How the Romanian publicists of old used to curse with talent

What Romanian publicists write about each other. Ion Vinea about Stelian Popescu in the tablet Two meters, Free speechMarch 7, 1925:

“The press associations will be called to judge Stelian Popescu, an ordinary and stupid man, jumped through sexual gymnastics, from the bed of the evil widow of a fly, on the frontispiece of a major newspaper, and to punish him, because he disregarded the most important law of his new job: the law of professional secrecy. It is the first and most violent collision of the former fan with reality. Through him, the nocturnal champion of Theodora’s fights (the heiress with an imperial Byzantine name and appetites) – will learn that it is a harder feat to work at a writing table than to ride a babe’s bidet. The difference between a pen and a camo, between a typographic ink and mercurial pomade or vaseline, between a sheet of paper and the wrinkled skin of a sexagenarian, between an inkwell and its irritable cavities, will become clear, at last, to his eyes accustomed to chiaroscuro. And the dissimilarities between the ages will become clear to his confused lights. Stelian Popescu will have found out, in his aphrodisiac readings among the perineums, that in Antiquity the whistleblower, held in relative scornful esteem, was called a sycophant – the fig-eater.

That today, however, public sentiment offers the sycophant, instead of figs, the animal fruit according to the dung fact, the director of the “Universe” will soon feel it.

But it’s not just about getting into an ostrich’s stomach, like this one-of-a-kind Popescu, embarrassing fainting and the cramp of self-loathing. His romantic career shows us breaking through trials more repulsive, more pestilential and more prolonged than this quarter of an hour of engorgement, infectious, we recognize it, but, definitively, passive, of the consequences of his own abjection. Not for a few infernal moments of martyrdom, which Stelianu’s strong streak will cross with a stoicism worthy of another cause, was unleashed, under the command of general indignation, a press campaign and a completely disproportionate agitation, if the goal were not than a vindication and an attrition. The health of the priceless Theodora and her good mood, delightful in the old days, would be restored with the promptness of a miracle. Our Rasputin possesses the national art of relieving himself soulfully, with two adventurous fingers in the back of the throat. This ethical and sanitizing tickle is one of the supreme pleasures left to him. After such an office, with an instant reply from the depths, the combative value of Mr. Popescu would remain intact and the copious feast can begin again.”

Those who know a little about the interwar press will immediately notice that Ion Vinea resumes without blinking the rumors about how Stelian Popescu became the owner universe. Although it is about a living man, a colleague from the guild after all, the young publicist writes about Stelian Popescu like a chair leg, which does not budge even if you break it.

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WhatNapoleonic citizens. From Kindle I download, by purchase, Napoleon and the last campaign. The Hundred Days. 1815, by Jacques Olivier Boudon, published by Armand Colin in 2015, as far as I can tell the best book about Waterloo, because it describes, in an almost didactic way, the fatal confrontation between Napoleon and the whole of Europe. I quickly jot down the decision of the Congress of Vienna of March 15, 1815, by which the Emperor is outlawed. The book captures Napoleon’s isolation in Europe. Any attempt he makes to break the Seventh Coalition ends in failure. At the same time, Fouché takes up the double game typical of his personality. Napoleon’s option for this character in the position of Minister of Police remains one of the great oddities of History. The only explanation remains the fact that the Return was too fast and that Europe united against him no longer gave Napoleon time to consolidate his power by discovering new people. As at Waterloo, he is forced to appeal to old men, many of them doubly traitors, or to men already greedy who need peace to consume their luxury and not wars, to cripple themselves. I am more and more tempted to compare Napoleon from The Hundred Days with Hitler, if only because Hougoumont is a miniature Stalingrad.

NOTE: This editorial is taken in its entirety from cristoiublog.ro