The agarwood gave off its perfume, and the vine oil clouded over, invaded by the ghosts of other lives, from the time when it was just a dry seed und… - Doina Ruști

Last year, sometime in November, I noticed a book in the window of the Sadoveanu

At last, she can sit down with the same emotion and anticipation felt before each meeting. The bed squeaks, recognizes her, and is happy to touch her. It is the only one that truly knows her, that deciphers the volutes of her brain and understands the delicate movements of the tiny creatures hidden in her capillaries. It took her 62 days to get here, to slide her fingers along its wooden surface, 62 suffocating days, the memories of which, although will fade, will leave toxins behind.

Generous people are praised in books, but in everyday life they have nothing to show for it. The more grasping a person is, the wider doors open for them. No one loves the generous! They are admired for their praiseworthy deeds, and if they give you something, you accept it gratefully. But that’s as far as it goes. You don’t waste your time with a giver. You don’t go for a drink with them. You don’t make a philosophy of their gesture. And you don’t include them in your list of friends. Such a person is only good as a guarantor—the one who’s ready to stump up.