ULB

Mister Kă is closely watching a pair of young-people-not-actually-young-seen-from-up-close, that pair of young-people-in-the-distance-who-look-different-from-up-close, that pair is getting on bus #92, the bus which is taking you, taking everybody, in the direction of the

Revista Glasul Bucovinei este o publicaţie trimestrială de istorie şi cultură care-şi propune, în primul rând, recuperarea adevărului istoric: cronologia istorică şi politică, activitatea partidelor politice, mărturii istorice, aspecte de viaţă spirituală,

Both me and the editor of the show listened with great delight to the story of the young American, of Romanian origin, who had come back to Romania in search of his roots and to set up a business. The young man had married a girl from Humuleşti, and now he spoke wonderful

In those days they used to go to the Eastern Station, visiting some acquaintances: friends, as they might, after all, also have called them. Except that on this point, at least, Olga was right: they were not their friends; indeed, there was no way or time when they could

The theme of the provincial man leaving his small town, a closed universe deprived of any kind of perspective and diving into the unknown, attracted by the Big City where he thinks he'll hit it big and get rich overnight, was and continues to be a successful recipe

I used to play this game when I was a child, I played it so often that, from one day to the next, I always remembered to keep some leaves of grass, small leaves or even an entire plant, root and all, in my pockets, socks or sleeves. Little children played it too, later on.

excerpt Beyond this second row of buildings, the town sprawled out to the horizon, covering half the window with an increasingly minced, confusing, indistinct, random mixture of the vegetal and architectural, with poplars’ spears soaring up here and there, and strange

a fragment from The Blind, Chapter Two of Corpuri de iluminat/ Dark Bodies Through Sfântul Ştefan, beyond the old Height and over the tramline in Bărăţiei, a phanariot and decayed Bucharest drained under the snow; a balcony fallen onto its side reminds you that once,

The wire that I had failed to see hit me below my knees. The earth turned, the boles propped against the stars somersaulted and I no longer heard the whistles. The red bells started to toll. Whipped up by the rain, the smell of weed and death that had simply been the breath

excerpt1 Day was a-dawning sluggishly on Saints Eusignius, Nona and Fabius, a Saturday as it happened; like unto a blunt blade scraping at the gloom caked all over our bodies did the daybreak appear, and impotent, too. The bells tolled half-heartedly and a thin film of

excerpt I am going to tell you of things that happened back in 1960 or 1961, when I was still a little girl, no more than 12 years old. I was living with my family in Moşilor Street, in one of those queer houses, with the second floor protruding a little, with two very

If you read travel notes by simple tourists or people on journalistic, cultural or political assignments, from the 1920s or 30s, if you peruse recurrent images about a Bucharest imprinted with evil or good charms, equally decrypted and encoded, moving and repulsive, you