Bread and journalism
Filip Florian

In that world which was about to blow off (a world with newly formed political parties, with huge political passions, with the ferociously defended mysteries regarding Ceauşescu?s execution, with second rank communists and with concealed security people skilfully and at the same time brutally gaining control over the power, with agonizing street manifestations, with democratic naiveties and with blunt manipulations exercised over a lost and scared nation) minding your literary business was impossible. Even preposterous.

The team from ?Cuvântul?, to which I also pertained, wasn?t randomly formed in a day, but according to a recipe which took its own time in order to generate the magic potion. As main alchemist, Radu G. }eposu really knew how to select the people who were to be part of the team, by carefully dosing the magic substances, looking for traits which transcended skilful writing, self-denial, irony, the spirit of comradeship or loyalty or the fervent involvement in a world of new beginnings. All the young writers, when undertaking crazy journalism (similar to marijuana, in what concerns the sense of voluptuousness and addiction), lived unique experiences within ?Cuvântul?: confraternity, the charm of endless discussions and of nights spent together, the obsession of the perfect text, the laughter, the sadness, the empty pockets, the vanity of the goldsmiths.

A former colleague (and friend), a political talk show moderator, recently made a confession during a TV show, regarding the times of yore, saying that, while getting close to the editorial office of Cuvântul? every morning, he used to feel his heart beating faster and his hands shaking with joy. And that is how we all felt. And in the ?90s, when news was present everywhere, when there were so many things revealed (like a coffin, locked for half a century), reports, commentaries, investigations, they all were the spice of the world. In the hundreds of pages that I wrote during the two and a half years spent there, I managed to comprise the long and filthy history of the dissidents isolated in psychiatric clinics, the film of the last twenty four hours of the life of the Ceauşescu family (with the episodic apparition of a fox, crossing the street while Ceauşescu was trying to run away), Ion Iliescu?s life within the Technical Publishing House (with the Russian tea habit, the mania of fixing the broken bolt handles and blinds all by himself, his custom of playing revolutionary songs on the guitar and of giving cookies to his subordinates during festive days), the mystery covering the shooting of two security officers in Sibiu in December 1989 (precisely the chief of the archives and the chief of the classified correspondence), the religious fervour mini-novel, entitled the New Jerusalem (with all its features resembling a South-American novel), etc.

In my mind, the miraculous time at ?Cuvântul? deserves the title (a bit soapy and worn) ?the most beautiful years?. And since we were speaking about Radu }eposu?s alchemist abilities (God rest his soul!) then you should find out that the magical substances that kept us together had been the following: Ioan Buduca, George }îra, Ioan Groşan, Radu Călin Cristea, Răzvan Petrescu, Marius Oprea, George Arun, Tudorel Urian, Petre Barbu, Carol Sebestyen, Mircea }icudean, Dorina Băeşu, Lucian Ştefănescu, Dan Bănică, Mihai Cojocea and Constantin Rudniţchi. Afterwards, in the autumn of 1992 ? when the seeds of market economy started to grow and market economy meant money and as the love for money is the root of all evil ? the magic at ?Cuvântul? started to vanish and we all began to squander, reorienting especially towards the foreign radio stations which started subsidiaries in Bucharest and which were indeed fascinating.

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