The accomplishments of one person show how much he invested in certain areas of his life and how much he neglected all the others.
Sometimes happiness is math. If you wonder how much sex matters in a relationship, think of how much time you spend making sex.
No one can lie to you so well as they lie to themselves.
If you want to cover up a violent truth, you add a layer of humor, and call it irony. Irony is the weapon of smart people.
Hate is unrequited love.
You look into the past only not to make the same mistakes again. You cannot remain in it, not matter how wonderful the past was. The past passed.
You have to become a champion in getting quickly out of negative situations, because life will not spare you of them.
Life is a dog you are used to play with by throwing him a stick. You are used to the game, you trust the dog, but one day it doesn’t come back with the stick. Another day even the dog doesn’t return. The man is a master who finds out too late he owned no dog.
The divorce was invented so you’ll not have to sleep with a mistake your entire life.
And how hard it is to let go the ones who make you unhappy!
When you are with somebody who hides being seen with you, you are worse than alone. Even you are not with you.
Fidelity is often just a lack of options.
Life is a comedy to which we are all crying.
We are preparing ourselves to write the story of our life, but without love we live only the draft of it.
Some people don’t need the others’ approval. They build themselves a pedestal and they climb it. One stupid person is enough to admire them, and you cannot escape their greatness.
Don’t ask me who I am. Ask yourself who you can be next to me.
You see, the world is not enough satisfying for a writer. The world doesn’t fit the writer, the world’s design is for him like a straitjacket. The writer is a human, at least physically he looks like all other humans, but he is unsatisfied, gaunt and silent. He creates a world of his own, one to reflect all of him. He is getting rid of this world as a serpent gets rid of his skin. Between the covers of the book he plays God and molds humans of paper. And he is punishing them or creating them wings, as he considers. Some he kills with bare hands, not because they were bad people, but because they did bad things, and he leaves others to die by themselves. And then the writer realizes that revenge doesn’t exist, and that death is not a penalty, or if it is, is the same for everybody. Did God feel that way in the beginning of everything? Did the creation, the world, the water, the muse, the island, the sunrise, the stones came out of discontent? Out of an unbearable loneliness? God created the human and the horse. They were both free. The human created the whip and stole the freedom of the horse. Because he felt unbearably alone.
The gloomy November morning gathered
a flock of crows on the little patch of burnt grass, settled in the Primăverii neighborhood. The
buildings, still moist after a light, but persisting rain, like multicolored
pieces of Lego, merged unexpectedly, rise defiantly on the tongue of the
The windows begin to light up one
after the other, illuminated in hues of dirty yellow and silver; with curtains,
with blinds, others are just bare windows inviting you to discover their loose
With a step forward and one backward,
always between yesterday and tomorrow, we live in a question without answer:
does the night end or the morning begin? And if it is a day when we can change
everything, why don’t we see it, although our eyes are wide open?
Bucharest wakes up. The arteries of
the city gradually begin to be crossed by cars with drivers who are searching
for something, half asleep. Their automatic gestures reveal the monotony in
which they bath like in a warm muddy puddle, like a drop of water in the
fractured asphalt, sometimes dreaming of being a drop of ocean.
Every man tells two stories: one to himself, and one to the others. Most of the time, these two stories do not bare resemblance to one another. Most of the time, we wake up and wish we were in another story.
This is how the story of The Harlequin, yet untold, begins…
Natasha Alina Culea is a name which doesn’t belong to her anymore, a name which she gave as a gift to her readers – she says – it is a name printed on thousands of books in Romania and Moldova Republic, under six titles (in chronological order): “Natasha, the men and the psychoanalyst”, “Marat”, Wolves of the past”, “Nights in Monaco”, “Dreams never sleep”, and “The Harlequin” – the most recent novel, launched in December 2018. Sometimes she thinks she is a writer, other times a hermit or a peregrine, but she always loves her readers. After the novel “Wolves of the past” she wrote “Nights in Monaco” just to cheer up her readers who cried on her shoulders, demanding her happy-ending novels.
C&B: Describe or define your activity!
“Being a Romanian Author is a challenge, and the term challenge is a mild term if we refer to the confused and confusing situation of the Romanian book market of the Contemporary Literature. My only ambition is to give my readers a memorable reading and, being a perfectionist, I will evolve whether or not I have readers who will no longer keep up with the complexity of the writing I have intended to reach. In the end, the book also chooses the reader, not only the reader chooses the book. Either I find the way to bring together the essence of classical literature with the simplified structure of contemporary literature, resisting to the minimalist beletristic marasm wave, or I will not write at all. Because we are not allowed to negotiate with Romanian literature, which will remain many years after we will not be. I am guided by words as: erudition, evolution, exemplarity”.