This year at Bookfest, something important happened — not just for me as a writer, but for the way literature still claims public space in Romania.
I launched my novel Ferenike at the stand of Humanitas Publishing House, in front of a warm and attentive audience. Immediately after my event, Mircea Cărtărescu presented his new book — and throughout the day, other key Humanitas authors followed: Gabriel Liiceanu, Radu Paraschivescu, Ioana Pârvulescu, Tatiana Niculescu. To be part of that literary rhythm — that sequence of voices — was more than symbolic. It was a gesture of continuity, of cultural kinship.
Even more meaningful was the media presence: Agerpres, Romania’s national press agency, reported on my book and participation. In a world where visibility often depends on noise and algorithms, this kind of institutional recognition feels rare — and profoundly validating.
Readers came with books to be signed — some with The Book of Perilous Dishes, others with The Ghost in the Mill. Some just wanted to talk. There was joy, emotion, and a quiet sense of belonging to something larger than oneself.
I left Bookfest this year with one conviction:
Literature still matters — and public moments like these remind me why I write.
