In old times, there was a place in Bucharest where the unlucky were hanged. Whenever boredom descended upon the city, the prince would grab a few poor souls and hang them in the square, just to liven things up. And it worked — the square would fill with people who left a part of their blood’s restlessness right there, on the ground of death.
Today, in the place of the Gallows stands a busy intersection where cars collide and scrape their paint.
At that crossroads I live, on the top floor of a concrete building, facing the former Gallows, where life and death mingle. From the crust of asphalt still rise the dusty ghosts of the hanged, and every now and then one of them drifts up to me — relaxed and happy, like a branch in mid-summer.
Doina Ruști
My life as a published writer began in the 1990s, at the Museum of Literature. That’s where I met Ioan Groșan, Ofelia Creția, Ioan Cristescu, Buduca, Costi Stan, Ioana Crăciunescu, actors, painters, and many others. It was also the first time I saw Dumitru Țepeneag. Next to the museum stood a famous kiosk-bookstore, a fragile little place where one could find every literary magazine and the books of small publishers. That’s where we brought our newly printed books for reviews in the union’s magazines, handing them to Octavian Soviany, always kind, who had a column in Luceafărul.
Later the world grew larger, especially after I began publishing with Polirom, where at first the authors felt like a family. After publishing Zogru (2006), I became friends with Dan C. Mihăilescu and Luminița Marcu, who were among the first supporters of the novel — and also with Lucian Mîndruță, one of the first to receive a signed copy. That year I met many writers, some of whom became lifelong friends. Gabriela Adameșteanu ran the literary magazine Bucureștiul Cultural, a supplement of Revista 22, where I often published. I think I had the most literary events abroad together with Gabriela.
Horia Gârbea, Gabriela Gheorghișor, Gabriel Coșoveanu, Luminița Corneanu, Gabriel Dimisianu, Geta Dimisianu, Daniel Cristea-Enache — and many others — would gather at the Writers’ Union, especially for readings in the Hall of Mirrors. Around the same time, I attended my first international book fair, in Turin, where I met Roberto Merlo, Marco Cugno and Bruno Mazzoni, who have remained close cultural friends. Roberto translated two of my novels into Italian — Zogru and The Little Red Man — both praised for the quality of translation.
Then came years of travels and meetings, especially in Italy — Florence (where The Little Red Man first appeared), Rome, and many events organized by Nicoleta Neșu or the Romanian Academy in Rome, supported by remarkable cultural diplomats, many of them former students.
Around that period I also expanded my circle of friends through my work in film, especially while teaching at UNATC and Universitatea Media. Meeting the film director Andrei Blaier was deeply influential — he even became one of the characters in Zogru. Many of my former students from the MediaPro Group later became leading journalists or filmmakers.
After 2006, the Romanian Cultural Institute strengthened its presence through international events — many initiated by Catrinel Pleșu, then director of the National Book Center, a dear friend from whom I learned a lot. She made me fall in love with the Leipzig Book Fair, where I read excerpts from Zogru in a crowded cinema hall, alongside Georgi Gospodinov and other Balkan writers.
2008 was one of my best years — and the following ones as well. That was when I published The Ghost in the Mill, nominated for multiple awards and winner of the Writers’ Union Prize. That year I became friends with Paul Cernat and Bianca Burța-Cernat, whose critical work remains closest to my own sensibility. Around The Ghost in the Mill gathered many generous friends — among them Mihaela Ursa, Andrei Simuț, and others whose essays are collected here.
That novel brought me literary recognition and strengthened my ties with the Romanian literary world. Soon after came Lizoanca at Eleven (2009), which won the Romanian Academy Prize. Nicolae Breban was one of its greatest supporters — a writer I deeply admire for his massive style and for renewing Romanian prose.
At the Frankfurt Book Fair, where I participated several times, I met Eva Wemme, the translator of The Ghost in the Mill, and took part in events organized by the Ministry of Culture.
Among the writers I’ve met at book fairs are Mircea Cărtărescu, Filip Florian, Gabriela Adameșteanu, Vasile Ernu, Robert Șerban, Cristian Teodorescu, Ana Blandiana and many others.
After Lizoanca came numerous translations and high-profile events. 2012 was another remarkable year, marked by the unforgettable event at Casa delle Letterature in Rome, with Mircea Cărtărescu and Horia-Roman Patapievici, which I later recounted here. Around that time I also wrote for Ziarul de Duminică, edited by my talented friend Stelian Țurlea.
With Lizoanca translated by Jan Cornelius, I toured Germany — Berlin, Leipzig, Düsseldorf — meeting extraordinary people like Anja Schwarz, perhaps my most devoted editor, who even named her child after Lizoanca.
Later came Spain, with my dear friend and translator Enrique Nogueras, who translated Lizoanca, The Book of Perilous Dishes, and The Phanariot Manuscript into Spanish. Together we had events in Madrid (introduced by Manuel Rico), in Barcelona (with Ramón Acín), and in Granada.
Among the many memorable moments, I also recall the 2015 Istanbul Book Fair, when Romania was the guest of honor. There I met Oya Baydar and took part in debates with Matei Vișniec, Mircea Dinescu, [Dan Lungu], Vasile Ernu, Radu Vancu, and many others.
It was also the year of The Phanariot Manuscript, followed by The Book of Perilous Dishes, awarded in Budapest for Enikő Szencovics’s exceptional translation.
In London I met Tracy Chevalier; in China I held two writing residencies. In Sardinia, one of the most beautiful festivals I’ve attended, I met Marcello Fois, exchanged words with Paolo Giordano, and greeted Fiona Barton. In Turin, I enjoyed an afternoon at Libreria Luxemburg with Roberto Merlo and critic Noemi Cuffia.
Later, in Granada, at a UNESCO-supported event organized by the Romanian Cultural Institute, Enrique Nogueras presented the Spanish edition of La gata del viernes.
I also cherish my friendship with Sebastián Teillier, who translated Zogru y sus amigos in Chile. And in Paris, I’ve met many wonderful people — some at the Romanian Embassy, others after the French edition of Zogru, thanks to the Jan Michalski Foundation and the marvelous publishers from Marseille.
And still, this is only a small fragment of my writer’s life.
