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Doina Ruști

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Doina Ruști in 2019

Doina Ruști (born February 15, 1957) is a Romanian novelist.

Quotes

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  • The agarwood gave off its perfume, and the vine oil clouded over, invaded by the ghosts of other lives, from the time when it was just a dry seed under heaps of limestone. The knife, the same knife that I had gripped in my hands without feeling its hidden power, that had sent Dubois to Marseille, sparked by the unseen veins that still bound it to Chelyabinsk, had begun to do its work.
  • The Book of Perilous Dishes
  • [1]
  • And I understood that not only was I fated to see them again, searching for each other with the same looks which clearly showed that love’s fiery sphere had started to grow between them, but there was also something else, meant only for me.  Without wanting to, I had entered the realm of shadows, where you cannot be seen.  They were the only ones that could be seen, while I, until then at the centre of the story, was now drifting through the treacherous fog of strange desires, like a poor fly blown about in the wind.
  • Homeric
  • Generous people are praised in books, but in everyday life they have nothing to show for it. The more grasping a person is, the wider doors open for them. No one loves the generous! They are admired for their praiseworthy deeds, and if they give you something, you accept it gratefully. But that’s as far as it goes. You don’t waste your time with a giver. You don’t go for a drink with them. You don’t make a philosophy of their gesture. And you don’t include them in your list of friends. Such a person is only good as a guarantor—the one who’s ready to stump up.
  • For in any person there is a ball of bitterness and desire, sometimes just lightly tickling like a butterfly, but in many other cases utterly unbearable, like hot coals that scorch everything around them.
  • Once he had turned the steak onto the other side, the madness began, as in a soul in love. Everything that followed after that, the salads, garnishes, and other accompaniments to the steak, was turned into the love letters, bouquets of flowers, and serenades by which men signal their desires and transmit news about the flow of their blood.
  • Last year, sometime in November, I noticed a book in the window of the Sadoveanu

bookstore. It stood out because of the big Arial-font letters of its title: The Secret „Life of Adela Nicolescu as Told by Florian Pavel". For a moment, my brain turned a somersault in my head and I froze with my eyes glued to the window. There on the navy- blue cover was my name—something I had never seen before. It could be a coincidence. I read the title again and went into the bookstore. The counter was filled with other books, but all I could see was my own name. As I opened the book in question, I had the distinct sensation that everyone was watching me. I felt as if the door of a hot oven had opened inside my skull. That book was about me. I thought as much after the first page, and now, having read the entire novel, I am positive. On that stifling November day, I bought the book, went home, turned on the air conditioning, snuggled up in an armchair, and started to read.

    • The Ghost în the Mill
  • At last, she can sit down with the same emotion and anticipation felt before each meeting. The bed squeaks, recognizes her, and is happy to touch her. It is the only one that truly knows her, that deciphers the volutes of her brain and understands the delicate movements of the tiny creatures hidden in her capillaries. It took her 62 days to get here, to slide her fingers along its wooden surface, 62 suffocating days, the memories of which, although will fade, will leave toxins behind.

The headboard quivers as if in greeting. It is not too tall, barely reaching her shoulder blade. Although she dislikes short headboards, this one has its merits, such as its suppleness and the way it seems to shape against her back. It is just wood, smooth and perhaps not even real–there are so many counterfeits nowadays that it could be synthetic wood, enhanced with immortal plastic, with polymer molecules. It could be, but it is not. She can feel it, even hear it, and if she turns her head, she can see its wet sand texture. In the centre of the headboard, an almost molten sphere vanishes into the wood. She touches it and runs her finger along its unreal smoothness, all the way to the end, into the snake's eye, where her finger fits perfectly, plunging into it like into a clot. She flinches, even though there is no reason to. It is only wood, carved by a hand long since turned to dust. A word slumbers inside this eye, although she cannot see or feel anything with her finger. The headboard curves off into a soft arch, where two satraps rest. They could be lions, though their ears are rather pointy, and judging by their haughtily pursed lips, they look like bodyguards hired by the snake—spirits of the bed, demons, and enigmatic creatures. She struggles to find the outlet behind the nightstand and plugs in the charger. The fiery halo of her Samsung sparks, signalling it is terribly exhausted. She crawls under the blanked, fully dressed and with her boots on. The bright signs in Unirea beam through the window, and the Dâmbovița runs nearby. Even if she cannot hear it, she feels its flow, its subtle movements, the same as those in her bloodstream. Tables, shelves, and stools, plus the black hole leading into the hallway. As usual, she hears the branches, and sees the grove. The shadows of the leaves bring her comfort. Soon, she will fall asleep, no question about it. Fingers move beneath the foliage, inconceivably long and skilled at rummaging through the young shoots. With these time-worn images in mind, she begins to drift. The clock in her brain is now worthless; it is calm dust. Its already vague movements stop, melting away under the arches of her skull. She drifts among the white shadows under the trees. She is free, a paper napkin moistened by a lung’s fervor. But a nail punctures her forehead, and an enormous pair of forceps pulls her out of her sleep. The branches move aside. It is painful, the cry of a person in despair. She needs time to pick up her life from where she had left it: the room, the signs in Unirea, the Dâmbovița’s whispers, and the bed of demons. Terror spreads around her like ashes scattered by the wind, tainting the sheets. Slowly, she realizes it is the doorbell–a prolonged sound, probably one of many. For a few moments, she stares at the door, unmoving and hesitant. The tips of her boots poke out from under the blanket. The room is shrouded in mist, and the sky trembles beyond the windows. Dawn is yet to come. The doorbell pierces her mind once more. A pounding on the door informs her that the caller has no intention of leaving anytime soon; they will knock frantically, awakening the neighbors, the entire floor, the entire building. A surly man is standing by the door, unwavering. At last, she grasps the situation and jumps out of bed, her first thought being to check herself in the mirror. It is madness, yet, at the same time, it is a reflex, crucial and mandatory. The hallway is aglow with light from the kitchen. She treads carefully, and the doorbell stops her in place. The entrance door is a mere two meters away. She can hear voices. Someone shouts, “Ambulance! Can you hear us?” A few thousand bugs break free from her skin, scurrying away. Who had called the ambulance? Instinctively, she rushes toward the peephole, but her eyes dart to the right. In the kitchen doorway, on the clear tiles, someone is lying in a pool of blood.

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