Forever Quixote

Hello, Forever Quixote is where you find bits of what I write. My first book, Loops and Strings, is available on Amazon, both on paper and as a Kindle – see the link in the blogroll. It’s a novel about a teenage girl in the Romania of the 80s, going through four distinct romantic experiences which she keeps processing, inventing, re-inventing and comparing. Time, one’s own role, scripts, being responsive rather than being proactive, fear of stereotypes and of mediocrity are all concerns that are mixed in her inner life.

I also post fragments of my current writing project, To the Moon and Back, which will be a psychological and social novel about denial, identity, home and exile. It’s built on motifs like journey as learning and self-discovery, outsider diving into a wonder-world, the outer space as inner space.

Please feel free to leave feedback or contact me, either by using the feedback form below or at the email address me at simona-petrescu.name.

Hope you enjoy coming back to Forever Quixote!

Here is what you can read in Forever Quixote:

To the moon and back:

  • Your story or no story   “Let’s have a deal”, said Andrew while tucking a hammer, some long nails, a wrench and a pair of pliers into his knapsack. He was getting ready for the errand at the nuns’ down in the valley. “A deal?”, Peter enquired his eyebrows raised, a tentative smile on his thin lips just in case it was ...
  • The story of no story Coffee was good. Pungently bitter and opaquely black. Fine grains of dregs rolling on the tongue with every sip. The rolls were puffy and sweetish with raisins lost amid the air bubbles in the dough, as if asking to be poked out with the index finger, which would drive Tante Elsa mad. “Yes, that’s a very ...
  • An Awakening     Opening eyes. Been here before. When? Before. No. Yes. When? Silence gap. Before. The green-and-grey stripes on the woollen cover lying on the chest and tickling the chin. The dark ceiling beams pockmarked by wood moths – with the right-angled edges milled off by the strings of the hanging crib! Mom’s crib of old. The ...
  • My home is my hut They reached the translucent gate to which Andrew was holding the key, tall, massive, obstructing any view over whatever lay behind it. Peter heard the heavy jangle of the key being turned into a lock, iron against iron, then a full cluck and the gate gave way. Past the black woods and the milky screen ...
  • Out of the darkness They headed straight into the night. Underneath the clock tower, out of the enclosure again, past dwarfish houses with white lattice windows, up forgotten lanes, beyond any attempt at tarmac and on to a tight-winding dirt trail whose end kept eluding them behind the huddled houses and further yet, enfolded in the indiscernible mountain woods. ...
  • The place of the mind Agapia is a place of the mind. Wherever I step, there’s a story that has been put into a text and then pictured in the mind while reading. There was once upon a time a fair princess who fell in love with a mysterious dark prince, got with child and was banished from home by her ...
  • The end of the road “I’m so relieved you speak English, I was hoping not to have to translate difficult specialised words from history or architecture, if you can do it on your own I’ll just pretend I’m Peter’s colleague and call it a day. By the way, what plans have you got for us?” Andrew had been listening to her ...
  • A fort and a story “Pretty view”, he remarked. “Yeah, it’s great isn’t it? It stirs all patriotic ravings you could hear about picturesque Romania or the gently flowing Ozana, as clear as crystal.” “The what?” “It’s the river. It’s called Ozana, and what I said was a famous quotation from a classical writer; without it we wouldn’t even know the river’s name. ...
  • A fort and a vantage point They stopped as they suddenly came in view of a tall stone pillar about a hundred yards ahead. It was ten or fifteen feet thick and about sixty feet tall, and on top of it there was a small wooden bridge. The trees still hindered their vision but they could guess it was their destination. ...
  • Places and ages Moldavia seemed, by some miracle, to be swathed in spring. The snowfalls and the nasty frost felt like episodes of a different story, as the whole scenery seemed lit up and surprisingly mild. Small patches of snow spotted the green and brown, up-heaving and down-coming expanses of earth. It wasn’t the first time to see ...

Bite-size pieces:

  • The second fall Yours will be a story of crashing fall. From the man of a lifetime to a whimpering puppy. From a tragic Quixote to a piteous fool. From a Magus of hypnotic powers to a cliché-parroting preacher.   None of the things that made me love you were left standing in your fall. None of the men who have failed, has done ...
  • Graduation   A pair of telling eyes lines of promising lips a smile between you’re lovely and you’re silly and I can get very silly if you let me a voice alluding, gliding, carrying   A flush of tingle A wave of heat Then the scent of a dream – And the cannots.   Further Ebbing and flowing Mounting and crashing Breathe again. Dozing off in the moonlight of the sleepless nights ...
  • There’s a way   There’s a way of living by looking away from life. By shutting life out and pressing your back against the door. There’s a way of claiming back your life after pain by willing weeks and years of it to go away, so wounds may heal. There’s a way of living the truth by plastering it with labels, ...
  • Bird of passage Go sparingly with words. No voice. Just glide. The love – under the wings.   Will let you be, for a while still. Will only try to keep from taxiing toward some new plan and halting still blitzed by the awareness of there being nowhere to taxi to.   But you may linger on.   If out of sight. Under the wings.   Share
  • Love is a rabbit hole Love is a rabbit hole you fall into headlong into a world of its own. Sometimes of your own alone. A world with a sky of its own with physics of its own where things have a sense of their own, which makes perfect sense.   While the loved one may well be above walking on the face of the earth stooping to see what you’re doing ...
  • Creation in three steps     I create people.   First I invent them. For this purpose, I take the shadow that stops by, I detect its black holes and fill them in with the colours in my mind’s eyes. Their words I wrap in the silences of the unspeakable revelation lurking in my nightly dreams.   They bow to tie their shoe strings and I see a temple they are paying ...
  • Past the point of no goodbye   I think I’ll hold on to this: It has been so wonderful.   A gift, indeed now this is coming back to me from the oh-so-distant past of just a couple of weeks ago which nevertheless feels so far back in this story this story that feels as if it has lasted and established itself. I remember telling you, dear Magus, that what we are experiencing is a gift and ...
  • The other Lady Lazarus I know, Sylvia Plath took Lady Lazarus to speak for death. I will take her to speak about resurrection. I’m in a thanking phase. A marvelling phase. The sunlight on a tall poplar tree, its leaves like fish scales, green with a spell of rust, shivering in the mild wind, stark blue sky spreading behind. City streets ...
  • Food for love Most finger their desire as one would finger food, lightly, squeamishly, with the fleshy, thoroughly clean tips of their index and middle fingers, judiciously picking it to avoid unnecessary smear. Squeezing a lemon slice at the end for perfect disinfection. They call that art. The art of the erotic magazines. It’s just the two of us, ...
  • Songs of experience Just too old for experiments. For being “wild”. For ignoring my “who I am”. That’s good. That means I am no longer willing to take whatever comes my way, which would eventually eat at me, at my substance. That means I am no longer willing to reach out for experience at any cost, which again ...

Loops and strings:

  • Once more into the mirror In a corner of the room is the large screen where Ilie Nastase and Stan Smith are playing to win something big. Father is sitting tense, watching close, giving loud bursts with every ball that Nastase loses. She keeps on colouring her book of drawings, startled when father shouts curses at Nastase for being so ...
  • End of the blind alley Often in her reflection moments, she would stop and examine the situation, analysing and assessing it to the best of her ability, trying hard to find a border stone on which to make a decision. Time was pressing her, even though there was no deadline, as she was eager to give an answer and with ...
  • Into a mirror The days recurred: from Monday to Saturday, from Christmas to Easter, from Easter to the summer holiday spent in Sinaia, from the summer holiday to Lou’s birthday and then back to Christmas. She was heading home in no hurry. She was carrying a shopping bag with the bread and the milk bottle for the dinner that ...
  • Between two worlds He used to ask me ‘what are you thinking about?’, or ‘why are you so quiet?’ and I had no idea what to answer, because I couldn’t pick out anything from the flood of thoughts that were rolling across my mind. I couldn’t even say now what I was thinking about back then, but I ...
  • Halt and return On Saturday they went for another walk in the winter-deserted park, as on their first date. She little suspected what he was going to tell her when he spoke: ‘Adriana, I think it would be better for each of us to go their own way.’ They were sitting on two benches placed face to face. The grey ...
  • Sinking They talked on the phone every day, but not for long. Matthew didn’t have a telephone in his flat, he’d just moved in, so he called her from a public phone on the street or in the underground. Besides, they were still just strangers who wanted to get to know each other, they didn’t have ...
  • The party It was her birthday again, but she was hoping that it would be different that year. Maybe also because she was turning eighteen now, and that was an age worth remembering. The past anniversaries, whenever she recalled them, seemed to her long, tiring soul gymnastics. It had been a real problem all those years to ...
  • Before the dawn She had liked watching the star-dotted sky as a child. The different luminosity – from faint greyish white to sparkling bluish light – and the different density – from barely discernible in what looked like a hazy cobweb to the neat shapes translated into wagons, maids, arrows or whatnot. She had also asked all possible questions ...

 Reviews:

Loops and strings


 

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