Ion Minulescu - Works

Works

  • Romanţe pentru mai târziu ("Songs for Later On", poems, 1909)
  • Casa cu geamuri portocalii ("The House with Orange Windows", prose, 1908)
  • De vorbă cu mine însumi ("Conversing with Myself", poems, 1913)
  • Măşti de bronz şi lampioane de porţelan ("Bronze Masks and Porcelain Fairy Lights", prose, 1920)
  • Pleacă berzele ("The Storks Are Leaving") and Lulu Popescu - plays, 1921
  • Roşu, galben şi albastru ("Red, Yellow and Blue", novel, 1924)
  • Omul care trebuia să moară sau Ciracul lui Hegesias ("The Man Who Was Supposed to Die or Hesias' Hanger-on", play, 1924)
  • Manechinul sentimental ("The Sentimental Mannequin", play, 1926)
  • Spovedanii ("Confessions", poems, 1927)
  • Allegro ma non troppo (play, 1927)
  • Corigent la limba română ("Flunking in Romanian Language", novel, 1928)
  • Amantul anonim ("The Anonymous Lover", play, 1928)
  • Strofe pentru toată lumea ("Verses for Everyone", poems, 1930)
  • Cetiţi-le noaptea ("Read Them at Nighttime", prose, 1930)
  • Bărbierul regelui Midas sau Voluptatea adevărului ("King Midas's Barber or The Voluptuousness of Truth", novel, 1931)
  • Porumbiţa fără aripi ("The Wingless Dove", play, 1931)
  • 3 şi cu Rezeda 4 ("3, and with Rezeda 4", novel, 1933)
  • Nevasta lui Moş Zaharia ("Uncle Zaharia's Wife", play, 1937)

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Famous quotes containing the word works:

    “I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?”
    —James Thomson (1700–1748)

    “I shall not bring an automobile with me. These inventions infest France almost as much as Bloomer cycling costumes, but they make a horrid racket, and are particularly objectionable. So are the Bloomers. Nothing more abominable has ever been invented. Perhaps the automobile tricycles may succeed better, but I abjure all these works of the devil.”
    —Henry Brooks Adams (1838–1918)

    “We all agree now—by “we” I mean intelligent people under sixty—that a work of art is like a rose. A rose is not beautiful because it is like something else. Neither is a work of art. Roses and works of art are beautiful in themselves. Unluckily, the matter does not end there: a rose is the visible result of an infinitude of complicated goings on in the bosom of the earth and in the air above, and similarly a work of art is the product of strange activities in the human mind.”
    —Clive Bell (1881–1962)