as it should be.
‘It does look pretty,’ she says. ‘With all them flowers.’
‘Don’t you think?’ I sit down in the grass surrounding it. My hand caresses the cold surface. Solid, smooth.
‘Aren’t you jealous?’ she says.
I shrug. ‘That’s okay.’ It’s because I can go wherever I want. But I don’t want to, not alone. ‘You coming with me?’ I say.
She looks down at the ground. Her white dress has gone all crinkly and covered in mud. She never wore dresses but now she does, because it’s an important occasion.
‘Let’s play a game,’ I say. I know she can’t come, not now. So I want to make her feel better.
‘Hide and seek,’ she says. ‘I’m hiding.’
I nod. I cover my eyes and hear her scuttle off, the shiny wet grass below her feet in the new black polished shoes rustling where she steps. I try to cover my eyes so all I see is black, but it’s too light and it won’t work. You gotta be under the ground for it to work.
Ten seconds, twenty, twenty-five. So I start looking. She can’t have gone too far. Anymore.
So I kneel down, the ground feels squishy and wet and my stockings, the black ones, my mother bought them specially for today, they get soiled and the wetness seeps through to my skin, and I shiver. But my hands don’t mind. They start digging away at the soil next to the solid, smooth surface, digging, digging, digging, and I don’t mind nothing anymore. It is still soft. Now I’m spoiling its freshness.
But I have a right to, I’m looking for her. If she’s gone for more than ten minutes I can call to her to come out, but I don’t want to lose.
‘Here she is,’ her aunt says, ‘look at her, look at what she’s doing!’
I look up, ready to say you oughtn’t give her away, that’s unfair, but she is looking at me, pointing with her white-gloved thin finger. Others follow. Their eyes stare, shocked, or disapproving, I don’t know. The uncle, the friendly one, who belongs to the aunt, he comes to me, he picks me up, lifts me onto his back. I hold on for life, dear life, and I think of the smile in the box but I don’t have the box.
The box is there beneath the soil and she is still stuck in it. Because I couldn’t find her and now it’s too late. So I cry.
Soiled
‘No, you oughta put ‘em that way.’ She bends down and re-arranges the flowers so they look better. I suppose she should know.
‘That’s better,’ she says, satisfied. She smiles to me. I want to take that smile and put it in a box and preserve it forever.
‘What do you reckon we should do now?’ I say. ‘They’re all gone to eat.’
‘You shouldn’t of stayed here,’ she says. ‘They’ll come looking.’
‘So what?’ I say. I kick in a slow rhythm against the stone. It does not move. It is solid as it should be.
‘It does look pretty,’ she says. ‘With all them flowers.’
‘Don’t you think?’ I sit down in the grass surrounding it. My hand caresses the cold surface. Solid, smooth.
‘Aren’t you jealous?’ she says.
I shrug. ‘That’s okay.’ It’s because I can go wherever I want. But I don’t want to, not alone. ‘You coming with me?’ I say.
She looks down at the ground. Her white dress has gone all crinkly and covered in mud. She never wore dresses but now she does, because it’s an important occasion.
‘Let’s play a game,’ I say. I know she can’t come, not now. So I want to make her feel better.
‘Hide and seek,’ she says. ‘I’m hiding.’
I nod. I cover my eyes and hear her scuttle off, the shiny wet grass below her feet in the new black polished shoes rustling where she steps. I try to cover my eyes so all I see is black, but it’s too light and it won’t work. You gotta be under the ground for it to work.
Ten seconds, twenty, twenty-five. So I start looking. She can’t have gone too far. Anymore.
So I kneel down, the ground feels squishy and wet and my stockings, the black ones, my mother bought them specially for today, they get soiled and the wetness seeps through to my skin, and I shiver. But my hands don’t mind. They start digging away at the soil next to the solid, smooth surface, digging, digging, digging, and I don’t mind nothing anymore. It is still soft. Now I’m spoiling its freshness.
But I have a right to, I’m looking for her. If she’s gone for more than ten minutes I can call to her to come out, but I don’t want to lose.
‘Here she is,’ her aunt says, ‘look at her, look at what she’s doing!’
I look up, ready to say you oughtn’t give her away, that’s unfair, but she is looking at me, pointing with her white-gloved thin finger. Others follow. Their eyes stare, shocked, or disapproving, I don’t know. The uncle, the friendly one, who belongs to the aunt, he comes to me, he picks me up, lifts me onto his back. I hold on for life, dear life, and I think of the smile in the box but I don’t have the box.
The box is there beneath the soil and she is still stuck in it. Because I couldn’t find her and now it’s too late. So I cry.
woensdag 9 december 2009
dinsdag 8 december 2009
8 december
Tussen alle meuk gelukkig toch nog een leuke puzzel gevonden voor de kerstvakantie. Huisje gehuurd op een halfuurtje rijden van huis om lekker vier dagen te pielen met de open haard, te lezen, te puzzelen, te wandelen, desnoods te zwemmen en te tennissen, maar vooral even geen beeldscherm voor onze neus te hebben! Nog tien dagen, dan mogen we.
maandag 7 december 2009
7 december
Vlak voor Sinterklaas kwam mijn jaarlijkse cadeau van de Lira weer: het leengeld van de bibliotheken. Absolute topper was dit jaar (weer) Belofte maakt schuld van James Patterson (7066 keer uitgeleend), op twee staat Driedubbele deining van ene mevrouw Milly Johnson (4693 keer uitgeleend) en op drie Onverwacht weerzien van Marisa de los Santos (2399 keer uitgeleend). Norman Mailer is dit jaar welgeteld 178 keer uitgeleend en Joseph Conrad een schamele 15 keer (de arme ziel staat bij de studieboeken en dat leent niet lekker uit). Melkkoetje John Grisham begint uitgemolken te raken, die is dit jaar nog 'maar' 2364 keer uitgeleend.Ook leuk om te weten (voor mij dan toch) is dat er elke dag 115 door mij vertaalde boeken worden geleend in Nederland. Cool! Maar als ik mijn leengeld een beetje op peil wil houden, zal ik toch weer wat meer van die ECI-achtige titels moeten gaan vertalen. Literatuur loont niet.
zondag 6 december 2009
6 december
Vandaag samen met Jeroen de snoeren onder mijn bureau weggewerkt. Ze zitten nu in een metalen gootje tegen de onderkant van mijn bureau. Een hele verbetering.
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