S

In our contemporary world, where everything seems to fall under a certain law of 'energetic decline', where everything degenerates and wears out, the fact of femininity is a miracle that is not being discussed enough. by Constantin Noica (1909-1987)

I am lying on the groundwhile the earth longs for me:beneath it, a Mistress-with-no-name,beneath it, a Mistress-with-no-voice. by Carolina Ilica (b. 1951)

excerpts CHAPTER IMother's Poor Little Things Mara, bless her heart, was now a widow with two children, poor little things, but she was young and healthy and hard-working, and God allowed that she got lucky again. As a matter of fact, when he lived, Bârzovanu, her

Mrs. Hortensia Papadat-Bengescu has written, after the model of the English novel, the moral and sentimental story of a family, a study of ramified psychology, probing into the deepest feelings of the collective clan and family life that changes from generation to generation

I have meant to decompose and recompose the forms and the colors in order to prove and disclose their essence. Hortensia Papadat-Bengescu After a short story debut dominated by lyricism (Deep Waters, The Woman in front of the Mirror) and while trying (and managing) to

from A Concert of Bach's Music The Amzei Church had donned a festive appearance. People had started coming as early as three o'clock, and by four – the time of the ceremony – the street was crowded with carriages and automobiles. An archbishop was serving.

I set out on my exile into myself,you are my countrywhich I can no longer approach,you are the country where I was bornand learnt to speak,I know only you in the world. I swam in your eyes so oftenreturning to shore with my body all blue,I navigated you so many timeswatching

In no fight, therefore nor in the one fought today by women around the world, as well as by women closer to our soul, Romanian women, to claim their right to social life, have women ever been militant. But their voice may accompany the warlike onset of their hawkish sisters,

JEALOUSY(excerpt) For an hour, in the copse where they had stopped for their midday meal, Stavro refused to tell the story of his childhood which he had touched upon in the hayloft. He didn't really object; he was in a mood for evoking youthful memories, but he wished

You believe in illnessin weariness for good You forget to breatheYou don't move You wait for the pain it comes You watch it intentlyas from the abyss of a halland it looks for your eyes The room lurkingsighs in your stead You feel drowsyyou rise you riseyou slowly

I saw an ad in newspapers about a trip to the mountains and I got in without knowing anybody. About 30 of us crowded in a big race vehicle, so boys and girls, parcels, cigarette smoke, and jokes mixed up together at random. A certain Biţă was speaking in my ear untiringly.

The blue bird, the blessed birdWas making its nest in my heart. Little by little were slainBoth my heart and the blue bird.  Who is the cruel hunterWho did this to you, my heart?Who put you in the tombWith the blessed bird? by Elena Văcărescu (1866-1947)