I got a letter from him. He even wrote a poem about solitude and alienation. I liked the way he expressed his feeling of, and I quote, attachment to the marvellous sculpture of the angelic in this creature of feminine flesh, who supposedly is me, using a few strident metaphors and pornographic epithets. He also listed some lies, such as me being the only person with whom he would read a book on the edge of a pit. Oh, how charming, isn't it? It would have been romantic if he were at war, not in a mental hospital.
Carmen Tot
The Cerberus at the entrance watched us over his thick-framed glasses as we entered one by one, grabbed a book, and pretended to sit at the study table. When he looked down, we jumped, swerved quickly to the right, and kissed each other like madmen next to the philosophy shelf. How did we end up here? That's what they asked when they caught us halfway naked next to the collapsed shelf. Well, you see, he said, nudging me with his hip, she always contradicted me when I tried to explain to her that free will doesn't apply in a public library.
Ina Moldoveanu
When it's cold and rainy in the dim mornings, the first readers are already waiting at the library door. They are always the ones who slept in hidden nooks, on the building's stairs, and are now coming in to find a warm spot in the reading room. There, nobody asks for their name, address, and they can read any book they desire. Alfonso has read and reread all the books on the shelf. Now he writes stories for the children who come to the park near the school. He always finds a warm sandwich placed on the bench where he lives. Underneath it, a note with a drawn house.
(Translated by Laurențiu-Gabriel Niculae / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.