Flannery O’Connor, Jacques Bens, Jaime Sabines, Peter Van Straaten,Toni Cade Bambara

De Amerikaanse schrijfster Flannery O’Connor werd geboren op 25 maart 1925 in Savannah, Georgia. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2008 en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2010.


Uit: Everything That Rises Must Converge


„HER DOCTOR had told Julian’s mother that she must lose twenty pounds on account of her blood pressure, so on Wednesday nights Julian had to take her downtown on the bus for a reducing class at the Y. The reducing class was de-signed for working girls over fifty, who weighed from 165 to 200 pounds. His mother was one of the slimmer ones, but she said ladies did not tell their age or weight. She would not ride the buses by herself at night since they had been integrated, and because the reducing class was one of her few pleasures, necessary for her health, and free, she said Julian could at least put himself out to take her, considering all she did for him. Julian did not like to consider all she did for him, but every Wednesday night he braced himself and took her.

    She was almost ready to go, standing before the hall mirror, putting on her hat, while he, his hands behind him, ap-peared pinned to the door frame, waiting like Saint Sebastian for the arrows to begin piercing him. The hat was new and had cost her seven dollars and a half. She kept saying, “Maybe I shouldn’t have paid that for it. No, I shouldn’t have. I’ll take it off and return it tomorrow. I shouldn’t have bought it.”

    Julian raised his eyes to heaven. “Yes, you should have bought it,” he said. “Put it on and let’s go.” It was a hideous hat A purple velvet flap came down on one side of it and mood up on the other; the rest of it was green and looked like a cushion with the stuffing out. He decided it was less comical than jaunty and pathetic. Everything that gave her pleasure was small and depressed him.

    She lifted the hat one more time and set it down slowly on top of her head. Two wings of gray hair protruded on either side of her florid face, but her eyes, sky-blue, were as innocent and untouched by experience as they must have been when she was ten. Were it not that she was a widow who had struggled fiercely to feed and clothe and put him through school and who was supporting him still, “until he got on his feet,” she might have been a little girl that he had to take to town. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said. “Let’s go.” He opened door himself and started down the walk to get her going.“



Flannery O’Connor (25 maart 1925 – 3 augustus 1964)

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Pol Hoste, Jacques Audiberti, Filip De Pillecyn, Evliya Çelebi, Anne Fanshawe

De Vlaamse schrijver Pol Hoste werd geboren in Lokeren op 25 maart 1947. Zie ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2007 en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2008 en  en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2010.


Uit: Caran d’Ache




Zo droomt het televisiemeisje. Een windhoos is een

kleurenscherm, een watervlak draagt haar herinnering.

Men koopt ogen, een revue. Parfum van glanspapier.

Als ze door haar foto glijdt, is ze uit zichzelf






Tot in de diepste punten ben ik dagelijks veranderd,

dat is niet sterven, dat is uitspuwen of inslikken.

Ik ga bijvoorbeeld naar mijn zus, vertel haar van

mijn was. Vroeger wist ik ook wel alles en nu zelfs

meer en meer. Maar als ze kijken ben ik nog altijd

dezelfde. Ik durf me niet verroeren want dan huil je,

dan huil je. Een man heeft zijn eigen leven.



Pol Hoste (Lokeren, 25 maart 1947)


Continue reading “Pol Hoste, Jacques Audiberti, Filip De Pillecyn, Evliya Çelebi, Anne Fanshawe”

Antonio Fogazzaro, Daniel Schiebeler, Mary Webb, Erica Pedretti

De Italiaanse schrijver Antonio Fogazzaro werd geboren op 25 maart 1842 in Vicenza. Zie en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2009 en ook mijn blog van 25 maart 2010.


Uit: The Saint


“Well,” said the girl, “I enjoy seeing Memling with Signor Carlino, playing classical music with him, discussing a Kempis with him, although this affection he has recently developed for a Kempis seems a

profanation, when you consider that he believes in nothing. _Je suis catholique autant qu’on peut l’etre lorsqu’on ne l’est pas_, but when I hear an unbeliever like your brother read a Kempis so feelingly, I very nearly lose my faith in Christianity as well. I like him for one other reason, dear, because he is your brother. But that is all! Oh! Jeanne Dessalle says such strange things sometimes–such strange things! I do not understand–I really do not understand. But _warte nur, du Raethsel_, as my governess used to say.”

“What am I to wait for?”

Noemi threw her arm round her friend’s neck, “I will drag your soul with so fine a net that it will bring beautiful great pearls to the surface, perhaps some sea-weed as well, and a little mud from the bottom, or even a very tiny _pioeuvre_.” “You do not know me,” answered Jeanne. “You are the only one of my friends who does not know me.”

“Of course. You imagine that only those who adore you really know you? Indeed, this belief that everybody adores you is a craze of yours.”

Jeanne made the little pouting grimace with which all her friends were familiar.

“What a foolish girl,” she said; but at once softened the expression with a kiss and a half-sad, half-quizzical smile.

“Women, as I have always told you, do adore me. Do you mean to say that you do not?”

“_Mais point du tout_,” exclaimed Noemi. Jeanne’s eyes sparkled with mischief and kindness.

“In Italian we say: _Si, di tutto cuore_,” she answered.“



Antonio Fogazzaro (25 maart 1842 – 7 maart 1911)

Standbeeld op de Campo Marzio in Vicenza


Continue reading “Antonio Fogazzaro, Daniel Schiebeler, Mary Webb, Erica Pedretti”