September 16, 2017


… of summers, travelling and good books. Of forgotten letters and unwritten stories. Of daring to hope, of days without masks, of sincerity, vulnerability and humanity. Of my kind of winters.


August 30, 2017

Unchain My Mind

Set me free.

Work is knocking at the door, but I am unwilling to open. We keep on running, keep on trying to change the world, keep on trying to make a difference, keep on being pragmatic, thinking with a cold, rational mind, in a continuous chess game. But I am tired of this world, tired of coldness, tired of thinking.

All my life I have been thinking how to do the right thing, how to get where I want to get, how to confront my fears. Somewhere around the road something changed. Maybe I got where I wanted, or maybe I am in the middle and I want to do something different. Maybe I am too wild for the civilized (=insane, godless) world. And the tiredness of struggling inside it made me want to run away.

I would like to get on a train and travel the world. Stop picking up the phone, stop worrying, but never stop caring. Listen to some good music, meeting some mad people, climbing some damn mountains. Finding my Ithaca across the world. I would like to live outside my history, outside borders, inside the wilderness. Guess that’s why I chose McCarthy. 

July 27, 2017


Life showed me that pink is not its colour; it has taught me to be the wise one, the strong one, the one who has to take decisions and be there. It has shown me how wild – in a bad way – the human being can be.

However, during the last few weeks, something cracked. And I have been feeling fear since then. Fear of my own body, fear that I am unable to finish what I have started, fear of the noise, fear of abandonment, fear of the future, fear of boredom, terror towards all the things I left unspoken/ignored.

Last night I dreamt that someone dear was hugging me. No words, no stories, no therapies. I think that all of us are at least two in one, a Steppenwolf and a vulnerable human being, and you see, in my own wilderness, I tried to ignore that feeling (or feelings), to struggle to unchain myself from its grasp. Because I am the one who thinks, not feels. But it was like quicksand. The more you move/speak/think, the more you fall under it.

I wish I were on a top of a mountain, by myself or with the people that I could really choose, hearing only the springs from below and the sounds of nature. I wish I could close my eyes, stop moving, stop being the one in charge, stop working, stop thinking, stop worrying. And I wish I could learn how to breathe – on a top of a mountain, or breaking down all the windows of a house, or in deep quicksand. 

July 15, 2017

The Rest is Silence

"What if there existed a dialogue among the lifeforms of this earth from which we had excluded ourselves so totally that we no longer even believed it to exist? Could it be that dialogue which we still sense in dreams? Or in those rare moments of peace when the world seems in some sense to be revealed to us and to be proper and right?"
(Cormac McCarthy)

During the last few days, I have been in a continuous battle to find the perfect words. The words which describe the unconscious, the natural world, the cyclical time in which past-present and future are all the same, the words of the unspeakable world. How can you express them? The words of poetry and the words of war. The words of what humanity really is, in its pure wholeness.

There have been ages since my first encounter with McCarthy. It is an exhausting battle, as reading McCarthy has always been. With moments of complete hatred, when you wish from the bottom of the soul to quit and to throw away all his books and all the studies dedicated to him. Moments when you feel small and insignificant when you start to understand how this man’s mind has worked, but there are also moments when you feel sitting at a table with an old friend. Talking about Life. Talking about our favourite writers. You see, I enormously liked Faulkner and Hemingway, and I had never imagined that there is someone out there to play with their style and mix them and create something new. Moments when you sit at that long table and you learn to listen to el corridos, and to the silence. 

It takes a great deal of effort to understand Cormac McCarthy. A great deal of knowledge to see what he’s doing in his prose. And a great amount of insanity to work with his prose. But, as one translator put it,

"I would like to make it very clear that translating Cormac McCarthy would not be even thinkable without being in love with language, with words, with their colour, their dark, mesmerizing power. Why? The answer is simple. Because Cormac is Poetry. Epic, lyrical, whatever you call it, it is Poetry.” 

June 4, 2017

"As awake as the sun can be"

I simply fell in love with this expression told by one of my students. I don’t know if she was aware of the powerful image that she had created, or if she had read it somewhere, but it is a figure of speech for all the things that I am trying to do, show and give.

We keep on searching for ourselves in places, people, or memories, trying to shape our personality, to dare to find ourselves, to dare to acknowledge when we were wrong, when we didn’t dare enough, when we didn’t give a chance when we had to. We keep on going on although we are fully aware (and awake) that the human being can be a mean, cruel animal, and the entire life is just another absurd, meaningless story. But we keep on trying to save, to teach, to be different. And this is our real madness and wilderness – “mad to be saved, mad to live”, mad to find people like us.

I have always been attracted by a specific type of literature. And I have gravitated around this type without fully understanding why. I once started with A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and then I got lost in Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, and then I embraced Kerouac’s The Road and insanity. I ended up – for now – in McCarthy’s two opposing worlds, the old one, the one that will come, and with his characters that are “carrying the fire”. To be an artist, of any kind, or a Steppenwolf, until the end. To be aware of how the world really is. To see everything, and live it, but still to be a traveler in search of ourselves. Choosing not to go with the flow, but to insanely, hopelessly trying to turn the tide; to be “as awake as the sun can be”.

,,Înăuntrul tău sălășluia o imagine pe care ți-o făcuseși tu despre viață, o încredere, o cerință anume, erai gata de fapte, erai gata să suferi, să te sacrifici – pentru ca apoi, pas cu pas, să-ți dai seama că lumea nu cerea de la tine niciun fel de fapte și sacrificii sau ceva de genul ăsta, că viața nu e un poem eroic cu roluri de eroi și alte lucruri dintr-astea, ci un salon confortabil pentru oamenii cu obiceiuri burgheze, în care individul se declară pe deplin mulțumit dacă mănâncă și bea, dacă își soarbe cafeaua, dacă împletește ciorapi, joacă taroc și ascultă muzică la radio. Iar cine vrea altceva, purtând în el însuși eroicul și frumosul, admirația pentru marii scriitori sau admirația pentru sfinți, nu-i decât un nebun și un cavaler Don Quijote.”

,,Pentru lumea de azi, care-i atât de simplă, comodă și se mulțumește cu atât de puțin, tu ești prea pretențios și prea flămând, ea te leapădă, pentru o asemenea lume tu dispui de o dimensiune în plus. Cine vrea să trăiască în ziua de azi și să se bucure de viața lui, nu trebuie să fie un om ca tine și ca mine. Celui care în loc de lălăiala unei flașnete cere muzică, în loc de distracție bucurie, în loc de bani suflet, în loc de o ocupație muncă adevărată, în locul unui simplu joc pasiune veritabilă, această lume drăgălasă de aici nu-i poate oferi niciun loc în care să se simtă ca la el acasă ...”

,[,...] știam că în buzunar aveam toate acele sute de mii de figuri ale jocului vieții, al cărui sens îl intuiam, cutremurându-mă, simțeam în mine voința de a lua jocul, încă o dată, de la capăt, de a gusta, încă o dată, chinurile sale, de a mă înfiora, încă o dată, de absurditatea lui, de a străbate încă o dată, iară și iară, infernul dinăuntrul meu.”

(Herman Hesse – Lupul de stepă)

April 23, 2017

Love in Time of the Cholera

It’s not One Hundred Years of Solitude, nor The Autumn of the Patriarch. It’s not quite filled with magical realism. It’s not even a proper love story. But it’s Marquez, with its specific style. It is the perfect book for a lazy Sunday (or several), that can be read without interruptions. In a plain, somehow (too) romantic style, with only a few narrative games, but with everything that is specific to this writer.

It’s about the (im)possibility of loving another human being. Of searching stability instead of love, of the illusion that one can really love somebody, caught in the routines of life and marriage. It’s about life and death, about the story of a country that we barely know, and about the way someone is caught in the nets of society, of how society influences our decisions, our way of thinking, of how we look at the others, of how we live.

And it’s about an unshared insane love that is like cholera, and the stubbornness in front of her continuous refusals, in front of the passing years, in front of Life and society.

April 21, 2017


I have danced a tango with my hubris, with my chaos for quite a while. M-am afundat zilele acestea în somn și în cărți, căutând Tăcerea. Am încercat să îmi ordonez gândurile, să uit pentru ceva timp de toate grijile, de toate obligațiile, de toată lumea care mai cere o altă bucățică din mine. Să uit de Timp. Să uit de Societate. Să îmi amintesc de un eu fără măști.

Așa s-a făcut că m-am trezit citindu-l pe Cărtărescu. Cred că îmi era dor de o carte scrisă într-un astfel de stil, dor de o astfel de căutare. Un pariu al scriitorului, al arhitectului, cu sine însuși, în căutarea acelei scrieri totale. M-am trezit înotând în haos, în delir, în idei răzlețe, uitând și amintindu-mi totodată. M-am trezind gonind prin absurd, în căutarea unui sens, prin labirintul viselor și prin anii cei dintâi, prin mituri și psihologii, prin lumi și stări arhicunoscute, întorcându-mă brusc în mine. În labirintul minții mele, unde sunt eu, unde e Ithaca. În construcțiile cu care ador să mă joc, în miile de idei izvorâte dintr-un joc de cuvinte, în dorul meu pentru o astfel de literatură, în ceea ce Kerouac si Nabokov spuneau despre nebunie (pe lângă mulți alții). Și am simțit, pentru prima dată de mult timp, că respir.

,,Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.” 
(James Joyce)


,,Ce cuprind paginile astea pe care le-am înşirat pe noptieră şi pe cearceaf? Sînt ele opera mea, sau Opera ei? Mai pot discerne ce e al ei de ce e al meu? Iarăşi mi-e frică. Pierdut în peisajul creierului ei, călcînd pe terenuri nesigure, prin zone roze şi sidefii, afundîndu-mă în văile circumvoluţiunilor ei, în rîpele vestibulare. Afundat pe cărări înguste în pădurea obscură a paleoencefalului ei, oglindindu-mă în apele epifizei (dar văzînd pe cine?), trecînd pe deasupra bolgiilor cu amintiri care urlă în smoală topită, sucindu-mă sub ploi cu fulgi de foc, suind purificat în mezencefalul plin de reptile şi de păsări cu dinţi, pierdut acolo, printre ferigile arborescente. Şi sus, explorînd cele şase straturi extaziate ale ncocortexului, pictate cu chipul Ginei deformat ca un fetus peste emisfere: frunte turtită, gură cu buze groase şi limbă enormă, trup minuscul, dar mîini cu degete cît tot corpul, răşchirate grotesc. Şi pretutindeni conclavul viermilor, insectelor, reptilelor, mamiferelor, adunările de gală ale ramapitecilor, australopitecilor, pitecantropilor, apoi oamenii de Cro-Magnon, romanii, celţii, dacii, slavii, tătarii, străbunicii, bunicii (Maricu şi Tanicu), părinţii, rudele, prietenii, eu însumi întîlnindu-mă cu mine însumi acolo, în creierul ei, şi nici un Virgiliu şi nici o Beatrice şi nici o mîntuire şi nici o urcare spre stele. Rătăcesc prin labirintul minţii ei, trag de pîrghiile prin care se rotesc ochii ei, apăs pedalele prin care se mişcă genunchii ei. Îmi privesc degetele micuţe şi noi, cu unghiile deja cojite. Cu ele am ţinut pixul. Deci - cine a scris?” 
(Mircea Cărtărescu – Gemenii)