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October 2004

Romanian Riches

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Guest Editor Norman Manea,

At the crossroads between East and West, past and present, brutality and romance, lies the verdant cultural landscape of Romania. Our guest editor Norman Manea has convened a stimulating literary salon, including a startling diversity of styles and themes, ranging from Virgil Duda's somber account of the Romanian Holocaust to Adrian Otoiu's antic fantasy of Shakespeare's computer literacy. Mircea Cartarescu depicts the slippery slope from youthful intellectual pretentiousness into a career in the Securitate. Gabriela Melinescu pens a wry fable of Romanian Jews in Sweden. Memory and loss infuse Gabriela Adamesteanu's retired shopkeeper's tram ride into the past and Matei Calinescu's eulogy for his dead son. In poetry, Mariana Marin, Romania's Sylvia Plath, confronts her Karenina complex, and Marta Petreu conflates the all-consuming fires of love and death. Translator Julian Semilian deserves special thanks for his work in a language that is among the least-known in the Romance family.

This issue is made possible with a regrant from the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, supported by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts.

To Live in Sin

Editor's Note: The novel To Live in Sin (1996) is dedicated to the pogrom of the Romanian Jewish population in Jassy, June 29, 1941. This mass murder (over 10,000 victims), and the

Tip of the Day, or, Shakespeare and Computers

For many, Shakespeare is the greatest writer in the English language. Few are aware of his lifelong fascination with computers. The heroes' glory might be measured by the length of the

Nabokov in Brasov

A few days ago I was taking a walk, somewhere around The New Times, rushing ahead with my fists crammed into the pockets of my jacket. The industrial landscape was so dire it almost made you

A Friend of the Archangel

When Gabriel left his country for the first time he was 55 years old. At first he thought he was lucky to have escaped the communist hell. In his own city of Sighet it had become impossible

from Wasted Morning

Strada Coriolan She treads carefully on the uneven stones in the yard, which are still coated with morning frost. Her swollen feet are painful, even though she rubbed some alcohol on them

from Portrait of M

Author's Note: This biographical portrait of my son, who was born on 24 August 1977 in Bloomington, Indiana, USA, and who died on 1 March 2003 in his native town, not yet twenty-six, was

The Karenina Complex

Will I still be able to write the poems that I never wrote all these years of ashes and smoke? Will I still find a strand of youth concealed between the world's words without nights

Crematorium

I enter the room beside you. Take off my overcoat. Drop my handbag on the bed With bewildered gestures I take off my glasses Indecisive I stand fidgeting. I love you and

Here

I've been here too. In the blank white patch (hic sunt leones) on the map. Here. In the heart of the phosphorous flame in the core of the star of insomnia of the absence

In Another Life

We could have talked. We could have mixed our tears seed saliva sweat We could have combined book and flesh thought and guilt Oho!

L’apparition

One day the Great Theme will arrive, opening the windows, it will sit down at our table, will drink the intact wine, will shake us to the

Red and White

I can't reread my old poems the being that wrote them distanced herself from me, with my very own hand I chased her away. I couldn't stand to see her

Mynheer

It is bitter, each Passover, to read, in the luxury and voluptuousness of being The solitude of the four boards from the palm slapped over the cheek the morning tear urged against

Beretta

It was simple it was evening it was October, Beretta, mon amour. You didn't even realize how I transmute from a mole, hounded through galleries of all sorts (oh, where did the

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