Pestilence and war ravages Europa anew. While painful to behold, it will perhaps offer some succor to remind ourselves of Historie: Europa is a cursed continent, and sees seldom peace. Like her eponym, the Princess Europa, stolen away by the Bull of Heaven, or her namesake – celestial Sister, soaring lonesome in that vast darkness of this Sistem Solare – hers is a tale of sorrow.
So, too, the story of our Society. In the shifting sands of policy and economies, the Targu Mures Historical Society finds itself without official support. Indeed, the offices in the once-proud Palace of Culture (what parody, now!) are abandoned by men of letters. Call upon them (as I have, repeatedly), and be greeted by some entrepreneur, musician, addict, river-child, etc. In short, there is (to my knowledge) no Society per se, only I. Tell me otherwise, and I would be very glad.
I can not, and will not, unravel here some grand conspiracy of Nerichian intrusion into every orifice of high court and Royal lineages. Nor can, or will, I deny it. These matters I leave for the young: for those not yet born, those who have not yet come to be.
Ian Whitehouse, Pennsylvania, July 2022