Author: Mihai Visinescu
Nichita Hristea Stanescu – Autobiographical note
Nichita Hristea Stanescu was born in Ploiesti, March 31, 1933, his father was a Romanian farmer who came and established to town. His mother, a Russian woman, established in Ploiesti during the moving of the headquarters of oil refinery from Constanta.
He was a contradictory and paradoxical temperament, as his friends noted; he was deeply influenced in conventional and external areas, as any civilized person. But deeply inside he was stubborn for everything he experienced alone and original as a barbarian.
He was amazed by the vision of Bacovia’s poetry; he discovered Topîrceanu’ parodies from whom he learned different prosodic bitter shapes covered of the chocolate of humor. He learned the lesson so well, that he succeeded to forget it. Therefor as a mature person he is still unconvinced that speech can be written; he remained again repeater in front of words through the leitmotif practice visions, especially during the composition of a more special book, called the Non-words.
He thinks obsessively, days and nights, in a single vision and when he writes or better, when he dictates it, he looks like is an improvisation. Amazed and astonished by the idea that time exists, he sees any any clock, any hourglass the shape of a coffin.
One hour in a year he is extremely satisfied with his own work. Also one hour in a year he is unhappy with his own work, and the rest he just works.
Now, in this moment, he stands and looks an old drachma of Histria, thinking that it’s not too much to say about himself; he’s thinking that himself and the human species generally is more apt for contemplation, although the contemplation itself, and it has the nature of a mysterious mirror.
Nichita and the tuci circle
Nikita was an Achilles with the heel in his heart. Why I would have whispered that night, holding me in his arms: “I am your mother”? I can imagine Cioran in a fictional portrait, the person who could not love unconditionally; the inability to accept himself as the image and likeness with Him: “stranger to himself, a stranger to God.” Lacking an approximate certainty, I still think that the end of his earthly life put him in front of the reconciliation mirror that he craved all the time, a hunch never accepted.
I have assumed to risk an abrupt connection Nichita-Cioran, a symmetrical but contradictory pair, as antimatter, being animated by the obsessive idea as one man on earth can not mean anything unless there is a “second” (of course, not in the logic of “genesis” or the reminiscent of Cain and Abel); Emil could “kill” Nikita? So that, when I think of Nikita, I call somewhere inside the question, “but Cioran?”
For our days society, the fullness of the childhood, sincerity, friendship, love, word, faith, remained only meager ingredients of the taste in a senseless mess ferments. However, this evocation is a testimony of loyal friends who survived these giddy times.
Nikita was six years old and myself four years old, both good enough to play. One sordid summer day, at noon, Nichi (as I called him that time) was in front of my gate …
I added this story hopping that it could be a possible motivation in the memory of two friends, as a girl diary. Nikita’s presence in this album, does not intend to appoint great personalities through juxtaposition; it is just a human great reference that I built my universe on; otherwise it could be an unpardonable idolatry which doesn’t belong to my anyway.
Vladimir Mihai Zamfirescu
” Nikita was six years old and myself four years old, both good enough to play. One sordid summer day, at noon, Nichi was in front of my gate…with curly golden hair, big blue eyes as the sky of Monet’ paintings…” Vladimir Mihai Zamfirescu