Graphomaniac

Anca Mureșan
In the beginning were the words. I looked at them and they were good. I thought I could build an entire world with them, because they were round, whole, perfect. I saw them start to get tired and show signs of boredom, but they were still listening to me. I asked them to be clear and precise and they became meaningful again. I could write with them anytime, anything and anything. Now my words are stubborn and full of rust. Their helplessness is round, whole, perfect. Now the words are simple. I look at them and shut up.

Vlad Mușat
I was visiting London and I entered an antique shop. I set my eyes on the Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. While I was flipping through it. Your tastes aren't bad. Thanks. I can't believe it, aren't you Haruki Murakami? Shh. I don't want to be recognized. We talked about jazz and books. Then I confessed that I never had a writer's block. He laughed and added that he hoped that I will go through something like this soon. I bought Dickens' book and asked him to give me an autograph. He wrote something in Japanese. I don't want to translate.
 
 Paul Dârvariu
They say it is a disease. I'm sure I had it. As soon as I was catching a piece of paper, I wrote. Anything: memories, recipes, jokes. For me, this disease was both good and bad. Be careful: one in the militia had ratted me out because I stole corn from the farmers' co-op[1]. I found myself with the coppers[2] in the yard. They rummaged, but they didn't find the cobs, because I wasn't stupid enough to show them where I buried them. In the loo, they came across the picture of the comrade. I had written a Bulă[3] joke on it. They confiscated the paper and threw me in jail. The good part is that now I have a revolutionist pension.

(Translated by Corina-Alexandra Belu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)