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Thursday, May 30, 2013

Death by Diamonds and Perls: Installation Art by CARIOCA

A great example of installation art, hosted in the Stirbey Palace in Bucharest. The exhibition is in the basement of the palace, where long time ago it was the wine cellar. There is a an alley of panels, each one an episode in the continuous struggle with our inner demons, and each panel is replicated in a video, the videos being arranged in adjoining rooms. The panels like a band of skulls, the reenacting videos like a remembrance. It is a project by CARIOCA STUDIO.

The artists gave this description for their work: a melancholic episode about vulnerable beauty giving birth to metaphysical injuries.

She grew up in a nice neighbourhood
But it didn't do her no good
Cause she's just a sum of her influence
Hell, and I can't tell you the difference
By the cracked windscreen on her car
Something is telling you don't you know how lucky you are
You're just like the rest of those girls

They're all death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and pearls
Death by diamonds and pearls

You got your figure all nice
But the heart stays colder than ice
You got 25 grand on the bubble
And you're the one telling me that you don't think you're in trouble
I might be a fan of your insolence
But that don't make you the innocent
You're just like the rest of those girls

They're all death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and
Death by diamonds and pearls

(Contemporary Art)


Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Live and Remember

no copyright infringement intended

We follow in our judgements a code set by the community. But, beyond any allegiances, each of us is a unique human being. Our life has a purpose of its own. Is it about community? No, it goes beyond, toward ourselves: finding our way, understanding our fate.

A peasant was taken to the war from the very beginning and he realized that the chances to remain alive were very small. He understood that this was his fate, and he fought together with his comrades against the enemy. After several years the war was coming to its end. Now the chances of survival were high, while the possibility to be killed remained real, either: after all, a bullet could have found its way even in the last minute of war. What had been just matter of normalcy for all those years, would  have been now just stupid bad luck.

The man got wounded and he was sent to the military hospital. It seemed that the medical commission would let him home. Surprisingly they decided in the last day to send him back to the front.

He went to the station to take the train to his military unit. What if taking the train home firstly, and then go back to the front? Probably two days more, they would probably not observe the delay. Or would they? He let the first train go, to the front, also the second train, home. He just remained on the platform, undecided. Hours passed, then a day, then more. As time was flowing, the liberty of choice was vanishing. After several days it was already too late: going back to his regiment meant facing the court martial. Eventually he took the train home: now he was a deserter and had to hide from the other villagers.

He let only his wife know about him. She took it as her fate. They shared everything: their life, their joys and sorrows, their guilt. She started to help him secretly, going during the nights to the island where he had his hide-out.

The wife got pregnant. For him it meant all this happened to follow a purpose. A kid would continue them. For her it was more complicated. First hand how to present the thing to the other villagers? She pretended she had cheated her man. Everybody blamed her, except for her father-in-law. He told her, I know you very well, you are not one of those cheating their husbands. You must tell me at least if he's alive! She denied of knowing anything. The old man cursed her, she remained mute, stubbornly.

Live and Remember (Живи и помни), the book of Valentin Rasputin: the title calls in mind the deep meaning of remembrance: time getting irrelevant, moment getting timeless. Dissolution of past, present and future, irrelevance of anything but life: live and take care on what you observe.

Published on 1974, the book was immediately hailed as a superb - if atypical - example of war literature... a masterly psychological portrait of two characters caught in a hopeless situation... a very Russian story (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/711258.Live_and_Remember).

I read the book in a Romanian translation, sometime at the beginning of the 1980's, and it produced a profound impression on me. And then, during the years that followed, it came to my mind many times: the tragic story of Andrei and Nastyona, and its subtle meaning. And the paradoxical way of putting the problem.

A movie was made based on this book, in 2008. Director Aleksandr Proshkin looked for slightly different accents. The man is a deserter and  lives hidden on an island nearby the village, this comes in the movie matter of factly, the whole chain of events leading to this is just assumed, and the subtle motivation discussed in the book is no more. Instead, the movie is interested in the man's decay down to wilderness, masterfully caught: the naturalness of the way images of lonely wolf and lonely man are juxtaposed is a superb example of using the Eisensteinian lesson on intellectual montage. Another great achievement of the movie is the way the woman is presented: simultaneously living in two contradictory worlds, participant at the village life while secretly helping her husband, perfectly credible in both hypostases. The movie has also a slightly different ending: after many years the husband (that somehow survived) comes again, to find his village vanished - only deserted homes in full decay. I think it is an accolade to the whole creation of Rasputin, so focused on the tragedy of traditional life destruction.

And over all this, the river, Angara, in all its greatness, as an image of Cosmos, supporting all these opposites, witnessing everything, understanding all, and giving an unexpected sense to all that happens. People and communities come and go, the same is with the good and with the bad, with times of happiness and tragedy - the river has always been there and will remain there for ever, frozen in winter, relinquishing its banks of ice during spring thaw, flowing with majesty in summer and autumn, and maybe telling us that none of our stories are that important.

(Valentin Rasputin)

(Russian and Soviet Cinema)


Rosa Luxemburg

Freiheit ist immer die Freiheit des Andersdenkenden 

(German and Nordic Cinema)


Gesang der Geister über den Wassern

no copyright infringement intended

Des Menschen Seele
Gleicht dem Wasser:
Vom Himmel kommt es,
Zum Himmel steigt es,
Und wieder nieder
Zur Erde muß es,
Ewig wechselnd.

Strömt von der hohen,
Steilen Felswand
Der reine Strahl,
Dann stäubt er lieblich
In Wolkenwellen
Zum glatten Fels,
Und leicht empfangen,
Wallt er verschleiernd,
Zur Tiefe nieder.

Ragen Klippen
Dem Sturz entgegen,
Schäumt er unmutig
Zum Abgrund.

Im flachen Bette
Schleicht er das Wiesental hin,
Und in dem glatten See
Weiden ihr Antlitz
Alle Gestirne.

Wind ist der Welle
Lieblicher Buhler;
Wind mischt vom Grund aus
Schäumende Wogen.

Seele des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wasser!
Schicksal des Menschen,
Wie gleichst du dem Wind!

The soul of man
Is like the water:
It comes from heaven,
It returns to heaven,
And down again
To earth must go,
Ever changing.

When from the high,
Sheer wall of rock
The pure stream gushes,
It sprays its lovely vapor
In billowing clouds
Towards the smooth rock,
And lightly received,
It goes enshrouded,
Softly hissing
Down to the deep.

Cliffs tower,
Opposing its fall.
Annoyed, it foams
Step by step
Into the abyss.

In a flat bed
It slinks down the grassy vale,
And in the waveless lake
All the stars
Feast on their likeness.

Wind is the wave's
Handsome suitor;
Wind stirs up from the depths
Foaming billows.

Soul of man,
How like to the water!
Fate of man,
How like to the wind!

no copyright infringement intended

Sufletul nostru
I-asemeni apei:
Din cer se iscă,
La cer se suie
Şi iar coboară
Către pămînturi,
Veşnic altfel.

De sus ţîşneşte,
Din stînci abrupte,
Şuvoi curat,
Apoi se sparge
În nori de spumă,
Pe stei golaş.

Primit uşure,
Vuiet blînd,
Jos, spre adîncuri.

De-apar în drumu-i
Stînci împotrivă,
Treaptă cu treaptă,

Pe patu-i molcom,
Şerpuie-n văile verzi,
Şi-n lacul cel neted,
Chipul îşi scaldă
Stelele toate.

Vîntu-i al undei
Dulce logodnic;
El,din străfunduri,
Mişcă talazuri.

Suflet al nostru,
Cum semeni tu apei!
Soartă a noastră,
Cum semeni cu vîntul!


(Goethe und Schiller)

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A Posthumous Lithograph of Schubert

a lithograph by Josef Kriehuber
source: Project Gutenberg text 11419
no copyright infringement intended



Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Plimbare pe Strada Biserica Amzei spre Calea Victoriei

(Musical background: Mozart, Symphony No.41 K.551 in C Major Jupiter, Minuetto Allegro)


Monday, May 20, 2013

Galina Nikolaeva

The daughter of a schoolteacher, Galina Nikolaeva (1911-1963) graduated from a medical institute in 1935. Her father and her husband were both imprisoned in 1937, victims of the Soviet political terror of that period. During WWII, Nikolaeva worked as a physician on the Stalingrad front, then in Northern Caucasus. After the war she began to be known as a writer. Short story Гибель командарма (Death of the Army Commander) was published in 1945, a collection of verses (Сквозь огонь - Through Fire) followed, in 1946. In 1950 Nikolaeva published Жатва (Harvest), a novel depicting the people of a northern village and the postwar restoration of the rural economy. Повесть о директоре МТС и главном агрономе (Tale of the Director of an MTS and the Chief Agronomist), published in 1954, dealt also with rural life, and maybe foretell her masterpiece, Битва в пути (Battle en Route), from 1957.

(Жизнь в Kнигах)


Sunday, May 19, 2013

Imagini din Cartierul Titan

Musical Background: Bring It Back, Michael Mills


Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Viktor Astafyev

born in 1924 in the region of Krasnoyarsk, on the bank of Yenisei; spent much of his childhood in an orphanage; conscripted in the Soviet Army in 1942, wounded in the war; from 1945 on, lived in various regions of Russia (Urals, Perm, Vologda), working as a locksmith and smelter; published his first book in 1953l passed away in 2001 (wiki).

Astafyev has always been a highly individual writer who conforms to no movements or stereotypes.... He has always remained true to himself, and has retained a certain hard-edged integrity. His novel Прокляты и убиты is a gritty, typically uncompromising picture of war, with many naturalistic descriptions in a style the author has developed since the cathartic Печальный детектив. Astafyev remains very much a writer who refuses to be easily categorized: he is neither a Village Prose Writer, nor a writer of war prose, nor a writer who explores the mistakes of the recent Soviet past. At the same time, he is all of these. Capable of surprising and even shocking his reader, Astafyev maintains a deep lyrical sense that has produced what Eidelman called the best descriptions of nature for decades. More than any other writer living in Russia today (with the possible exception of Solzhenitsyn), he is a writer who examines man as subjected to and molded by the total Soviet experience.
(David Gillespie, quoted in wiki)

(Жизнь в Kнигах)


Monday, May 13, 2013

Arvid has a Question

Arvid has a good question: what wine would you serve with this mess? A few would go for a beer, but white wine seems to be the right choice. Now, what kind of white wine? Some would say a Riesling would be good, for some others a Chardonnay or a Sauvignon would go, some would prefer champagne. Well, it's your turn now.

(P and C Art)


Bucharest: Mid May in IOR Park


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Friday, May 10, 2013

Valentin Rasputin

I met firstly with the books of Valentin Rasputin by the end of the 1970's. They made an extraordinary impression on me. It was my first contact with the Siberian writers, the village prose movement. I remained through the years an admirer of Rasputin's works. His heroes are Siberian peasants, facing complex ethical and spiritual challenges.

(Жизнь в Kнигах)


Thursday, May 09, 2013

Merle Haggard - Mama Tried (1968 live TV performance)

I recently met with a friend from old times. I haven't seen him since the 1960's. He was by then a mix of shyness and courage (as all of us used to be), and loved singing all kind of songs. Now he looks old, naturally, while his eyes are telling the story of a life, with ups and downs, with the force to pass over bad times and go on. I'm looking at Merle Haggard now, the video I found is a live recording from the 1960's, while the image above shows a grown-up whose eyes are telling the story of a life.

The first thing I remember knowing,
Was a lonesome whistle blowing,
And a young un's dream of growing up to ride;
On a freight train leaving town,
Not knowing where I'm bound,
No-one could change my mind but Mama tried.
One and only rebel child,
From a family, meek and mild:
My Mama seemed to know what lay in store.
Despite all my Sunday learning,
Towards the bad, I kept on turning.
'Til Mama couldn't hold me anymore.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

Dear old Daddy, rest his soul,
Left my Mom a heavy load;
She tried so very hard to fill his shoes.
Working hours without rest,
Wanted me to have the best.
She tried to raise me right but I refused.

And I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole.
No-one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried.
Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied.
That leaves only me to blame 'cos Mama tried.

(video by goldwax)



Wednesday, May 08, 2013

Funny Movies Made by Kids

My granddaughters Bianca and Daria, together with their friends, playing in funny movies made by themselves. Enjoy!


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Tuesday, May 07, 2013

Emily Dickinson: There is no Frigate like a Book

source: Eclectic Eyez
no copyright infringement intended

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

(Emily Dickinson)


Monday, May 06, 2013

Cateva cuvinte despre o poeta

(click here for the English version)

Aceasta lume nu este o concluzie;
Dincolo de ea sta o urmare,
Nevazuta, asa cum e muzica,
Insa o certitudine, astfel cum e sunetul.

Dupa ce a murit, in camera ei au fost gasite manuscrisele, mii de versuri. Nimeni din familie nu banuise ca era poeta. Astazi este socotita una din marile poete ale literaturii americane, poate cea mai mare.

Cum arata? Un fost coleg din anii de scoala isi va aminti, peste ani, si va avea o fraza superba, she was not beautiful, yet she had great beauties. Ochii ei castanii erau calzi si blanzi, parul ei, tot castaniu, i se revarsa inelat peste umeri. Ii placea sa se imbrace in alb si ii placeau mult florile.

A fost vreodata indragostita? Sigur ca da. Dar a stiut sa isi pastreze taina in inima. Au ramas ciornele a patru scrisori - si indaratul frazelor conventionale traieste, urla patima, o patima care doare, fiindca si-a infranat-o atat de mult. Barbatul era un om al bisericii, un pastor, cu zece sau cinsprezece ani mai in varsta, casatorit si cu copii. Raspunsurile lui nu s-au pastrat. In anul acela ea a scris sute de poezii.

Pastorul a stiut sa reziste navalei sentimentelor - si s-a mutat undeva departe, in California.

Iar ea a devenit din ce in ce mai retrasa. Iesea rar din camera, din ce in ce mai rar - de obicei ca sa mearga la vanatoare, prin coclaurii Noii Anglii. Avea un tovaras de nadejde, un caine urias.

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don't know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—


Emily Dickinson

(click here for the Romanian version)

This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.

After she passed away, the manuscripts were found, in her room: thousands of lines of poetry. None of the family had guessed her a poet. Today she is considered one of the great American poets, maybe the greatest.

How was she looking like? A schoolmate would remember, after many years, she was not a beauty, but she had great beauties. Her chestnut eyes were warm and mild, her hair, also chestnut, flowed over her shoulders. She was dressed in white, and she loved flowers.

Had she been in love, ever? Of course she had, only she knew very well how to hide the secret in her heart. The drafts of four letters: that's all that remained - beyond the conventional sentences there is love, that lives, and howls, and is so painful, for she restrained it so much. The man was belonging to the church, a minister, ten or fifteen years her elder, and he was married. His answers, if any, did not remain. She wrote hundreds of poems that year.

The man knew how to resist to the imperious call of love - he moved to another parish, far away from New England, some place in California.

And she remained lonely, staying long hours in her room, leaving home sometimes, to go hunting in the woods, joined by her dog. A dog huge and faithful.

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond—
Invisible, as Music—
But positive, as Sound—
It beckons, and it baffles—
Philosophy—don't know—
And through a Riddle, at the last—
Sagacity, must go—
To guess it, puzzles scholars—
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown—
Faith slips—and laughs, and rallies—
Blushes, if any see—
Plucks at a twig of Evidence—
And asks a Vane, the way—
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit—
Strong Hallelujahs roll—
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul—

(A Life in Books)

(New England)


Sunday, May 05, 2013

Emily Dickinson: Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church

Today we celebrate here in Romania the Easter, and weather is great: spring is in full blossom, and it gives you a feeling of fulfillment. I think a poem by Emily Dickinson is appropriate.

Some keep the Sabbath going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches, - a noted clergyman, -
And the sermon is never long;
So instead of getting to heaven at last,
I'm going all along!

You would say that this looks a bit rebellious. And Emily Dickinson considered herself a bit rebellious indeed, in matters of religion (she wrote about this in several letters). Well, I would say that her rebellious ways were more an illusion: small mutinies expressed in her verses, and hidden there, very well balanced by gentleness.

I tried a Romanian rendering. It's lubberly, no doubt about. Please, don't judge me too harshly:

Unii ţin Ziua Domnului mergând la biserică;
Eu o ţin stând la mine in grădină,
Dascăl îmi e un cintezoi,
Iar bolta livezii îmi e cupolă.

Unii ţin Ziua Domnului in odăjdii,
Eu îmi port doar aripile,
Şi în loc sa tragă clopotele,
Cintezoiul - dascălul nostru mititel - doar cântă.

Iar Dumnezeu e cel ce ţine predica - ah, este un preot foarte învăţat -
Şi predica nu este niciodata lungă, asta mai ales,
Aşa că în loc sa merg în rai la sfârşitul sfârşitului,
Merg acolo în toată vremea.

(Emily Dickinson)

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Saturday, May 04, 2013

al-Sayyab: Rain Song

no copyright infringement intended

Your eyes are two palm tree forests in early light,
Or two balconies from which the moonlight recedes
When they smile, your eyes, the vines put forth their leaves,
And lights dance . . . like moons in a river
Rippled by the blade of an oar at break of day;
As if stars were throbbing in the depths of them . . .

And they drown in a mist of sorrow translucent
Like the sea stroked by the hand of nightfall;

The warmth of winter is in it, the shudder of autumn,
And death and birth, darkness and light;
A sobbing flares up to tremble in my soul
And a savage elation embracing the sky,
Frenzy of a child frightened by the moon.

It is as if archways of mist drank the clouds
And drop by drop dissolved in the rain . . .
As if children snickered in the vineyard bowers,

The song of the rain
Rippled the silence of birds in the trees . . .
Drop, drop, the rain

Drop the rain

Evening yawned, from low clouds

Heavy tears are streaming still.
It is as if a child before sleep were rambling on
About his mother (a year ago he went to wake her, did not find her,
Then was told, for he kept on asking,
“After tomorrow, she’ll come back again . . .
That she must come back again,

Yet his playmates whisper that she is there
In the hillside, sleeping her death for ever,
Eating the earth around her, drinking the rain;
As if a forlorn fisherman gathering nets
Cursed the waters and fate
And scattered a song at moonset,
Drip, drop, the rain
Drip, drop, the rain
Do you know what sorrow the rain can inspire?

Do you know how gutters weep when it pours down?

Do you know how lost a solitary person feels in the rain?
Endless, like spilt blood, like hungry people, like love,
Like children, like the dead, endless the rain.
Your two eyes take me wandering with the rain,
Lightning’s from across the Gulf sweep the shores of Iraq
With stars and shells,
As if a dawn were about to break from them, But night pulls over them a coverlet of blood. I cry out to the Gulf: “O Gulf,
Giver of pearls, shells and death!”
And the echo replies,
As if lamenting:
“O Gulf,
Giver of shells and death .

I can almost hear Iraq husbanding the thunder,
Storing lightning in the mountains and plains,
So that if the seal were broken by men
The winds would leave in the valley not a trace of Thamud.
I can almost hear the palmtrees drinking the rain,
Hear the villages moaning and emigrants
With oar and sail fighting the Gulf
Winds of storm and thunder, singing
“Rain . . . rain . . .

Drip, drop, the rain . . .
And there is hunger in Iraq,

The harvest time scatters the grain in-it,

That crows and locusts may gobble their fill,
Granaries and stones grind on and on,

Mills turn in the fields, with them men turning . . .
Drip, drop, the rain . . .

When came the night for leaving, how many tears we shed,

We made the rain a pretext, not wishing to be blamed
Drip, drop, the rain

Drip, drop, the rain

Since we had been children, the sky

Would be clouded in wintertime,

And down would pour the rain,
And every year when earth turned green the hunger struck us.
Not a year has passed without hunger in Iraq.
Rain . . .
Drip, drop, the rain . . .
Drip, drop . . .
In every drop of rain
A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of flowers.
Every tear wept by the hungry and naked people
And every spilt drop of slaves’ blood
Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,
A nipple turning rosy in an infant’s lips
In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of life.

Drop….. the rain . . .In the rain.
Iraq will blossom one day ‘

I cry out to the Gulf: “O Gulf,
Giver of pearls, shells and death!”

The echo replies
As if lamenting:
‘O Gulf,
Giver of shells and death.”
And across the sands from among its lavish gifts
The Gulf scatters fuming froth and shells
And the skeletons of miserable drowned emigrants

Who drank death forever
From the depths of the Gulf, from the ground of its silence,
And in Iraq a thousand serpents drink the nectar
From a flower the Euphrates has nourished with dew.

I hear the echo
Ringing in the Gulf:
“Rain . . .
Drip, drop, the rain . . .
Drip, drop.”

In every drop of rain
A red or yellow color buds from the seeds of flowers.
Every tear wept by the hungry and naked people
And every spilt drop of slaves’ blood
Is a smile aimed at a new dawn,
A nipple turning rosy in an infant’s lips
In the young world of tomorrow, bringer of life.

And still the rain pours down.
(translated by Lena Jayyusi and Christopher Middleton)

Rain Song is perhaps the most salient representation of al-Sayyab’s unique flair for combining, sometimes in a single stanza, traditional Iraqi folklore, political and cultural ideology, and arresting imagery to produce intelligible yet brilliant poetry (Badr Shakir al-Sayyab > Critical Introduction).

(Badr Shakir al-Sayyab)


Friday, May 03, 2013

Badr Shakir al-Sayyab

Străzi despre care se spune că nimeni nu mai revine pe ele, aşa cum nimeni nu mai revine de pe tărâmurile morţii:a Romanian rendering of a line from al-Sayyab - I read this line today, in a Romanian paper (Gândul), in an article written by Lelia Munteanu. Streets which is said nobody returns on them, as no one returns from the realms of death. Haunting memories, our own ghosts - or, by reverse, a haunting present, keeping us captives, no way to get back, to a past we were happy. For the poet, the place linked to the past is Jaykur, where he was born - an ambivalent place - a ghost, or by reverse, a desire, impossible to get to, but in our dreams:

Under the sun of the green east -
on the grey horse of a dream,
through Jaykur's bounteous summer
I rushed along distant roads,
between flowers, dew and water,
searching the horizon for a star,
a birthplace of the soul beneath the skies
for a spring to slake the flames of thirst,
searching for the exhausted traveler

al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic poetry (wiki).

(A Life in Books)


Thursday, May 02, 2013

Truman Capote

Truman Capote in 1955
a photo by Richard Avedon
(La Vida en Fotografía)
no copyright infringement intended

Several years ago my sister Jill gave me a  book by Truman Capote: The Muses are Heard. I hadn't read anything by him in original before. I was gained by the style, very matter of fact. I promised myself to look for others books by him. Later I bought a collection including Breakfast at Tiffany's. I had seen the movie with Audrey Hepburn, that was long, long time ago. So I started to read it, only I must say I became a very chaotic reader, starting more books in parallel. I watched then the movie where Capote was played by Phillip Seymour Hoffman. It was great and I'll come back to all of this. I knew many of his books from Romanian translations.

Well, yesterday I found on Facebook a post made by a Romanian journalist that I enjoy reading (Andrei Craciun): he was referring, among other books, Summer Crossing: Prima carte scrisa de Truman Capote si regasita dupa patruzeci de ani. O revelatie. Domnisoara Grady e una dintre cele mai seducatoare si mai tragice femei ale literaturii. Blestematul de Capote stia. (The first book written by Truman Capote, considered lost and rediscovered after forty years. A revelation. Miss Grady is one of the most seductive and tragic women in literature. That son of a gun Capote knew that). I found a great excerpt from the book on The New Yorker. It was published there in 2005.

(A Life in Books)

(Jill Rapaport)

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