#dutch lit

[soracities]

Lover’s insomnia. Whispering, we take little bites of each other’s life stories.

Tommy Wieringa, Caesarion (trans. Sam Garrett)

[hongjoongpresent]

welke van deze werken op m'n ned lit lijst haat je het meest

kees de jongen (theo thijssen)

kaas (willem elsschot)

het bittere kruid (marga minco)

warenar (p.c. hooft)

perenbomen bloeien wit (gerbrand bakker)

oeroeg (hella haasse)

de grot (tim krabbé)

max havelaar (multatuli)

anders (in de tags pls :) )

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Voting ended onSep 13, 2023

[softbrutalist]

Past the words, there is the listening to place. To the sea winds that blow inland, speaking the hollow, quickened syllables of flames, and blow over the dunes where they rustle the sharp-bladed grasses, or sweep in elongate, accordion forms over the den of a fox.

The Ebbing Language by Sadiqa de Meijer (x)

[soracities]

[In the Capuchin Crypts] the funeral official knocks on the door of the crypt with his staff and asks to be admitted. The monk on the other side of the door asks who it is who wishes to enter. The official calls out the name and most important titles of the deceased, resumés that sometimes took a while, grand duke of this or that, lord of that and the other, knight in the order of so and so, et cetera. But the door remains closed, the voice says: “We know no such person.” Again the official knocks on the door. The question is repeated, there follows a summary of the dead person’s secondary titles, the minor titulature. “We know no such person.” The ritual repeats itself, again the official announces the name of the deceased, followed by the words a “poor sinner”. The door to the crypt is opened.

Tommy Wieringa, Caesarion (trans. Sam Garrett)

[elmasinthetree]

still bewildered of all the in-depth summaries I could find of Allemaal WIllen We de Hemel only one mentions that Jef is not straight, and not even because of his romantic relationship with a guy.

[sarita-daniele]

So your slow withering begins. Winter after winter you come a little more bent, you contract around yourself, under the increasingly thick sweaters and coats with which we try to keep you warm– one great vanishing point.

Erwin Mortier, Stammered Songbook: A Mother’s Book of Hours (trans. Paul Vincent)

[sarita-daniele]

Will anyone bore through your sandcastles  of semantics with  firebreaks and understanding?

Erwin Mortier, Stammered Songbook: A Mother’s Book of Hours (trans. Paul Vincent)

[sarita-daniele]

Inwardly I sometimes have the feeling that I am slowly transforming into some dull, colourless metal, with very little resonance. Sometime like zinc or tin: as solid as it is grey.

Erwin Mortier, Stammered Songbook: A Mother’s Book of Hours (trans. Paul Vincent)