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Romania’s Cultural Renaissance as Seen from Manhattan
No. 12 - Leo Butnaru
Romania’s Cultural Renaissance as Seen from Manhattan
March 12, 2009
Bill Martin, who runs Bacacay (http://bacacay.wordpress.com) the Polish Cultural Institute’s dashing and highly informative weblog in
New York City writes:
Lo! Just look at this website: http://translations.observatorcultural.ro. It’s enough to make a literary programmer for some other former Eastern Bloc cultural institution green with envy…
Oddly enough, a half hour after [hearing from Jean Harris who wrote about the translations into Polish in OTP], I was on the phone with Ms. Robinson at Harcourt Houghton Mifflin, who mentioned that they’re publishing a book by the Romanian writer Filip Florian this summer and even bought the world rights to it. It’s called LITTLE FINGERS and appears to be a mystery around the discovery of a mass grave. The only thing I’ve read from
Romania recently is Mircea Cărtărescu’s amazing Nostalgia, which New Directions published a few years ago. But judging from this forthcoming book by Florian, the Dan Sociu poems in the latest issue of Calque, Dalkey Archive’s three books by Dumitru Tsepeneag, the fanciful excerpt by Ştefan Agopian in the OTP’s March issue… and last but not least the remarkable films coming out of that country in recent years, it seems Romania is experiencing some kind of cultural renaissance.
About this issue
This July, The Observer Translation Project leaves its usual format to present a special CRISIS ISSUE. Things are tough all over. Hard Times suddenly feels like the book of the moment. The global economic crisis impacts life as we know it, and viewed from Bucharest the effects reverberate in domains that include geo-politics and publishing in Romania and abroad, with the crisis at The Observer Translation Project as an instance of a universal phenomenon.
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Emiluţa has an unfortunate thought. She’ll throw herself
off the top of the building. Why? What the fuck? Let’s say for the cause of
PeaceonEarth, for the slumdogs,
Europe, for
the lonely. Which is to say she doesn’t have a ghost of a reason. Viva
Walachia!
The way things stand, if ...
The bearded man was the owner of an apothecary shop where he worked with two apprentices. Nobody paid me any mind, so I spent all day in what was supposed to be the shop. I say this because it was a large, dark room full of odors—a mix of smells from everywhere. The room hadn’t been cleaned ...
“What you’ve got here is heaven on earth,” Vica says as she drops onto the kitchen chair. “But where’s your mother?”
“At work,” Gelu lazily replies, leaning sideways against the door. “She’s doing mornings this week, didn’t you know?”
He is tall and thin, with unset ...
It happened once as never before-y, ‘cause if it couldn’t be true, it wouldn’t make a story about the time when the poplar tree made berries and the willow tree broke out in cherries, when bears began to brawl with their tails, and wolf and lamb, unfurling their sails, threw arms around each ...