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The burst of laughter her story may sometimes produce is just a way to open “a memorably
articulated chronicle of sorrows.” 12 On the first page of her book, Aglaja Veteranyi dots the i’s and
crosses the t’s by commenting on the precariousness of religion or morals in their family: “Men don’t
believe in God as much as women and children do; they don’t like the competition. My father
doesn’t want God to be my father too.” 13 Her stepsister always tried to calm down her numerous
fears, by telling her the terrible story of a child who is cooked in polenta, which, unfortunately, has
no soothing effect. The girl encounters what Emmanuel Levinas named “the Other” in very hopeless
conditions: her parents’ divorce, orphanage life, lack of proper education, sexual abuse etc. In her
view, God does not belong to this world, although in childhood she was made to believe that “Jesus
Christ is an artiste too.” 14 Hence her decision to eventually take her life. However, her story of
becoming remains a lively testimony against grim History, a sample of performed feminism and food
for thought among cultural theorists truly interested in individuals as culture bearers.
Veteranyi’s book and tragic destiny also constitute a testimony of the numerous difficulties
immigrant children may encounter when they follow their parents abroad: linguistic confusion,
poverty, psychological disorders, a sense of displacement and lack of belonging etc. As well as in
1001 Arabian Nights, telling stories may be an antidote against fears and non‐being in general. Asked
about the rapport between biography and fiction, the author insisted on storytelling as a form of
understanding her own destiny: “…[the line between truth and fiction] is not important in my
opinion. I do not want to write the truth, I do not want to write a history book, I just want to
erzählen.” 15 However, the immediate success of her book did not help her – as an author – cope with
her past, a rather misunderstood mix of innocence and agony. Although she fell in the gap of
unbelonging instead of using it as a source for further creativity and although she was caught
between her fear for losing her childhood and the fears of her traumatic childhood experience, her
book demonstrates the contemporary need for a radical restructuration of intercultural relationships
at many stages: emotional, personal, collective, institutional, political etc.
The Girl from the Oblong House by Ana Maria Sandu is a Matryoshka story in which daughter,
mother, grandmother and great‐grandmother take center stage by turns, to add pieces to the puzzle
of femininity during the communist times. The choir of their voices pictures their inner life and their
relationships with their closest family members, rather than the impact of the social environment
onto their lives, which exists but only as décor. The story, which is articulated around the motherdaughter
bonds, offers insights into a number of transgenerational traumas such as betrayal, early
death, suicide attempt, rape and abortion. Failure, disgust, mediocrity, shame, dirt and monstrosity
are magnified and then minimized, with the purpose of advancing a certain level of flexibility
regarding personal memory. In this context, the main philosophical issue that lies at the heart of
Sandu’s novel swings between the idea of truth and that of happiness. How long can we lie ourselves
that we can cope with our own anxieties alone? This would be the underlying question, the subtle
interrogation addressed to Romanian women in particular (because the book has not been translated
into any language yet).
As well as Simona Popescu, Ana Maria Sandu is very much interested in the roles of reading and
writing in people’s lives. Although she rarely and only subtly mentions details about these activities
throughout her novel selected for this essay, the author offered several inspiring reflections on the
same topic in a recent interview with Adina Dinițoiu, a Romanian young critic. Published as a blog
entry on February 12, it illustrates Sandu’s commitment to truthfulness:
Writing testifies your presence in the world. Your books prove that you attempted to
understand something that happened to you and to the others. No matter how far away
fiction may get, a book speaks about its author, about their concerns, dreams and
obsessions in between the lines. It cannot be otherwise. You choose to say one story and
not another, you cut out the world in the way you see it and feel it. 16
However, truthfulness is not transmitted as common reality, chronologic time or accuracy of
details. Contrary to expectations, it takes the form of authenticity even though or because it refers to