Berichten van 1 maart 2011

De Nederlandse dichter, vertaler en journalist Jan Eijkelboom werd op 1 maart 1926 in Ridderkerk geboren. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 28 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009. en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

Schilderij, Duits, 19de eeuw

 

Dit is de liefde:
stilstand van de tijd.
De jongeling die met het meisje
in suizend onbewegen
de steile rots afspringt.

Tussen Teutoonse sparren heeft,
onhoorbaar tandenknarsend
boven een stalen baard,
de man te paard
- rivaal of vader -
het zwaard vergeefs ontbloot.
Zie ook de tanden van de honden
die doodstil grommen aan de rand.

Tanden en zwaard bereiken nooit het paar.
Het paar haalt nooit de grond.
Het blijft ontheven in een val
die op een dans gelijkt,
zo losjes houden zij elkander
bij de hand en bij
de smalle leest.

Dit is de tijd die blijft,
omdat er niets beweegt.

 

 

 

 

Slikkerveer

 

Hier hoorde mijn moeder in negentien vijf
het drinkwater aan komen ruisen
door de net aangelegde buizen.

Hier zag ik tegen de ochtendzon
mijn grootvader thuiskomen van de Noord
die hij heen-en-terug was overgezwommen
om zijn zestigste verjaardag te vieren.

Hier hoorde ik als jongen
een uiteenvallende briket ritselen
in het fornuis en dacht:
het klinkt als zilverpapier
dat terug tracht te komen
uit zijn verfrommeling.

Ik borg dat op voor later -
voor nu.

 

 

 

Voor wat hoort wat

Voor wat hoort wat
Een kind vraagt nooit
waarom, waartoe het toch
op aarde werd geworpen.

 

Daarom en niet omdat
het hulpeloos zou zijn
verzorgen wij het trouw,

 

vereren het als god.
Tot het de dood ontdekt
en een der onzen wordt.

 

 

 

Jan Eijkelboom (1 maart 1926 – 28 februari 2008)

 

 

 

 

De Oostenrijkse schrijver, dichter en schilder Franzobel werd geboren op 1 maart 1967 in Vöcklabruck. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2008  en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

Leibenfrost/Herbst:  

 

Wie Attila der Hunnenkönig,  
daß die Blätter von den Bäumen  
fallen, nun den Weg befaulen,  
stumm, so ist er eingefallen,  
wer jetzt noch keine Ahnung hat,  
erfährt es nimmermehr.  

 

 

 

Watschenmann:Kaltleutgebern/Täterprofil:  

 

Lebte eher nicht in fester Partnerschaft,  
also eher Einzelgängertyp, hat sich öfter  
in der Nähe des Tatorts aufgehalten eher  
oder dort vielleicht eher sogar gewohnt  
war im Umgang mit verbalen Konflikten  
eher ungeschickt, das heißt, er reagierte  
eher aggressiv und rastete möglicherweise auch aus,  
fiel durch ständiges Mitführen einer Bewaffnung  
auf, trat eventuell als Tierquäler schon  
in Erscheinung, ehe er jetzt  
Täter geworden ist.  

 

 

 

 

Franzobel (Vöcklabruck, 1 maart 1967)

 

 

 

 

De Engelse schrijver Jim Crace werd geboren op 1 maart 1946 in St. Albans, Hertfordshire. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009. en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Being Dead

 

„ For old times’ sake, the doctors of zoology had driven out of town that Tuesday afternoon to make a final visit to the singing salt dunes at Baritone Bay. And to lay a ghost. They never made it back alive. They almost never made it back at all.
They’d only meant to take a short nostalgic walk along the coast where they had met as students almost thirty years before. They had made love for the first time in these same dunes. And they might have made love there again if, as the newspapers were to say, ‘Death, armed with a piece of granite, had not stumbled on their kisses.’
They were the oddest pair, these dead, spreadeagled lovers on the coast: Joseph and Celice. Both had been teachers. He was director at the Tidal Institute, where he was noted for his coldness as much as for his brains. She was a part-time tutor at the university. Hardly any of their colleagues had ever seen them together, or visited them at home, let alone witnessed them touch. How unexpected, then, that these two, of all couples, should be found like this, without their underclothes, their heads caved in, unlikely victims of unlikely passions. Who would have thought that unattractive people of that age and learning would encounter sex and murder in the open air?
They paid a heavy price for their nostalgia.”

 

 

Jim Crace (St. Albans, 1 maart 1946)

 

 

 

 

De Zwitserse dichter, schrijver, cabaretier en liedjesmaker Franz Hohler werd geboren op 1 maart 1943 in Biel. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

Vom richtigen Gebrauch der Zeit

 

Ich habe dich

heute morgen

nicht zum Bahnhof begleitet

ich hatte soviel zu tun

und brauchte sie dringend

die halbe Stunde.

 

Doch kaum warst du weg

saß ich da

und war

eine ganze Stunde lang traurig.

 

 

 

Solaruhren

 

Deine Uhr

neben meiner Uhr

auf dem Fenstersims

in der Vormittagssonne.

 

Gemeinsam

trinken sie Licht

damit sie stets

ihre Pflicht erfüllen können

uns anzuzeigen

wie wir langsam

zusammen älter werden

du und ich.

 

 

 

 

Franz Hohler (Biel, 1 maart 1943)

 

 

 

 

De Franstalige, Zwitserse schrijver Jacques Chessex werd geboren op 1 maart 1934 in Payerne. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Le simple préserve l'énigme

 

„J'ai vingt-six ans, lui trente-trois. A l'époque il est long, maigre, souple, rapide, rieur et même moqueur. Le teint coloré, tirant sur le carmin en fin de repas, le sourire inquiété d'une petite cassure à une incisive. Quarante-huit ans d'amitié sont nés là, je veux dire de mutuelle curiosité, d'histoires de livres, d'enfants, de maisons, de séparations, dans l'exigence légèrement consentie d'une communauté de sentiment sur nos lieux, nos origines, notre proximité, - une totale indépendance des esprits et des mouvements. L'un et l'autre sachant ce qu'écrire pèse de silence, de travail contre soi et le monde, et d'exposition aux coups.“

 

 

Jacques Chessex (1 maart 1934 – 9 oktober 2009)

 

 

 

 

De Britse schrijver Giles Lytton Strachey werd geboren op 1 maart 1880 in Londen. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2008  en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Frederick the Great and Voltaire

 

„At the present time [October 1915] when it is so difficult to think of anything but of what is and what will be, it may yet be worthwhile to cast occasionally a glance backward at what was. Such glances may at least prove to have the humble merit of being entertaining: they may even be instructive as well. Certainly it would be a mistake to forget that Frederick the Great once lived in Germany. Nor is it altogether useless to remember that a curious old gentleman, extremely thin, extremely active, and heavily bewigged, once decided that, on the whole, it would be as well for him not to live in France. For, just as modern Germany dates from the accession of Frederick to the throne of Prussia, so modern France dates from the establishment of Voltaire on the banks of the Lake of Geneva. The intersection of those two momentous lives forms one of the most curious and one of the most celebrated incidents in history. To English readers it is probably best known through the few brilliant paragraphs devoted to it by Macaulay; though Carlyle's masterly and far more elaborate narrative is familiar to every lover of The History of Friedrich II. Since Carlyle wrote, however, fifty years have passed. New points of view have arisen, and a certain amount of new material -- including the valuable edition of the correspondence between Voltaire and Frederick published from the original documents in the Archives at Berlin -- has become available. It seems, therefore, in spite of the familiarity of the main outlines of the story, that another rapid review of it will not be out of place.

Voltaire was forty-two years of age, and already one of the most famous men of the day, when, in

August 1736, he received a letter from the Crown Prince of Prussia. This letter was the first in a

correspondence which was to last, with a few remarkable intervals, for a space of over forty years. It was written by a young man of twenty-four, of whose personal qualities very little was known, and whose importance seemed to lie simply in the fact that he was heir- apparent to one of the secondary European monarchies.“

 

 

Lytton Strachey (1 maart 1880 – 21 januari 1932)

Hier met Virginia Woolf


Zie voor nog meer schrijvers van de 1e maart (en de 29e februari) ook mijn vorige blog van vandaag en eveneens mijn eerste blog van vandaag.

De Japanse dichter en schrijver Ryūnosuke Akutagawa werd geboren op 1 maart 1892 in Tokio. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: In a Grove (Vertaald door Takashi Kojima)

 

„Yes, sir. Certainly, it was I who found the body. This morning, as usual, I went to cut my daily quota of cedars, when I found the body in a grove in a hollow in the mountains. The exact location? About 150 meters off the Yamashina stage road. It's an out-of-the-way grove of bamboo and cedars.

The body was lying flat on its back dressed in a bluish silk kimono and a wrinkled head-dress of the Kyoto style. A single sword-stroke had pierced the breast. The fallen bamboo-blades around it were stained with bloody blossoms. No, the blood was no longer running. The wound had dried up, I believe. And also, a gad-fly was stuck fast there, hardly noticing my footsteps.

You ask me if I saw a sword or any such thing? No, nothing, sir. I found only a rope at the root of a cedar near by. And . . . well, in addition to a rope, I found a comb. That was all. Apparently he must have made a battle of it before he was murdered, because the grass and fallen bamboo-blades had been trampled down all around.

"A horse was near by?" No, sir. It's hard enough for a man to enter, let alone a horse. The Testimony of a Traveling Buddhist Priest Questioned by a High Police Commissioner The time? Certainly, it was about noon yesterday, sir. The unfortunate man was on the road from Sekiyama to Yamashina. He was walking toward Sekiyama with a woman accompanying him on horseback, who I have since learned was his wife. A scarf hanging from her head hid her face from view. All I saw was the color of her clothes, a lilac-colored suit. Her horse was a sorrel with a fine mane. The lady's height? Oh, about four feet five inches. Since I am a Buddhist priest, I took little notice about her details. Well, the man was armed with a sword as well as a bow and arrows. And I remember that he carried some twenty odd arrows in his quiver.“

 

 

 

Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1 maart 1892 – 24 juli 1927)

 

 

 

 

De Duitse schrijfster en dichteres Sabina Lorenz werd geboren op 1 maart 1967 in München. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

Abend, offen

 

In den Straßen wächst Licht (take your time), tröstlich

bunte Einkaufstüten und bunte Kinder, sagt sie, Namen

im Mund, Luxus für alle im Lidl. So entstehen Räume.

Nach hinten raus gibts Brot von gestern, kaum

ahnt man wie sicher die Landschaft geworden ist. Und

unter der Linde, Lidl-Linde, sagt sie, parken tröstlich

bunte Wagen, Baumtraum, sagt sie, also

Parkplatz, Menschen, Einkaufstüten, ob das

wohl für Linden ewig sei, und wie lang

für Linden ewig sei, also ewig, sagt sie, ewig also

ist genauso, als ob es das nie gegeben, sagt sie

eine Zigarette lang, dann erlischt das Licht (take

away), nach hinten raus ist die Linde eine sichere

Geliebte. Den Ort zu bleiben gibts dort auch.

 

 

 

Sabina Lorenz (München, 1 maart 1967)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Robert Traill Spence Lowell werd geboren op 1 maart 1917 in Boston. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

 

Children of Light 

 

Our fathers wrung their bread from stocks and stones

And fenced their gardens with the Redmen's bones;

Embarking from the Nether Land of Holland,

Pilgrims unhouseled by Geneva's night,

They planted here the Serpent's seeds of light;

And here the pivoting searchlights probe to shock

The riotous glass houses built on rock,

And candles gutter by an empty altar,

And light is where the landless blood of Cain

Is burning, burning the unburied grain.

 

 

 

Epilogue 

 

Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme--

why are they no help to me now

I want to make

something imagined, not recalled?

I hear the noise of my own voice:

The painter's vision is not a lens,

it trembles to caress the light.

But sometimes everything I write

with the threadbare art of my eye

seems a snapshot,

lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,

heightened from life,

yet paralyzed by fact.

All's misalliance.

Yet why not say what happened?

Pray for the grace of accuracy

Vermeer gave to the sun's illumination

stealing like the tide across a map

to his girl solid with yearning.

We are poor passing facts,

warned by that to give

each figure in the photograph

his living name.

 

 

Robert Lowell (1 maart 1917 - 12 September 1977)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter Richard Wilbur werd geboren op 1 maart 1921 in New York. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

The Writer

 

In her room at the prow of the house

Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,

My daughter is writing a story.

 

I pause in the stairwell, hearing

>From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys

Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

 

Young as she is, the stuff

Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:

I wish her a lucky passage.

 

But now it is she who pauses,

As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.

A stillness greatens, in which

 

The whole house seems to be thinking,

And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor

Of strokes, and again is silent.

 

I remember the dazed starling

Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;

How we stole in, lifted a sash

 

And retreated, not to affright it;

And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

 

And iridescent creature

Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove

To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

 

And wait then, humped and bloody,

For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits

Rose when, suddenly sure,

 

It lifted off from a chair-back,

Beating a smooth course for the right window

And clearing the sill of the world.

 

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish

What I wished you before, but harder.

 

 

 

Richard Wilbur (New York, 1 maart 1921)

 

 

 

 

De Amerikaanse dichter, schrijver, acteur, rapper en musicus Saul Stacey Williams werd geboren in  Newburgh, New York op 29 februari 1972. Zie ook mijn blog van 28 februari 2008 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Dead Emcee Scrolls: The Lost Teachings of Hip-Hop

 

„There is no music more powerful than hip-hop. No other music so purely demands an instant affirmative on such a global scale. When the beat drops, people nod their heads, "yes," in the same way that they would in conversation with a loved one, a parent, professor, or minister. Instantaneously, the same mechanical gesture that occurs in moments of dialogue as a sign of agreement which subsequently, releases increased oxygen to the brain and, thus, broadens one's ability to understand, becomes the symbolic and actual gesture that connects you to the beat. No other musical form has created such a raw and visceral connection to the heart while still incorporating various measures from other musical forms that then appeal to other aspects of the emotional core of an individual. Music speaks directly to the subconscious. The consciously simplified beat of the hip-hop drum speaks directly to the heart. The indigenous drumming of continental Africa is known to be primarily dense and quite often up-tempo. The drumming of the indigenous Americas, on the other hand, in its most common representation is primarily sparse and down-tempo. What happens when you put a mixer and cross-fader between those two cultural realities? What kind of rhythms and polyrhythms might you come up with? Perhaps one complex yet basic enough to synchronize the hearts of an entire generation.
To program a drumbeat is to align an external rhythmic device to an individual's biorhythm. I remember being introduced to the hip hop/electronica sub-genre, drum and bass, by one of its pioneers, Goldie. I accompanied him to his DJ set at the London club, the Blue Note“

 

.

 

Saul Williams (Newburgh, 29 februari 1972)

 

 

 

 

De Afro-Amerikaanse schrijver Ralph (Waldo) Ellison werd geboren in Oklahoma City op 1 maart 1913. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Living With Music

 

„It is to marvel: the ageless and irrepressible Duke Ellington is seventy, and another piano player of note, President Richard M. Nixon, has ordered in his honor a state dinner to be served in the house where, years ago, Duke's father, then a butler, once instructed white guests from the provinces in the gentle art and manners proper to such places of elegance and power. It is good news in these times of general social upheaval that traces of the old American success story remain valid, for now where the parent labored the son is to be honored for his achievements. And perhaps it is inevitable that Duke Ellington should be shown the highest hospitality of the nation's First Family in its greatest house, and that through the courtesy of the chief of state all Americans may pay, symbolically, their respects to our greatest composer.

Perhaps it is also inevitable (and if not inevitable, certainly it is proper) that that which a Pulitzer Prize jury of a few years ago was too insecure, or shortsighted, to do, and that which our institutions dedicated to the recognition of artistic achievement have been too prejudiced, negligent, or concerned with European models and styles to do, is finally being done by presidents. For it would seem that Ellington's greatness has been recognized by everyone except those charged with recognizing musical excellence at the highest levels—and even some of these have praised him privately while failing to grant him public honor.“

 

 

Ralph Ellison (1 maart 1913 –  16 april 1994)

De Amerikaanse schrijver Steven Barnes werd geboren op 1 maart 1952 in Los Angeles. Zie ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Zulu Heart

 

„Mali had been first to touch Bilalistan's shores, her ships piloted by captains and navigators refused by Abyssinia's royal court. But that kingdom's Immortal Empress had swiftly grasped the potential of the storied land far to the west, and had claimed ownership. Egypt likewise had sent ships and men, as had half a dozen other peoples. Bitterly they fought. As kingdoms rose and fell in the Old World, so did they in the New.

The derelict's barnacled ribs shimmered in twenty cubits of crystalline water, not some heroic singularity but merely another of the rivened husks scattered about the sea bottom like broken birds' nests, once the proud carriages of the bravest sailors the world had ever known. Whether their destroyers' vessels had flown the flags of their origin or slunk through the islands like sharks in the starlight, death had been the same, the watery graves the same, the end the same: northern Bilalistan belonged to Egypt and Abyssinia alone.

Kai resented the fact that such thoughts had interrupted his swim. This was a time for pleasure, not politics. So despite these waters' grim history, or the urgency of a mission he dared not share even with his beloved wife, he paddled about like a boy half his age, reveling in the sun and surf.

Kai of Dar Kush had known war, and loss, and twenty-three summers. He was a tall man, so perfectly proportioned that, in repose, he seemed smaller than his actual height. Beardless and smooth-skinned was Kai, of almost weightless carriage, as easily underestimated as a sleeping cobra.

A solid shadow glided beneath him, roiling the water with its passage. Kai blinked his eyes to clarity, bringing into focus the dolphin's every gray-black digit. Its five cubits of muscle could have shattered him with a flick if it chose, but the creature seemed more inclined merely to float and study him.“

 

 

 

Steven Barnes (Los Angeles, 1 maart 1952)

 

 

 

 

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 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: L'enlèvement

 

« Depuis, je ne pense qu’au Père éternel. J’ai redécouvert la solitude, la solitude orgueilleuse de la Foi. Qu’importe si j’ai fauté : Dieu n’aime que les pécheurs. Comment savoir s’il m’aime ? Perce que tout homme au fond de lui-même vit la souffrance de Jésus -, et se sent abandonné de son père. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani… Sauf qu’au bout de son calvaire, il ne ressuscite pas ; il connaît cette perversion absolue de la mémoire, le redoublement de la vie, et le redoublement plus terrible de la faute. Sa culpabilité, au lieu de s’en libérer, il l’aggrave.. Il porte sans espoir de rémission tous les péchés du monde. Dans un univers partagé entre les possédés et les démons, il a tout juste l’espérance insensée que ces derniers ressuscitent - Angel, mon ange invincible… D’ailleurs, maintenant que je n’ai plus rien à craindre, je lui téléphone tous les matins de mon domicile. Plus de risque d’écoute. La sonnerie retentit longuement dans le vide qu’est devenu ma vie, cette désolation que peuple, seule, la littérature… »

 

 

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 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

From Generation To Generation

 

Innocent spirits, bright, immaculate ghosts!

Why throng your heavenly hosts,

As eager for their birth

In this sad home of death, this sorrow-haunted earth?

 

Beware! Beware! Content you where you are,

And shun this evil star

Where we who are doomed to die,

Have our brief being and pass, we know not where or why.

 

We have not to consent or to refuse;

It is not ours to choose:

We come because we must,

We know not by what law, if unjust or if just.

 

The doom is on us, as it is on you,

That nothing can undo;

And all in vain you warn:

As your fate is to die, our fate is to be born.

 

 

 

Living

 

How passionately I will my life away

Which I would give all that I have to stay;

How wildly I hurry, for the change I crave.

To hurl myself into the changeless grave!

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

 

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 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

 

 

My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent

 

My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet Pleasures I felt in my Breast:
Sure never fond Shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous Change on a sudden I find!
When Things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

 

 

 

 

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 en ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

Uit: Here Lies the Heart

 

„He rose from where he was sitting against the wall and came toward me, taking my hand and leading me back to a place beside him against the wall. He did not at first speak to me, allowing me to pull myself together. I was able to look around the hall, but my gaze was drawn to Bhagavan, who was sitting absolutely straight in the Buddha posture looking directly in front of him. His eyes did not blink or in any way move. Because they seemed so full of light I had the impression they were gray. I learned later that they were brown, although there have been various opinions as to the color of his eyes. His body was naked except for a loincloth. I discovered soon after, that this and his staff were absolutely his only possessions. His body seemed firm and as if tanned by the sun, although I found that the only exercise he ever took was a twenty-minute walk every afternoon at five o'clock when he walked on the hill and sometimes greeted yogis who came to prostrate themselves at his feet.

He was a strict vegetarian, but he only ate what was placed before him and he never expressed a desire for any kind of food. As he sat there he seemed like a statue, and yet something extraordinary emanated from him. I had a feeling that on some invisible level I was receiving spiritual shocks from him, although his gaze was not directed toward me. He did not seem to be looking at anything, and yet I felt he could see and was conscious of the whole world.

"Bhagavan is in samadhi," Guy Hague said.“

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

Zie voor onderstaande schrijver ook mijn blog van 1 maart 2010.

 

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