Read me

The storyteller is I.  Even back then you knew the end of history and you saw, just as a bird peering down from the upper air sees the ants and the torrent coming at the anthill as the ants sun themselves, everything that was to come, from the moment he entered Bucharest to the last gasp of his prophecies.  When he entered the city, no one expected him to cover himself in glory, and he did not come riding on a donkey, beneath olive branches, although the expectation that was floating in the air had long been foreordained to him.

Istoria romantata a unui safari
The Childhoods of Daniel Abagiu
O fereastra intunecata
Fotograful Curtii Regale
Mierla neagra
O suta de ani la portile Orientului
parteneri parteneri parteneri parteneri

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