Now, I was already craving the air-conditioned rooms of the library building with its musty smells. I have always found libraries mysterious and full of promise, hiding treasures on their shelves. Back in Timisoara, the public and school libraries (“bibliotecile”) almost never had the books you were looking for. You could browse, if you had a good relationship with the librarian, but mostly you would fill out a request and then maybe they happened to have the book. The real libraries were built at home, one hard-to-find book at the time. Books in glass fronted bookcases, books in packages, wrapped in paper and lined up against the walls, in the little storage room, under the pull-out sofa, carefully catalogued in a folder so you could find them when you needed them.

Since my first on-foot trip to the Livermore library, at the risk of getting sun stroke, I have used the library system in every American suburb I’ve lived in. Some have been better stocked than others, situated in older or more modern buildings, but they all housed the musty smell of books that seems to be the same no matter the location. Browsing the shelves in person is a favorite pastime of mine, and it has led me to some very unexpected authors and titles. Some of my favorite books I’ve discovered by randomly walking the aisles in the library, perusing titles and author names, partially pulling out volumes to look at more closely and trusting my intuition. Others I have been led to by starting off with a physical copy and then searching the catalog following that invisible thread from author to author to similar books, led just by gut feeling and what looks interesting.

I was pleasantly surprised when I recently found several Romanian authors in translation in the King County Library System, titles that might or might not come up when searching the library catalog by keywords related to Romania. Just in time for fall and winter, here is a selection of titles that brings a bit of Romanian spirit into the home from the library shelves.

About our local Eastside Library System: The King County Library System has 50 library branches stretching across King County and is one of the largest and busiest library systems in the country.

There are four books on my nightstand and two more I’m listening to. For my birthday, a dear friend gave me another one and I wanted to start it immediately. Yesterday, a newsletter with announcements about couple of concerts arrived in my inbox. I sent a friend the message I send far too often without following through: “What do you think about these ones? Should we go to one of them?”

Somewhere among those books and invitations is a story I wrote about a woman who repairs time. People call her a watchmaker. I wish she was real. I would bring her my watch and ask if she could give me back the hours that keep vanishing without a trace.

Most of those hours go into reading, writing, and painting. Given a free afternoon, I am quite capable of disappearing into a book or staying with a canvas until the light changes.

But if I could ask the watchmaker for more time, I would use it for some of the things I usually put off: a concert late in the evening, a book fair or an art show on the “other” side of the city, a museum exhibition I want to see but I keep postponing.

Or would I?

I have been trying to remember the last time I went to the ballet. A few years ago, I saw most of the season’s performances. Ballet was hardly among my first three choices for a Friday evening, or even among my top three “cultural” ways to spend a Friday evening, but a friend loved it and invited me again and again and I enjoyed spending time with her. At first, I went mostly for our conversations during intermission and after the show. And during those conversations, between our talks about books and poetry (I rarely talked about poetry with anyone else), she would point out a gesture I had missed or the expression on a dancer’s face during a difficult passage. We would talk about the moment when the music changed, and the light changed with it. Slowly, I began to notice these things for myself until one evening I realized I was looking forward to the ballet as much as to our conversations.

Then the pandemic changed the shape of our days. By the time the theaters reopened, and I began going out again, my friend had moved away. I chose concerts, plays, sometimes even opera. Somehow, I never chose ballet.

My love for ballet is still there. What I came to enjoy during those years has not disappeared. But when I began going out again, I found myself choosing what I had always chosen before. Ballet had entered my life through my friend and through the evenings we planned together. Without her, no one was asking me to keep a particular Friday free so we could go together. I kept looking to see which new ballets were coming on stage, then deciding I would go another time. I had made time for it for years, and then, almost without noticing, I stopped and returned to old habits.

I think about that when I hear myself say I have no time.

Sometimes it is true. There are weeks when work, family, and the ordinary business of living take every hour I have. But other times, “I have no time” means I have let the week fill up without deciding what I want to make room for. A concert remains a link in a message. I tell myself I’ll go on the next photo walk, or see the next play or film, when life is quieter. Meanwhile, I can listen to Rachmaninoff on Spotify, read at home, and wait for the movie to arrive on Prime Video.

I do enjoy all of those things.

Still, I wonder what I might never discover if I keep choosing only what I already know I love.

My friend gave me more than an invitation to the ballet. She gave me a reason to leave the house on a Friday evening, someone to share it with, and a way into an art I had overlooked. I wonder how many other things we discover that way, by accepting an invitation. Or by making one.

I look again at the three concerts I sent my friend.

Then I write: “Actually, you know what? Pacific Northwest Ballet is opening its season with Serenade. Would you like to go with me?”

As my thoughts drift to the realm of childhood, I summon long summer days with no beginning and no end, elixirs served in glass jars fed with sugar that I am told are life-changing, dusty bookshelves where mites build civilizations, mysterious tesseracts drawn on graph paper by a child’s hand, classrooms with the smell of newspapers and the sound of bottles and jars that are ready to be given some kind of new life.

It has been three years since I read Solenoid by Mircea Cărtărescu, and only now have its pages resurfaced in my consciousness. It’s a bit hard to say what was in the book and where my childhood memories seeped in. The truth is that ever since I finished reading Solenoid, its imagery keeps returning to my mind. One photographic image at a time: the world of School 86, the drawer of childhood artifacts, the fantastic worlds of the Picketists, the hypnotically bizarre universe of mites and the decay of buildings and people alike have colored and rearranged some of my childhood memories and I fear that just like the character in Solenoid I too am succumbing to the belief that they are suffused with a dreamlike quality. I am tempted to re-open the book and confirm my suspicions. Was Solenoid the source of all these thoughts or did my unconscious mind make them up?

I know for a fact that I never inhabited the world of mites, but I have often felt, viscerally, the need to break through the layer of dreary reality through fairy tales and figments of imagination. Endless strings of lonely days spent in the imaginary world of books loom large in my memories. Solenoid’s librarian Palamar reminds me that the possibility of 50,000 species of mites coexisting with our world — much like the proliferation of storyworlds in books — offers a multitude of alternate universes each with its own struggles, myths and escape hatches.

Growing up, I did not have an abandoned factory to get completely lost in, but I did have half-finished construction sites and rusty abandoned trucks to explore. In retrospect it’s hard to say whether those spaces were truly infinite; in my mind, they simply stretched on, revealing new realms day after day.

In other corners of the mind, there were whispered discussions of the metaphysical long into the night around the campfire, but who can remember if there were ever any answers by the next morning. We were seeking evidence in yellowed, dog-eared, photocopied books of Rudolf Steiner to make ourselves believe in the existence of something else. “I want to believe that things exist,” says Irina, Solenoid’s physics teacher, and like her we hoped that our times might just have been an illusion.

There was no solenoid that I can remember, but one might as well have been built in the dusty, crowded rooms full of electronics and clouds of soldering iron fumes that lifted from my father’s worktable

I cling to one memory of tasting the slightly acidic liquid that my mother poured from a jar of sugary water and coaxed me to drink. “It hasn’t harmed anyone” was good enough for me. I look at the “crystals” left behind in the jar. They will soon get fresh water and sugar, and I think there are so many more than last week and soon they’ll need a new home...

The possibility of a Mrs. Bernini, Solenoid’s music teacher, distributing these jars in my childhood town takes root in my mind. I decide to find evidence of the self-regenerating algae cure that I shared with Cărtărescu’s characters, which was nothing more than a bacterial culture grown in a jar of sugary water. There is not much information about this, other than a cursory mention that such jars were in fact circulated in the 80s in Eastern Bloc countries. This bit of knowledge grounds me. It might be safe to re-open the book and search again for the memories it left behind.

Every book speaks to me on a different wavelength, leaving its imprint sometimes like rings on a tree and other times like layers on a palimpsest. In Solenoid I found the building blocks of an origin story—a confirmation of vague impressions, dreams, and fears that I can no longer fully trust since they appear nowhere in photo albums or letters or any family artifacts. I come from that world and carry it with me.

I was home, in Cluj, at the beginning of August. “Home” is a strange word. Cluj hasn’t been home for 26 years, and yet, somehow, it still is. But perhaps that’s a story for another time.

As usual, I was looking for “new” books, and perhaps some “new” Romanian authors to bring back in my suitcase to Seattle. The books, not the authors. “New,” of course, is a relative term. Cărtărescu still feels new to me, even though I’ve been reading him for more than 25 years.

A comment on Facebook reminded me of Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu. Often called “Romania’s Agatha Christie,” she wrote dozens of mystery novels and created characters that have stayed in the memories of generations of Romanian readers. I hadn’t thought about her in a long time, and I hadn’t read any of her books in years, but, God, how I loved them! I remember the excitement of discovering one I hadn’t read yet, and those Sundays in my teenage years when I would shut myself in my room and read all day.

The truth is, I’ve always had a weakness for detective stories and mysteries, and Agatha Christie was, of course, my favorite. I always loved Miss Marple more than Hercule Poirot. I enjoyed the Poirot stories too, but if I’d had to choose, I would have picked Miss Marple every time.

And then I discovered Melania Lupu.

It was magic.

Back then, I thought she was an absolutely impossible and utterly charming little old lady. I still find her just as charming. It’s just that, somewhere along the way, I’ve developed some issues with the definition of “old.”

Melania, like Miss Marple, is a sweet little old lady, with an extraordinary mind and a talent for seeing what no one else sees.

But unlike Miss Marple, Melania lives somewhere in a gray area between the good character and the bad one (although, let’s be honest, it is almost impossible to truly see her as the bad guy). Even poor Major Cristescu comes to admire her, to like her and, sometimes, almost to enjoy their ongoing duel.

In Agatha Christie’s novels (and, in fact, in much of classic detective fiction) the lines are clearer. There is the detective, whether a police officer, a private investigator, or simply a very curious little old lady from an English village; there are the suspects; and somewhere among them, there is the culprit. By the end, the lines fall neatly into place and everyone ends up on their proper side.

Melania ruins all that order.

She can be the detective, the suspect, and the culprit, all at once. She can solve the mystery while simultaneously being the person you probably should have been wary of from the very beginning. She is admirable and formidable as an adversary, while somehow remaining very, very sweet.

And this is where I wonder whether this is precisely what makes her so Romanian. That refusal to fit neatly into a category. Is Melania an expression of a Romanian spirit that doesn’t quite believe in dividing people simply into “good” and “bad,” that has a soft spot for the trickster when the trickery comes with enough charm and intelligence, and that can forgive a character almost anything if we like them enough? Or is it simply Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu and her extraordinary talent for creating a character whom, by all the rules, we really shouldn’t love quite this much?

In any case, Melania Lupu remains one of my favorite characters of all time, but, of course, Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s world doesn’t end with her.

I had already rummaged through my mother’s library and found a few of the old editions from the 1970s, the very books I had read as a teenager. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I discovered, in the bookstores of Cluj, that Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s novels had been republished and that, suddenly, all those stories I had loved were there again, on the shelves, within reach.

Obviously, I started buying.

I didn’t manage to bring them all back to Seattle. Unfortunately, suitcases have limits that my literary enthusiasm refuses to acknowledge.

But a few of Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu’s books made the journey with me. Among them, of course, Melania. And so, having gone to Cluj in search of “new” Romanian authors, I came back to Seattle with one of my oldest.

I’ll be going back. :)

Romanian, original

Am fost acasă, la Cluj, la începutul lui august. „Acasă” e un termen ciudat. Clujul nu a mai fost acasă de 26 de ani și, totuși, încă e acasă. Dar despre asta poate altădată.

Căutam, ca de obicei, cărți „noi” și poate niște autori români „noi” pe care să-i aduc în valiză la Seattle. Cărțile, nu autorii. „Nou” e, desigur, un termen relativ. Cărtărescu e încă nou pentru mine, deși îl citesc de mai bine de 25 de ani.

Un comentariu pe Facebook mi-a reamintit de Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu. Numită adesea „Agatha Christie a României”, a scris zeci de romane polițiste și a creat personaje care au rămas în memoria generațiilor de cititori români. Nu mă mai gândisem de mult la ea și nici nu mai citisem nimic de-al ei de ani buni, dar, Doamne, cât de mult mi-au plăcut cărțile ei! Îmi amintesc bucuria cu care descopeream câte una pe care nu o citisem încă și duminicile din adolescență în care stăteam toată ziua închisă în camera mea, citind.

Adevărul este că am avut mereu o slăbiciune pentru romanele polițiste, pentru mistere, iar Agatha Christie a fost, bineînțeles, favorita mea. Pe Miss Marple am iubit-o întotdeauna mai mult decât pe Hercule Poirot. Citeam și poveștile cu Poirot cu mare plăcere, dar, dacă ar fi trebuit să aleg, aș fi ales-o oricând pe Miss Marple.

Și apoi am descoperit-o pe Melania Lupu.

A fost magic.

Mi se părea atunci o bătrânică absolut imposibilă și fermecătoare. Si acum mi se pare la fel de fermecătoare. Doar că între timp am niște probleme cu definiția cuvântului „bătrână”.

Melania, ca si Miss Marple, este a sweet little old lady, cu o minte extraordinară și cu talentul de a vedea ceea ce nimeni altcineva nu vedea.

Dar, spre deosebire de Miss Marple, Melania se află undeva într-o zonă gri, între personajul pozitiv și cel negativ (deși, să fim sinceri, este aproape imposibil să o vezi cu adevărat ca pe un personaj negativ). Până și bietul maior Cristescu ajunge să o admire, să o placă și, uneori, aproape să se bucure de duelul lor.

În romanele Agathei Christie și, de fapt, în mare parte din literatura polițistă clasică, lucrurile sunt mai clare. Există detectivul, fie el polițist, particular sau doar o bătrânică foarte curioasă dintr-un sat englezesc, există suspecții și, undeva printre ei, există vinovatul. La sfârșit, liniile se așază frumos și fiecare ajunge de partea lui.

Melania strică toată această ordine.

Ea poate fi și detectiv, și suspect, și vinovat. Poate să rezolve misterul și, în același timp, să fie persoana de care ar fi trebuit probabil să te ferești de la bun început. Este admirabilă și de temut ca adversar, în timp ce rămâne, cumva, foarte, foarte sweet.

Și aici mă întreb dacă nu cumva tocmai asta o face atât de românească. Refuzul acela de a încăpea frumos într-o categorie. Este Melania expresia unui spirit românesc care nu prea crede în împărțirea simplă a oamenilor în „buni” și „răi”, care simpatizează cu șmecherul dacă șmecheria are suficient farmec și inteligență și care poate ierta aproape orice unui personaj dacă îl place destul? Sau este pur și simplu Rodica Ojog-Brașoveanu și talentul ei extraordinar de a crea un personaj pe care, conform tuturor regulilor, n-ar trebui să-l iubești chiar atât de mult?

În orice caz, Melania Lupu rămâne unul dintre personajele mele preferate din toate timpurile, dar, bineînțeles, lumea Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu nu se oprește la ea.

Scotocisem deja prin biblioteca mamei și găsisem câteva dintre volumele vechi, din anii ’70, pe care le citisem în adolescență. Dar vă puteți imagina surpriza și bucuria mea când am descoperit, în librăriile din Cluj, că romanele Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu au fost republicate și că, dintr-odată, toate poveștile acelea pe care le iubisem erau din nou acolo, pe rafturi, la îndemână.

Evident, am început să cumpăr.

Nu am reușit să le aduc pe toate în Seattle. Valiza are, din păcate, limite pe care entuziasmul meu literar refuză să le accepte.

Dar câteva dintre cărțile Rodicăi Ojog-Brașoveanu au făcut călătoria cu mine. Printre ele, bineînțeles, și Melania. Și uite așa, plecată la Cluj să caut autori români „noi”, m-am întors la Seattle cu unul dintre cei mai vechi.

Mai merg. :)

One of the challenges of sharing Romanian culture abroad is that language can become a barrier.

Many members of our community read Romanian. Their children often do not. Friends, spouses, colleagues, and neighbors may be curious about Romanian literature but have no way to access it. Translation helps bridge that gap.

As part of our effort to make Romanian culture more accessible, the ARCS Community Library is gradually expanding its collection of books available in English translation.

We are pleased to introduce two contemporary Romanian novels that offer very different journeys into Romanian history, imagination, and storytelling.

• Too Great a Sky (Capătul drumului) by Liliana Corobca, translated by Monica Cure

• The Book of Perilous Dishes (Mâța Vineri) by Doina Ruști, translated by James Brown

Too Great a Sky by Liliana Corobca, translated by Monica Cure, explores one of the lesser-known tragedies of twentieth-century Eastern Europe: the deportation of Romanians from Bukovina to Kazakhstan during the Soviet period. Through memory, loss, and resilience, Corobca gives voice to experiences that shaped generations but remain unfamiliar to many readers outside the region.

The Book of Perilous Dishes by Doina Ruști, translated by James Christian Brown, meanwhile, takes readers to Bucharest in 1798. Blending historical fiction, folklore, mystery, and culinary magic, the novel follows a young apprentice drawn into a world where recipes possess unusual powers and food becomes a gateway into a richly imagined past. Doina Ruști blends historical fiction with elements of fantasy and culinary storytelling, creating a world that feels both strange and familiar, humorous and profound.

At first glance, the books have little in common. One confronts historical trauma and displacement. The other delights in folklore, imagination, and adventure.

Yet both demonstrate the richness and diversity of contemporary Romanian literature. Both are deeply rooted in Romanian history and culture while telling stories that resonate far beyond Romania’s borders. And both remind us that literature offers one of the most powerful ways to understand lives, places, and experiences different from our own.

Whether you are already familiar with Romanian authors or are looking for a place to begin, we invite you to borrow these books from the ARCS Community Library and discover where Romanian stories can take you.

Because sometimes the best introduction to a culture is a good story.

Summer has a way of creating space for reading. Long flights, quiet evenings, weekends by the water, or simply a few moments away from the usual routine.

With recommendations from Ileana Marin, a passionate reader and champion of contemporary Romanian literature, we’ve put together a small summer reading list for anyone looking to explore today’s Romanian writers.

Whether you’re browsing a bookstore in Romania or searching for your next Romanian-language read from abroad, these books offer a wide range of voices and styles, from literary fiction and memoir to satire, autofiction, and historical novels. Some of these authors have joined ARCS events in the past, while others are names we hope to welcome in the future.

Alexandru Lamba — Șapte virtuți deșarte și o păcătoasă moarte

A novel praised for its inventive structure and memorable ending, which earned recognition for one of the strongest novel finales in recent Romanian literature. Lamba blends imagination, irony, and philosophical reflection in a story that stays with the reader long after the last page.

Ioana Drăgan — În căutarea nefericirii în continuare

The recently published continuation of În căutarea nefericirii continues the author’s sharp observations on modern life, relationships, and the human tendency to complicate things unnecessarily. Written with humor and self-irony, it offers both entertainment and food for thought.

Marius Balo — Păturica roz

One of the most remarkable debut novels of recent years. Drawing on experiences from his imprisonment in China, Balo transforms personal hardship into compelling literature. The result is a deeply human story about resilience, dignity, and survival.

Radu Paraschivescu — Recviem vesel pentru tata

Known to many readers for his wit, essays, and translations, Paraschivescu turns toward memory and family in this moving and often humorous reflection on loss, inheritance, and the stories that shape us.

Cristi Nedelcu — Cimitirul trandafirilor

Journalist, playwright, essayist, and novelist, Cristi Nedelcu brings a storyteller’s eye to contemporary Romanian realities. His latest novel combines strong characterization with a keen sense of observation and social nuance.

Doina Ruști — Nas de bulgar

Fresh from completing her book tour, Doina Ruști continues her autofictional exploration of memory, family, and identity. Readers who enjoyed Ferenike, our recent ARCS Book Club selection, may find themselves eager to continue the journey with this second volume.

Roxana Ruscior — Diavolul din Freisetzburg

A carefully researched historical novel that imagines events that could have unfolded within a Nazi concentration camp. Combining historical detail with literary imagination, it explores difficult questions about morality, power, and survival.

Ioana Nicolaie — Tot înainte

One of Romania’s most respected contemporary writers, Ioana Nicolaie often draws on personal and collective memory to illuminate larger social realities. Tot înainte offers a powerful and intimate reading experience.

And, of course...

No list of contemporary Romanian literature would be complete without authors such as Tatiana Țîbuleac, Matei Vișniec, or Mircea Cărtărescu, whose newest volume, Texistența, has recently appeared in bookstores.

These are only a few suggestions among many. Romanian literature today is vibrant, diverse, and full of voices worth discovering.

If you pick up one of these books this summer, let us know what you thought.

And when autumn arrives, come back and tell us: Which one should become the next ARCS Book Club discussion?

In traditional Romanian villages, scoarța, a handwoven geometric rug, was never meant to be walked on casually. It hung on the wall like a tapestry of collective memory, its intricate knots holding the stories, symbols, and history of the hands that spun it. Each thread carried intention. Each geometric diamond or stylized leaf carried a lineage. When a community relocates across the ocean, that physical fabric stays behind, and the quiet danger of cultural fraying begins.

We know this danger intimately. We have felt it in the silences between generations, in the slow forgetting of words, in the distance that opens when memory has no place to live. What we carried with us across the ocean did not remain whole. It shifted as it passed from one hand to another, thinning in some places, stretching in others. But within that very change, we began to recognize a different kind of continuity, one that depended on use, on touch, on being shaped again with whatever threads were available where we landed.

The community initiatives at ARCS are parts of this weaving, they are the raw thread, the weavers, and the pattern that keep our cultural memory together.

The Raw Thread

You cannot weave without material. You need color, texture, weight, and the foundational fibers that carry memory forward.

For us, the ARCS Community Library serves as that raw thread, a collection of books in Romanian, stories carried across borders, language preserved.

Give a book, get a book. The gesture is simple, but the principle mirrors the roadside wells our ancestors dug in the village, built not for the self, but to ensure that anyone passing through the village can quench their thirst, and leave the water for the next traveler.

These books are the wool we spin into new forms. They are the mother tongue passed from hand to hand, the grammar of belonging, the vocabulary of home. Without the weight of these books, the loom sits empty, and there is nothing to hold the pattern together.

The Weavers

Yet, a rug is never made by a single pair of hands. It requires a collective rhythm, weavers who bring different skills, different tempos, and different visions to the very same wooden frame. This is the purpose of the ARCS Artist Network.

It aims to bring painters, sculptors, photographers, filmmakers, and word makers to the same shared loom. Here, one medium can freely inform another, allowing unexpected patterns to emerge from the exact places where our individual threads overlap.

This is not collaboration for its own sake. It is the recognition that diaspora art, art made in translation, in dual languages, in the space between two worlds, requires more than isolated voices. It requires a chorus. It demands the friction and beauty of many hands working side by side, creating something none of us could have made alone.

We are the weavers. And the loom we share is Washington, a place far from the villages of our grandparents, but close enough to each other to keep weaving.

The Finished Pattern

A tapestry, however, is not fully complete until it is seen. It must be hung on the wall, stepped back from, and allowed to speak directly to those who stand before it.

The ARCS Journal is where that speech begins. It is the surface where our separate, scattered threads can show their true shapes side by side. By gathering the stories, art, and poetry of this cultural moment, it becomes a vibrant record of our presence here, answering our collective motto: Remember Who You Will Become.

A living culture stays fluid as it moves from one set of hands to another, and the journal captures the steady, patient rhythm of that movement. It is the place where the threads are being straightened, held at the proper tension, and prepared. In these pages, we record the unique knots we are tying today, the stable foundations we are stretching across the frame, and the language that defines us in this generation, ensuring the fabric remains unbroken for those who come next.

We weave because the alternative is unraveling.

Culture in diaspora is fragile, yes, but it is also elastic, adaptive, capable of holding new colors and new shapes without losing its essential form. The scoarța our ancestors made maybe did not cross the ocean. But the skill of weaving is within us, we have the memory of patterns, the instinct to gather, to make, to pass something forward that crosses every border.

So we weave. With books and language. With artists and intersections. With words and images that become part of the record.

And row by row, the tapestry grows.

Forward. Alive

On June 1, Romanian writer Mircea Cărtărescu celebrates his birthday.

Two of his books are sitting on my shelf in Seattle right now: Solenoid and Theodoros. But the book that made me fall in love with his writing was Orbitor.

I first read it while living in Finland, a few years after leaving Romania. Cărtărescu was writing about Bucharest. I grew up in Transylvania. Different city. Different streets. Different childhood.

Yet while reading Orbitor, I often felt as if someone had recovered a parallel version of my own childhood, with its apartment blocks, long summers, children claiming the neighborhood until late in the evening, and adults lingering on street corners for hours or calling to one another from balcony to balcony.

When we leave a country, memory tends to preserve its landmarks. The grocery store on the corner. The schoolyard. The old cinema building. The route we walked so many times we no longer noticed it.

What is harder to preserve is atmosphere. The feeling of a summer evening that seemed endless. The conversations drifting through open windows. The comfort of a familiar taste. The strange importance of things that, in retrospect, were entirely ordinary.

I went on to read his later books with equal pleasure, and years later, living in Seattle, I still have Cărtărescu’s novels on my shelves.

But when I think of his writing, I still think first of Orbitor.

Of the rare experience of recognizing yourself inside someone else’s memories.

And of the unexpected comfort of discovering that childhood, at least in literature, can sometimes survive migration better than we do.