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The Book Of Books

On August 27, 2020, in Leadership Mindware, by Neculai Fantanaru

I don't need inspiration from other books. I am my total inspiration.

I have a book and a pencil in front of me. They both have each other. But my eyes see rather the hidden meaning of the book than the pencil annotations on the book, largely because my eyes react independently to the ways in which the object and the artistic process are received, based on the relationship between author and work.

What I see is what the book lets me see, and what I grasp with my mind, soul, light and truth, is what the pencil indicates to me as a priority for the perception of an image that is always read differently, at each reading.

Repeated experiences of writing and reading have brought me to the realization that I am traversed by a mysterious fluid, invisible, spiritual, undiluted in time, which is in a movement of flow compared to the horizontal imaginary journey of a world built of words.

I don’t need too many words to describe the book or the pencil. I only need one word: vision. And, yes, I am a visionary because I read in a book what I am now writing with a pencil, without being included as a character in that book.


There is a connection between the brush and the pen that can be found in the way of sending a letter, more a letter in which you find moods, moods and states that go up and down in the vein of thoughts. Their work is always unpredictable, as is the destination, the feelings we rise to by reading or watching do not always have a reason, the story sometimes ends before we end the thread of imagination, but the colors always belong to each other. And, of course, the creator is a magician who often makes a journey between the need for diversity and agitation, between memories and dreams, some stringent, others too clear.

Everything becomes complicated and extremely simple. The imagination is like a telegram sent from the room of the one who combines writing with painting as if he were pressing a button, sometimes he remains frozen in the tension of creation. In the same way, reality is always different, sometimes in blurred planes, sometimes as if it were detached from a window whose glass seems familiar to us, sometimes pink, sometimes blue and often has a color that we do not know how to we read very well.

Yes, that’s how it is. The Creator, in his act, wants to agree with you, even if you are a fleeting presence, even if life is ephemeral. Troubles and struggles, through what they create, for an artist, the pen and the brush are like a cleansing, a release, he puts all things perfect through talent above words, above sunset and sunrise… (Ioana Sarah).


Know how to see, even if you do not believe. Know how to believe, even if you do not see. And distinguish the signs at the same time with the first flashes of intuition. Look closely at the stars, look closely at the leaves, and try to find similarities in one way or another.

The signs are never better shown than on quiet days, when apparently nothing special is happening. Be very careful about everything around you. Pay attention to how the wind blows, pay attention to the flight of birds and pay attention to the shape and light of the moon.

Especially, learn to know what to do with what you know. Don’t forget God when you see or when you don’t see. Evil never changes.


When each individual writes, it is as if they were part of a novel in which the characters are not known, as proof he sees and does not believe, or believes without seeing. Writing is a kind of postman who sometimes reaches the door of the human soul, other times walks in detours, as when it snows heavily and the paths get snowed in. We sometimes slip into writing as if we were running down the stairs, so that we arrive at an otherwise unscheduled and not expected meeting. Yes, writing is like a silence when autumn leaves fall, every moment being watched by God, it is like a mother turning off the light when everyone is home. (Ioana Sarah)


I met someone who ran well. Then I met someone else who ran even better. Then I met someone who was not running at all, was sitting on a bench, quietly, and looking into the distance.

Another day I sat down on a bench. I saw an artist who painted wonderfully. Then I noticed other artists who painted much better than the first. But I’m a runner.

Here is the understanding I give to tonight’s thought. No matter what I emphasize, form and content are not always on the same plane. I will learn to be penetrated by a perfect match between part and whole.


I’m listening to a superb song. I’ve been listening to it since I was little. I will also listen to it in my old age. I will always listen to it, because it reminds me of me, of the past, of the present. And even though I will always listen to it, I will do it differently, just as I am over time. Different.

The song has par excellence the character of a moving whole, vibrant and invigorating, especially if I am the key to a whole universe. And, I know, without this song the universe would have been different, because I am no longer the same.

Only because of this fact I am still looking for myself, hoping to find myself in those musical notes carried by a soul predestined to a special destiny. The way I see the world depends on the kind of content that makes me feel myself, the one I currently am.

The song still mesmerizes me… and the universe still encourages me to get carried away.


I’m watching the night. I’m in the dark. The moon is something small and bright that wants to receive me in its world, but it also leaves me at the sign of the first cloud, giving me the blessing of a hope in the rebirth of a high consciousness. But the autumn night does not care about the light, rather it prefers that state of numbness of the senses, of the spirit, of the sensitivity, to ensure a forgetfulness of oneself and others.

The light of the moon becomes an alliance against darkness and loneliness, a kind of square parenthesis placed next to two vertical points: the bending of the senses and the disturbance of sensitivity due to the illusion of being separated from the whole, separated from the rest of the world, but close to the sacred. It would be said that my breath in the darkness of the night is the rebirth of a feeling called nostalgia, the integral, uncensored version of a thought from another border, from another experience specific to my youth. Of course, that’s another story.

So, I am in the middle, between the dense darkness and a part of the story of a light that makes me believe that anything is possible. It is not about the courage to shine in the dark, but about the fact that my spirit is drawn to the denial of an origin that should be discovered. A complicated thing whose meanings I still strive to understand.

The moon still hides in the night when a being seems to seek its own foundations in an enlightenment of the soul. I am no longer myself; I am the one who finds myself outside of everyone.


I read at least one hour every morning. I read non-stop. I warm my mind, or perhaps my mind demands that I be the proof of human endeavor to know the Great All of the world in terms of duality: between content and form, between hidden dream and concrete reality.

And if I read, and read daily, well, this is obvious in the field of art, where every page becomes more than a page, it becomes a stage preceding alchemy, mastering the language written in fiery letters in the vocabulary of a universal language, recording in writing of an observation concerning a certain universal grammar which could constitute a kind of common ground of all languages.

I decided to see and constantly render a well-organized whole, with a pulsation of life story, between truth and challenge. So, here’s how I get to the same result: I repeat a certain operation on several lines of code spread in the world of words, and I realize that the only code that matters is, par excellence, the mirage of a possible horizon, but perceived only by the heart.

The artist’s eye is the heart of a place full of mysteries, and the artist is a man who deciphers mysteries in steps of words.


I ran about 8 km at the stadium tonight, I especially kept my vitality. In the end I took some pictures with my running friends. Somehow, I felt trapped between two worlds, between no and yes. At first, I was myself, locked in my world, then they were themselves, locked in their world.

I could not help noticing the difference between us, although the difference was a small progress in terms of the accuracy of the actions initiated, the training a little different, but just as intense.

In my world there was the obligatory condition of a spirit enlightened by the ideals of art, which seemed to have programmed a mission to be fulfilled, in search of a perspective of creation or innovation. Or in the world of others, it seemed to be done only to evaluate athletic performance in a context of knowledge sharing and provide practical and relevant examples.

Here’s what I understood tonight. An artist always thinks like an artist even when he practices sports, at the same time with the act of having an attitude of loyalty and performance. So, even when you’re running, don’t forget that you’re an artist whose practice ranges from philosophy to leadership roles.


I was in the botanical garden a little earlier. The sun casted a pleasant glow over everything, almost as pleasant as summer. I took about 3 pictures, after which my phone's battery ran out. Overall, it was a meeting with myself, with the sun, with nature, everywhere a slight autumn yellowing.

And I walked, I admired, and I breathed fresh air. Many people. But a strange silence spread all around, as a constraint and a limitation, as if no one was allowed to converse. Just looking was mandatory. The rays of the sun passed through every thought, through every look, through every heart eager to receive energy.

If everywhere the feeling of spiritual satisfaction predominated, a reconciliation with the self, this was due to the artistic intellect and the taste for beauty that sent their sensitive threads to the specific constitution of each thing or each being.

Sometimes the art of being a nice person occurs as a connection between what you feel when you don't run to get attention and what you think about yourself when it becomes possible to be lonely in the crowd.


In the short time left until the end of the year, so much will change in science. You just have to know what to change.

In the short time left, no one knows what will change, humanity is still stuttering, what to change becomes difficult if everything was blown up. There was a good saying; a smart man throws a stone into the water and ten fools can’t get it out. Everyone can believe anything and dream away, the statements are in words, and to change reality you need facts, especially since the good deeds are undertaken by the strong, the others are just like when you go to the park and out of immense love you feed the doves….


Every day, regardless of the moment, humanity reads and assimilates new information, otherwise books would no longer be sold and if they were not sold, everyone would write for the relatives who would read. Which would be a kind of “alms” to which you call relatives and acquaintances. In the field of art there are still literary works, writings that enjoy many appreciations, awards and so on… I’m not talking about paintings, but they are also valuable in terms of those who buy them, otherwise a person can die peacefully with many unappreciated works…

What everyone does personally and in the quiet of their home has something to do with art. Art is also when you wash the dishes, knowing that within this activity certain guiding motives dominate, corresponding to the different values of efficiency. Maybe art is when you exhibit or sell works and people step on their feet to buy or see them, it’s like when you print books and they sell, people are still looking for them… But at the same time, art depends on the number of people who remember you even after you died: Eminescu, Brâncuşi, Nichita, Labiş, Enescu, Grigorescu, Sadoveanu… it would take me until dawn to enumerate all of them… what we simple people do is feed the soul, no matter how much we would struggle ! (Ioana Sarah)


There are two kinds of people:

Those who live only to live, and those who live for the intensity of living transposed into the reality of a fabulous universe.

Some bring change into the world, others never find meaning in the world. Some honor their claim to scientific status too little, others perfect the vision of the universe.

And every time you think you’ve fooled a world, remember that you didn’t know the mystery of the mysteries of the universe.

And every time someone else does the work for you, know that he has a huge gain in understanding the universe.

There are key people who draw the lines of change, and there are people without any God who do not even know how to face their own ignorance.

There are people who live only for luxury, wealth and stability, but they cannot comprehend the vastness of the sky. Only angels have cheap wings, but their wings are always stretched out to the kingdom of heaven


I ran this morning, from 9 o’clock. Through the forest, on the hills. It was a wonderful route, about 12 km. I ran next to other runners, most of us knowing each other very well, especially after so many workouts together. Also, many runners were missing from our group.

It was a normal day for running, the mud seemed very slippery in places, the frost was also prevalent, everything was wet. But the sun winked at us at every step. From 2 degrees the temperature rose to 7 degrees in just an hour and a half. We all felt great, just like when we climbed the mountain in compact groups in the summer.

And here’s what I learned this time. Everything comes naturally. Physical strength, endurance, being able to run many kilometers upstream, the will not to give up, these are just a necessary minimum that preserves the opportunity to be part of an unforgettable atmosphere.

Sometimes you lose yourself in your effort to be yourself, absorbing in the direction of your own system of values ​​a deep experience, which originally involves that feeling of the heart to recognize another, distinct, in each of the others. What stands out here is the capacity of consciousness to be sovereign to a collective, living Memory, meant to carry forward a sense of continuity, of the endless beginning.


The message and the image say it all, the only thing remaining is for each one to pass the written thought through the prism of his own understanding.

I walked through the park; I always do that. It was not only peaceful tonight, there was also a kind of peace of mind whose existence I had never known before, suggesting a certain way of my consciousness to open itself to a more restrained world, more withdrawn from the vibration generated by the hustle and bustle of the city. And I continued to walk, slowly, dreamily, thoughtfully, doing everything from an assumption of the condition of the one who dedicated his existence to the universe called “Myself”.

I thought of nothing but the silence so eloquent, so solitary, so penetrating, that at one point I thought I was part of a certain section of the “Moonlight Sonata”, a strange parallel world, resembling a hypnotic trance. It seemed to me that I was hearing a slow, faint song, with some comforting lyrics, yet so foreign to my personality.

Late autumn spoke to me through the way I looked around: breaking a little from my understanding, because I tried to perceive an emotion that would transpose me to another world, without feeling the emotion of a special moment. The moment to live fully here and now.

I did understand one thing, though. The possibility of immersing myself in the emotion of an experience of silence, in a quiet park, lets the objectivity of a clear and honest vision of human nature dominate. A man cannot know himself better until he meets his natural complement in a form of communication with himself.

Silence is the only intonation expression of the self.


I prefer to be myself, especially when I run, knowing that what makes me a better athlete is the insistence not to present myself in the false position of a person without a strong character. And so, I have long given up certain guiding motives, corresponding to the values ​​of great attraction, with claims of exclusivity, which could highlight too much my sporting qualities.

I’m not a speedster, nor a symbol of endurance in marathon running. The moments in which they appear quite transparent, free to feel at ease, in the bosom of which ordinary life catches the eye only in the pattern of a form of self-expression experienced with the power of artistic sight, are unique through my spiritual faculty of writing, of finding myself in a single story. My story.

Or the pattern of a soul projection that becomes the image of a defining dimension of my personality, is repeated when I run. Only when I remember myself, the one who can restrain one’s self, the one who rests mentally by accepting the status of a model of humble thinking.

One error, however, lurks at every step, an unfounded creation, a naturalness devoid of any suggestive force, to any act of self-evolution: that I will never be able to choose for myself the moment when I will become someone else.

Perfection is the value of man who suppresses his tendencies to differentiate.


I try to forget what I don’t have to remember. Memories themselves are sometimes a burden, much harder to bear than the possibility of no longer being unique. For it all comes down to the need to forget that I have not always been who I am now, worrying about the importance given to a search for what I have always wanted to become.

An isolated soul faculty, because I have assumed many failures, chimeras, distrust, unclear self-image, unrealistic attitude. Even now my soul makes the agreement between then and now that distinguishes the deep intuition of a cause of emancipation, affirmation, superior patience. No wonder so many times I have made too few appreciative judgments about what is beautiful about me, the world, the universe.

The deep struggle with myself was the pride of controlling my destiny when my soul was ignited by the desire to see that “more special” something in people other than myself.

Probably the ways of seeing that something we look at daily are offered to us by the choice of a version of a self-observation in which the soul is not well enough baked to emerge from the thick fog of confusion… in the light of a never-ending age.


And if you told man to change, he still wouldn’t change, ever. Not even change changes man, but rather puts him in another world, in a nebula that has nothing to do with reality.

Such is the man who has no God, he is unchanged, unchanging, and, of course, considerably devoid of character. In this case, it may be nicer to listen to the advice of Marcus Aurelius:

“Nothing is more shameful than the friendship of the wolf: above all else, beware of it.”


I always look ahead, but sometimes I forget to look closely, considering that everything that distance has to say is more useful than what proximity has to say. In the case of the original Ego, the situation is completely different. I am perfectly right to analyze myself from a neutral point of view, that is, without the influence of any stabilized view around me, because I do not put pressure on the feeling of belonging to someone.

This thinking is very justified, even emancipated from the rule of the vital sphere of the idea of ​​authentic contact with myself. The self cannot predominantly reach all corners of the world, towards the views of an external authority, in a vast production of perspectives, but it is always recognized close to the depth of a moment experienced through the innocence of unitary orientation.

The self has the quality of being alone. I have to support my state of definition of the experience whose intensity gives value to existence, summarizing my being to its original depth.


I drink hot mint tea at the first infusion. Not only do I drink it, I enjoy it with all my being, as if I were introducing into the body a mysterious cure that promises eternal life. This whole process can designate a certain overlap between the miracle of youth and the devitalization of the end, a chain of simple thoughts between the superior force of the enduring and a momentary reaction against the ephemeral.

Somehow, here and now, I feel immortal. Only tea is to blame, because it shows me that it still retains a character of permanence, an orientation in the sense of sustainability and timelessness, better expressed by an excellent mood, an increased level of energy and a more restful sleep.

Yes, from time to time, even the immortals rest the fatigue of living longer and longer in the present.

But in connection with this I must emphasize something special: the power of tea has no unitary connection with everlasting youth, but relates to an existence that is still rehabilitated by sipping a conversation with myself.

Therefore, tea acquaints me with a profound aspect of the world in which I revolve: everything that manifests itself in agreement with myself must necessarily be immersed in the absorption of an experience that is not similar to another.

Tea makes me feel the experience of a reality that transcends what is transient and that moves only what is not seen.


I was coming back from a run. Many leaves had fallen on the boulevard, many of them torn by the footsteps of passers-by. I picked up a new leaf, looked at it intently, but not through the eyes of an artist, but rather through the eyes of an ordinary man who does not try to discover a hidden meaning in anything around him.

And I looked at the leaf as I walked, quietly, with endless pity, without communicating in any way, without knowing the reasons for the gentleness in our eyes. Somehow, I felt like I was entering the underground of a slowly but inevitably decaying world. And the leaf, as good as it was to people, looked at me with naked eyes, as if it saw in me its own emptiness, disintegration.

And then I understood the message of nature. In everything that deepens my thoughts lies an appearance, something that is different from what it seems at first sight, an appearance that tells me “come on, open up to me, feel my presence in nothingness”.

For a moment I interrupted the circuit of my soul in the universe and floated in a gross ignorance of reality, in a soft and lazy entanglement of senses and reason.

Yes, I too am an appearance of the leaves possible to be perceived only through a look of nature thrown on the limits of what is human, on the existential drifts of what is human.


The leaves fall in autumn and are always just as beautiful, reality has subtitles and always fulfills something in our lives, the leaves fall as if in a pleasant silence all the time, some rise when they are trampled as if they were abysses. They look like each other just like dewdrops, you don’t have to be an artist to look, the artist lives forever and is unmatched, the rest of us are passing through life. (Ioana Sarah)


I ran about 10 km tonight. But I ran as if I had not run, proving that I am a bridge over the time of an interview given to my soul to be always the same, steadfast in its spiritual communion with God. And this is because in the depths of my nature, of my thoughts, of my feelings, there is that understanding of the writer with the reader.

For all that you have done for me, you, wonderful soul in the most secret caress of a memorable time, I owe you a thousand unimaginable words, but at the same time I owe you an explanation: I want to strengthen my sense of belonging to something greater than myself.

In the world of soul essences, the miracle of making meaning and being coincide, the agreement between form and content, the taste for the independence of a free life, dominate.

This is where understanding lies. No matter how much I tried to run, as well as possible and over long distances, as in any case, whatever form I would give to situations of maximum concentration, the beauty that unties my words still follows my steps towards an unknown target. I am a runner who chooses his words well before impelling his Ego to believe in the impossible.

And the logic of the runner is nothing but the faithful expression of the principle of identity, that is, of agreement with oneself in an open, unhidden way, in an infinity without which life would make no sense. I will always run so that I never leave. To never look. To never be indebted to the rarity of finding the right path to enlightenment.

I will never be discouraged on the road to absolute perfection as a man and as a spirit. I will always run alongside my spirit.


I listen to ENIGMA, because in the middle is something that has always surprised me, inspired me, offered me that something I have always been looking for: a meaning where meaning has suddenly become absent.

More than anything, and always, I resonated with this spiritual project. Another Romanian was the initiator of the Enigma project, another creator, another unsurpassed talent…


I sit in a chair, looking around at everything in my room, including those that cannot be seen with the naked eye, my gaze not being altered by the superficiality of an image-governed world. This is also a kind of comfort, because I can adjust the real and transparent mixture between banality and nobility - in my compensatory dialogue with the inspiration of great poetic and artistic character.

Somehow, I want to feel that I am rising to nobility, not descending to banality. But the chair holds me in one place, like a prisoner of the absurd or of my own devastating anxieties, without being able to advance with my gaze and thought except to the imperishable, which are not seen. And yet, the shape of things rendered through the colors and meanings they have, by combining patterns and sizes, convey a message from ancient times: everything can be arranged and rearranged, in one way or another.

With the obvious predominance of the individualized aspect by the practical sense of a designer, to acquire a new thing means to get rid of another. Should I give up my chair or everything else around me to rethink the way I live, especially the way I perceive the artistic phenomenon?

Clearly. I have to admit my subjectivity. Although everything is aging, dusting and falling apart, I carry in my mind, until exhaustion, the same image of the narrator who, constantly in search of the absolute, exaggerates with too much text the relative and the particular, the apparent and the conjunctural.

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