Irish Coffee by Mircea Cartarescu
Irish Cream by Mircea Cartarescu
Another version of this note and thoughts on other books are available at:
This is a short story by a Romanian writer.
Not just any creator, but one deserving of a Nobel.
At least that is the view of those who promote his name.
Considering the big Prize received by Bob Dylan and the Belarus writer, among others, I’d say that Mircea Cartarescu might be entitled.
I am not such a big fan of his though.
Among the most important, if flimsy reasons are his political convictions, at least those held some years back.
It is not wise to think about the man behind the great author, when reading War and Peace or why We Love Women.
But ever since I have learned about the idiosyncrasies of Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway, Henrik Ibsen, among others, I have a different perspective on their works and tend to avoid or be critical of books that I had liked, or even loved.
Knowing the public positions of Mircea Cartarescu, in favor of a president that I consider a villain and scoundrel, has done nothing to endear him to me.
On the contrary, I have set aside even the narratives that I liked.
I remember liking Irish Coffee, when I first listened to it.
It is not so great on a second reading.
Perhaps it loses, like any other good work, on account of being not so magnificent as to prevent a hedonic adaptation, on a second take.
But more likely it is the association, conscious or subconscious, made between the writer who favors a fool and the account.
But let me be plain…
- This is no Jorge Luis Borges
- And to be frank, the author himself surely played with these subjects, with the intention of creating some entertaining material
For something more “serious” and of a different magnitude and grandeur, one needs to approach Orbitor or Solenoid.
Which I did not.
In Irish Coffee, in a rather artificial and pretentious tone at times, the narrator recounts having been on roads where they drive on the “wrong” side, spending the night with a “sheep” that turns out to be just a heating improvisation covered with the fleece from the animal…perhaps.
There are young men and women who talk with “fuck” which is frequently used- or is it abused? - And they pronounce it
- Fuck like it would be fook, I guess
The eroticism of the story telling does not appeal to me and has the counter effect of rendering me cold rather than excited.
But people acclaim the author and his work…so I am just an amateur who happens to be unable to get it.
I mean, I find the jocular tone entertaining at times, but the specter of the writer and his sympathies haunt me.
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