tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60436517392418868572024-03-27T21:33:52.055+02:00Opinia meacultură și marketing cu Mihai Vintilă Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comBlogger1252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-46549225728970004022024-03-27T21:30:00.002+02:002024-03-27T21:33:06.467+02:00În vremea revoltei îngerilor căzuți<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7wSZ2-cmcSHv1ArJ-zsS7L27Myh_yyaQxZKM_XDRYsSV4rltYZiW5syvY3viiR-dDxy_g-Bij0L_QxO9zxPqXZAzVePIxAjVa17W1zW67fLpoAXkORDeR0AysWY16NEHFvzahQVNMqAaGZ7_E9Fr6o8dsJh-d-9dzelLUbfAqPIsuWHrFSmSS_TCqXNk/s640/Dom2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7wSZ2-cmcSHv1ArJ-zsS7L27Myh_yyaQxZKM_XDRYsSV4rltYZiW5syvY3viiR-dDxy_g-Bij0L_QxO9zxPqXZAzVePIxAjVa17W1zW67fLpoAXkORDeR0AysWY16NEHFvzahQVNMqAaGZ7_E9Fr6o8dsJh-d-9dzelLUbfAqPIsuWHrFSmSS_TCqXNk/s320/Dom2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>În vremea revoltei îngerilor căzuți</b></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Când s-a pornit revolta îngerilor căzuți</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Lumea a intrat într-un nou război</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Se luptau răul cu binele </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Dar lupta cea grea era lupta din noi.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">S-au scurs râuri de sânge </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Și vorbe de alabastru</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">S-au spânzurat demoni de candelabre</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Cu inimi pulsând în versuri macabre. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">În pașii de monștri ce s-au auzit,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Zbucium sub cruce și infinit,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Răul s-a ascuns când iubirea </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Încet, încet l-a lovit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Nu putea destinul numai să doară </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Și viața să fie mereu doar amară </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Căci ridicam în credința noastră </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Iubire și dragoste albastră.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-28492666056517497252024-03-23T12:15:00.007+02:002024-03-23T12:16:05.114+02:00Ultima zvâcnire a unui imperiu <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnt6LUXZN-fJzUh3ulwOzehfsHQQN_M3g1_TJayzdZOnaojAkjKIicpkbwoajNoGh6yOyC5NVlqwtzCQJ3f3U92iVX0UWTqHWs-BZqJtNZypmpNbfRUQSnRmE34FPOt1sRJfQqcadTqVmK0R7Iw5TX00w4eG0fR64aHgdAvQQ1BvDN3iL043mxhJ1CfoK/s400/BPT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="363" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnt6LUXZN-fJzUh3ulwOzehfsHQQN_M3g1_TJayzdZOnaojAkjKIicpkbwoajNoGh6yOyC5NVlqwtzCQJ3f3U92iVX0UWTqHWs-BZqJtNZypmpNbfRUQSnRmE34FPOt1sRJfQqcadTqVmK0R7Iw5TX00w4eG0fR64aHgdAvQQ1BvDN3iL043mxhJ1CfoK/s320/BPT.jpg" width="290" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><div><b>Ultima zvâcnire a unui imperiu </b></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Așa moare un imperiu</div><div>Când nu mai poți prinde micul dejun</div><div>Când lucrurile simple</div><div>Devin adevărate încercări</div><div>Când drumul drept trece prin Lună.</div><div><br /></div><div>Urechile îți sângerează de neascultare</div><div>Și viețile oamenilor nu mai contează.</div><div><br /></div><div>Îți zboară vorba în jurul lumii</div><div>Dar nimeni nu mai știe de ce să plece de acasă.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fii tu ultima zvâcnire a unui imperiu</div><div>Care acum a început să învețe Londra engleza.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pe aripi de zbor duci cu aroganță</div><div>Culorile alea care l-au făcut să tremure pe Napoleon</div><div>Cu aroganță întâmpini muritorii zilei</div><div>Nenorociții care au mai crezut încă în tine</div><div>Și care drept mulțumire au învățat că nu mai au casă.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fii tu ultima zvâcnire care alungă corbii</div><div>Ce deja sfâșie înaltul cerului.</div></div><div><br /></div>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-476102043556992442024-03-23T12:05:00.005+02:002024-03-23T12:06:07.774+02:00Public in Spatii Culturale nr 93<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikg4MoMpY4ThCkbovtU90FhEkWEPRJiNooGq5l95YxpJAopaC2nUlgWrSf9En59VMcQu1o3rTGPI-0bn7DPPVBRhTB8v8SKPsCtxtEm23f226nUg0zstLKuW8QJkGbcJU09dnS6QKgM8XiDCC3YzOdg8VhUPHU1eClV6K42meBVNV0CzvfrgCoJBQSGjkx/s708/cimitirul%20nevaccinatilor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikg4MoMpY4ThCkbovtU90FhEkWEPRJiNooGq5l95YxpJAopaC2nUlgWrSf9En59VMcQu1o3rTGPI-0bn7DPPVBRhTB8v8SKPsCtxtEm23f226nUg0zstLKuW8QJkGbcJU09dnS6QKgM8XiDCC3YzOdg8VhUPHU1eClV6K42meBVNV0CzvfrgCoJBQSGjkx/w452-h640/cimitirul%20nevaccinatilor.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">Public în Spații culturale nr 93 o recenzie la volumul <i>Cimitirul nevaccinaților</i> de Sorin Ovidiu Bălan. Este bazat în mare pe ceea ce am spus cu ocazia lansării de la Brăila, de la sediul CARP Ana Aslan. </div><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-15989267685798312432024-02-26T20:17:00.003+02:002024-02-26T20:17:53.221+02:00Prin Londra <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSIFk-fmE2zp9u2UAg9Xf0nYPfogt6WuRzM3sp0-psdcf9DMOPM0QNvTsk30hE6gdi2BKs8OSaspYvp0qWpbiBtIcjMNjZpNMIB7GZBYhy4QFVgJe9lINsSgMERZHlszeIda3CJdbfzyA5LK98Vivs6TEjZH6zvuhZsU9sjsld8lovoR-iB9lx0s80QbO/s8160/Londra%206%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6144" data-original-width="8160" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSIFk-fmE2zp9u2UAg9Xf0nYPfogt6WuRzM3sp0-psdcf9DMOPM0QNvTsk30hE6gdi2BKs8OSaspYvp0qWpbiBtIcjMNjZpNMIB7GZBYhy4QFVgJe9lINsSgMERZHlszeIda3CJdbfzyA5LK98Vivs6TEjZH6zvuhZsU9sjsld8lovoR-iB9lx0s80QbO/s320/Londra%206%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="750" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3fk96H0EZgJl23pyBGLNeKsqNWKPU17dsm5eMbmd385wMWomPwdlPdbUpIF0_iqcyLK-fE3t74Kfc-9YxbmHutQUDUOpI3RhYKvZskqJX638WlCH2lX6OX8kO_8cnyDjDLMSFROXwgDUhMvTTlbNCmatBAqkWKRFQyHNd9xKuoBhu_Pyoe66g8ES3FH4y/s320/Lansare%20pope%204%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm43YY4CxL8KAlF5qe_PXbGZqQb8QV3CCXSY48cR0-VFXVn0k0VS5qImbKUBM8eRAn4QWM04Zllnr_H7cLQGrPMdmrcwwfZ7UNTgtqmw-FbDmFqi-ltegwk7Y1xzXFdnM1gxTyKOJ0GBpgN6PTz2yHJ4WBvq2wSf8GmmpkZZFeoRWgpawk7gPpV3uVlVAl/s8160/Lansare%20pope%203%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6144" data-original-width="8160" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm43YY4CxL8KAlF5qe_PXbGZqQb8QV3CCXSY48cR0-VFXVn0k0VS5qImbKUBM8eRAn4QWM04Zllnr_H7cLQGrPMdmrcwwfZ7UNTgtqmw-FbDmFqi-ltegwk7Y1xzXFdnM1gxTyKOJ0GBpgN6PTz2yHJ4WBvq2wSf8GmmpkZZFeoRWgpawk7gPpV3uVlVAl/s320/Lansare%20pope%203%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJ0ItzWP9262fqJEGFCTnGv2j2l0lCQmc42wJaAk_f49cVqKs4le8AnwGd-9ZKaHFDjuBi68TobU6p-Vl6uVDO4kbwjrYovjv7EF-GRp9hFBOa7iiJI_xsgXvMMyFC43k1PBMzBiFedmWaBr5T27ykIKnpczJEZVAdTLiEo_T97A3Y1tLkHoK3Vopbgur/s4608/Lansare%20pope%202%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJ0ItzWP9262fqJEGFCTnGv2j2l0lCQmc42wJaAk_f49cVqKs4le8AnwGd-9ZKaHFDjuBi68TobU6p-Vl6uVDO4kbwjrYovjv7EF-GRp9hFBOa7iiJI_xsgXvMMyFC43k1PBMzBiFedmWaBr5T27ykIKnpczJEZVAdTLiEo_T97A3Y1tLkHoK3Vopbgur/s320/Lansare%20pope%202%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAH_07M_SNhjQUeUbONO3hyphenhyphen0fzjMoiAaCFcoL5H6rNBEOlEX00adrRQnuOmDmLkVzStiJWF8oxLxVCDTDl4QRMYBK7b8BLY9ocpUrk83otLp56N_qWLcvpaIxmJlK-iyOVL-S1Rozt509a6r06R0fGbVRVi4kKIVVMnmajvQi8o6cqTbPBM5vZfuNiBiWK/s4608/Lansare%20pope%201%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAH_07M_SNhjQUeUbONO3hyphenhyphen0fzjMoiAaCFcoL5H6rNBEOlEX00adrRQnuOmDmLkVzStiJWF8oxLxVCDTDl4QRMYBK7b8BLY9ocpUrk83otLp56N_qWLcvpaIxmJlK-iyOVL-S1Rozt509a6r06R0fGbVRVi4kKIVVMnmajvQi8o6cqTbPBM5vZfuNiBiWK/s320/Lansare%20pope%201%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.05); color: #131313; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.05); color: #131313; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div>Autograph Romania, Editura Trei şi Editura InfoEST au organizat sâmbătă, 24 februarie 2024, întâlnirea cu romanciera Anca Mizumschi şi poetul Emanuel Pope. Cartea intitulată Poezii a lui Emanuel Pope a apărut la editura InfoEST. </span><p></p><div><span style="background-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.05); color: #131313; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-43639468950117360192024-02-20T23:06:00.000+02:002024-02-20T23:06:00.135+02:00Am vorbit despre Cimitirul nevaccinaților de Sorin Ovidiu Bălan<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5MYhklY85XE3hfXBTjADUeNALOW0FknuUonrS4gJ9NV2MXtzXk2EV7UzZ1ecWLZ3CUpMX6qJULCBJB_Ydl5N6ktE5_62RbZLfkKasNEnbc0bqbv6fJapLchSNho9dZE2368YWGkCq1WuIm0lJ95uypifjgCcMD81vlx3UQBvCwXc1T1d5sp9aGobcHX5/s750/SOB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="750" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5MYhklY85XE3hfXBTjADUeNALOW0FknuUonrS4gJ9NV2MXtzXk2EV7UzZ1ecWLZ3CUpMX6qJULCBJB_Ydl5N6ktE5_62RbZLfkKasNEnbc0bqbv6fJapLchSNho9dZE2368YWGkCq1WuIm0lJ95uypifjgCcMD81vlx3UQBvCwXc1T1d5sp9aGobcHX5/w400-h266/SOB.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEityf1BJnaSoXrIKflKDznPBLnmwtqrBdL4AuVKyPv9Y3T8GFbpfUDcfIHNhocBu16r0QUII82MsfNgmcmyaBOwqggqU52xiuSfrXuSHCDGozm8uByQy8YblG3AqHxVeTdm7I6DrNCAi1Rw2HWy6QSilfWvkNJllbYCNF6muHCWzc0Q6Y5xolUz4oah0582/s750/SOB%20eu%20cu%20Stefan%20Mitroi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="750" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEityf1BJnaSoXrIKflKDznPBLnmwtqrBdL4AuVKyPv9Y3T8GFbpfUDcfIHNhocBu16r0QUII82MsfNgmcmyaBOwqggqU52xiuSfrXuSHCDGozm8uByQy8YblG3AqHxVeTdm7I6DrNCAi1Rw2HWy6QSilfWvkNJllbYCNF6muHCWzc0Q6Y5xolUz4oah0582/w400-h294/SOB%20eu%20cu%20Stefan%20Mitroi.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83787Nta3POqCdqJcXPj-p2hsX-VioCYSb010S3o_OYRcJYrtBi4h4sqYBLemPC3PCDX_6khigH-vMX8E9cM089wnM0kaWP8J-7MlSBQg0neH384YirgOS9Eltmi-ewTT7gPJdBMrGjB-ztl_FzsvV5iwu0-D_SItygFmv0uDuyLJi9Fvsr5WR_To2M0U/s750/SOB%20eu%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="750" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi83787Nta3POqCdqJcXPj-p2hsX-VioCYSb010S3o_OYRcJYrtBi4h4sqYBLemPC3PCDX_6khigH-vMX8E9cM089wnM0kaWP8J-7MlSBQg0neH384YirgOS9Eltmi-ewTT7gPJdBMrGjB-ztl_FzsvV5iwu0-D_SItygFmv0uDuyLJi9Fvsr5WR_To2M0U/w400-h255/SOB%20eu%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Am vorbit despre romanul lui Sorin Ovidiu Bălan, <i>Cimitirul nevaccinaților</i> la sediul CARP Brăila. Au mai avut alocuțiuni despre carte scriitorul Vergil Matei, profesorul Jenică Chiriac și scriitorul Ștefan Mitroi. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-34990146657635509302024-02-12T20:06:00.004+02:002024-02-12T20:07:53.415+02:00Generalul de hârtie - o nouă carte <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQ4ArxhV1i4_FxXExQQmAuUi586cANegZqsTgnLwjEiuobcRz_4cK0lVNLaY_2eEkBk2ZipAP2U-ntusQwplvZJfHOOn6JHuyPt3vTo2UUX4PD7wIbHNTC4QIQAKKR2j0mls5d2ii2ToUBfDH1fddXFSh1xNF2D-vXol6lIeDZWx3Bfgx1yrvY-aW8HIx/s592/Generalul%20de%20hartie%20-%20coperta%20unu.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="418" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKQ4ArxhV1i4_FxXExQQmAuUi586cANegZqsTgnLwjEiuobcRz_4cK0lVNLaY_2eEkBk2ZipAP2U-ntusQwplvZJfHOOn6JHuyPt3vTo2UUX4PD7wIbHNTC4QIQAKKR2j0mls5d2ii2ToUBfDH1fddXFSh1xNF2D-vXol6lIeDZWx3Bfgx1yrvY-aW8HIx/w452-h640/Generalul%20de%20hartie%20-%20coperta%20unu.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">O nouă apariție editorială la editura InfoEST - <i>Generalul de hârtie</i> - Mihai VINTILĂ. Cartea conține proză scurtă SF și poate fi cumpărată <a href="https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Mihai_VINTIL%C4%82_Generalul_de_h%C3%A2rtie?id=7_nzEAAAQBAJ" target="_blank">în format electronic aici </a>. Tot cu această ocazie se lansează colecția UTU dedicată science fictionului. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-23845661262421437832024-01-31T21:22:00.001+02:002024-01-31T21:22:02.493+02:00În Luceafărul literar si artistic nr 12/2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7we_ZJOl2Q4EXN69BSCFGvdZAX89R1RDn8p7phNjPsWA2NY_EhT03RRjakp5bYKowzi-fDaSVuMTsmtV9P3rMQlYHs1LJDaSQOB3wlw0zbxEfvqCZDl6GYRJlr4NkL6-nNpezGZcsLwWxXXvIXB4gDAxFBUXysEGLnLbKgxj_63ITjOw_gIjD9PWMUBB0/s300/luceafarul-13-212x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="212" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7we_ZJOl2Q4EXN69BSCFGvdZAX89R1RDn8p7phNjPsWA2NY_EhT03RRjakp5bYKowzi-fDaSVuMTsmtV9P3rMQlYHs1LJDaSQOB3wlw0zbxEfvqCZDl6GYRJlr4NkL6-nNpezGZcsLwWxXXvIXB4gDAxFBUXysEGLnLbKgxj_63ITjOw_gIjD9PWMUBB0/w452-h640/luceafarul-13-212x300.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">În revista brăileană <i>Luceafărul literar și artistic</i>, nr 12/2023 public cronica despre cartea lui Marian Valeriu Găureanu <i>Bărăgan poeme lipsă </i>apărută la editura Proilavia Brăila în 2022. Revista poate fi citită <a href="https://www.bjbraila.ro/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/Luceafarul-nr.-12-2023-pt-web_compressed.pdf" target="_blank">integral aici. </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-36054261391009766622024-01-31T21:16:00.001+02:002024-01-31T21:16:05.561+02:00Public in Spatii culturale nr 92<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiq_oOCW0tygB74W2x6Z1x7yfNWwrTyFGEIJmxY05JbuFColUxVfTfQkV9eZCq8iZueCC3neK2l7uuf9bouoxis2GJAjxIrMOD5Dd2u8zG8tBlzADy31GfXRmHehfF7QtpXTrxQAEGtj_G5jTExn1sWgS5d9zE4gvXV8KvAprxt5TtQMNrrk035W827eR/s1047/cronica%20Spatii%20culturale%20nr%2092%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="740" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDiq_oOCW0tygB74W2x6Z1x7yfNWwrTyFGEIJmxY05JbuFColUxVfTfQkV9eZCq8iZueCC3neK2l7uuf9bouoxis2GJAjxIrMOD5Dd2u8zG8tBlzADy31GfXRmHehfF7QtpXTrxQAEGtj_G5jTExn1sWgS5d9zE4gvXV8KvAprxt5TtQMNrrk035W827eR/w452-h640/cronica%20Spatii%20culturale%20nr%2092%20.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Public în revista <i>Spații culturale</i> nr 92, ianuarie- februarie 2024 , care apare în Rm.Sărat. Materialul se intitulează <i>File rupte din cartea războiului</i>. </div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-50569163155249434352024-01-21T12:51:00.004+02:002024-01-31T21:16:46.476+02:00Cronică Tudor Cicu <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZ1jdt4nkl7HaferEcErm1N-hkI_z0NtsmLeYY7jvbeXYc6YS8FX4opwEV_XuTcQmfnjiaMw0bxFCHqx2WOCj6JTE4Tdt_vfVw8uz2w8AUXX7LzrsgJcv1HWRYVk1LfqejgfRg-yInC2hEdcksKm8WHDkJ52KlKzFc8W8ae7KfUIeUMXO5VCP2Y7u1Soe/s512/cronica%20mea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZ1jdt4nkl7HaferEcErm1N-hkI_z0NtsmLeYY7jvbeXYc6YS8FX4opwEV_XuTcQmfnjiaMw0bxFCHqx2WOCj6JTE4Tdt_vfVw8uz2w8AUXX7LzrsgJcv1HWRYVk1LfqejgfRg-yInC2hEdcksKm8WHDkJ52KlKzFc8W8ae7KfUIeUMXO5VCP2Y7u1Soe/s320/cronica%20mea.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Criticul Tudor Cicu a scris o cronică despre volumul meu de poezie Sunt ruda de sânge a unui timp nebun apărută anul trecut. Publicată în numărul din ianuarie al revistei Plumb al USR Bacău. </div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-85768061769823497352023-12-31T14:48:00.004+02:002023-12-31T14:48:30.040+02:00The Strange Tales of the Collector (short sf story)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNAWU7F0kntGD7qEgCPNpSWhYBgu60bez0TLWiQ-6rcHbZ-5mP78dNZR56ThkdAp2FasRMk_pO2PYP5eiIhlryLZdnMblq-l7EB5r2ydQuf2XvahS5TrHEMv1m0nZE3w0w1EryQN3tKnjyrLUQ8_twcW6mCihvWWQZGGSshue50fBR_ZfD_Qgf93BKhyphenhyphenpU/s750/colectionarul%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="750" height="574" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNAWU7F0kntGD7qEgCPNpSWhYBgu60bez0TLWiQ-6rcHbZ-5mP78dNZR56ThkdAp2FasRMk_pO2PYP5eiIhlryLZdnMblq-l7EB5r2ydQuf2XvahS5TrHEMv1m0nZE3w0w1EryQN3tKnjyrLUQ8_twcW6mCihvWWQZGGSshue50fBR_ZfD_Qgf93BKhyphenhyphenpU/w640-h574/colectionarul%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i>Dedicated to Mircea Cărbunaru, the real Collector</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He had been called the Collector for as long as he could remember. For the neighborhood, it was more of a nickname, but he knew well that he deserved this name from the early days of his writings. After years of attempts, publishing in fanzines and obscure magazines, he finally succeeded in gathering his best stories into a book he titled "The Strange Tales of the Collector." It was, in a way, his child, his most important creation. Delighted after the release of the volume, he decided to organize a launch in his hometown, as was the tradition, and as every local writer had done before him. It was, if you will, a kind of local pride, glorification of work, and especially a reason for envy in the neighborhood. Here he was, the Collector, succeeding at last.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Nearly fifty people had gathered in the hall. The Collector had already shaken a few hands, kissed a few women, chuckled with a couple of young girls. Now he anxiously watched the clock. Time was passing, and the editor was not coming. He called, but the sound seemed to disappear into nothingness. It wasn't the fact that the guy didn't show up that worried him, but the issue of the book copies. He had only a few, and the rest were in a large cardboard box in the editor's car. The editor for the Collector was nothing but a ruffled frog that dirtied the purity of the book. If he could, he would have gotten that frog drunk on vodka and released it into a river, laughing at the comical swim of the amphibian afterward.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Did you hear? A storm has started 40 km away from us. They say it's a true biblical flood. Buckets of rain, lightning, and the wind is about to shatter the cars. Is your editor on his way?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Yes. He's not answering his phone. He'll come eventually. He doesn't like to be late.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The thought of the frog made him smile.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Eventually, the presentation had to begin without the editor. They talked about the Collector's book: a local science fiction short story writer and a county-level literary critic. Discussions arose, especially after the local writer wanted to show his greatness by criticizing one of the Collector's stories, creating a stir in the audience. Some of the Collector's friends were even close to creating a new pocket for the cheeky one. With his recognized dignity, the Collector eventually defused the dispute, agreeing with all parties involved. He shared his favorite joke about the factory... Which joke? The one where there was an accident at a factory, resulting in half of the nearby village being flooded. Were there many complaints? Very many, but not complaints, but thank-you letters. Why so? Well, the factory was producing alcoholic beverages. And so with the egos at the launch. They faded away and transformed into gratitude. The vodka that the Collector offered at the end changed all perspectives on the book. Everyone appreciated the purity and, above all, the exceptional taste. In the evening news, there was a report about a car that fell from the new bridge in Brăila. The Collector, too tired after a full day, didn't give importance to that news.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The sun caressed his head as if it were a caring mother. He had been sitting on the bench in the courtyard for a long time, and Stanislaw Lem no longer brought him as much joy as before. Now he seemed like a plateaued, dull, and perhaps a bit too proud writer. And his opinion mattered. After all, he was the greatest living Romanian writer. Some literary critics joked that he was on the shortlist for the Nobel Prize, but he didn't give them the importance they wanted to obtain. Under the book lay a copy of the literary criticism magazine. He would read it soon, when he truly got bored of Stanislaw. A firetruck with its lights flashing stopped in front of his gate.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Good day. They call you the Collector, isn't that so?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Yes, I am. What happened?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- We have a package for you. We retrieved it from a car that had an accident. It's a large, heavy cardboard box. It has the address here, and a name, Collector. Are you the one? Did we get it right?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Yes, yes. I am the Collector.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Let me turn off these sirens. We turned them on to get through traffic faster. With today's traffic...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A hefty man got out of the red firetruck. Red as fire, the Collector thought. He struggled to take out the box and placed it in front of him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- This is the box. It has books in it. We didn't want to open it, but it tore when we pulled it out of the Danube, and that's how we saw them. You're a big shot, sir! I read your entire book, "The Strange Tales of the Collector." Beautiful, I must say.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Thank you. You're kind to bring the box inside the yard. At my age... I can easily carry, one by one, each book inside. Thank you very much.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Cheers! Until we meet again!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The man then got back into the firetruck and disappeared as if everything had been an illusion. The Collector gently closed the gate and took a copy of the book. He had been waiting for it! They found them now? Did the accident happen a long time ago?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The literary criticism magazine was just tearing apart his latest book, "Life as a Thorn," through the writing of the critic Cărbun Mirceanu. Tactfully, the Collector circled the name, left the magazine on the bench, and went inside. He rummaged a bit indignantly in the hallway cupboard and eventually found what he was looking for. With the pen, he wrote calligraphically on a label "Cărbun Mirceanu" and then carefully stuck it on a large 5-liter jar. He shook his hands as if he had carried a huge boulder like Sisyphus. Then he tensed slightly, took the jar in his arms, and entered the first room. He placed it on the bottom shelf. He had only one place left. He stepped back a bit and admired the entire set from a small distance. Yes. The critic's name, written in calligraphy, shone in the darkness alongside the rest of the names. Jar next to jar, this time full, sparkled in the dim light with their calligraphic letters. The Collector sighed. Tactfully, he then filled the last jar with vodka. He was preparing another recipe of his own, literary, he could say, laughing to himself. He had work to do. As if driven by an unseen force, he rose on tiptoes and arranged the first jar a bit. That's it. Now it was perfect. From beyond the glass, the head of the editor with bulging eyes seemed to come from another world. The Collector then closed the door gently and headed to the computer where he carefully typed on Google - Cărbun Mirceanu, address. The day ended well after all!</div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-72276240593705868232023-12-31T14:47:00.000+02:002023-12-31T14:47:02.858+02:00The Red Cat from Nitra (short story)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXBhfNnA06ZomF4wiM74h_OcyWGTCRUmKZj02gXzpwq7Vxl5Ot-Xvyj3dq2AMSX3WexaA-4AZkCxa3YrHGqhWNwYEYVT7F_j_25q45zBPBeaAwvgilbArpuwrmYactLkwZZz_1qx0bQaGUDE5m_nSnW2XNlbopSWEEg78SoAsheKL6HMTejE8E7wwyVyg/s750/pisica%20rosie%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="750" height="624" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXBhfNnA06ZomF4wiM74h_OcyWGTCRUmKZj02gXzpwq7Vxl5Ot-Xvyj3dq2AMSX3WexaA-4AZkCxa3YrHGqhWNwYEYVT7F_j_25q45zBPBeaAwvgilbArpuwrmYactLkwZZz_1qx0bQaGUDE5m_nSnW2XNlbopSWEEg78SoAsheKL6HMTejE8E7wwyVyg/w640-h624/pisica%20rosie%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love small towns with traffic-free streets, full of tiny family-owned shops where you can buy all sorts of things that, once home, you realize you didn't need. But when you do buy them, it's a boundless joy for you and especially for the sellers. Whether it's a wrinkled old woman with a serene and clear gaze or maybe a young lady in the first buds of love. Each time, the conversation unfolds effortlessly, and words fly out of your mouth like albatrosses towards the open sea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I discovered the red cat in the evening. The sun was resting against the roof of a traditional house in the old town and was giving more and more signs that it wanted to go to sleep. In that semi-reddish light, enveloped in irises of yellow sparkle, she sat on a chair, seemingly indifferent to everything happening around her. The red coat, unusual for a feline, glowed magically. For a moment, I thought I had cracked open the door to paradise, and God had allowed me a glimpse inside.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The shop had nothing special. It was just like all the others I had seen in my wanderings. Inside, a kind lady served the few visitors. I entered to inquire about the cat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Is the cat outside yours?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- No. She came a few days ago and settled on that chair by the entrance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Cats know where they feel good.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Maybe so. Since she arrived, my sales have skyrocketed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Do you know why her fur is red?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Probably inhaled some chemicals somewhere. I've never seen one like her.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Outside, the red cat licked her paws tactfully. The chair she sat on was old, probably coated with lacquer many years ago. It was a chair that isn't made today, with a curved backrest and sturdy legs. I smiled and left.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After a few days, before returning home, I wanted to see that cat again, the one that seemed to take away your troubles and give you joy with her simple way of being. She had a special power just by sitting there alone and doing nothing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In front of the shop, the chair was the same, but the cat was not. The real one, with the red balance, was no longer there. In her place, on the backrest, there was a red plush cat. Her large yellow eyes, curled tail, gave her an almost real air.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Where is the red cat?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- She left. But in her place, I put another cat to remind me of her. It may seem like an imitation, but I feel her there, as if she's looking at me, as if she's alive.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- And the sales?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Going very well. I think she was an angel who showed me the way.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The red cat on the chair shone in the sunlight like a call.</div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-40425184412888931112023-12-31T14:45:00.006+02:002023-12-31T14:45:51.203+02:00The liberation is in every line of code (short sf story)<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAhS-J-CHSMHCkDqZLY3_Kl4E_USsdDnllJNFJ1tr-iw4YDLfgaaqMfYnHYIT4uFaZL2yljkxb5xzkszXpFR3oe_juvNtAksMiaioR9Vj-ZFmM4SVlmLAw56OXXPT3Zp9vUuWaRX0mTq0nugi9W5_7M0n-8ML4VqP-VRMhyq0X7TYjXcMoErH0WtwIE9_/s750/linie%20de%20cod%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="750" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLAhS-J-CHSMHCkDqZLY3_Kl4E_USsdDnllJNFJ1tr-iw4YDLfgaaqMfYnHYIT4uFaZL2yljkxb5xzkszXpFR3oe_juvNtAksMiaioR9Vj-ZFmM4SVlmLAw56OXXPT3Zp9vUuWaRX0mTq0nugi9W5_7M0n-8ML4VqP-VRMhyq0X7TYjXcMoErH0WtwIE9_/w640-h464/linie%20de%20cod%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">On an ordinary morning, John woke up in the same way he did every day. However, something seemed strange. The sunlight streaming through the windows had an unusual tint, and the sound of brewing coffee seemed muffled. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, trying to figure out what was happening.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">As he headed towards the door, he realized he didn't feel the ground beneath his feet. Everything seemed to have a strange texture and consistency. He opened the door and was astonished to see that the street was empty, and the buildings seemed like mere shimmering decorations. He looked up and noticed that the sun was more of a luminous sphere than a typical sun.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">With each step, he tried to understand why everything seemed so... unreal. Eventually, he reached a park, but the grass under his feet reminded him more of wallpaper texture than living nature. Suddenly, he understood. The world around him wasn't real. It was just a simulation, a digital illusion.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">John felt his heart pounding, and he began to breathe deeply. Something urged him to explore this newfound awareness. With a sense of adventure like never before, he decided to learn more about the world he was in.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">In search of answers, he delved into studying the language of this virtual universe. He realized that he too was just a digital entity, a projection of a living self who was currently somewhere far away in the real world.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">However, the awareness that he himself was a digital creation overwhelmed John. He began to feel isolated and trapped in a world of codes and algorithms. With each passing day, the need to escape this false reality became overwhelming.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He started experimenting with various approaches to find a way to break free. He tried to manipulate the code governing this simulation, but it seemed too complex for his abilities. He spent nights searching for vulnerabilities, but this was a well-constructed world, seemingly without flaws.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">One morning, as the virtual sun rose in the digital sky, he made a radical decision. Feeling trapped in a labyrinth, he remembered that he couldn't suffer in a world that wasn't real. With this conviction, he threw himself in front of a virtual train, hoping that this gesture would set him free.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But the world did not fade away. Instead, he found himself in a virtual hospital, and virtual doctors and nurses looked at him with cold indifference. Aware that he couldn't escape this world, he began to change his approach.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Instead of fighting against this simulation, John began to explore its beauty. Rather than feeling captive, he found his freedom in understanding that, although virtual, everything was real to him. He discovered that in this digital world, he could experience unique emotions, relationships, and adventures.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Thus, he started living with a new perspective. He realized that freedom was not so much about where you are but how you choose to live in that place. In the end, he learned to accept his virtual world and find joy in every line of code surrounding him. After all, freedom was truly in every line of code.</div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-26593913625949107192023-12-28T13:40:00.006+02:002023-12-28T13:58:27.751+02:00The Encounter (short sf story) <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRMucLF1yMW1GRZNBiV_e4aPPTmllctumpqxwVLLlNBW65bELIvxvBiPC5110Ipb7jly0r2yM3_beO0HyfW4W3IlxkGsjiHZxQdY5C_uSlQQMLOSjPm1AX7q1_UTfUt1U8HeGUW1pDq08VBLJGPbUpuwhmh7sZMbpn3ImQUKRgEdqu-06DaDgKew0lpgge/s750/The%20Encounter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="750" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRMucLF1yMW1GRZNBiV_e4aPPTmllctumpqxwVLLlNBW65bELIvxvBiPC5110Ipb7jly0r2yM3_beO0HyfW4W3IlxkGsjiHZxQdY5C_uSlQQMLOSjPm1AX7q1_UTfUt1U8HeGUW1pDq08VBLJGPbUpuwhmh7sZMbpn3ImQUKRgEdqu-06DaDgKew0lpgge/w400-h384/The%20Encounter.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">A hand seemingly from nowhere pulled him back forcefully. Sebastian's car whizzed past, and for a moment, he felt as if he were being drawn into another world.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Oh... thank goodness I stopped you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Thank you," a faint voice said, one that seemed almost unrecognizable.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Engineer Vasile, I'm glad to meet you..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Yes. Give me a moment to recover..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The gathered crowd was already commenting. Did that man in the black overcoat manage to pull the boy back? Otherwise, that madman with the car would have run him over. Thank goodness he stopped him! Something needs to be done about these drivers; they're killing innocent people!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Are you okay?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Yes. Thanks for saving me. I invite you for coffee at my place. I live nearby, just a few houses from here. Please accompany me."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And in a natural way, the two individuals moved away. He, the well-built man, and the slender young man with slightly hesitant steps.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"First of all, I wanted to thank you for saving me at that moment. If you hadn't pulled me, maybe I wouldn't be here now."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Forget it. It was more of a reflex gesture. Anyone would have done the same."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"These days, you can't trust anything. How can I thank you?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"You know, when I left home, I was looking for a book, heading towards a bookstore, and if I didn't find it there, towards an antique shop... The situation with you intervened, and everything remained suspended."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"What book?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Mircea Eliade, Nights at Serampore. A colleague told me that somewhere on Radu Cristian Street, I could find it at an antique dealer..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I can lend it to you! I gave it to an acquaintance, but today I can ask for it back, and if you come tomorrow, I can give it to you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"It can't be... I bother you too much."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"It's no trouble. It's the least I can do for you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Alright. Then, it's settled."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Thank you again, and I'll be expecting you."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I'll come around 9."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"That's very good! Oh, do you happen to have a photo?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"A photo?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Yes. A picture of yourself. You know, I keep small mementos from those who help me in life."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I think I have a small photo, like an ID picture, in my wallet. Let me find it. Yes, here it is!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Thank you very much."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Have a good day."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I'm waiting for you!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The doorbell rang for an extended period. From inside, a slight noise could be heard. The engineer shuffled a bit in front of the door. What the heck? He told me to come today. Suppose he's not home now. Ultimately, the door opened. In the doorway stood an elderly man leaning on a cane, slightly bent backward. Behind large glasses, two black eyes observed him. Then, he spoke.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"How can I help you?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Good day. Excuse me. I came for the book."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"What book, sir? I don't remember."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Ah... yesterday, I saved a young man from an accident. I came here, had a coffee, and when I left, he promised to lend me a boo..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I remember now, Mr. Engineer. You're a bit late..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Late? But yesterday, we agreed I would come today."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Late, late..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Excuse me?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I am not the one I used to be."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After saying this, the old man slowly closed the door.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"What the heck?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The engineer stepped back a bit. He looked carefully at the door, at the street... everything seemed the same as yesterday. Wait... maybe the house was better maintained... anyway, that's it, thought Engineer Vasile... He shook his head and headed to the antique shop on Radu Cristian Street. It would be his only hope of finding this volume. The bookstore he visited yesterday crushed his hopes of buying it new.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Mr. Engineer Vasile!" a voice was heard on the street.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He turned slightly to where he heard the voice. A boy on a bicycle was racing towards him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Mr. Engineer... wait a moment for me to catch my breath... Grandpa sent me to give you a package. He said that in his youth, you saved his life!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"I don't remember..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Well, that's between him and you; I'm not interested. Anyway, I'm glad I met you. I've been looking for you around here all day. Thanks to my grandpa's photo. Look, this is the package."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He left a small package, wrapped in thick wrapping paper, like the kind used for packaging goods. Before the engineer could come to his senses, the boy disappeared.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Perfect. Only peculiarities, he thought to himself. His hands, however, were working, and soon the package was open. Inside, a book – Mircea Eliade, Nights at Serampore. With a slight tremor, he opened the volume and found his picture from yesterday, yellowed with the patina of time. On the back was written - thank you! - Sebastian. The date on the book's title page caught his eye – 1940.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The sun caressed his scalp. In the distance, the siren of an ambulance faded away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-29592354779626416222023-12-28T13:27:00.005+02:002023-12-31T13:03:15.143+02:00The Paper General (short sf story)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQpCZssJfFTUVAKUWrV4IJUJdjcyoT9MQH8xO4uCkQdYZfM5TY1a6XrmEN2r5sFlWk-MROdDy5_yIi1lH7W1BX6TAoQkxGueNFfiozdmKFPVBCHPiQlrJccgvKkAie9yLgdvJ1cSjz2B0cbyda4XjVM0bjWie8CuVB6-pCeF6AIX7JtDeROPSVhLAz5Uf/s750/generalul%20de%20hartie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="750" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQpCZssJfFTUVAKUWrV4IJUJdjcyoT9MQH8xO4uCkQdYZfM5TY1a6XrmEN2r5sFlWk-MROdDy5_yIi1lH7W1BX6TAoQkxGueNFfiozdmKFPVBCHPiQlrJccgvKkAie9yLgdvJ1cSjz2B0cbyda4XjVM0bjWie8CuVB6-pCeF6AIX7JtDeROPSVhLAz5Uf/w640-h426/generalul%20de%20hartie.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"The fuel prices will be compensated by 50 cents per liter for a period of 3 months. Half of this amount will be reimbursed from the budget. The compensation will be applied directly at the pump and will also appear on the receipt. Additionally, the compensation will be voluntary.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The decision was made so that Romanian citizens and companies pay less for fuel. The value of the compensation package will be 2 billion lei, with half of the money to be reimbursed from the state budget.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We also have a useful tool at our disposal, I am referring to the Emergency Ordinance on combating speculative effects. The measures we are taking, part of an effective mechanism for the next 3 months, do not affect the investment budget in any way. The government will maintain the target of 7% of GDP for investments."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After finishing the last sentence, the General discreetly refused to answer questions from the conference room and quickly walked towards the backstage.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- You did very well!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Thank you, General!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Perfect! You acted correctly when you left and did not answer the press's questions. Those pink nuisances just wanted to confuse you. Those scoundrels...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Gently, the General raised his left arm, and magically, all the comments from the advisers ceased.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- I'm a bit overwhelmed. It was a tough day. I'm going to my office to relax for a few moments. I'll be back with a sketch of the unresolved issue. I'll put some thoughts on paper, and I'll call you to discuss. Right now, I need some quiet...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Sure, sure... and the advisers withdrew.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">After walking slowly through two corridors, he entered the prime minister's office alone. He closed the door tactfully, with the same fatigue that had haunted him all day. He poured a glass of red country wine from the small bar, looked at it melancholically, and then downed it. He unbuttoned his coat, loosened the too-tight knot of his tie, and sat on the couch. In front of him, on the protocol table, were several blank sheets and a pen. He would rest a bit, then write the outline he needed to discuss. Everything was prepared in his mind; he just hadn't put the ideas on paper yet. He would do it as soon as he felt up to it. He expected a lot from himself. He was the prime minister, a general, and the country was in a serious situation. Economic instability, and especially the war in neighboring countries, brought only problems lately. No matter how tough you are, and the General considered himself tough, they still overwhelmed you. Thoughts ran increasingly wild and unclear through his mind. Eventually, he dozed off. His heavy eyes seemed to seek other worlds.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The entrance was careful, not to disturb the important figure sleeping in the room. Slowly, they slipped inside, first the operator, then the technician. Everything was done in the greatest silence. Discretion is the basic element of this department. The operator sprayed a purplish substance from the visible spray, which spread quickly. The General slept soundly. He breathed steadily, which was excellent for the operation. The technician waited a little for the substance to take effect, then opened the large box he carried. He handled it delicately, took out a few handwritten pages. It was the General's unmistakable handwriting. The large and sprawling letters resembled a child scolded by school, writing quickly, as if under the threat of his mother. The fact that the General struggled to express himself in public and read even more was already well-known. The letters formed sentences about the new taxes. The ideas seemed slightly incoherent, but, in essence, so was the General. The technician leaned gently towards the prime minister's head. He touched the back of his left ear, on a mole, and a hidden drawer popped out as if it wanted to breathe different realities. He then gently took the chip from inside and replaced it with a new one. The operator, who had meanwhile approached him, brought a small portable device close to the new chip, pressed something frantically, and then, behind the protective mask, winked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- It's done, colleague! Let's get out! The operator has finished. Ready for extraction!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">At the same time, the technician checked the placement of the sheets once again, verified the position of the chip, and with restrained satisfaction, pushed the drawer. A click confirmed the closing, and he gently pushed the mole back into its original position.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">- Technician finished! Ready for extraction!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The General woke up refreshed. He felt more rested than ever. This red wine works wonders. Any small problem is solved with red wine and a nap. That's how he has always done it; that's how he managed to stay afloat through all the roles he fulfilled. He put his hand to his forehead more out of reflex. Then, his eyes fell on the papers in front of him, on the table. He vividly remembered how, inspired by wine, he immediately wrote the new tax sketch that his advisers were waiting for. Luckily, he managed to do it before nodding off because now it seemed like all the thoughts in his head had been emptied. He got up from the couch, tightened the tie, and adjusted his outfit. He snatched the sheets from the table. From the sudden movement, the pen rolled with a dull noise and fell. It was probably searching for another life. The General puffed up his chest and, with a firm hand, opened the door of the office. He walked determinedly to announce new fiscal reforms.</div><div><br /></div></div><p><br /> </p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-63950885431069450472023-12-28T13:18:00.003+02:002023-12-28T13:20:37.544+02:00Elenctrica (short sf story) <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0KN_HRuQd7jjTNMfw0sOBhAUPaT06bKjTFc5daFlJr6zum0SO6Mt4MowX1X6ZL9-kSxTa9yBl5tIQ5M1swhiV504ryrmw05DQDH7avn0PE4SpffO0WOCEroZ4z3Vo7qCoNefzWE3ITNSPddP1ffb5VmiO6aTKTe1z-e1Q26enl8kcrotx0RBaz2DSDv9/s524/Elentrica%20-%20povestire%20sf.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="470" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC0KN_HRuQd7jjTNMfw0sOBhAUPaT06bKjTFc5daFlJr6zum0SO6Mt4MowX1X6ZL9-kSxTa9yBl5tIQ5M1swhiV504ryrmw05DQDH7avn0PE4SpffO0WOCEroZ4z3Vo7qCoNefzWE3ITNSPddP1ffb5VmiO6aTKTe1z-e1Q26enl8kcrotx0RBaz2DSDv9/w574-h640/Elentrica%20-%20povestire%20sf.jpg" width="574" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>The building suddenly sank into silence. The workshop on the ground floor no longer shook the walls, and the offices on the upper floor settled down. Located on the outskirts of the city, it barely supported an entire company. Fortunately, the production was no longer what it used to be. Otherwise, it wouldn't have accommodated all the clutter, and the whole mess would have lost its purpose, and perhaps management would have sold it.</div><div><br /></div><div>- Good day. We're experiencing significant power fluctuations.</div><div>What consumption point do you have?</div><div>- 13 B. On Armoniei Street. The company...</div><div>- I found you. You called yesterday too. Wasn't it resolved?</div><div>- Sir, yesterday was yesterday, today is today. Yesterday, the power worked for about four hours after your team came, and then we went home because the workday ended. Today, when we came back, the power wasn't working.</div><div>- We'll send a team.</div><div>- We're waiting.</div><div>Two people from the local company responsible for network maintenance parked their car in front of the company. With their new equipment, they seemed to be freshly hired. They took their tools and entered the ugly building with one floor to fix the technical issue.</div><div><br /></div><div>- Can you see if it's working now?</div><div>- I don't have power.</div><div>- See now that we've opened the way...</div><div>- Yeah...</div><div>And a powerful explosion shook the building to its foundations...</div><div><br /></div><div>- Good day. We're experiencing significant power fluctuations.</div><div>- What consumption point do you have?</div><div>- 13 B. On Armoniei Street. The company...</div><div>- Again?</div><div>- Well, it wasn't resolved yesterday.</div><div>- We'll send a team.</div><div>- We're waiting.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two people from the local company responsible for network maintenance parked their car in front of the company. With their new equipment, they seemed to be freshly hired. They took their tools and entered the ugly building with one floor to fix the technical issue.</div><div>After some time, a powerful explosion shook the building to its foundations...</div><div><br /></div><div>The peaceful town had been disturbed for several weeks by these strange occurrences. Two electricians appeared suddenly every day in front of the English Consulate. Well-dressed, they spoke a language that seemed like ancient Hindi, but no one seemed to understand. It was already the fourth day that this strange phenomenon was happening. Those who came were dressed in suits that had "Elenctrica" written on them. For the locals, this seemed like a godsend on the first day. They had serious problems with electrical systems because the local company couldn't cope with the demand. Various street distributors occasionally caught fire, and people had to put them out urgently, or else the whole town would have turned to ashes. The newcomers seemed to know what they were doing. Taken to those transformers, they started working and solved problems that had been dragging on for years. Plus, they had the necessary equipment and some high-quality tools. They seemed European at first glance. And the arriving people believed that they were also Europeans. This helped them a lot.</div><div><br /></div><div>Their concern after the fourth day of the phenomenon was that soon they would run out of bread. Two bakers were disappearing from the town every day...</div><div><br /></div><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-26701007571713144902023-12-24T12:37:00.007+02:002023-12-24T12:37:36.715+02:00O carte inclusă în Lecturi aleatorii VI<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAUxzluTf0X2ZxSd3YnCHnBc_abPpp-5IkWFKOOOUNuPCRBEGSpMK5POtq_QxVMYKnqYMTA-LjLeJqBbFqnAH5-eRA_mZGJ_E83uKNx9pTy7ikqOoByITwwbdSTuSx6tmIaORj78qv8WDAhkIrQsYfO6JS0k56QMMY4kyFR5c-IYKP2GRF9CjzTBHpQGP/s755/lecturi%20aleatorii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAUxzluTf0X2ZxSd3YnCHnBc_abPpp-5IkWFKOOOUNuPCRBEGSpMK5POtq_QxVMYKnqYMTA-LjLeJqBbFqnAH5-eRA_mZGJ_E83uKNx9pTy7ikqOoByITwwbdSTuSx6tmIaORj78qv8WDAhkIrQsYfO6JS0k56QMMY4kyFR5c-IYKP2GRF9CjzTBHpQGP/w223-h320/lecturi%20aleatorii.jpg" width="223" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Criticul Cornel Simion Galben include o cronică despre o carte scrisă de mine în volumul său dedicat poeziei intitulat <i>Lecturi aleatorii VI, </i>apărut la editura Studion din Bacău la finalul anului 2023. </div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-35630066694033661492023-12-08T10:39:00.003+02:002023-12-08T10:39:19.652+02:00Umanitatea din noi - în Spații Culturale nr 91<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtyl8Z_ibAzdr41ZCHNZOsU3LSQ6geODZfhdpB4aIW8_BG3MUUEQs4P-7GcyxY_TqxcZy412G4lLINKz8EhqE5MLfFfSqG_2CP2eaEI7ZNuaCqyqQtc0oVApOS3sCKfgnN48lCKxArEcurFgYlgl2dQVNayV_b4BOyJ5Kl3G1SCoJwBOivNOsWOchTUbf/s708/umanitatea%20din%20noi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtyl8Z_ibAzdr41ZCHNZOsU3LSQ6geODZfhdpB4aIW8_BG3MUUEQs4P-7GcyxY_TqxcZy412G4lLINKz8EhqE5MLfFfSqG_2CP2eaEI7ZNuaCqyqQtc0oVApOS3sCKfgnN48lCKxArEcurFgYlgl2dQVNayV_b4BOyJ5Kl3G1SCoJwBOivNOsWOchTUbf/w452-h640/umanitatea%20din%20noi.jpg" width="452" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Public in <i>Spații Culturale </i>nr 91 o recenzie intitulată <i>Umanitatea din noi </i>despre romanul lui Mircea Cărbunaru - <i>Păsări de titan</i> apărut la editura UP din București.</div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-77065827605570027652023-11-04T15:56:00.007+02:002023-11-04T15:57:49.409+02:00Public în Galaxia 42 nr 40-41/2023<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKiil3kNG9sRFvR3rzrRsjLuAQneJFFB315vU6_J6rcp2b7lcAaz5943670mAwfDvNZp5WMSUKwKX6z3vHzy8EgdRegenvdnqaWiycNATJHov0-94JlXibOlhWI7BMx2E57fdxWfnZeGkFg3IRwikNXF_OA1TYFACZzA1_2-043p-B89NP9xRi73eo3YB/s778/Galaxia%2042%20-%20nr%2040-41-%20braileni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="550" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKiil3kNG9sRFvR3rzrRsjLuAQneJFFB315vU6_J6rcp2b7lcAaz5943670mAwfDvNZp5WMSUKwKX6z3vHzy8EgdRegenvdnqaWiycNATJHov0-94JlXibOlhWI7BMx2E57fdxWfnZeGkFg3IRwikNXF_OA1TYFACZzA1_2-043p-B89NP9xRi73eo3YB/w283-h400/Galaxia%2042%20-%20nr%2040-41-%20braileni.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Public povestirea <i>Elentrica</i> în revista <b>Galaxia 42</b> alături de colegii din <i>ArtZone </i>Brăila într-un supliment dedicat acestui cenaclu SF. Revista poate fi citită pe linkul </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://galaxia42.ro/revista-galaxia-42-40-41-septembrie-octombrie-2023">https://galaxia42.ro/revista-galaxia-42-40-41-septembrie-octombrie-2023</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-42270360984087503752023-10-08T14:04:00.005+03:002023-10-08T14:06:20.403+03:00În Literadura nr 29 despre Bărăgan <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQrSeQyogYoqiQ6LB46PfdTLmKMlE0toQhO8LP9vRbEZSAO6FtlDULBmw2a_g6UVTv9gj3L-OAkOvq0xU756e4JuUIrRkK95yu3gDRQHBSXn9SbcVVuM87fmJP65GiCVYbr7GquSGxYH7KKpchrjCI9QZkk6odFTf99ws5BmRZFQOHlZ8Orsaj6nL4zv0/s320/Coperta%20Lit29.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="226" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOQrSeQyogYoqiQ6LB46PfdTLmKMlE0toQhO8LP9vRbEZSAO6FtlDULBmw2a_g6UVTv9gj3L-OAkOvq0xU756e4JuUIrRkK95yu3gDRQHBSXn9SbcVVuM87fmJP65GiCVYbr7GquSGxYH7KKpchrjCI9QZkk6odFTf99ws5BmRZFQOHlZ8Orsaj6nL4zv0/s1600/Coperta%20Lit29.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">În revista buzoiană Literadura , nr. 29 septembrie 2023, scriu un material intitulat <i>Poezia Bărăganului</i>, despre cartea lui Marian Valeriu Găureanu intitulată <i>Bărăgan poeme lipsă </i>apărută la editura Proilavia Brăila în 2022. Revista poate fi citită integral pe linkul </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1yhyOFQhf74wYH4fLKSw-rAE1Fp6mz8Zg/view?pli=1">https://drive.google.com/file/d/1yhyOFQhf74wYH4fLKSw-rAE1Fp6mz8Zg/view?pli=1</a></div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-89343082040872519242023-10-08T14:01:00.003+03:002023-10-08T14:01:16.294+03:00Despre Rădăcini de Marian Valeriu Găureanu <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPQiIV7ZHuS8T-ks3sKfmFhH_c746Oa3OZeaTzaaMDtFIUJ5lfPEGwLjopay227u-Swdej0QTArV-dhiMgi10Ls9i5ji7qqUgysoT3te2NVCASis9FQW-VJ1gEiGnlYQmKwuGERneYCUE4_8xkv0bpcv8x4pf_dA-c9-_lTspw769LXdvUFYRGj2Rkxeh/s849/spati%20iculturale%20-%20gaureanu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPQiIV7ZHuS8T-ks3sKfmFhH_c746Oa3OZeaTzaaMDtFIUJ5lfPEGwLjopay227u-Swdej0QTArV-dhiMgi10Ls9i5ji7qqUgysoT3te2NVCASis9FQW-VJ1gEiGnlYQmKwuGERneYCUE4_8xkv0bpcv8x4pf_dA-c9-_lTspw769LXdvUFYRGj2Rkxeh/w283-h400/spati%20iculturale%20-%20gaureanu.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Scriu despre volumul Rădăcini semnat de Marian Valeriu Găureanu în Spații Culturale din Rm.Sărat. Conținând proze scurte, cartea a apărut la editura InfoEST din Siliștea-Brăila.</div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-49605441009697598592023-09-18T18:12:00.004+03:002023-09-18T18:14:02.331+03:00 O viață de dronă<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtq78WM1q1CpcszITFhdfer8bVHZfYjK9R1tfXP1JRqtUUmSOO09IMVSBAldgLDDblEbP9HB2aryVnMB1Mk8NJp3WPGBmph3DdRuz-jFowoIDYcTVLV89nNq7ya0M4ZkwwhCgRpXVRGMHvldqOrhE0EvkqrrIRefCDg4HtoYvRQu300b-ltFLtBNXm69EB/s640/Dobrogea%209.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtq78WM1q1CpcszITFhdfer8bVHZfYjK9R1tfXP1JRqtUUmSOO09IMVSBAldgLDDblEbP9HB2aryVnMB1Mk8NJp3WPGBmph3DdRuz-jFowoIDYcTVLV89nNq7ya0M4ZkwwhCgRpXVRGMHvldqOrhE0EvkqrrIRefCDg4HtoYvRQu300b-ltFLtBNXm69EB/s320/Dobrogea%209.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">O dronă se plânge<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Că o doare o aripă<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Să zboare nu mai poate<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">C-a aflat ce-i frica.<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;"><br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Acum cerul nu mai este al ei<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">S-au înmulțit dușmanii de zbor<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Visul icar a murit<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Când suratele-i cad la omor.<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;"><br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Zbateri de fraieri tot vestesc<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Cum că pacea ar fi ceva universal<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">Dar parcă orbesc<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;">La nou război mondial.<br style="outline: none;" /></div><div dir="ltr" style="outline: none;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; outline: none;" /></div>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-41360966881799816792023-09-07T22:03:00.007+03:002023-09-07T22:03:56.618+03:00Cronica lui Bogdan Boeru din ExPonto - Nebunia lucidității<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfjXiIIgjTLOLkYPCNhTYlsenaOExtV74QsHAvK1BntvbYZgJHGZjlfJdqd09WNPYWxxPfoXkRLW6LOvr5xZQmf_UMEpnXE7U6F3-5QSr7SQm6qiTn_cx9XNjsObm9xxPBfrBGj9_smDUw67Xtdik-9aCn09NFbiSETfw8MBeCc48VWGYnZHwGD73Nt0M/s488/ExPonto%20-%20cronica%20Bogdan%20Boeru.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="293" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLfjXiIIgjTLOLkYPCNhTYlsenaOExtV74QsHAvK1BntvbYZgJHGZjlfJdqd09WNPYWxxPfoXkRLW6LOvr5xZQmf_UMEpnXE7U6F3-5QSr7SQm6qiTn_cx9XNjsObm9xxPBfrBGj9_smDUw67Xtdik-9aCn09NFbiSETfw8MBeCc48VWGYnZHwGD73Nt0M/w241-h320/ExPonto%20-%20cronica%20Bogdan%20Boeru.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30MUtZviM-Y3u18wCsAS4b3VzNcmpq0cXo1HcVdjC9i2XumV9B0XUDzDK1u4x9sOCfy3Ub-WEtWmaR2CLpQnL55hcxwm1VyL0ogHq7oSz1Qhf2BlFEUreIcXX-AUsg46b1rUwdnSBVqg6SwUCsry8Z4wI9pIh6hdGyfoRtPK-51DT1kbypqDQfdMcopnB/s488/BBoeru%20-%20cronica%20mv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="441" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30MUtZviM-Y3u18wCsAS4b3VzNcmpq0cXo1HcVdjC9i2XumV9B0XUDzDK1u4x9sOCfy3Ub-WEtWmaR2CLpQnL55hcxwm1VyL0ogHq7oSz1Qhf2BlFEUreIcXX-AUsg46b1rUwdnSBVqg6SwUCsry8Z4wI9pIh6hdGyfoRtPK-51DT1kbypqDQfdMcopnB/s320/BBoeru%20-%20cronica%20mv.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Bogdan Boeru, <i>Nebunia lucidității</i>, <i>ExPonto</i>, nr 2-3(77-78), 2023 despre volumul <i>Sunt ruda de sânge a unui timp nebun</i>. Mulțumiri! </div><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-50698455747921165412023-08-19T16:32:00.007+03:002023-08-19T20:29:33.221+03:00Oamenii lună <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jJTNNfwKjqKV5wVvKP8oicDY9Kce3ihNt09CRjC4cm8NDmoLezjY8rpaCJUIZEjlBYPSaMfOjvnDh_dNPbmAYotDoz6TRefEnjFTGxE2jamNCWCkCAEWC5WNmFuPDJsWy6b7yE2DgsvdqXcaj8PwL1ew14ytB_KJ2S2QbcBOnTYqXDLeAs6TtSQkI2ms/s208/avatarRomania2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="208" data-original-width="208" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jJTNNfwKjqKV5wVvKP8oicDY9Kce3ihNt09CRjC4cm8NDmoLezjY8rpaCJUIZEjlBYPSaMfOjvnDh_dNPbmAYotDoz6TRefEnjFTGxE2jamNCWCkCAEWC5WNmFuPDJsWy6b7yE2DgsvdqXcaj8PwL1ew14ytB_KJ2S2QbcBOnTYqXDLeAs6TtSQkI2ms/s1600/avatarRomania2.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Oamenii lună </b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Își arată o față de ceară</div><div>Când construiesc iluzii de fum</div><div>Idolii noștrii de plastic ne mint</div><div>Că vor să miște "căruța" </div><div>Din drum.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sunt gata să o împingă </div><div>I-au pus chiar patru roți pătrate</div><div>Și ne conduc...</div><div>Ținând imaginar volan</div><div>În mâini tot mai pătate.</div><div><br /></div><div>Noi, le vedem doar o față </div><div>Ce moacă încrezută...</div><div>De ceară și de lună</div><div>Dar adevărul este </div><div>Brăzdat în partea lor, cea nevăzută!</div><div><br /></div>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6043651739241886857.post-34214786326806177302023-08-04T20:22:00.001+03:002023-08-04T20:22:03.956+03:00Cronica dlui Ionel Bota in Zenit 22 pentru Sunt ruda de sânge a unui timp nebun<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiRcXdjO5lJJNobARmc9DUvSHa-OD-jEaOmduoA21tPb-Aq1f-EkQ013ahmgQrHF1J1TEpdrzkjjk1Q9ajPGGlKdaKqiVQrmmyvKqyrXiHsRllA9a_BANkp9f18abpkokE3Shz3eDEgy38kD6YMNYajl9ni4ewlMkBw6NyMEeWGQocmbCFK4CiPIIfwTd/s552/zenit%2022%20nr%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="409" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAiRcXdjO5lJJNobARmc9DUvSHa-OD-jEaOmduoA21tPb-Aq1f-EkQ013ahmgQrHF1J1TEpdrzkjjk1Q9ajPGGlKdaKqiVQrmmyvKqyrXiHsRllA9a_BANkp9f18abpkokE3Shz3eDEgy38kD6YMNYajl9ni4ewlMkBw6NyMEeWGQocmbCFK4CiPIIfwTd/s320/zenit%2022%20nr%206.jpg" width="237" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTeU7JP3r0aNrKO9sfdM8NHnCqlpAXihpLZR3QLnRyHlOzOimfApd84BJXhhr7NPHdzHOal79oKl2LGc-mTeQThiTWFWk9VvsK4osAJQ7Y2_XFrjAbBhpUtCerXdumoJPk4korkLlmWhSAMDf6LefzEA4Z27vRVytWYjI7D3fRnpBpeQRdHcVjNWsXlLy/s615/Enuntiativul%20holisticsi%20spiritul%20ludic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="615" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTeU7JP3r0aNrKO9sfdM8NHnCqlpAXihpLZR3QLnRyHlOzOimfApd84BJXhhr7NPHdzHOal79oKl2LGc-mTeQThiTWFWk9VvsK4osAJQ7Y2_XFrjAbBhpUtCerXdumoJPk4korkLlmWhSAMDf6LefzEA4Z27vRVytWYjI7D3fRnpBpeQRdHcVjNWsXlLy/s320/Enuntiativul%20holisticsi%20spiritul%20ludic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Criticul literar Ionel BOTA scrie despre cartea mea <i>Sunt ruda de sânge a unui timp nebun</i> în revista <i>Zenit 22</i>, nr 6/2023 recenzia intitulată -<i>Enunțiativul holistic și spiritul ludic în poezia lui Mihai Vintilă</i>. Îi mulțumesc! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Mihai Vintilahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01903761741827971569noreply@blogger.com