By Dumitru Tsepeneag

Although most sensible identified now for his novels, this selection of pre-exile brief tales through the well known Romanian writer and "onirist" not just express Dumitru Tsepeneag at his top, yet offer a glimpse into the key historical past of surrealism uunder the brutal regime of Nicolae Ceausescu. In those tales, existence is either banal and weird, at the verge of breaking down, like a movie loop performed as soon as too usually, with the new glare of irrationality constantly ready to burn via. awaiting Vain paintings of the Fugue and again to Breton, Waiting is a subversive delicacy.

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Not anything happened to him—after all, possibly the boss wouldn’t even observe. He took the ice skate from his pocket and, maintaining it among hands, slid it alongside the ice of his table; he ran it aground in a heap of snow—the paper ream—then driven it into creating a couple of truly superb pirouettes. After a quick hesitation, he bent down, opened a drawer, took out the opposite pencil sharpeners, and placed them at the ice too. yet now Horia was once on his toes, jingling his key chain: it used to be time to move domestic. He speedy crammed the whale, the ballerina, and the others into his pocket. Horia checked out him, squinting just a little: so what, it’s what you are promoting! He stood up, forgetting to shut his sharpener drawer, took his hat from its peg at the rack, wear his new overcoat, and walked in the course of the door prior to Horia. He used to be in no unique hurry, yet what else may he do? occasionally that Horia loved to idiot around—in brief, he loved to wind him up. It used to be now not snowing. Squashed via such a lot of tires, trampled by way of such a lot of boots, the snow had taken at the colour of halva. It had grew to become to dust at the tramlines, and had most likely disappeared altogether towards town middle, the place vans have been rolled out to transparent it away. possibly it’ll snow back this night . . . Leaving the place of work canteen, he trigger homeward through strength of behavior, yet then replaced his brain. The sky used to be overcast, and much away, past the trolley cables and cell wires, it had dark-purple colorings. Yellowish-green sparks leaped at times from the trams; the streetlamps might quickly gentle up—how early darkness fell now! He sauntered alongside, good secure in his fur gloves—real bear’s paws that he held at the back of his back—and a hat pulled round his ears. The snow was once turning a darker coloration of grey at the rooftops. He didn’t suppose chilly in any respect, so he had no cause to go into the cafeteria at the different part of the road. yet he crossed all of the comparable. skinny males and a lady with a light, birdlike face and ringed eyes have been on their approach out. After she had long past a couple of steps down the road, he felt an urge to examine her back; she bore a awesome resemblance to Luci. the entire streetlamps all at once went on even as, like that night within the lounge after the outdated white-bearded guy had left with an empty bag slung over his pink silk shoulders. Then too the entire lighting fixtures had come on at once—in the chandelier and the wall lamps—and shone at the offers piled up underneath the fir tree. Luci, in a bulging gown, first gave him the field with the skates. She knew her stuff, alright! He stood there bemused, aiding himself opposed to the arm of the chair: he didn’t have the braveness. Nor have been there in basic terms the skates. He stood with the field in his hands, yet Luci insisted that he open it, and the metal blades of the skates have been chilly and icy-sharp. He twisted his lips and chewed a nook of his mustache. It looked to be less warm now; there has been a tingling at the back of his eyelids, as though he used to be approximately to cry. His ears have been commencing to believe stiff, even contained in the fur flaps. A tram made an infernal racket.

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