Jean-Edern Hallier, William Dean Howells, Marcel Cabon, John Byrom, Mercedes de Acosta

De Franse schrijver Jean-Edern Hallier werd geboren op 1 maart 1936 in Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009.


Uit: Un barbare en Asie du Sud-Est


« Et comment aurait-on pu, après la paix de Genève, en 1975, penser que l’Asie du Sud-Est intéresserait encore ? Las, les conséquences de la fin de la guerre du Vietnam et de la défaite des Américains auront été incalculables : tout un sous-continent, en proie à l’érosion interne et à un formidable glissement de terrain, est en train de s’effondrer comme une falaise d’où nous contemplerions paisiblement l’océan, assis tout en haut, tandis que les vagues invisibles la minent implacablement en dessous. Boat-people, pirates, réfugiés, famine au Cambodge, colonie de peuplement, nouveau capitalisme sauvage chinois, montée de l’Islam sont autant d’intersignes – termes désignant dans les légendes de la mort de Basse Bretagne les mauvais présages – de ce prochain changement de la carte du monde, sur de vastes territoires, qu’aucun traité de Yalta n’aura fixé… »



Jean-Edern Hallier (1 maart 1936 – 12 januari 1997)



De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver en criticus William Dean Howells werd geboren op 1 maart 1837 in Martinsville, Ohio. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009.




Old fraud, I know you in that gay disguise,

That air of hope, that promise of surprise:

Beneath your bravery, as you come this way,

I see the sordid presence of Today;

And I shall see there, before you are gone,

All t
he dull Yesterdays that I have known.




Earliest Spring


Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,

Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,

Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the hollows and


Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.


But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow

Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift

Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,

Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.


Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire

(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes–

Rapture of life ineffable, perfect–as if in the brier,

Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.



William Dean Howells (1 maart 1837 – 11 mei 1920)


De Mauritiaanse dichter, schrijver en journalist Marcel Cabon werd geboren op 29 februari 1912 in Curepipe. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009. 


Kélibé-Kéliba (Fragment)


Une coiffure de plumes.


Une coiffure de plumes,

des reins plus souples que le feu.


Des bracelets de coquillages


des bracelets de coquillages,

des reins plus souples que le feu.


Des nattes de passiava.


des nattes de passiava,

des reins plus souples que le feu.


Et dans mes bras ma Kélibé.


Et dans tes bras ta kéliba.


Et dans mes bras ma Kélibé.


Et le vieux roi d’Asakali

qui avait perdu sa couronne

disait à la veuve jolie

qu’il avait prise dans ses bras:

“Hâtons-nous d’aimer:l’heure est douce.

Hatons-nous d’aimer:l’heure est brêve…”


Marcel Cabon

Marcel Cabon (29 februari 1912 – 31 januari 1972)



De Engelse dichter en vertaler  John Byrom werd geboren op 29 februari 1692 in Manchester. Zie ook mijn blog van 29 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009.


Uit: Miscellaneous Poems


“God bless the King, I mean the Faith’s Defender;
God bless – no harm in blessing – the Pretender;
But who Pretender is, or who is King,
God bless us all – that’s quite another thing.”



John Byrom (29 februari 1692 – 26 september 1763)


De Spaans-Amerikaanse schrijfster en dichteres Mercedes de Acosta werd geboren op 1 maart 1893 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009.

 Uit: Here Lies the Heart


„In Madras I hired a car, and so anxious was I to arrive in Tiruvannamalai that I did not go to bed and traveled by night, arriving about seven o’clock in the morning after driving almost eleven hours. I was very tired as I got out of the car in a small square in front of the temple [Arunachaleswara Temple]. The driver explained he could take me no farther. I turned toward the hill of Arunachala and hurried in the hot sun along the dust-covered road to the abode about two miles from town where the Sage dwelt. As I ran those two miles, deeply within myself I knew that I was running toward the greatest experience of my life.When, dazed and filled with emotion, I first entered the hall, I did not quite know what to do. Coming from strong sunlight into the somewhat darkened hall, it was, at first, difficult to see; nevertheless, I perceived Bhagavan at once, sitting in the Buddha posture on his couch in the corner. At the same moment I felt overcome by some strong power in the hall, as if an invisible wind was pushing violently against me. For a moment I felt dizzy. Then I recovered myself. To my great surprise I suddenly heard an American voice calling out to me, “Hello, come in.” It was the voice of an American named Guy Hague, who originally came from Long Beach, California. He told me later that he had been honorably discharged from the American Navy in the Philippines and had then worked his way to India, taking up the study of yoga when he reached Bombay. Then he heard about Sri Ramana Maharshi and, feeling greatly drawn to him, decided to go to Tiruvannamalai. When I met him he had already been with the Maharshi for a year, sitting uninterruptedly day and night in the hall with the sage.”



Mercedes de Acosta (1 maart 1893 – 9 mei 1968)