The beginning of the novel – traducere realizată de Florina.
„The temptation to abandon that world, in which not even love can be saved anymore, is a common reality. However, Natașa Alina Culea does not do this, but describes it with anger, with despair, with passion, with the meticulousness of a jeweler, with the sisyphean patience of rolling his huge boulder up the mountain, not taking into account, at any moment, that in the next second it can collapse…
The wolves of the past portrays that underground colony, brought to the upper level, in a setting surrounded by the chimerical brilliance of the rich, full of anguish and with masks firmly set on their already deformed face – mask on top of mask – meant to hide the void or the inner desert.
Anxiety, passion, reason, fine humor, obsessive words, carefully drawn characters, with savory precision for every detail. The physical and the moral are intertwined in a psychological undertone and in a crude reality, of the everyday reality. A life in chaos. An atmosphere reminiscent of Giovanni Boccaccio, of the wicked fortresses of the Old Testament, of the imbalance created by the lack of human communication, by the imminent alteration of feelings; a strange atmosphere suddenly brought into a seemingly sophisticated world.
A painful, comprehensive, deep book, in which truths brutally juggle with dreams, hiding behind all the rebellious words, loaded with the characters’ tense eroticism. Age is the psychological threshold, impediment and ingredient, the key to unraveling mysteries.
“Underneath the earth worms wandered in darkness, above it, the larks cut the sky into strips through which the sun penetrated from time to time. Between worms and larks were the people, living on top of each other, mourning and loving. […] People were finding new activities, trying to fill the void inside them with something; they drank their failures, smoked their minds and debauched, doing whatever they could to avoid looking inside their hearts and seeing that God’s unity of measure is the infinity.” (Quote from the book Wolves of the Past”
Sofia – Salomé, what a pagan transfiguration of the senses! Burning fire, choked after burning in feud ashes! Hell? Fetishism? Sin? Blasphemy? Resignation? Everyone is free to relate to them, as he believes or as he can, while the innocence of childhood is cowardly defiled.
Love? Does love remain the eternal promise? Does it become a quest? Does it turn to a cry?
A hand to hand combat with The wolves of the past, with our illusions”
Amalia Elena Constantinescu Doctor in Philology, writer, member of the Writers’ Union of Romania.
Foreword – the Author:
“The wilderness dwells deep inside us. We call it unconscious, because we have no control over it ”(Carl G. Jung).
Although wolves generally live in packs, the wolf who chooses to live alone, in exile (an unexplained choice for ethologists) becomes much stronger, smarter, surpassing the instinctive patterns of wolves left behind. In splendid solitude, the wolf only follows its own rules, it’s the living metaphor of the mind detached from the group spirit, an archetypal symbol of freedom, of disobedience, of authenticity, but also of shadow. The path of the wolf is the path to finding one’s personal purpose, a difficult road through wild darkness and cold nights, until all you have left is yourself! And then you will walk fearlessly on the ground, having discovered the truth of your being, the golden key that has always hung around your neck.
This fascinating animal is a living lesson, reminding us that one day we’ll have to cut off our attachments and go alone through life and death.
“The wolf is that animal that looks like a dog, but is a Great Spirit,” according to a North-American Indian saying.
The beginning of the novel
Anniversary of resignation
I still wonder why my wife insisted on coming here, even for a weekend; I know she wants us to be among our friends, they soften the echo between us, but Ben and Ana? Our relationship has cooled down quietly, I think that’s what Carina was thinking about, inviting more couples. The remnants of our connection gave birth to endless silence, but it was not the same silence for both of us, even the silence we keep separately, each on his side of the bed, each on his corner of the sofa.
…. may this placing of the rings and Your angel guide them through all the days of their lives, both now and ever, and unto the ages of ages.
I feel my wedding ring twisted like a snake around my neck, though I stopped wearing it for nearly two years now …
unto the ages of ages…
Automation and so much silence …
It is sad to end a relationship, but infinitely sadder to hold on to it only because we made promises we believed in for a while; both hungry and drained, like two ogres who continue the race when there is nothing left to lose, much less to win.
Today marks thirteen years of marriage. Thirteen years beaten like nails in me, years that passed by patting my face with dried white springs, silvering my temples.
Years of resignation.
In the morning I drove to Sinaia to buy her a bouquet of flowers, which I left on the bed, along with a box with the bracelet she admired a few weeks ago. Some might say I’m an extraordinary husband or at least thoughtful one. But what do I even know? Is this life? Is this happiness? Is still all there is to it? This is what I lived for these 40 years? For another anniversary, another car, another company bought? I do not expect to climb the mountain of happiness and stay there, this utopia is for the naive, but this cannot be it, this numbness that drips from my mind to my limbs and makes them hard to move; no, there has to be more, there must be!
My thoughts roar like the restless birds that no longer find their way to the flock that splits clouds and shatter dreams. My dreams. Life took over and took vengeance on me because I didn’t know how to dream big; I was awakened early by their flapping of wings; they revolved around two concerns: the metamorphosis of my marriage and the gift for Carina. Last weekend we were in Maldives, where we jumped in the pool from the highest trampoline; not that it caused me any pleasure, everything is indifferent to me, and if life would have a taste, I no longer have taste buds for it; I jumped to wake up from my apathy, to feel something, anything, at least for a moment. Wet and angry, I returned to Carina as bored as I left. What else could I do? What if I am ill and my doctor is incompetent? I don’t trust doctors anyway, except surgeons, of course. Off … so much peace… Why do I always have to receive wishes for peace of mind? Who the hell wants peace of mind? Did I ask for it, without realizing it? Will I not have enough peace of mind when I die? I want to feel like I’m living, I want to live! I want to want!
I can’t even sleep for five hours a night; I wake up every day with the first rays of sun and have thoughts that even I find amazing.
I remember the wedding day, Carina’s illuminated face; she was dressed in a white, translucent dress, I was stuffed in a black suit, with my tie matching her bouquet of flowers. I felt like a penguin accessorized with the centerpiece, the future bride who will rub this moment in the face of the bridesmaids. I was doing the right thing, I had kneeled before her after several years of relationship, after a few humorless hints from her and I had decided after a suspicion of pregnancy that had turned out to be false. I was not excited to get married, but I thought this funfair of ceremony will pass quickly. I was stubborn, refusing to do the first dance, a frightening moment, an absurd combination of classic waltz that was supposed to end in a turbulent rock; I had listened to Carina’s dance instructor’s proposal with an indescribable terror; Carina’s enthusiasm was inversely proportional to mine. Sweating on the dance floor like a turkey was my last wish. I managed to convince my future wife that I was completely untalented, and if she wouldn’t have believed me, I would have resorted to an appendicitis crisis, if the joke had thickened, only to get rid of the blody thing. Uff… that’s a thing of the past… and so are others…
Another anniversary of resignation.
I can breathe easily, Carina’s gift is ticked, I have completed my husband’s obligation in a satisfactory manner. Here is where love ends, right here, when pleasure becomes obligation, when in the photos your partner takes of you, you see a person you do not know, although you recognize the sadness gathered in the naked eyes, a face that lacks any trace of enthusiasm.
I close the door, noiselessly, and descend to the ground floor, in the huge living room where the brown eco-leather sofas rest in front of a wall-mounted TV. A large, muted piano relaxes in one corner, flanked by two Greek columns, carved with mythological scenes. Everything is too voluminous, sumptuous, but also artificial, the designer tried a bit too hard, managing to flabbergast, and this is not necessarily bad, but not necessarily good either. It smells of fir tree and of archeology museum. Above me hangs a brass metal chandelier, with a Gothic pattern, like a threat coming from somewhere beneath the massive wooden beams.