Reviste

excerpt They wandered about the villages around Bucharest, the old man leading the way, Paraschiv right behind him. They went to Bolintin, to Catzelu, eager for prey. They always went there on market days when the peasants were there, as these were the most likely victims

If we were to maintain that the erotic language as an independent writing mode has at present been obliterated from Romanian literature, we would, perhaps, make a serious overstatement, but not lie entirely: it might seem peculiar, but this European literature, which is

excerpt I was half asleep in a somewhat uncertain state of mind (and of body)… A vague and – at first – terribly tortuous state of wakefulness was gently falling over me; then, the same confounded state came back floating over me, translucent, like some veils unbraided

Now of all times, now of all times,now that I love her the best,now of all times I've betrayed her. Now of all times, now of all times,now that she cares for me more than ever,now of all times I've obscured her. Now of all times, now of all times,now that she's

From the point of view of yesterday's or today's reader, it is for sure – yet again! – a matter of code: one accepts it or not. If the education and the cultural concepts we operate with intuitively tell us that certain art forms are not tolerable, that certain

The specific world of 1960-70-80's novels contains nuclei of anomaly, curiosity and specificity that are unrepeatable in the history of a literature. An entire gallery of 'wax figures' – children and teenagers, workers and intellectuals, aristocrats and

To love means as little to desire, as to desire means as little to love. Some love stringently forbids desire. by Nicolae Iorga (1871-1940)

Some sudden deaths in our small town, my love – I've come on purpose, just to let you know. Upon their biers, in town, for too much heat,The corpses decompose ever so slow.  The quick are in like manner decomposed,Their very dust is sweating in the heat;I can smell

The 20th of April 1920Pynx will undoubtedly arrive soon, just like he arrived yesterday and every day, every week and every month of every of the last years. Fever and anxiety infringe upon the depth of feelings. My home? What do I call home? It is wherever I am; it is,

One should add to the romantic universe of Berlioz, Chopin, Liszt and Wagner the love story of Maria Cantacuzino and the composer George Enescu, as the mystery of its extraordinary tension has been revealed in the recently published Ombres et lumières, Souvenirs d'une

excerpt Yes, she is thoroughly preoccupied with each client's history. It is a sort of sadism of hers or an imaginary compensation. She takes part in the emotions and ups and downs of every story. She dreams of the many Don Juans, husbands and lovers whose voluntary

excerpt Sunday finally came. The rain had stopped falling. The patients were all taken out to get some fresh air. They were all sitting side by side in their wheelchairs under a narrow canopy made of sullied cloth that was once yellow but had now been washed out by the