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Biblioteca

É claro que não daria para reunir aqui todos os grandes escritores da Irlanda.Portanto o que você verá é uma seleção de escritores que de alguma forma vivenciaram Belfast. A maioria deles, nascidos em Belfast, e outros que nasceram na Irlanda do Norte e adotaram Belfast ou viveram um periodo de suas vidas aqui.

 

C. S. Lewis, 1898 — 1963

Autor e escritor irlandês, que se salientou pelo seu trabalho académico sobre literatura medieval e pela apologética cristã que desenvolveu através de várias obras e palestras. É igualmente conhecido por ser o autor da famosa série de livros infantis de nome As Crônicas de Nárnia.

1937  Gollancz Memorial Prize for Literature “The Allegory of Love” (a study in medieval tradition).

1946 Lewis awarded honorary Doctor of Divinity by the University of St. Andrews.  

1948 Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature.

1952 honorary degree of Doctor of Letters by Laval University, Quebec.

1956 Lewis received the Carnegie Medal in recognition of The Last Battle. 1958 Honorary Fellow of University College, Oxford.

1959 Lewis was awarded the honorary degree of Doctor of Literature by the University of Manchester.

 

John Harold Hewitt -1907-1987

Honorary doctorates the University of Ulster and Queen’s University Belfast.

Um Pub em Belfast foi nomeado em sua homenagem – the John Hewitt Bar and Restaurant, na Donegall Street.

Mosaic

A man may objectively inherit

a role in history,

reluctantly or with devotion,

soldier, functionary, rebel,

engaging himself as an instrument

of required stability or urgent change.

 

But the bystanders accidently involved,

the child on an errand run over by the army truck

the young woman strayed into the line of fire,

the elderly person beside the wall when it fell

are marginalia only,

normally excluded from documents.

 

History is selective. Give us instead

the whole mosaic, the tesserae,

that we may judge if a period indeed

has a pattern and is not merely

a handful of coloured stones in the dust.

 

Frederick Louis MacNeice -1907 – 1963

Escreveu em seu “Autumn Journal”:

“ Poetry in my opinion must be honest before anything else and I refuse to be ‘objective’ or clear-cut at the cost of honesty. ”

 

“Cradle Song”:

 

Sleep, my darling, sleep;

The pity of it all

Is all we compass if

We watch disaster fall.

Put off your twenty-odd

Encumbered years and creep

Into the only heaven,

The robbers’ cave of sleep.

 

The wild grass will whisper,

Lights of passing cars

Will streak across your dreams

And fumble at the stars;

Life will tap the window

Only too soon again,

Life will have her answer –

Do not ask her when.

 

When the winsome bubble

Shivers, when the bough

Breaks, will be the moment

But not here or now.

Sleep and, asleep, forget

The watchers on the wall

Awake all night who know

The pity of it all.

 

Brian Moore 1921 – 1999 -novelist.

1975 – James Tait Black Memorial Prize

1987- Sunday Express Book of the Year

Finalista do  Booker Prize por 03 vezes.

 

Muitos de seus romances foram adaptados para o cinema, incluindo:

Intent to Kill (1958), The Luck of Ginger Coffey, Catholics, Black Robe, Cold Heaven, and The Statement. Também escreveu para Alfred Hitchcock’s Torn Curtain and The Blood of Others, baseado no romance “Le Sang des autres” de Simone de Beauvoir.

 

 

Seamus Justin Heaney

13 April 1939

1995 Nobel Prize in Literature in 1995

1996 Whitbread Book of the Year Award

 

Beacons at Bealtaine

Uisce: water. And fionn: the water’s clear.
But dip and find this Gaelic water Greek:
A phoenix flames upon fionn uisce here.

Strangers were barbaroi to the Greek ear.

Now let the heirs of all who could not speak
The language, whose ba-babbling was unclear,

Come with their gift of tongues past each frontier
And find the answering voices that they seek

As fionn and uisce answer phoenix here.

The May Day hills were burning, far and near,
When our land’s first footers beached boats in the creek
In uisce, fionn, strange words that soon grew clear;

 

So on a day when newcomers appear
Let it be a homecoming and let us speak
The unstrange word, as it behoves us here,

Move lips, move minds and make new meanings flare

Like ancient beacons signalling, peak to peak,
From middle sea to north sea, shining clear
As phoenix flame upon fionn uisce here.

 

Michael Longley -1939 – poeta.

Whitbread Poetry Prize

T. S. Eliot Prize and the Hawthornden Prize.

2001 Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry.

 

Em setembro,2007 Longley foi designadoProfessor of Poetry for Ireland, a cross-border academic posição criada em 1998, e previamente assumida por John Montague, Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill and Paul Durcan.

 

The Kilt’,  o poeta descreve o pesadelo recorrente de seu pai por ter esfaqueado um soldado alemão.t:

 

‘He had killed him in real life and in real life had killed

Lice by sliding along the pleats a sizzling bayonet

So that his kilt unravelled when he was advancing.

 

You pick up the stitches and with needle and thread

Accompany him out of the grave and into battle,

Your arms full of material and his nakedness.’

 

Frank Ormsby 1947

Desde 1976 Head of English at the Royal Belfast Academicals Institution.

1992  Cultural Traditions Award

 

‘On Devenish Island’

 

‘That was a lazy Sunday among the ruins.

When we flicked ash into the saint’s stone bed,

Or pitched our baseball through the perfect arch

Of a church window’s crumbling Romanesque,

We meant no harm, the past completed there

Was not affected.’

 

Ciarán Carson born 1948- poet and novelist

1990-Alice Hunt Bartlett Award; Belfast Confetti

The Irish Times Irish Literature Prize for Poetry;

1993- winner of the T. S. Eliot Prize.

Forward Poetry Prize e Cholmondeley Award.

 

Tib’s Eve

 

There is a green hill far away, without a city wall,

Where cows have longer horns than any that we know;

Where daylight hours behold a moon of indigo,

And fairy cobblers operate without an awl.

 

There, ghostly galleons plough the shady Woods of True,

And schools of fishes fly among the spars and shrouds;

Rivers run uphill to spill into the starry clouds,

And beds of strawberries grow in the ocean blue.

 

This is the land of the green rose and the lion lily,

Ruled by Zeno’s eternal tortoises and hares,

Where everything is metaphor and simile:

 

Somnambulists, we stumble through this paradise

From time to time, like words repeated in our prayers,

Or storytellers who convince themselves that truths are lies

 

Medbh McGuckian 12 August 1950.

Eric Gregory Award.

Rooney prize for Irish Literature,

1982-Ireland Arts Council Award

1982-Alice Hunt Bartlett Award

1989- Cheltenham Prize.

2002- Forward Poetry Prize

 

Butterfly Memory Object

 

The simple outlines of tulips:

What makes these war flowers?

The war recycled like an earthrise

Photographed from the distance

Of a six-day-old moon.

The crags of their petals

Dance out space with the smoothing action

Of the mouth’s own slidings

Till their two-sided skin

Bayonets the softer parts of shells.

 

Still deadly places are folded

Into an unburial ground, where resting

Soldiers tell the munitionettes

They’re easy to sleep with,

And for your button a kiss.

 

 

Glenn Patterson 1961.

Tutor in Creative Writing at Queen’s University Belfast.

 

Seus romances são:

Burning Your Own (1988)

Fat Lad (1992)

Black Night at Big Thunder Mountain (1995)

The International (1999)

Number 5 (2003)

That Which Was (2004)

The third party (2007)

 

Sinead Morrissey 1972.

1990-Patrick Kavanagh Award

Finalista do T. S. Eliot Prize.

Lannan Foundation fellowship “,  

2008-British National Poetry Competition.

                                                                                                      

‘There Was Fire in Vancouver’

 

There was fire in Vancouver,

And we leaned out into the night to watch it

Set light to the East End.

It had taken stand on Commercial Avenue.

 

We marvelled at the darkness of the city,

All neon dulled by the superior flame,

And wondered would it bestow its dance

On the Ginseng Teahouse in Chinatown, on Jericho Pier.

 

There were no sirens, hoses, buckets even,

Scattering streets and ‘Fire!”Fire!’

We seemed the only ones conscious of the bright crusade

And we watched with Moses standing in our heads.

 

 

Robert McLiam Wilson – 1964 – novelist.

1989- Ripley Bogle – Rooney Prize and the Hughes Prize  

Betty Trask -Award and the Irish Book Award in 1990.

“Eureka Street” cujo foco é a vida de dois amigos em Belfast, um católico e um protestante, num curto período antes e depois do IRA cessar fogo em 1994.

“The tragedy was that Northern Ireland (Scottish) Protestants thought

themselves like the British. Northern Ireland (Irish) Catholics thought

themselves like Eireans (proper Irish). The comedy was that any once-

strong difference had long melted away and they resembled no one now much as they resembled each other. The world saw this and wondered, but round these parts folk were blind. (163)”

 

William Butler Yeats – 1865 –  1939

Poeta e dramaturgo, and one of the foremost uma das mais importantes figuras do seculo 20 figures of 20th-century literature.

 

1923-Nobel Prize in Literature

 

‘If I die bury me up there [at Roquebrune] and then in a year’s time when the newspapers have forgotten me, dig me up and plant me in Sligo”.

 

Em Setembro de1948,  o corpo deYeats’s  foi removido para Drumcliffe, County Sligo. His epitaph is taken from the last lines of “Under Ben Bulben”, one of his final poems:

 

I

Swear by what the sages spoke

Round the Mareotic Lake

That the Witch of Atlas knew,

Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

 

Swear by those horsemen, by those women

Complexion and form prove superhuman,

That pale, long-visaged company

That air in immortality

Completeness of their passions won;

Now they ride the wintry dawn

Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

 

Here’s the gist of what they mean.

II

Many times man lives and dies

Between his two eternities,

That of race and that of soul,

And ancient Ireland knew it all.

Whether man die in his bed

Or the rifle knocks him dead,

A brief parting from those dear

Is the worst man has to fear.

Though grave-digger’s toil is long,

Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,

They but thrust their buried men

Back in the human mind again.

 

III

You that Mitchel’s prayer have heard,

“Send war in our time, O Lord!”

Know that when all words are said

And a man is fighting mad,

Something drops from eyes long blind,

He completes his partial mind,

For an instant stands at ease,

Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.

Even the wisest man grows tense

With some sort of violence

Before he can accomplish fate,

Know his work or choose his mate.

 

IV

Poet and sculptor, do the work,

Nor let the modish painter shirk

What his great forefathers did,

Bring the soul of man to God,

Make him fill the cradles right.

 

Measurement began our might:

Forms a stark Egyptian thought,

Forms that gentler Phidias wrought,

Michael Angelo left a proof

On the Sistine Chapel roof,

Where but half-awakened Adam

Can disturb globe-trotting Madam

Till her bowels are in heat,

Proof that there’s a purpose set

Before the secret working mind:

Profane perfection of mankind.

 

Quattrocento put in print

On backgrounds for a God or Saint

Gardens where a soul’s at ease;

Where everything that meets the eye,

Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,

Resemble forms that are or seem

When sleepers wake and yet still dream,

And when it’s vanished still declare,

With only bed and bedstead there,

That heavens had opened.

 

Gyres run on;

When that greater dream had gone

Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,

Prepared a rest for the people of God,

Palmer’s phrase, but after that

Confusion fell upon our thought.

 

 

V

Irish poets, learn your trade,

Sing whatever is well made,

Scorn the sort now growing up

All out of shape from toe to top,

Their unremembering hearts and heads

Base-born products of base beds.

Sing the peasantry, and then

Hard-riding country gentlemen,

The holiness of monks, and after

Porter-drinkers’ randy laughter;

Sing the lords and ladies gay

That were beaten into clay

Through seven heroic centuries;

Cast your mind on other days

That we in coming days may be

Still the indomitable Irishry.

 

VI

Under bare Ben Bulben’s head

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago, a church stands near,

By the road an ancient cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase;

On limestone quarried near the spot

By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!

 

Oscar Wilde

Wilde saiu de Oxford em 1878. Um pouco antes havia ganho o prêmio Newdigate com o poema “Ravena”.

 

1895, após três julgamentos, foi condenado a dois anos de prisão, com trabalhos forçados, por “cometer atos imorais com diversos rapazes.

Foi libertado em 19 de maio de 1897. Poucos amigos o esperavam na saída, entre eles, Robert Ross.

Em seu único romance, O Retrato de Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde trata da arte, da vaidade e das manipulações humanas. Aliás, é considerado por muitos de seus leitores, como sua maior obra-prima, sendo rico em diálogos.

 

1874- Ganha a medalha de Ouro de Berkeley por seu trabalho em grego sobre os poetas helenos no Trinity College.

 

1876- Ganha o prêmio em literatura grega e latina, no Magdalen College. Publica sua primeira poesia, versão de uma passagem de As Nuvens de Aristófanes, intitulada O coro das Virgens das Nuvens.

 

1878- Ganha o prêmio Newizgate, com seu poema Ravenna.

 

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