1. In your novel The Ghost in the Mill, you weave elements of magical realism with historical Romanian folklore—how did you balance the supernatural aspects with the socio-political realities of the communist era to create a narrative that resonates on multiple levels?
Dear Nesrein, first of all, I thank you infinitely for this joy of receiving your message from Cairo—the city of all stories and dreams. I haven’t yet been to Cairo; it remains one of my dreams, a destination on my list. The pleasure of speaking with you is even greater. So thank you for asking such thoughtful questions that make me feel important—and that make me eager to read your own fiction.
The Ghost in the Mill is my central novel. Its structure allowed me to enter naturally into the “mill” that was Romanian communism—a world in which my youth was ground away and where everything seemed to be controlled by an unseen master. Since the Ghost itself is a character in the novel, it wasn’t very difficult to integrate the supernatural. Born from the happiness and pain of a rural schoolteacher, my ghost is a projection of history itself—no need to emphasize how perverse that history can be.
2. Lizoanca at the Age of Eleven explores themes of childhood trauma and societal neglect. What inspired the character of Lizoanca, and how does she reflect broader issues in contemporary Romanian society?
Pedophilia and child abuse are rarely addressed directly. A newspaper article once struck me for its brutally crude tone: a child was being blamed for an epidemic in her village. The way that story was repeated, without an ounce of compassion for the child, compelled me to confront the theme—first through research, during which I came across more than 300 documented cases of abused children in recent years. Then I decided to write the novel, in part to do something for that child who had become a public enemy.
Lizoanca, my most translated novel and winner of the Romanian Academy Prize, brought me literary visibility—not only because of its theme, but also because it’s a direct, realist novel through which I wanted to help build the foundations of a resistant public conscience. I don’t know if I succeeded, but the book has remained successful, with new editions still being published.
3. The Book of Perilous Dishes draws on 18th-century Bucharest and culinary magic. Could you discuss how food serves as a metaphor for power, intrigue, and cultural identity in this story?
Perhaps my best-known novel, since it has been translated into English, The Book of Perilous Dishes (Mâța Vinerii in Romanian, or Cat o’ Friday) brings to the forefront the story of a slave cook in the 18th century. I loved writing this book, which also has German, Spanish, and Hungarian editions. Though its historical background—and even the cook’s story—are real, the novel is written in a fantastical register, revolving around 21 culinary and magical recipes.
I have always been fascinated by culinary combinations—they reveal most directly the mindset of an ethnic group. In the novel, the recipes come from an ancient culture of the Satorini people, blending together Romanian beliefs and myths. My favorite is the rose-petal cake that brings on the “laughing sickness,” causing a series of comic entanglements that drive the plot. But I also adore the witch Sirka’s little cake—for love.
4. In Zogru, the immortal protagonist offers a unique lens on human history. How does this character’s eternal perspective allow you to critique modern Romanian identity and the passage of time?
Indeed, beyond the story of an eternal entity—apparently whimsical and picaresque—lies the solitude of a singular being and its need to publicly affirm its identity. Among all my characters, Zogru is closest to me: in his naivety and his natural tendency to make blunders and cause confusion. That’s also my own existential pattern—a well-intentioned person but perpetually unlucky. Perhaps that’s why I loved writing this novel so much.
Among major languages, it’s been translated into French and Italian. Written as a quest for love and a destined soulmate, in the spirit of The Thousand and One Nights, it’s a novel with a strong epic line—and a happy ending.
5. The Phanariot Manuscript delves into historical fiction with fantastical twists. What research process did you undertake to authentically portray the Phanariot era while infusing it with surreal elements?
I began with a real document—a contract for the sale of a human being. Gradually, as I pieced the facts together, I turned that 18th-century document into a character of its own. My connection to it is purely emotional. The Phanariot Manuscript is a novel about love and freedom—two concepts that meet in a shadowy zone of vanity and selfish aspiration, both stretched to their limits.
In love with a slave girl, Leun, a 17-year-old tailor, must give up his freedom for love: under Romanian law at the time, whoever married a slave became a slave as well—and so did his family. Leun faces this dilemma, and his hesitation becomes fabulous. The entire society, the historical events of the period, and its attested figures enter the dream of this adolescent with grand ambitions. His main desire concerns identity and affirmation—he comes from a small Vlach community in Thessaloniki and dreams of becoming a tailor. So he sets out into the world, crossing the Ottoman Empire—but the freedom he dreams of dissolves. The fabulous and fantastical elements serve to turn his story into a message about identity.
6. Romanian culture is rich with folklore and myths. How do these traditional elements influence modern Romanian writers, and how have you incorporated them to address contemporary themes in your novels?
Romanian folklore has a Mediterranean side, shaped by geography and ancient Greco-Latin connections. There’s also a Balkan layer, inherited through centuries of ties with the lands south of the Danube. At the same time, there’s a deeply local vein, strengthened by the powerful Romanian school of folklore in the 19th century.
Among myths emblematic for Romanians, I’d mention tales of tricked devils, the horses of hell, Mărțișor, and above all, the myth of “catching thieves.” According to the old belief: after being robbed, you sprinkle ashes on the hearth (today we’d say, the kitchen floor) and draw a map of your town with a stick—your house, the main streets, the neighborhoods. Then you pray to the Empress of Flies. The next day, you’ll find on your map a thin trace drawn by a fly, showing the thief’s path from your house to his hideout. And that’s it—you’ve caught him!
Of course, there are more solemn myths with deep philosophical meaning—like the myth of death (Miorița) or eternal youth. Still, there’s not yet a strong tradition of folkloric reinterpretation in contemporary literature; things stop at satire or adaptation. Romanians tend to love international myths. As for me, I’m passionate about Romanian folklore—to such a degree that nearly all my novels include motifs, themes, and especially symbols drawn from local mythology.
7. What role does Bucharest play as a literary setting in Romanian fiction, and how have you used its historical layers to explore themes of corruption and transformation in your stories?
I’m in love with Bucharest—patched up, abandoned, and corrupt as it is. Naturally, it’s also my favorite literary space. Among contemporary writers who use it as an epic setting are Mircea Cărtărescu and Gabriela Adameșteanu.
As for my own work, several novels deal with the subject. Besides Lizoanca at the Age of Eleven, I wrote a novel about the decline of authority in all its forms—from parental to political—titled Mămica la două albăstrele (Adultery in translation). But my Phanariot Trilogy offers a more elaborate image of Bucharest, focusing on its continuous transformations, where enduring legacies remain essential. The Phanariot Manuscript, The Book of Perilous Dishes, and Homeric are the three novels dedicated to historical Bucharest.
8. Romanian literature often grapples with the legacy of dictatorship. How do you navigate the balance between historical accuracy and artistic freedom when depicting such sensitive cultural wounds?
You’ve touched on my most sensitive point. Many of my books deal with this theme, but The Ghost in the Mill is a true parable of communism—using symbolic methods, in the tradition of the fantastic style cultivated under dictatorship, when allegory could conceal a writer’s intentions.
Recently, I published an autobiographical novel about the assassination of my father during the communist period. This time, the style is direct, simple, intentionally raw realism. It’s titled Ferenike, referring to the condition of women. Ferenike was a princess of Rhodes, around 400 BC, who disguised herself in men’s clothes to compete in athletic games forbidden to women. The title is symbolic, because the novel is a radiography of my youth—framed by both a personal and a national tragedy, rooted in Ceaușescu’s anti-abortion decree, which led to the deaths of tens of thousands of women.
Doina Ruști at the Circolo dei Lettori literary event in Torino – News.ro coverage
9. Your writing often stems from personal grievances or historical documents, as in The Book of Perilous Dishes. What draws you to these archival inspirations, and how do they shape your creative process?
In literature, everything is personal—as you well know. The Book of Perilous Dishes was born first from my fascination with cooking. I don’t cook myself, but I love to watch and to enjoy the alchemy of flavors.
I don’t believe in fiction born purely from documentation, but I do believe in a passion for archives. I’m an avid collector of personal documents—contracts, shopping lists, wills, sale deeds, court records, letters. In them, history reveals itself at ground level. Sometimes I become obsessed with one such document—as with the one that inspired The Phanariot Manuscript. It’s not journalistic research. Emotion comes first, then obsession, and around that I may do some research. But my literature doesn’t spring from documents—it comes from the pleasure of storytelling. Without emotion, there is no literature.
10. In exploring forgotten 18th-century cities and sagas, what personal or cultural memories inspire you to resurrect these obscured histories through fiction?
Let me give you an example. I left home at fifteen to study in another city. That rupture, the adjustment, and especially the life of an adolescent without family became recurring themes in my books—even in those set in the 18th century, like The Phanariot Manuscript or The Book of Perilous Dishes, where the protagonist, though an adult, recounts events from when she was fifteen—including her flight from home. Similarly, in Zavaidoc in the Year of Love, Matilda experiences her departure from home as an escape.
But what marked me most profoundly was the assassination of my father—it was the defining trauma. I was eleven when he was killed, and there’s almost no novel of mine that doesn’t include a murder or fragments of that real story.
11. As a screenwriter alongside your novel-writing, how does the discipline of scriptwriting influence your prose style and character development?
Screenwriting doesn’t particularly interest me, though I sometimes write a story that later becomes the basis for a film—usually quite different from the original text. Of these, only The Miracle of Tekir is better known, having won the Swiss Film Prize for Best Feature, though the film itself has no real connection to me.
12. Teaching creative writing, what key lessons do you impart to aspiring Romanian writers about finding their voice in a global literary landscape?
Not to follow anyone’s advice. A writer is someone who has read so much fiction that they finally acquire the strength to live their own adventure. Write—nothing more. If nothing comes, if there’s no desire or idea, then perhaps you’re not meant to write. Literature is play: when you feel like playing, you do; when you don’t, you don’t.
13. In your short story collections, you experiment with form. How do these shorter works serve as a testing ground for ideas that later appear in your novels?
Short stories are little pauses—afternoon delights with tea. For the past four years, I’ve written a story every week for a daily newspaper (Adevărul), and I’ve greatly enjoyed it. I’ve also written for anthologies and collections. But the novel remains my most natural form.
Would you like me to format this translation for publication (e.g., journal layout, press interview, or bilingual version side-by-side)?
About Doina Ruști
Doina Ruștiis one of Romania’s leading contemporary novelists, author of fourteen novels and three short story collections. Winner of the Romanian Academy Prize and the Writers’ Union of Romania Award, her fiction is translated into seventeen languages.
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