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We fully reproduce Mircea Dinescu’s Facebook post:
“How I decided to open a hairdresser
Only the devil would have imagined it in the 90s, when in Greater Romania they accused me that together with Andrei Pleşu I cut the shaving tools and gold plugs from the Nea Nicu baths in Primaverii during the revolution, that Gabriel Liiceanu was secretly feeding from Vadim’s thief, he will regurgitate in his old age the smelly pearls that the Peremista skunk cultivated in the shell colony in the festival pit. It is true that Mr. Liiceanu does not have the Grobian talent of the Tribune, being rather a conspirator of abjection, a philosopher in accountant’s sleeves who takes the pencil out of his ear to meticulously make an inventory of cycling habits and vanities. what God punished me with.
Once in my life I made Gabriel Liiceanu cry and I see that he has not forgiven me to this day for that insult.
On March 18, 1989, the day after my Libération in Free Europe interview was read, in the dark hall of the House of Writers, I came face to face with the shadow of the philosopher who, puffed up and slightly altered, he whispered in my ear. “Dear, last night I heard your shocking words and I cried with laughter. We are cowards, we are cowards …”, after which, the suffering ghost melted like smoke, so that I could meet her again after a year , carrying with ease the Editorial Partido Comunista.
In the White Paper on Safety, there is a record of a ladybug planted in my in-laws’ house, which describes the scene in which the undersigned attempted to gather under a vitriol text the signatures of several notable writers. There he was talking about the dictatorship of the presidential couple, the demolition of towns, censorship, hunger and cold in Romania. Together with Andrei Pleşu, we were ready to plant the bomb at the Dutch Embassy, where our friend Coen Stork waited to detonate it around the world. I didn’t even finish my recital well, that Octavian Paler jumped up and down saying he knew Ceausescu well and my pamphlet style would drive him crazy. “You think you have kids at school!” exclaimed Paler. “That is why we must remove the shame of being quiet like cowards!” Alexandru Paleologu replied. The most terrified of all turned out to be Gabriel Liiceanu, who claimed that he did not sign, so that the security guards would not kill his son, leaving only my children in their clutches. Finally, due to bad weather, the revolution was postponed for another time. This is how Gabriel Liiceanu ate the pretzel of the dissident aura, which, dry and withered, he tried to pull from his head after the fall of communism.
Much later, Andrei Pleşu confessed to me that in the early summer of 1989, a day before going into exile in Tescani, he was visited at home by Gabriel Liiceanu, who, quite scared, reproached him for his blunder. took pity on me: “Andrei, imagine that you and I were sitting quietly in your yard and talking about the work itself, and you get up, leave me and run after the scoundrel Dinescu who screams like a gypsy in front of the house such teasing! “
Years passed and the golan of that time transformed into a kind of Rasputin grafted onto Mărgelatu, a monster of the consumer society, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the bottle of brandy, spitting the shells of agricultural candies at the eyes of passersby on Calea Victoriei.
Making a comparison between the two of us, of course, while the undersigned clung to the wooden tongue of Ştefan Gheorghiu’s Faculty of Journalism, Liiceanu tirelessly pulled the grass of idealism. That not everyone could afford, in the time of Pericles, as Mr. Liiceanu’s aunt, Zoe Dumitrescu Buşulenga, beautifully called her, to walk the camel of being with such sincerity through the oasis of freedom of the Faculty of Philosophy, where she was born Karl Marx. to the chains in the courses. And while Constantin Noica immobilized the bearded man, so that the young Liiceanu struck him with the stick on the fingers with which he had written the Manifesto of the Communist Party, Mr. Hegel, with his feet on the chair, spoke to the students of the butter of civilization that so marked the owner of Editorial Humanitas, who left deep streaks of ointment on the body of his ephebus.
I sit down and wonder what donkey’s hoof hit Gabriel Liiceanu on the jaw, for spilling so much nonsense on the poet? Maybe my hoof a year ago, when I discovered that behind the greasy creams hides a serial killer that was revealed before opening a hairdresser on Facebook, where I took out CTP’s scalp, shaved Stelica and put her hair to Ana Blandiana’s midwives, that is, the mustaches that suddenly camped over me.
, ̂
After a regrettable career as a serial murderer, Gabriel Liiceanu breaks up with the members of the Social Dialogue Group with an air of an indignant priest that the sinners whom he served the last communion feel better and better in the hospital with lepers.
In the brilliant series of post-Goetheian separations, the maroon vinic Liiceanu wears as a grandmother’s hen in her beak is overshadowed by the complex of the murderer’s failed act that he can no longer bear to see his surviving victims.
Like a Fidel Castro with the ideology upside down, the anti-Marxist operetta dreams of being the target of endless attacks by Ion Iliescu’s Praetorian Guard, which he reveals in a terrible confession of martyrdom of communism that he jumped on the bandwagon of capitalism with the skin of a rabbit has not yet dislodged from its back.
Dragged by Andrei Pleşu to Virgil Măgureanu’s lair immediately after the mining of the 90s, Gabriel Liiceanu relives in front of a glass of Coca-Cola the anguish of the bishops forced to kiss the poisonous ring of Pope Borgia. Like a Russian roulette player, he has the ability to deftly turn glasses and drink the one in front of Măgureanu, thus thwarting the evil intent of the SRI director.
A few days after the failed attack, he wakes up at the door with the devil’s messenger, who puts in his arms as a plocón a box with six bottles of old tar in the basements of the institution.
As Miţa Baston’s vitriol finally turns into violet ink, the liquor received as a gift from the slippery generalism, which she did not dare to drink, reaches the table of the Group for Social Dialogue, where Gabriel Liiceanu, as a scientist playing with people. lives for the sake of a scientific experiment, hopes to see the devastating effect of Sarica Niculiţel on white mice in the civil society laboratory.
However, instead of shouting “Evrica!”, The philosopher has to exclaim “Bad luck!”. Because, filled with gratitude, the squeamish guinea pigs seemed to be asking for another bottle.
If the members of the Group had fallen that day, Romania would have increased its endowment of heroes of the nation, who would not have managed to fracture its conscience on the occasion of the adjudication of an abject prosecutor whom Mr. Liiceanu himself kissed where – the base most smooth without fear of collecting a staph.
Instead of the potato pierced by a thorn, today we would have had a statuary group in the Plaza de la Revolución in which Gabriel Liiceanu, disfigured by pain like Tsar Ivan the Terrible in Ilia Repin’s painting, hugs the kittens that he killed himself.
If it seems incredible, here is the original testimony of Gabriel Liiceanu:
“And yet the state of alert regarding the newly established director of the SRI did not disappear from me. A few days after my visit, a guy rang the doorbell of my apartment at the Lucaci Entrance and left me,” from Mr. Director “, a box of six bottles of white wine. I was walking around the box for a few days and ended up concluding that it would have been no problem to insert something through the stopper of the bottle with a syringe, for example. It was more prudent not open them. But what to do with them? If they had nothing, it would be a shame to throw them away. Then the saving idea occurred to me: at the first meeting of the Group, I took them to the GDS headquarters in Calea Victoriei. Of course not I revealed the provenance.
They were received, and drunk on the spot, with great joy. As for me, I had learned something from visiting Mr. Magureanu: the glass in front of me remained intact all night. Then the days passed and I discovered that they were all fine: the number of members of the Group had not decreased by one. I sighed in relief. Pleşu was right: he was paranoid. “
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