EUGENE BOGIANU
They are
ed. City, P. 96

The women in the book are at the height of their anger. They are excited by the expectation of violence. At the end of the story, with a final gesture, they sweep away any indulgence that humiliated them. They rush to break the silence of their lives with a piercing, terrible scream. Those who have always been submissive, silent and presentable, find in the last phrases the courage to make a deafening noise. The nurse leaves the night shift, crossing the corridor with the doors closed, behind which lurk implacable calls. Pressing on the gas, he flies through time, breaking his immobility. A student walking down the aggressive hallway of her school feels she is being laughed at by student posters that address her with incomprehensible words. She drinks this ridiculous indiscretion with her coffee. The mother, disgusted by her daughter’s “teenage confidence”, feeds her the remains of the umbilical cord, filling her with maternal anger.

The heroines of Eugenia Boianu are pale, invisible, worn out by boredom. They are creatures of habit and restlessness. Their houses are covered with dew, accumulated by the old-fashioned expectation of something more than nothing. Sleepy silence hung around the corners. They are unaccompanied. All that L. sees in his lover is the “o” on his lips. Slippery pleasure drove her to naught. Single women are accompanied by disturbing emotions, personified in dynastic entities. Huddled in the “bus of obedience”, T. feels that she was seized by the “morning discontent”, sullenly wandering among the passengers. Returning home, a woman with sore knees sits down next to her annoying roommate, a rep spread out on the sofa like a bed of dust, a pale white, albeit dirty, creature she wanted to destroy. Leaning on the bar, D dives into her bottomless glass, swallowing the garrulous self-preservation that insisted on saving her. P. had a friend, slowness, and she “made a decal with a boot in the mud.” Time was in a hurry.

Violence is also rooted in immaturity. A girl dreaming of flowers fills her pockets with stones at the voice of her mother. When the weight bends her, she forgets about the flowering meadows to succumb to the wild stoning. Another girl furiously scratches the wound on her scratched knee and sees how the blood reflects the “inconceivable, ingenious” light. Another painfully scratches herself with thorns, wanting to evoke tears dedicated only to her with her bloodied face.

There is a feminist aura in Boianu’s novels, whose rap sounds like a revolutionary trumpet. Men are referred to by their first names and women by their initials, which forms the stereotypical dichotomy of oppressor and victim. Like the pain that gripped Yu, embodied in a piercing lover. The uprising of offended women is just a figment of their imagination, a bloody illusion. More interesting than the military point of view is the letter. Short phrases line up snapshots of low-key moments that escalate into an explosion. The prescriptive rhythm of the letter is consistent with the dominant state of the heroines, boredom. However, after a certain point, the narrative model becomes tedious and stagnant. Only thanks to the figurative sharpness of the final phrases does Boyan manage to establish the unexpected and irreparable in a time free from monotony.