Although I met Rene only a few years ago — when John Solt and I presented a poetry project at the Kerouac Centennial at Ruigoord — I felt immediately as if we had been friends for many years. His warmth made being his friend so easy, as did our shared passion for books, literature, and the countercultural characters we both of us knew and admired. Rene’s humility belied his vast literary knowledge and his brilliance. And he was such a “mensch”— a good soul, in Yiddish – who exuded kindness and compassion.
Ian Macfadyen wrote of the “glimmer in Rene’s eyes,” that ever-present playful twinkle of his. Rene was always ready to have fun. And he loved sharing the contents of his amazing archives of books, photos, and cassette tapes, taking an almost childlike glee in doing so.
Rene was so easy to love and didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He often told me he loved my writing, which was music to my ears, as I had always had literary aspirations but had stopped writing for almost half my life after becoming an immigration lawyer. Rene and his longtime partner, Erik Sluijter of Casioli Press, published pieces I had written about Gregory Corso, Lionel Ziprin, Herbert Huncke, and Ira Cohen, as well as a little sea ditty, “Don’t Step Lively, Lads.” By publishing my work, Rene and Erik gave me the confidence to call myself a writer and believe it was so. And, for that, I will forever be grateful.
Last month, I spent nine days in Den Haag and visited with Rene for a few hours each day, during which time he told me much about his full and interesting life, and how he regretted not being able to complete the projects he had planned. His mind was clear, as was his conversation. I will always cherish those hours we spent together. He told me how grateful he was to me for traveling to Den Haag and spending time with him. We expressed the love we felt for each other, and that was very sweet.
I was able to spend his 75th birthday with him, along with his wonderful wife, Sylvia, their daughter, Femke, her husband and children, and a few other friends. The love we all felt for Rene, and his for us, was almost palpable. “To know him is to love him” is an oft-used saying, but it is altogether appropriate in the case of Rene.
In one of our last conversations, he told me that, a few years before, after he, Hans Plomp, and I had spent a joyful afternoon together, Hans had referred to the three of us as “The Three Musketeers,” and I had felt happy and proud to be part of such an esteemed group. Now, I am saddened to be the only remaining “musketeer.” That same afternoon, when Hans had boarded a tram, and, with our faces pressed against the glass, he and I had made strange, goofy faces at each other. And Rene was saying to me quietly — about the dying Hans — “Look at him, Bobby. You may never see him again.”
Now it’s the same with you, dear Rene. There’s a hole in the world without you. I prefer to think of you now with Hans, Simon Vinkenoog, Ira Cohen, and all our celestial friends, making merry with the other angels. Bless you, dear friend. And thank you for enriching my life the way you did.
— Bobby Yarra