Louis-Philippe Dalembert

Trained in literature and journalism, Dalembert worked first as a journalist in his homeland before leaving in 1986 for France where he obtained his PhD in comparative literature at the Sorbonne with a dissertation on the Cuban author, Alejo Carpentier. Since leaving Haiti, this polyglot vagabond (he juggles seven languages) has lived in Nancy, Paris, Rome, Jerusalem, Brazzaville, Kinshasa, Florence, and has traveled wherever his steps have taken him ... in the renewed echo of his native land.

Louis-Philippe Dalembert (born December 8, 1962 in Port-au-Prince, Haiti) is a Haitian poet and novelist. He writes in both French and Haitian creole. His works have been translated into several languages. He now divides his home between Berlin, Paris and Port-au-Prince.

The son of a school teacher and principal, Louis-Philippe Dalembert was born in Port-au-Prince on December 8, 1962. His father’s death, a few months later, drastically affected the economic situation of the family. As a result, he spent his early childhood in the populous neighbourhood of Bel-Air, in a feminine universe. With his mother needing to travel away during the week to teach in the countryside, he grew up surrounded by his mother’s cousins, his elder sister, his great-aunts and his maternal grandmother who controlled her family with The Stick, in a Port-au-Prince that was run by the iron fisted François Duvalier, "Papa Doc". At the age of six, he experienced the first great break of his life: his family moved away from that neighbourhood. He drew on these formative very religious years lived under the sign of the sabbath to compose his novel Le crayon du bon Dieu n’a pas de gomme.

Port-au-Prince during the 1960s and 70's, was also all about outdoor cinemas, and in particular drive-ins. One of these happened to be located right behind the new house, over the ravine. In the evening, the entire neighbourhood would meet on the empty lot and watch the film. Dalembert saw westerns, about which he is still mad, the first kung-fu films, and ''The Last Tango in Paris''. The problem was that they couldn’t hear anything. They had to imagine the dialogue on their own, when of course someone didn’t play to the crowd with his own improvisations. Telling from this time forth became for him above all else making one see.