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excerpt 'A friend, newspaper reporter' tries to mystify the author by dropping the 'bombshell' about the arrest of some very dangerous anarchists, with bags full of dynamite, poison, daggers, pistols, and compromising letters. The man inquires around

Very few people today will remember a famous newspaper that used to appear at some point in the capital, during the war of independence. I mean here 'The Romanian Nation' that Frédéric Damé and I published together. The life of that paper was as short as it

It's all set! On Saturday I am to deliver a speech in the plenary meeting of the SPDRM. There's no way out: I did, in a moment of utter weakness, promise an old friend of mine, Mrs. Parigoridi – so it is now for me a matter of conscience, of honour, of heart

Our century witnessed the birth and death of a most interesting state, a state that no conscientious historian is allowed to overlook. I mean the Republic of Ploieşti, a state that, in spite of its only fifteen hours of life, has undoubtedly written a most famous page in

Caragiale cannot be celebrated officially and patriotically because his writings, his profile as an author, the entire symbolism around his name and works retain an active subversive dimension altogether incompatible with the intrinsic solemnity of a ceremony. One has to

The threshold between the millenniums is an opportunity for evaluation: tributes, jubilees, festivals. Archives are being browsed, masterpieces are reappraised, and writings are redefined in the current context, then recirculated in today's competition. Everything becomes

Women artists (originally women-painters) became a reality in Romanian culture only by the turn of the 20th century. Barely having an artistic tradition of the western kind (that is, academic), the national cultural milieu in the 19th century was rather deprived of a professionally

A certain thing a scaly glove a misshapen dangerattracts the compromised words the mist in the world's dictionarieson a mountain of masks the sun struggles to riseits beams are lost from one another for another seasonthe mind is currying favor with all the versions

Across deep seas, through blizzard and storm,And in my heart have I been searching Him,But my cup was meant for sipping pain,And faithlessness was my commander,The life I lived was pure darkness. But lo, my eyes can see You now. The will of nature's God himself,Jehovah's

At the same time, the great Russian also remarked that woman is always what we want to make of her. Femininity triggers off creative energies. Through it, the Author dominates the epic matter, and this helps him complete his plan, plot, work. Femininity delays the end by

I cannot write because I have no personal experienceI lied too much, I lived in too many bodiesfrom my imagination I somewhat loved stagecoach driversmen with long fingers, ballet dancers through history,I invented all with lucidity, systematically, although I was afraidI

from The Lost Letter ACT II SCENE V ZOE(alone; nervous, she takes out the newspaper and reads)In tomorrow's issue of our gazette we shall reproduce an interesting sentimental letter from a notable of our town to a lady of great influence. Beginning tomorrow, the original