Tag Archives: Bucharest

Year 1908, Month May, Day 3

“3 May 1908. Sunday. A day when apparently nothing important happened (1). Actors, sportsmen and ancestors appearing only in genealogical trees may had been born, but “famous people” – whatever popular they may had been at their time – aren’t eternal. Read the list below and see for yourself that not a single name in the enumeration will sound familiar to you (or who knows?). 

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The Story of Lost Essentials

“A man’s house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And when he casts about for it he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential — there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster.” – Mark Twain

 

The 20s. City of Piteşti. The house of the Laslo family was a big one, with many rooms, each of them hosting numerous objects. The “pleasant associations” could be made not only with the home as one, but with every room in part. 

An oil bucket. A match. An enormous evilness. A great hate. This four things were needed to burn the house from the ground. Who did it? A man which not that it didn’t had at his hearth, but detestes, hated the hungarian people, and the members of the Laslo family were, in the acception of this bastard, four “damned magyars”. 

The smoke comes out from the roof. The flames embrace the boards. The house is on fire. The members of the Laslo family can only look desperate how their home is reduced to matchwood and ash. On their time, you just couldn’t stop an arson.  

Of course, in the interwar Piteşti, there were no hydrants, and the firemen didn’t stepped by: the days of heroism like those on the Spirii Hill had long gone by (1). The only apparent chance to save a building on fire was to bring water by a bucket from a lake or a river, but such an attempt proves, in the end, its futility: not even the legs of a desperate man can make the road from the Argeş river back tens of times. 

After the fire extinguished, nothing remained, only the piles of a ruined house. When some remains on the streets, the first thing he desires is a roof above his head. He doesn’t have it. Then, he looks at what he had left: to Ştefan, Maria, Ana and Elisa Laslo, the only thing they remained with was a cup of tea, a spoon and the cloths they had on them.   Continue reading

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The Blue Marble

“And then, his house which will it be? A man’s home is the place where he feels that he truly belongs”

This is what Tudor wrote, in today’s article. He loves his house, his childhood “nest”, the family which safeguards him… the country he lives, the Earth he inhabits.

When he dreams of travelling to another planets, I don’t know why, but my thought flies to Saint-Exupery and his Little Prince, which had a star that, no matter how small it was, he loved it, because it was his home, his country, his mystery….

God made so wonderful the visible things, but the unseen ones, His Kingdom, to wchich he climb slowly, hanging by every word He speaks with the fingers of faith, dazzled, hesistating, but most important, loving, this will be our eternal home, our hapyness, our peace.

As I read Vişan Miu Tudor’s “Blue Marble”, I madly missed my father…. because the home a human being must fell that he belongs isn’t the earth, but the place He prepared for him.

Introduction by Răsvan Cristian Stoica
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