Piano

Aristide Caradja, Entomologist And Philosopher

Member of the Romanian Academy A Written Report at the Public Meeting on the 20th of April 1945 In every social group, may that be family, social class, nation, village, city, region, country, in every institution or social organization, an elite is automatically and spontaneously

The Eternal Return

An interior made for appearance, fitting the extravagance of some poems In the beginning, gazing at the photos, I stood in the doorway and had the feeling of entering a house deserted by its owners, where I was left with the secret of its nature hidden inside the still

Gogu Georgescu And Gică Petrescu

On some days I feel universal when listening to Hora în căruţă (Jig in the Cart); I can even picture a cart then, all its joints rattling among the frozen missiles of the world. I get dizzy and a teardrop warms up the Murmansk under my eyelids. Hora Stacatto (Stacatto

Victory Street

The dancing tea partyGuţă Mereuţă was indeed waiting, sad, with a proboscidean long nose. He couldn't dance. He had nothing in appearance or in speech that could have attracted a woman. His eyes pushed aside, towards the temples, by the broad root of the olfactory

At Grandiflora

excerpt In the town square, behind Gustav Café, there is the variety entertainment ale-house with the strange name Bucharest Hotel (it has room only for women-artists), Mr. Cocoşel's winter public house. Ancient house, rather long and low, the hotel twinkles its

A Bohemian

I once saw a wounded crane, dying, on the edge of a forest where he had fallen while his friends were dashing away to the horizon, like a black arrow. The bright eye that ripped the horizon was shaded little by little, his long, powerful legs were sinking into the dust,

Lent

In General Ionescu's garden, the April dusk brought a harsh wind and sprayed dust in the horizon like a bluish mist, spreading heaps of apricot tree flowers over the fresh vegetable beds. Ion, the general's first orderly, in charge of sweeping the flowers laid

The Architect

Emil Popescu was an architect. His specialty was the oil factories and we can say, without any exaggeration, that wherever in the country an oil factory had been built in the last five or six years, one could easily tell it was the work of architect Popescu's skilled

The Way To The Wall

excerpt During such hours, hundreds of hours, was the final thought born. Sitting like that, like a murky statue, between the bed panel and the door, so that Florica, when she opened the door, did it carefully, not to hit him. But he didn't move an inch and the chair

A Concert Of Bach's Music

excerpt After Lica's departure, Mrs. Vera had vainly peeked from behind the curtains, trying to see whether they turned their heads one after the other. Lica hadn't turned his head, so Mrs. Vera reached the banal conclusion that all men deride women, and that

Don Juan

excerpt Nobody listened to him or did so intermittently, the Russian mumbled something, excited by the other's mumbling, Mr. A. V. Emilian was drinking, capitalizing on the exaggerated attention the strange guest was receiving from the little old lady. This one-nighter,

At Medeleni

excerpt Olgutza's gifts, just like springtime's, proved that, during the three years of Parisian life, not only hadn't she forgotten any of the folks back home, but on the contrary, she had lived in them, like spring at the root of trees. Everybody loved