De Roemeense schrijver, criticus, letterkundige en vertaler Florin Irimia werd geboren in Iași op 26 januari 1976. Hij is assistent-professor aan de faculteit Letteren van de Alexander Jan Cuza-universiteit in Iași. Sinds 2001 heeft hij literatuurbesprekingen bijgedragen aan Observator Cultural, Roemenië Literara, Dilemateca, Timpul en Suplimentul de cultura, waarin hij een wekelijkse column schrijft. In 2009 debuteerde hij als schrijver in Noua Literatura (onder de naam Eduard Tautu) en in 2011 publiceerde hij zijn eerste roman, “Defekt”. Zijn roman “O fereastră întunecată” (“Een donker venster”) verscheen in 2012. Hij heeft “Oryx and Crake” van Margaret Atwood vertaald (2008) en mede-vertaalde, met Nicoleta Irimia, “Alias ​​Grace” van dezelfde auteur (2013). Hij publiceerde kort proza ​​in Familia, Steaua, Timpul, Zona Literara en Ziarul deIași. De roman “Câteva lucruri despre tine” (“Een paar dingen over jou”) verscheen in 2014.

Uit: A Few Things about You (Vertaald door Alistair Ian Blyth)

“I wake up abruptly and it is dark. I am alone and something tells me that I ought not to be and that in a few seconds the fear will grip me once more. Fear and revulsion at something. Something I have done, something that ought not to have happened, but did happen, something horrible, like an incurable disease, like a premature and violent death. Something for which I will have to make a reckoning. My ears are hissing like I had two seashells bunged inside them, and somewhere, in my brain, a malevolent little man is crushing a mound of walnuts with a hammer. There ought to have been someone beside me in bed. Yes, a sleepy, naked woman, my guarantee that I have things under control. A trace of memory, a diffuse feeling, the memory of a reality that perhaps did not take place signals to me the absence. I try to detect a trail of perfume in the air, among the sheets, something to tell me that I am not mistaken, but when I inhale I smell only the ordinary odour of a hotel room. I close my eyes and my limbs begin to tremble, a fine, almost imperceptible tremor, which would be visible only on a sheet of transparent plastic. Then, I think I fall asleep. And I become thirsty. I dream I get out of bed and go to the bathroom to pour myself a large glass of water. The door is closed, but the light is on inside. As if somebody were in there already. As if that somebody were waiting for me. I can hear the tap running, evenly, monotonously, conveying to me some kind of message. I dream that I am afraid. I grip the doorknob and am about to turn it, but in that same instant I wake up. I lie motionless, waiting to ascertain where I am (in a hotel room), whether it is summer or winter outside (it is spring), what day and month of the year it is (3 April). I couldn’t remember any of all that. In the end I looked around for a clock (my wristwatch has vanished or perhaps I never had one) and I found one in the form of a mobile ‘phone, placed neatly on the bedside table. The hour, the day and the month. The year is the current year… As for the hotel, I know only that it is a tall building, because I looked out of the window just now. I couldn’t see much – the window is small and rather narrow – but I saw that it was snowing, I have no idea what town this is, in this country all the towns look the same – but I could see that I was high up. At least literally, if not otherwise. I have always liked to take a hotel room on an upper storey. That I remember. It is as if you are above your destiny, above what others have decided in your stead. Which is an illusion, obviously.”

 
Florin Irimia (Iași, 26 januari 1976)