The fruit of his inability to be, his work is the only authentic existential assertion of his ego. Through the power of his word, he managed to deceive and to be deceived, suggesting that his poem, springing out from the void that surrounded life, had grown from the very plenitude thereof. Not being able to make his work realistic, which amounted to an authenticity certificate in his time, he strove to at least make it appear realistic, so that he could get a ticket for his dreams and chimeras to travel freely. The theoretical defender of a world he did not belong to, he hated that world precisely because he did not belong to it. But he refused to accept his status as a great Romanian writer and a mere Bucharester who loved sour tripe soup. His whims pretending to be a Byzantine nobleman and a Western Sybarite were the behavioral reflex of his chimeras, which he painstakingly maintained like a maniac during his entire short life.
by Ovidiu Cotruş
