Dor

I can almost hear Gellu Naum saying: I fell on the pavement on account of the old tree roots which have heaved it. There was a smell of putrid leaves. And of putrid earth. I could not lift myself up. From somewhere, came a cur of a dog. 'You want grass,' I asked.

1. You open one door and there appears another, then another, and another, up to the last one – which does not even exist – and thus you find yourself at the first door – which does not even exist – and you make a round, once more, unto familiar places, as what you

(1. 08. 1915-29. 09. 2001) Gellu Naum (1915-2001) was the only writer pertaining to the historical Romanian surrealist avant-garde who survived, rather untouched but also more or less unheard, the vicissitudes of a half a century of Communist rule. He started publishing

Those writers obsessed by the form, which they do not hesitate to convert into a norm, are too well familiar with the pain that accompanies the process of completing a page in a duly controlled, stylish, manner. Ultimately, one writes on waters, since all messages are, from

excerpts I could find antiques and old objects evoking sad memories on still another deserted floor in my grandfather's house. There the walls were covered by strange pictures having thick, gilded, wooden frames, or thinner frames of red plush. There were also several

The well-known elements of fanciful prose are being joined by new features and grouped in a personal synthesis by the writing of Mateiu I. Caragiale. If we wanted to make a connection between Mateiu Caragiale and his father, the great Ion Luca, we would need to refer to

He was more of a unsociable person, a loner, he seemed sullen and morose. Only among his friends he would become again the father of eloquence and paradox. Eugen LOVINESCU There was no one in the house of the great loner but me. From time to time, an old lady with big

excerpts Que voulez-vous, nous sommes ici aux portes de l'Orient, où tout est pris à la légère. Raymond Poincaré*Welcoming the Philanderers…au tapis-franc nous étions réunis. L. Protat**Although no further than the night before I had promised myself under

*More than a century ago Europe was not yet known as a cultural construction, an intellectual day-dream, a heap of broken images, a copy in a world without originals. Artists tried to escape the big fortress ensconced in coal smog and torn by wars, social conflicts, and

1. His parents christened him Dimitrie, but he knew the appropriate name for himself, so he changed it to Demetru. He had said this himself, people should find names for themselves in tune with their own personal reality, or they should change themselves, while that is still

 Ismaïl is made up of eyes, sideburns, and a dress, and can be found with the greatest difficulty these days. Time was when Ismaïl grew in botanical gardens as well, but then, more recently and thanks to the advances of modern science, one has been synthesized chemically.

Demetru Demetrescu-Buzău, whose pen-name was Urmuz, published his first bizarre pages in 1922 and killed himself in 1923. His life was short, his literary life was one of the shortest ever, and his work is comparably short: just a few short stories. Yet his influence on