Original subtitles

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PINK,

only for our Radio Guerrilla disobedient female listeners.

Official YIFY movies site: YTS.MX

PINK,

the feminine aether.

Welcome to PINK, with me, Carla, and Mrs. Nora Iuga,

my tonight's guest.

One of the youngest people I have met.

If only that was true!

What's your arcanum?

Outside the barracks,

right in front of gate

stood a street lamp,

and is still standing straight.

This is where we should meet again,

in front of our soldiers' den

like then, Lili Marleen.

Two, three... four, five, six, seven... nine, ten...

Our shadows were united into one,

telling of our love to each and everyone.

And if someone would do me harm...

Three.

Who'd be here with you in his arm

with you, Lili Marleen...

'The pigeon killer'

in my own handwriting.

Coffee with milk is your colour, bird

Go ahead, coo

Fear nods

You know, my open letter

Tied to your claw.

I don't remember at all, I don't think I wrote it.

I don't know where I put the rest.

I don't know where I left off with the novel.

I don't remember. I can't find it in all these papers,

I can't find it anywhere,

the following chapter of my novel, 'Hippodrome'.

The white horse,

the white horse, the white horse.

The white horse is him,

the one and only is the white horse.

Don't you know?

The white horse

no longer wants

to look at me.

Because I started balding.

I think you best get used

to death

especially when you blindly believe

that the great journey begins.

We are all programmed

for an infinite journey.

This is...

This is our mission.

This typewriter won't work anymore.

I guess I wasn't allowed to say that.

My calling is to travel through the entire universe

I am convinced of this.

And as it is endless,

my journey is also endless.

And I am endless.

NORA

Why am I named Nora, when my sky is clear

- Yes? - Hello!

- Hi, Carla! - How are you?

You know me, working non-stop.

If only you knew how many sleepless nights I had...

Working day and night, day and night...

I feel ten years older than I was when I began working at this book

that I'm afraid it will be a failure.

The characters are inventions like,

a man-horse,

a 90-year-old woman who speaks like a 10-year-old girl.

What's to be done in this situation?

Nothing. I have the theory that if you are a real artist,

the only thing you must do is to unveil your true self.

Not thinking about people understanding or liking it.

That's me, you know?

You mustn't coddle yourself or others.

Of course they can blame you and turn their backs on you,

or stop talking to you.

Or some can judge you at this age of 90

that you've been a whore all your life, a filthy whore or whatnot.

But if you are a true artist, you must take this risk.

Whether they like you or not, you have to stay

in people's consciousness the way you are.

I believe this is how great literature has to be.

We are shaped in different forms,

I believe in each of us lies both a nun

and a tart.

I cover the book's entire space.

As an individual and mostly

through my mind,

through the issues I bring up and

by exploiting the lack of resemblance.

I rely on this aspect greatly.

I want the book to clearly highlight that I am really bonkers.

They can even think that because of my age I went mad.

But it is so interesting to convey the image of a woman

who can make people think she lost her mind.

But she is like this because she doesn't resemble others.

I reveal myself.

I am the kind of person who maybe reveals herself too much.

It's very interesting

that the public loves to see a writer or an artist

revealing themselves.

But that's not why I do it.

I do it because ever since I was a child,

six or seven years old,

I was impressed by that Latin proverb, 'naturalia non turpia,'

I think that's the one.

I didn't get it why would something natural be considered shameful?

In this book I keep proving

that you can be 100 years old

and still feel the same erotic desire

as when you were 20.

Of course, you can't bed down anymore,

as the body no longer allows it,

then everything resides in the brain.

There is a cerebral eroticism as strong as the physical one.

That's why the lust still lingers.

If there is something wrong with this eroticism,

if it weakens too much

or if it transfers totally in the brain,

then the poetry doesn't come out properly.

You can still write a very good prose.

Some bad things happened to me

and I decided to write them down.

Things I wasn't guilty of, not in the slightest.

THE OPENING OF THE 4TH INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL

OF YOUTH AND STUDENTS FOR PEACE AND FRIENDSHIP

Bucharest, the meeting place for world's youth.

Youth of all races and from all around the world arrived in Bucharest

to participate in the grandiose International Festival

of Youth and Students for Peace and Friendship.

Our boys, who were students and knew us,

were very mad with us and hated us deeply.

They wanted to punish us

because we were crazy about Western students

who came to Bucharest.

We hadn't met men like them.

I ran into a couple of guys I first met at the house of a Med student.

They were also Med students.

They asked me if I wanted to join them to a party somewhere downtown.

Or maybe, if I remember well,

around the 1st of May neighbourhood, in a manorial villa.

And I said why not.

I went with them,

we entered that house

and it surprised me to see it was empty.

They said it was going to be a party.

We entered a room.

One of them sat in a chair

and the other one

preyed upon me.

He started talking rubbish

that us, girls, ignored the Romanian boys,

that we only wanted foreign ones, because they were cooler,

better looking and had more money.

He was just talking nonsense.

He forced me, and I couldn't fight him.

That thing happened.

One of them was sitting in a chair

and he was watching.

I couldn't say a single word.

I was very quiet.

The other one... I saw him.

The truth is I wasn't feeling anything.

I saw the one sitting in a chair with tears running down his cheeks.

He was watching us and crying, but didn't say a word.

After, I stood up, went to the bathroom,

and didn't utter a word.

I threw my underwear in the bathroom and

left without saying anything.

I never saw them again.

I just dismissed it.

It was as if I'd been stung by a flee.

They didn't exist for me.

I was far above them, they didn't exist.

And it's not like I could've fight them.

The only thing left for me was either to fight with them,

and it's clear I couldn't win over them,

or to scream, cry and play the role of the victim.

Neither of the two positions suited me.

So I just pretended that nothing happened, that I didn't care.

The next day I woke up, the sun was shining,

and I had gotten over what happened.

I never thought about it,

it has never crossed my mind

until now, while writing the book.

I didn't write about it anywhere,

it's not something to brag about.

But as this book reflects me entirely, I put it down here.

How many shades of this woman?

With her body cut in half

Misleading everybody

With her undeniable...

With her undeniable truth.

That's all. The rest is in the book.

- Hello! - Hello!

Oh, hi, Carla, so glad to hear from you.

How are you?

Better, I feel good.

I have wonderful news.

- I think that's what gave me the thrill. - Really?

Go figure, they invited me to the Frankfurt Book Fair.

When I go to Germany,

I feel 50 years younger.

Amazing! To the great fair in Frankfurt?

Yes. The great fair.

I always take the train.

It's the means of transportation in which I feel the best.

I love the train.

I think the train and the horses

are reminders of my childhood.

The train and the horse were my first lovers.

DEPARTS TO VIENNA

It's something special

when you go for the first or the second time abroad.

It's true that I travelled abroad a lot with my parents.

'Our beloved child at all ages'

It's what nurtured my passion for the trains.

And the travelling conditions...

We couldn't afford the second class, let alone a sleeping wagon.

Usually both of them were working in Germany, in music halls.

My father was an orchestra conductor,

he had a small orchestra, of five people,

and he was the conductor.

And my mother, as his wife,

travelled with him, taking me with them.

She was also working at the restaurant of a big hotel,

where she had her dancing gig.

Whether classical ballet,

for she had been a ballerina at the Opera,

and my father was at the Philharmonics,

they studied these arts.

They weren't amateurs.

Both my maternal and paternal relatives were artists.

I ended up marrying an artist

and gave birth to another artist,

my Tiberiu,

who became a primo ballerino at the Romanian Opera.

The luck we had with this wonderful season!

The sky is so blue.

I am very happy I was destined to come to this planet.

I'm curious what's waiting for us next.

What's beyond, on the other side.

I'm not fond of the matter.

I feel much more connected to the spiritual.

I even state this in my writing.

But in the same time, I love the soil.

It reminds me of Blecher

and his voluptuousness for the mud.

The mud entails an astounding voluptuousness.

To walk barefoot through it, to feel it between your toes.

That pasty composition.

Oh, my, it carries a terrible sexuality.

It's very interesting.

All these things are very interesting.

How the hell won't poetry take birth within oneself?

But sexuality...

... you tend to see it coming out of the matter.

Then, how was poetry born?

Poetry is not made of matter.

And poetry sings the lyrics of love.

Perhaps because it lacks the matter.

Oh, my, how I've become a philosopher!

That's really a beautiful idea.

Poetry sings the lyrics of love because it lacks the matter.

I have to write this down.

Poetry comes to me almost from an epidermal level.

I feel a sort of tingling, I feel it in my body.

I feel a movement, a shiver, an itching, that kind of thing.

It resembles very well the sexual arousal.

I'm convinced that inspiration is a form of arousal.

All of a sudden, it sets out as a voluptuous impulse

you can't order, can't analyse, can't reflect upon.

I swear, I lack any idea.

I was part of the Oneiric Group and I've always written a little bit peculiar

and never felt misunderstood.

I didn't even want to be understood.

Mostly I let myself carried away by visions, by dreams.

The possibility of these railway stations

The possibility of waiting between the tracks

For a yellow light at the border

The possibility of these bone remains since the earth's derailment

Noah, my darling Noah

Who is to come back in your place?

In this possible railway station

To lift me up above the waters,

Up to where the sky is soft

As between the teeth my own incomplete body

Did you read in many places

that I was punished

and banned for eight years?

I had my second debut at 50.

They said I write poetry of morbid eroticism.

Even if that was true, was that a valid reason to ban a poet?

For eight years?

What year?

In '71, during the Cultural Revolution.

They felt that the people

weren't learned enough

or familiar with a greater, spiritual poetry,

and they wouldn't get it.

I was working at the House of the Free Press,

at Encyclopedica publishing house.

One day I found on my desk a list sent by the Cultural Council,

which informed us that we had been banned.

That's when I started to make translation.

For eight years,

I deluded myself with translations.

I felt them as my own books.

After eight years, I received a phone call

from Romanian Book Publishing,

from our book editor.

'Nora, the coast is clear.

Quick, bring me a poetry volume.'

'Have you lost your mind?

I've been translating, I don't have any poetry written.'

'Come on, you must have some poetries somewhere.'

Then I remembered the gatherings at the Writers' House,

I told you I used to go there two times per week,

we met with friends.

When I had finished drinking 200 grams of vodka,

I would then stop, knowing it was more than enough.

I would move to a corner of the table...

'BE AWARE! THIS RESTAURANT IS POETRY'

... and write whatever crossed my mind.

Without considering it or knowing what was about.

Fortunately, I would put the papers in my bag and when I got home,

I would discard them in a folder in an old davenport.

I swear, I didn't have to change a word.

An entire poetry volume was ready.

I titled it 'Opinions on pain'.

It was my first poetry volume

rewarded with The Writers' Union Prize.

Easy come, easy go.

I'm not taking glory to the other side.

I'm taking poetry.

And there I'll probably win a Nobel.

For the best honey!

Maybe this line

Takes me to a pink country

With painted porcelain and Biedermeier hats

I went all out.

I still want to get rid of you,

But the wasp is coming, the wasp finds me,

With its fine stinger.

I'm getting a needle prick on the south side of my head,

Where those famous seas reside.

This is what I also like here.

It's full of flocks, cows and sheep.

What is it there, a dog? A dog, I guess.

It's a horse.

Oh, a horse!

But it's not white.

There's only one, in Sibiu.

Only one... in the showcase.

My, my!

You'll start writing a book about me,

you'll reveal my secrets.

- No, I'll wait for you to write. - What am I gonna do?

Yes, I wrote,

but I hope he won't be recognized.

He knows.

- Oh, does he? - Yes, I told him.

Will you invite him to the book launching?

Yes, I will.

I set my mind on something.

You know I said that I would definitely stop writing him.

Even though I see some signs, I stay strong.

I was thinking to buy a postcard and send it to him.

Will you write something on it?

Yes, he won't connect the dots if I send it plain.

But something very basic. Like 'Greetings from...'

No other commitment.

Just for him to know I thought about him.

I wonder if it's enough space?

It is.

What happened to you?

I took a different bag for this trip

and I left my ID card in the bag at home, in Bucharest.

Can't you talk to someone in Bucharest

to send it to you through express courier?

It's like a curse.

I was feeling sick, I had high-blood pressure,

it's as if something was warning me not to leave.

Don't worry, we'll figure it out.

Before leaving to the train station, in the morning,

the mail-man brought my pension.

So I showed him my ID card, they ask you for it.

And now I wonder if I put in back in the bag

or left it near the pension slip and the money.

It's easy, we just wait in Arad until we get the ID card.

It's not that easy.

Spending a day in Arad, searching for a hotel...

We'll find something.

We'll search on Booking and that's it.

We'll find something in no time.

It's true that we speak different languages

from this point of view.

I'm not familiar with these modern solutions.

You can book something right away using the mobile.

Really.

Quite like in 'Grandeur et Décadence.'

Something like that. This is how I feel.

Dear passengers, 347 interregional train

coming in from Vienna

arrives in three minutes on platform one,

and leaves for Arad-Deva-Vintu de Jos-Blaj.

Yes?

Good morning.

I have good news.

Angela called me. She found the ID card.

The thought that kept me awake last night was that it wasn't there either.

And that I forgot where I put it.

- I can't believe she found it. - Yes, she found it.

That's the most amazing news.

My dear Angie, do you know how I feel?

Carla gave me the news now.

I feel as if I was about to die and I was saved at the last minute.

I was desperate. What you did for me is fantastic.

Kisses to you and Tiberiu.

I have wonderful kids.

Kisses.

OK, bye.

Thank you with all my heart.

Come on now.

That's fine, it's good for the movie.

You see how fast I switch from one mood to another?

Dear, don't the features of the people you record

get stuck in your mind?

Yes, they do.

Don't they haunt you in your dreams?

Uh, not these ones, others.

I had my reasons for asking you this.

What are they?

- There is something wrong with me. - Oh, my.

But I never went to see a doctor for this.

It doesn't bother me.

But it happens all too often.

When I go to bed and close my eyes waiting to fall asleep,

I start to see, and I'm telling you this in all seriousness,

all sorts of human heads.

Men or women.

They keep coming one after another

in various stances.

Some smile, others make faces, some seem to be dying,

others are hideous, you know?

But mostly, there is either a row of women or a row of men.

And then I dream words. I mean, sentences.

That happens when I'm already asleep.

Instead of dreaming images, I dream words.

Just as we interpret dreams,

why couldn't we interpret a language

that mixes things from other worlds?

When I was a student, my greatest pleasure was

to go on Sundays at the mental hospital,

ward five - psychiatry.

To meet schizophrenics with whom I would strike up conversations.

I found them to be the most interesting conversations.

For a poet,

being in contact with a person

who permanently challenges the ability to dream

it is absolutely fantastic. For any artist.

The very first day I spoke to one of them,

it was crystal clear.

I knew I was part of that family, and it was there I feel most comfortable.

- Here, madam, the envelope with your ID. - Thank you with all my heart.

Thank you so much.

It's like a present from Santa Clause.

We'll stay here for three hours, quite a lot.

- This apostle, who is... - On the right side.

Yes, the one on His right side has the face of a woman.

That's for sure.

It's interesting that all of them look towards her and even touch her.

I mean the gesture seems a little out of place.

I don't know, the intention is not that...

- Carla? - Yes?

You know why I said I didn't want to lit one?

No, why?

I can't wrap my head around the idea that these are candles.

They seem horribly artificial.

I can't adapt.

It's past beyond the limit from which you can adapt.

For me, anyway.

This church is so beautiful, I'm glad we came here.

- I'm happy you like it. - It's gorgeous.

I mostly came because it reminds me of my husband.

All this part.

Otherwise, I rarely think about Nino.

I almost feel guilty.

For one month,

I mostly did crossword puzzles just to keep my mind off of him.

I don't understand why is it that when my closest ones die,

I get over these loses so easily.

Maybe that's because I understand nature.

All things seem natural to me.

His name was George Almosnino and it derives from Spanish,

as he was Sephardi.

I started writing poetry after I married him.

He was an amazing poet.

I met him at a literary circle,

which I joined not because I was interested in it.

I went there with a blind man who asked me to read his poetries.

After a month, we got married and I started writing.

Nino wrote almost every day after work.

Then we started to compete, we read each other's poetry.

There wasn't a single day in our life together

when we didn't read each other's poems.

I believe it was through poetry that our love manifested itself.

I am so happy I am in Vienna, I swear I feel 20 years younger.

If I lived here, my hair would catch colour again.

The cities I love, that I feel close to my heart,

in which I feel I lived in another life and I will live sometime,

are Sibiu, in Romania, and Vienna, from the whole wide world.

This is for you.

Thank you, but I'm no longer in the mood at all.

- Why? - I don't know, I got bored.

I don't feel well.

I'm very sorry I did this scheme.

I'm very distressed.

I've checked countless times these tickets,

which don't match.

They are not right.

And I think I'll get into big trouble.

They can't be wrong.

Well, they are.

They had to contain the original itinerary.

I received the money for the original itinerary.

Now we should have Vienna-Frankfurt.

Here it is.

No, it's not.

I have it, because we changed them.

There is a ticket for three people.

Yes, because we changed them in Arad. They changed them and gave us three.

- It's the only one you don't have. - How was I supposed to know?

Nobody told me.

How was I not to freak out because I was missing one ticket?

Excuse me, but I've never travelled with one ticket for three people.

Pretty grumpy...

- Excuse me? - Pretty grumpy...

- Us? - Not you, me.

It's clear I'm no longer used to be around people,

and when I am, I either demand too much,

or I don't want anything.

Is this broken? No, it's fine.

Would have been very interesting

if she had the opportunity to film me

in one of my lunacy moments.

On one hand, I kept telling you how much I love being alone,

but when you were gone for too long, I felt deserted.

You know, alone in this world. It was horrible.

Before we close the event and we continue the talks,

and you won't receive any information...

I'm terribly sorry I couldn't be here yesterday.

Nora Iuga, here with us, freshly arrived from Bucharest.

You still don't take the plane, do you?

Freshly?

This word 'freshly' doesn't suit me.

Shall we start discussing your books?

- Yes. - I brought two. The ones I have and...

The ones you translated.

Did you bring the Romanian originals?

Your poems...

No, I didn't bring the originals, because I want to...

Do you know them by heart?

Some of them I know by heart,

but they are my first poems, which are horrible.

They aren't any good, I wasn't yet a poet.

I was 12 years old.

Those I know by heart in Romanian.

I could recite them, but they are...

They could get a laugh.

Actually, I'm not ashamed,

I was a 12-year-old girl.

I was 28, no, I was 32

when I truly began to write poetry.

It wrote one for a teacher named Aristita,

a blue-eyed French teacher.

Blue eyes, dreamy eyes, deep eyes of blond angel,

You charmed me with sweet smiles,

Bright sparkles on a blue background,

The sea replete with mystery from your alluring eyes mesmerized me,

You bewitched me with your aura, enchanter.

Because you are my teacher...

Because you are my teacher.

Dear Ernest, you were wonderful.

That's how you've got to be in front of the public.

I had a great time, I enjoyed it very much.

I'm very happy, I saw you laugh and it really gave me a boost.

Who is the gentleman?

I have no idea.

I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday.

I's okay, I just wanted to see you.

Thank you for your warm words.

I felt them with all my heart.

We don't have very often the opportunity to talk,

but I care deeply about you.

- So do I, Nora. - Very much, and I feel it.

I mean we feel it, no need for words.

I greatly admire your writing too,

so my admiration goes to you as a person and as a poet.

I have to tell you something, I admire your sensibility and,

I dare say, a great dose of sentimentalism,

which you rarely find.

We may laugh and label it as kitsch, but I remember when...

Nora, don't you see that love poetry no longer exists?

- Yes, of course. - Love poetry is gone.

- It's poetry about sex. - Nobody writes anymore.

Nothing about love.

Nora, I don't know if you remember

the Craftsmen Literary Circle, led by Florin Mugur.

I didn't know it was called the Craftsmen Literary Circle.

Yes, that's how it was called.

Do you remember I once had a reading there?

Yes, I remember.

And you said

'Keep your eyes on this young man, he'll go a long way.'

That's what you said.

You were the first to discover me.

I'm telling you, Nora, it's true. Maybe you don't remember.

I love you very much. Yes, you remember it very well.

- You were then... - I was just a kid.

With a big moustache.

Listen, girls,

when you impress a man

with your intellect or your personality,

you stick into his mind forever.

Your place in his mind is more important

than the memories he keeps even with a stunning woman

with whom he shared amazing voluptuous moments.

No, the other one haunts him more.

This thing is very comforting for an old woman.

When I turned 88 last year,

a friend who is about my age

and lives in Brasov

called me to congratulate me,

and I swear he told me

'I have to tell you, after all this time,

that you were the most important woman in my life,

the one I could never forget.'

I swear on my life it's true.

Did you ask him

how he mustered the courage to confess this to you?

No, I didn't ask him a thing.

But I also confessed to him

that he had been in my mind all this time.

And that he was one of the most important men in my life too.

It's true.

I would have been really bummed.

Thinking how my life could have been.

I wasn't bummed at all.

You may find it funny, but pride played the key role.

I felt ecstatic that I could arouse such feelings in a man.

That's terrific.

Don't you think this a tremendous love?

This is what I call an endless love.

Then I wonder,

isn't it better to confess the love you have for someone

when you are young and you can enjoy it...

... and maybe have the chance to grow old together?

You can confess it...

through intelligent discussions,

about movies, books,

discovering common grounds without saying 'I love you.'

You can do this in a relationship.

I'm not fond of declarations.

It's 8:30,

the train to Vienna leaves at 10:30.

I'm at breakfast.

I look at a beautiful

Japanese young man at the table

and I would like to ask him if he likes Kawabata.

I don't have the courage to do it,

but then I would also like to ask him

if he would resort to hara-kiri with a bamboo sword.

And I think about you.

- Good morning! - Hi!

You see how I hid here from people?

This is how I like to talk to someone

when making a love declaration.

To let him understand it, but still cast a shadow of doubt.

This weather is crazy.

The sun floods my eyes.

I can't open my eyelids.

I love it.

It's like an exceptionally strong man and I can't even move.

It's fantastic.

Didn't you go where you said you would?

No.

That German guy smiled so sweetly at you.

They have beautiful men.

Tranquillity twice a day:

Between one train and another.

Meanwhile I go to the toy store.

It's so good to be either a mother or a lover

Near this rubber sailors

Whose belly you press and trey start singing.

Dalila has a suggestion if you want to send the letter.

She can ask her nephew who lives in Vienna

to come to the train station and give it to him to mail it.

- Isn't it too much trouble? - No.

So you don't have to mail it from Romania.

That's the beauty of it, to see where it's sent from.

You see? You see?

Do you know why this thought crossed her mind?

And why is the nephew there?

Because it is meant for the letter to be sent from Vienna.

It's destiny.

Since we met, we tackled this theme.

It's what most brought us closer.

They don't end up together, it's true,

but those who don't end up together,

and yet don't forget each other and seem to desire each other 'till death,

while something always hindering them,

they are the ones I believe are meant to be together in the end,

after they have been purified completely.

This is the theory, I didn't invent it.

Whose theory?

You know, the story of Tristan and Isolde,

the great lovers who didn't materialize their love.

It's a medieval Romantic theory, and sometimes you tend to believe it.

Excuse me!

What happened here?

Are we in the right place?

A boy is coming.

- Pretty please, take care of it. - I will.

I'll mail it tomorrow.

It's at the post office. You are...

Wait, no, you are not from Sibiu.

But it doesn't matter, it is written there.

- Thank you so much. - My pleasure.

You are doing me a big favour.

Sometimes I think the destiny itself

gives us constraints.

I mean maybe it was supposed to happen,

but it's not the time yet.

I made it clear to him not to wait a single line from me,

cause I wouldn't write anything.

I do write daily letters to him, but I don't send them to him anymore.

Did you enjoy it?

I loved it.

What's not to like?

It makes me cry thinking I can't be like them.

It's terrible.

You can't be like them on the exterior, but on the inside...

That's what makes me cry,

the fact that I can be like this only on the inside.

Do you remember, Minodora,

How you used to knock in the morning on my hump

And the voice of Ramses, awaken from his sleep

When he had just dreamed of you,

In your triangular bikini panties in which the eye of God was blinking?

Do you remember how we used to go to work together?

How we used to eat sesame bagels?

And you kept slightly raising the night upon your eyes.

'Sam, has the light been paid for?' you asked me.

You were demure, I used to sweet talk you.

I liked your darkness,

I used to wallow in it Until I reached the other hemisphere.

Respect the military ordinances.

Respect social distancing.

Protect your health.

Respect the movement restrictions.

Respect the military ordinances.

Avoid busy areas.

Respect social distancing.

Protect your health and your life.

Stay home.

Respect the military ordinances.

- Hi, how are you? - Hi, Carla.

Are you OK? Are you upset?

I'm not upset, I'm terrified.

Terrified.

I've never experienced

such a terrible situation as with this pandemic.

Don't watch the news, it doesn't help.

I can't help it.

You can't imagine

what it means for a woman who used to be around people,

to get invitations and speak to crowds,

to receive applause and affection.

It's horrible to be locked up and stare at the walls.

I can't write all the time.

I also can't get out of house and be in contact with other people

because I'm frightened.

It's as if I'm being walled alive.

My only contact to life, so to speak,

is the TV.

I want to feel surrounded by people.

I run in fright in the summer rain.

A near-sighted servant lurks behind the fence.

In the open suitcase my sex is in sight.

Yellow and soft like a camel nose.

Neither the cigarette nor the surrealism protect me.

My house is messed up.

In the mirror,

The sudden glimpse of a man asleep.

I never get out just to take a walk.

Only if I have something to do.

I like more to lock myself in the house and write or read, you know?

I like talking to the leaves and trees.

But this is something dream-like.

In reality, I don't fancy taking a stroll.

It's because I get bored.

I like more the nature I imagine than the real one.

I feel an almost erotic voluptuousness for the sea,

but it is doubled by fear.

Similar to the fear instilled in me

by a strong, big man, too big, you know?

A man who stirs up fear and also a big desire.

I now agree with those communists who banned me for eight years,

labelling my poetry as morbidly erotic.

At first, it seemed absurd,

what do I have in common with morbid eroticism?

Me, obsessed and always possessed by this eroticism.

It's in this very eroticism that they identified the morbidity.

They saw it completely unnatural,

abnormal to be able to live so intensely a physical reaction

that you actually don't have.

The eroticism is indeed poignant in all my writings,

but I'm not convinced it is so visibly morbid.

That would have implied some erotic experiences in my books.

But I was innocent like a dove. As if I lived three centuries ago.

I had absolutely no fantasy, you know?

Even if I have a touch of fantasy in the language structure,

and I strongly do,

I couldn't cripple God, I couldn't change Him,

because I believe the immense desire

and the intense living on an erotic level

are the same thing.

The way I see it,

it's clear, it's the face of God, can't be anything else.

This is your religion.

Exactly!

You gave the perfect definition.

This is my religion, indeed.

What you said is astounding.

Perhaps this is what keeps me alive.

- 160/70 mm Hg. - Oh...

This was a nice image to shoot on camera.

- Which one? - Since you're here.

To not have come in vain.

Me lying here, with high blood pressure.

And you offering me the fir-tree.

And me telling you I hate it that I've lost my smile.

With age...

I can talk, as you see.

And I can even laugh a bit.

I'd very much like to send this letter.

It obviously won't be delivered until Christmas,

but it will be on time for New Year's Eve.

I say it's important

because I received a letter.

And quite a surprising one.

A letter you were expecting?

The truth is I didn't put the blood pressure cuff,

but I was very glad.

Joy can also make your blood pressure go up.

As I have a weak heart,

I wrote an answer.

You haven't talked in a long time.

No, because the story was over.

But what does 'over' even mean?

It is a special feeling,

I mean really special.

It's like a dream, only in the mind.

And the only back door

for this feeling to sneak out,

as looking out the window,

is a phone call or a letter.

This connection is very beautiful.

It's more beautiful than the other one, I'd say.

I must have forgotten how the other one is like,

when the fulfilment was complete.

The one you live in your mind allows you a greater freedom.

The truth is that in my prose I've always had,

even when I was young,

the same tendency towards the unfulfilled love.

This became my theme in almost all my novels,

as the love remains unfulfilled.

I've always felt the longing

for the white horse I saw in a shop front

when I was ten years old,

It became a sort of symbol for the long-awaited love,

which in my mind always takes the shape of a horse.

We talk to each other in our minds,

he thinks about me, I think about him.

He has the qualities of a man, but nothing can happen between us,

because he's a horse.

My hero men from my books,

the ones who will forever remain in my thoughts,

are the ones with whom I never had a fulfilled relationship.

My husband, whom I loved tremendously

and who brought me the greatest joys,

is not the one I think about.

I always think about a few men, two or three,

with whom I never lived a materialized love,

but whom I believed to be destined.

I had a few affairs,

but they consisted of only one or two dates.

So I can't even be sure it was a crush, more like a curiosity.

You were lucky.

Believe me when I say that physical love

was never a great passion for me

that could stir the need for more.

The only one who managed to keep me close

trough his utmost sincere and profound love

was my Nino

with whom I had a 35-years long marriage.

I know you came clean to him.

I couldn't lie to him.

I was convinced he wouldn't leave me.

And imagine he didn't even hold it against me or made a scene.

I never held a party for my birthday.

I spent it with family.

I only organized something for my husband, Nino,

but apparently, he didn't like it either,

we preferred the solitude in two.

We didn't talk about common things.

We didn't speak philosophical things either.

We would read poetry.

First of all, our own poetry.

When we had a fresh one, we had to read it to each other.

This is what we would do in our moments of profound intimacy,

not the carnal type, but the spiritual one.

My little pleasure, you sweeten me.

I always spill it on me and my clothes get dirty.

There you go.

My only culinary pleasures.

Otherwise, I don't even like to cook.

I'm completely alone now.

Nino died young.

He was only 58.

Since then, I was done with love making,

which I didn't dislike,

but nevertheless, I didn't miss.

I had the mental one,

which are more interesting.

Yes?

Oh, I'm so glad. Thank you with all my heart.

Yes, completely alone, I do everything completely alone.

The kids aren't in Bucharest, that's the problem.

But I like loneliness, I've gotten used to it for a long time.

I don't know whom I talked to.

I really don't.

Ah, 'Dein Cord',

oh my God, how far I've gone.

I can't believe it.

The German Ambassador in Bucharest.

Where have you vanished, girl?

You caught me.

Dear God, what's all this?

You spoiled my surprise.

I don't know what to wish for.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NORA!

It's very serious. It's tragic even...

Not to have a single wish...

What should I wish for?

I only wish that my son loved me

the way he used to when he was a teenager.

It's my only wish.

And now I blow.

Your wish will come true, because the candles went out fast.

Yes.

Maybe when I'm on my deathbed.

Such a difficult birth, girls.

I believe it will be beautiful.

I like it blurry like this.

It fits the oddball I am.

When you asked me how I feel at 90,

I should have answered like a ghost.

This is how you feel like? Like a ghost?

Mm-hmm, but that's not bad.

A writer who loves me dearly?

Oh, my, he posted my 'Ursulines' picture.

God!

"Nora Iuga turns 90.

My gift is to take out a zero out of this number.

Through her ingenuity, candour and talent,

to me Nora was always a very young girl,

happy with her power to write poetry.

Don't you change, Nora!

Let your 100 catch you with this smile!"

Oh, God, I love this picture too.

It's your first Zoom meeting, right?

Yesterday or the day before,

when I heard for the first time the word zoom,

do you think I knew what it meant?

In old age,

you totally lose your interest in life,

because it doesn't bring you joy.

You know?

Your friends are gone,

your lovers are gone,

your cats are gone,

your walks are gone,

your vacations are gone.

For crying out loud,

I would say poetry vanishes itself too.

So why would I have big regrets

if I were to leave on another planet?

Where supposedly I would start all over again.

Should I put some lipstick on?

No, not necessarily.

But if you wish, we still have time.

- Are you nervous? - What?

Are you nervous?

- What is she saying? - If you are nervous.

No, I never am.

I just brag.

- So you are nervous. - A little.

Good evening. I think we are live on Facebook.

Welcome! I am Adela Greceanu

and I am very happy to be the host of this meeting,

and I know a lot of those who are with us now couldn't wait to start.

A meeting with Nora Iuga about her most recent book,

the novel 'Hippodrome', published by Polirom.

I invite now Vlad Zografi to tell us his impression,

his analysis of the novel.

Good evening, Vlad.

Good evening, Nora, good evening, Adela.

First of all, one can say a lot of things about Nora.

That she's uninhibited. Although she has never had inhibitions,

so she can only be free.

That she's histrionic, although she's a double player.

But why is Nora so loved?

I think she is the most loved Romanian writer.

Why?

Because Nora has this great talent, which is called freedom.

Nora gives a tonic mood even she speaks of terrible things.

Even she speaks of dreadful things.

Nora, you wrote a wonderful book.

It's one of the most beautiful books written in Romanian.

I place it next to Gellu Naum's 'Zenobia.'

At the end, I would like to quote you something

that Nora wrote.

A small poem inserted in the novel.

Forgive me, darlings, if I've spoken too much of myself,

But sometimes you long for a stranger coming into your house

even with the risk of stabbing you.

I'll close with Nora's beautiful prayer

that stayed with me and that I could recite to myself.

'Holy insolence, don't leave me.'

This is Nora.

Thank you so much.

I didn't even feel it was a public, official event.

It was very intimate.

Thank you for this,

it's how I hoped it would be, I'm glad it worked out.

Of course, I was convinced of this.

We've had endless discussions at home.

True.

Dear disobedient listeners,

thank you for standing by us.

Tell the public I love them like crazy,

it's in them I put my biggest trust.

I don't trust the literary criticism and literary theory,

I have confidence in the love of my public.

They heard you.

Yes, that's true, they did.

Ah, I found it.

This is an acacia tree, I believe.

Look...

So, does he love me from the bottom of his heart,

a lot, a little, at all?

Does he love me from the bottom of his heart...

Ha-ha, I won the big prize.

He loves me a lot.

Most likely, the acacias lie too.

I believe he no longer thinks of me.

So what? So what?