A journalist's life is full of many surprises; every day. Nowhere else can one find more cluttered news, nowhere is life more fugacious; their hierarchy is of little importance. Bad, good, they close in upon us.
The underground water of our daily life comes up over our heads and most of the time we can barely float over its captious waves. That is why we know our acquaintance more and more superficially only. We dismiss so dangerously fast his ambitions, the anguish.
For instance, I did not know about Mariana Gavrila, my true friend, that she was searching in her heart for literary achievement. Our meetings were rather worldly than spiritual, having spent our lives according to the editorial program set for us by others. We spoke very rarely of our stuff when leaving the park from the vicinity of our apartments, just like when guys go and grab a beer. She changed various editorial offices, so did I, just like one would change public transport, quickly communicating the new addresses, most often over the phone.
Until one time, when in the calmness of the same park where we had come after a crazy day at work, I felt that her words lead with fear to something new, something profound for her life. These were not related anymore to editorial gossip, they were not echoes from others' philosophical or literary books, the only thing that we were still practicing during our walk with gymnast like easiness.
She was suggesting I should read a book that was born from within her very own life.
Knowing the rancor of the civil society that says that in every run-of-the-mill writer there lies a journalist of mark, but not in any remarkable journalist there lies a true writer, I took the manuscript home and three pages later, that I read out of true amity, I entered a new life of hers, totally unknown to me. Events with people torn apart by the cruelty of social precepts, dogmas, overwhelmed by love that has come at bad age. Crucial moments were unfolding to me from her pages; in a very crushing way.
I just could not leave the manuscript off my hands, until I read the last word of the novel to-come. Because that was all about, without any doubt.
I am not recommending Mariana Gavrila's book to be perceived like a frivolous read, but as a dispute of one of us, the women who don't know whether we're tossed in hell or in heaven ...
Jeni Pasca
