Nature

Whenever I see you sincere I have the feeling that, in everybody's war against everybody, you left your coat of mail at home.  There is one thing a man does without any feeling of responsibility: that which he should make with the feeling of utmost responsibility:

excerpts The Diary and Its Readers We should not overdo it with diaries and letters. We usually tend to deem them more revealing of the man than his public work. All that is secretive, familiar draws us as if it were a confession. It is the pleasure of breaking an interdiction,

6 March 1960So I am finally taken out as well, led inside an office hid in that tiny niche of the arched corridor; examined, identified, undressed. I am only left one towel, one bar of soap, one toothbrush, one toothpaste, two pairs of socks, one shirt, one pair of underwear,

It is well known that Mircea Eliade lived numerous experiences of otherness and exile in countries such as India, France, Portugal, America, but it is only in the last that he remained for twenty-seven years. Eliade's perspective on America is somehow indebted to the

1945 January 1st Absolutely alone, this Eve. First time ever, I imagine. Listening to the King's speech and to general Rădescu's[i]. Nonetheless, kicked off the evening by a prayer: asked God for PEACE, serenity, calmness. At the depth of my soul: melancholy,

Today's reader will be disclosed a universe, in this diary, for the reenactment of which one may only draw back on occasional reference points; these, in their turn, might prove incomplete or improper, possibly misleading, directly correspondent with the historical

excerpt THUNDERSTRUCK A few days after having met George Enescu on the road to Peleş, after dinner, I was on my divan smoking a fragrant oriental cigarette next to Princess Maria, resplendent in her long, pink veils; she was knitting without seeing the work, in the semidarkness

January 5, 1940 On Monday I must get down to work seriously and consistently. Apart from this, my life has become unbearable. I don't know what the devil is the matter with me, I feel as if I were growing old and stupid. I suppose I have some obsessions of my own,

*  Sunday, March 31, 1940Rotten weather. I stay indoors and work, bringing my Diary to date. The French and the British hold frequent, definitely long conferences – now in Paris, now in London – attended by militaries and politicians. This incessant activity evinces

Titu Maiorescu's diary is an unprecedented publishing event and, in its own way, unique in Romanian literature, by both the nature and value of the notes and by the length in time it covers – 62 years – and by the age of the author who had barely turned 15 when

I met Ioan Tugearu in Constanţa at the Oleg Danovski Ballet Theater where he spent days on end staging Kurosawa, Mon Amour, on a collage of traditional Japanese music, with stage decoration by Ion Codrescu. The show premiered early in September. With a tape-recorder in

The International Dance Festival in Constanţa presented in the final gala a special guest: Simona Noja, prima ballerina of the Vienna State Opera, another Romanian who, having left her native country for 10 years, has built a successful career on the world's stages.