Breathing. Starring into the void. Looking right at me– through me. Perhaps you really don’t see me. Screaming. Crying. Trying to make you see me. But you don’t. Everything on your face is just blank. Your eyes only move to blink. Your lips will keep caged in all the words your mind would want to let out. Your smile, that wide, sincere smile you had mere moments before, had vanished completely and without leaving a trace. Your cheeks have been drained of all their color. What is on your mind? What do you want to say, but are afraid to? Did I scare you? Do my feelings scare you?
Go on already! Scream at me! Shout! Yell! Tell me to go to Hell! And I will. Tell me to get the fuck out of your life! And I will. Tell me to disappear! And I will. But please, for the love of God, don’t pretend I already did disappear! Because I’m still here, whether or not you want to notice me. I’m still screaming. I’m still crying. I’m still trying to make you see me.
The silence is torturing. I can hear the sound of our breaths, of our heartbeats. And every heartbeat I hear, every breath I hear, they are nothing but needles shoved into my veins one by one by one by one… meaning to drain me, meaning to break me. But you don’t want to destroy me. At least I have read that in your eyes. You want to be soft with me. You want to take me easy. Yet, you haven’t spoken a word to me in what feels like centuries. You simply stare into the void. And breathe. And exist.
My insecure footsteps begin to move my ghostly body closer to you. Until we’re almost face to face. You’re not moving, you seem to be paralysed in that spot. Standing and looking at me- through me. I can hear your heartbeat louder and clearer now. The mere sound of it is damaging to my eardrum.
‘That’s what happens when you only crave toxicity.‘ I say. To myself. Or maybe to you. Or maybe to the both of us.
You finally decide that I exist and look at me- but not into my eyes. My soul still frightens you. You don’t want to take a peak into it. You look at my hands, that are trembling with emotion. I look at them, too. They are clasping each other, in an effort to hide the trembling. But you see it. And I don’t know what you’re thinking, but your hands reach out and grab mine.
Through my tears and my confusion, I still manage to smile at you. I want to hug you, kiss you, feel you, tell you that you deserve more than you ever had and I’m the one who can be what you deserve. I’m the one who can truly make you feel loved and safe and maybe even happy. I’m not perfect, and I definitely wouldn’t make a perfect girlfriend. But I would never, not in a lifetime, not in a thousand years, treat you the way you have been treated before. I’d never be toxic for you. I might be toxic for my own fucking self, alright. But not for you. Because I do care for you, which I can’t really say I do for myself. And I wouldn’t be capable of hurting someone I care for.
I raise my eyes, searching for yours. You stare at the ground. You feel my eyes burning through your body, like lit cigarettes through paper. And I feel a sudden urge to wrap my arms tightly around you and never let you go.
I want you to look into my eyes. Aren’t you brave enough to do it? Say something. Do something. Don’t pretend nothing ever happened. Don’t make me question again if I’m dreaming…
Am I really real, though? Am I really here?
I’m afraid to let your hands get off mine and take a look at my fingers, so I begin to mentally count them.
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9… and?
Oh, 9. Well, this explains a lot. A wide smile takes over my face. This means that now I am 100% in control of what goes on around me. And it also means that I’m 100% in control of your projection in my mind. A faint voice in my head keeps telling me that I should wake up. It’s going to hurt more if I keep on playing this sick game. But do I listen? Seriously though, who ever listens and pays attention to those cautious voices? Even though I am totally aware of the fact that I’m only deepening the wound and besides, add some salt to it, I still don’t care.
You smile back at me— and this time, you look into my eyes.
Playfully, I punch you in the arm. ‘C’mon, now, say something! Don’t leave me hanging like that!’
‘I could say whatever the hell you want, but are you sure you want to do this again? You see how much it hurts, yet you keep on going with these vivid dreams and…’
‘I don’t think you’re here to give me advice, thank you very much.’, I say politely.
You roll your eyes. It amuses me, I don’t think I ever saw you do that in real life and it’s more of a signature gesture of myself.
‘Honey, I told you! How many times do I have to repeat myself? It hurts more than it would normally, if you add all these types of scenarios!‘, I hear a smooth, high pitched voice coming from behind me. I quickly turn around and see this blonde girl, one of my friends, standing there, arms crossed, looking at me in her specific judgemental way.
‘Who the hell even brought you here?‘
‘That’s one of the problems you get when you’re so undecided, I guess. Projections of rational people showing up in your dreams, to make up for the actually smart 50% of your brain’ she says, shrugging.
Trying to ignore her, I turn back at you and take a deep breath in. ‘Nevermind that.’
‘You know damn well you can’t ignore your feelings, bro.’ This voice comes from behind you, this time. I peak in that direction and see a tall, long-haired figure. My best friend.
“Seriously? Bringing in the whole circus now?”, I think to myself.
‘Look, it was all pretty and sweet when you confessed, but you have to stop ruining your life with things like this’, the newcomer says while, out of the blue, taking out a gun and pointing it at you. This is insane! Where the fuck did that 100% control (I was supposed to have) go to?
‘If… if you do that…’, I hear my own distant voice.
‘Uuuhhh! Stop being such a drama queen, bitch! You tried to shoot your shot, but it can’t possibly work, so let us save you… from yourself‘, the first girl says, already getting annoyed by the show.
‘Yeah, unnecessary words. He’s nothing more than a projection of your subconscious mind, so you can say goodbye now. At least for today.’
I hear a loud bang. And you suddenly disappear. So do the girls. I’m left alone in the blankness of my mind space, with no more energy to create any other human projection. So I decide to let my mind roam free and take me somewhere else.
I often said that and I will say it again: people should stop trusting their own minds. The damn fuckers will always create a chance to destroy us.
I find myself in the lowest spot I’ve ever been. Literal rock bottom. I watch my collapsed body among alcohol bottles, shattered pieces of glass and spilled pills. I’m in my living room. In front of the couch, on the glass table, there is the second or maybe third suicide note I wrote that week.
I don’t want to see this again. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go through it all again. I need to go somewhere else. I need a happy place…
And there I go. Another failure. I know this scene word by word. Why am I here? In a classroom, in an idiotic situation… but a situation that hurt more than anything at that time.
I don’t know how I manage to see myself so clearly from the outside, but I hate having to do it right now.
I close my eyes, as I already know what’s going to happen. Playfully, or maybe not so, I see myself wrapping a purple ribbon around my neck and pretend it’s a noose.
I. Want. To. Run. Away. I. Can’t. Stand. Watching. This. Hearing. This.
‘You’d do everyone a great favour if you died’, I hear your amused voice.
And then I hear myself laugh. ‘See? The confirmation I needed!’, I say to my best friend.
Why the fuck does my mind even bother to play such tricks on me? I mean… isn’t it enough that I’ve been through this ONCE? Why do I have to replay it?
Will it keep getting worse? Let’s try something else and if it doesn’t…
Suddenly, I wake up. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, your words still ring in my ear. And so does my laughter, my shocked response. The laughter that transformed into a long session of crying, that night. And into a lot of possible scenarios played in my mind, fuelled by the fact that I was so certain you were right.
But I’ve gotten over it, it’s fine now. What I still can’t explain to myself is why did my mind do that. Was it to show me what a fool I’ve been to fall (again) in love with you, even though I should have realised how much you hate me? Was it to show me that maybe you could never care for me the way I do for you?
In this equation, there are too many variables, it seems. Apart from you being the obvious, main one. Might also be myself, the way I perceive you and the way I always choose to shove away your negative traits, in an effort to understand you better and to create a positive image of you.
I am literally laughing out loud now, that I have tried to use this dream as a solution, but failed so badly and even after 10 written pages about it, I still have more questions than answers. Which leads me to my initial thought, and that is the fact that you are the only one who can give me the answers I’m looking for.
Sit down and study. Work for your dream. Remove all distractions Which might interfere.
Get the books off of your desk. Your papers and your notes, Your clothes and your shoes.
You feel drained of energy, So you simply throw them on the floor. But hey! You’ve got an empty desk, Maybe you can actually start focusing on your work.
What’s that? You just received a text? Oh, they all begin to care When you don’t need them to be there.
Disable all your apps’ notifications, Close your Internet connection.
Now you’re all set and done For a productive work session.
There are posters on your walls. And notes, and pictures, And memories, and words. You know them by heart. Yet you feel tempted to re-read them. It’s alright, you can rip them off the wall And re-create new ones Whenever you might need them.
Another distraction out of the way Now access your timer and then click on “Play”.
You wrote half a page. Congratulations. They’d say you’re one step off the couch. But wait, you haven’t gotten rid Of all the possible distractions.
There are scars on your skin, And hickeys, and scratches, And memories and words. You know them by heart. Yet you feel tempted to re-live them. It’s alright, you can cut them off. And re-create new ones Whenever you might need them.
That should be enough To help you finish the page.
You ran out of ink.
It’s alright, you notice you still Have the blood on your skin.
Go ahead and write, Don’t let the time pass by.
One more line until the end. Come on, you can do it! You say in your head. But what’s that noise?
A crowd of voices That you can’t
Disable, Close, Rip off the wall, Cut off the skin.
They’re the voices in your head… Always so noisy, their greatest skill.
There are songs on your brain, And images and feelings, And memories and words. You know them all by heart. Yet you want to re-listen to them. It’s not alright. You can’t get rid of them.
You throw everything away at once You scream, you shout, You beg them to stop. You need to focus. There’s one thing left to do. Point a gun at them And maybe they’ll fall silent.
You threaten them, yet they don’t shut up. They should know you have to study, so Why won’t they stop? You threaten them but it goes way too far. You pull the trigger, out of your despair To be able to fully concentrate.
Now. Back to finishing the last line….
Here’s a mantra
To get yourself motivated:
Sit down and study. Work for your dream. Remove all distractions Which might interfere.
Perhaps it’s just a game they’re playing. Perhaps it’s nothing important. Perhaps they just want attention. Perhaps they just want someone to play with. Perhaps they only need to… socialise. Perhaps they are bored…
Being dead must be pretty boring sometimes. Being dead probably feels good sometimes. Being dead could be fun sometimes.
Being dead… does it mean not feeling? Does it mean eternal numbness?
Being dead could even be artistic sometimes. Romantic. Terrifying. Exciting. Falsely exciting.
But still There is one question that remains And it is stuck inside my brain.
Doesn’t being alive feel the same?
Being alive must be pretty boring sometimes. Being alive probably feels good sometimes. Being alive could be fun sometimes.
But here’s the difference, laid down in front of your eyes. Being alive… it still means feeling. It certainly doesn’t bring eternal numbness.
Could it be artistic? Romantic? Terrifying? Exciting? Or falsely exciting?
For those who feel. Yes. For those who don’t…
Being alive could mean being dead. Only not physically dead. Not a decomposing body.
Still breathing, Walking, Talking (although not always).
Ghosts can do it, too. Oh, if only you knew! How many ghosts you come across…
He stepped out of the shadows and walked towards me. Never before has he been so close to me, not even in my childhood. I was so scared that, when I wanted to scream, my voice wouldn’t leave my throat. It was only me and him, in that dark forest. He was getting closer by the second.
I wanted to run, but my body would deny receiving any command I gave it, so I was simply paralysed, frozen in place.
I heard him whisper something in a foreign, yet familiar language that I’ve only heard a couple of times in my whole few good hundreds years of life. It sounded like something ancient, sacred even. After saying this bizarre phrase, he took a step back and watched his work with admiration: leaves started floating everywhere, circling me; and the usual sound of leaves rustling slowly metamorphosed into a whisper which clearly resembled that eerie phrase.
I tried to step out of the circle, but the leaves drew closer to me, tightening like a wall; and strong trees started growing out of nowhere and everything around me became a cage. The leaves, the trees, the air…
“You can have a part of my powers if you join me and help me”, said to me the horned, shadowy figure, in a raspy, deep voice, smiling crazily.
I let my gaze fall on him, we locked our eyes and he must have read the terror in mine, as his smile widened. I was terrified thinking what would happen next and…
That’s when my alarm went off and I woke up, all sweaty and gasping for air. I walked to the mirror and checked myself out. I was still whole and human. I let a sigh of relief escape my lips.
I only noticed the green leaf in front of the huge mirror when I came back home, after a harder than usual day of work. There was a small picture of me braiding my hair, with that leaf in it, stuck to the top right corner of the mirror. So I assumed that it must have remained in my hair after the previous night’s show and it fell on the floor when I was doing my hair.
Trying to control my breath and keep my hands from shaking, I slowly bent down and picked up the leaf.
On its back, there were some golden, tiny letters, which were vanishing as I read them:
‘What kind of cage would you prefer? The one that human society puts you in each and every second of your miserable, unworthy co-existence with them? Or the one that you visited last night? Please come home, Ammit, if you have had enough of the Earth. You can find better “food” for yourself here. ‘
(Greetings from Below,
At least he wasn’t that mad at me, which made me relax. I rolled my eyes, since I hated it when he was right. Yeah, Earth was fun ‘n’ stuff, but the better “food” was home.
So, being grateful that, unlike ordinary plain humans, I had a choice, I stepped inside the mirror, unravelling my black wings and letting out my horns again. It felt good to be yourself. And it looked good, too.
Feeling like I’ve caused enough bad things on Earth (and knowing that Papa could safely handle the rest), I headed home.
Moral of the story: nowhere is better than home… even though you cone from Hell’s deepest dungeons.
Note: Ammit is an ancient Demoness name and it means “Soul Eater”.
As a (not willing to recover) bookaholic, I have come across a few good titles in my 14 years of experience with reading. Therefore, there are sooo many books that have changed my entire perception about life, made me become a better version of myself, inspired me and taught me something powerful and inspiring about life. So I thought why not say a few words about the ones that had the greatest impact on my life (either positive or negative) and maybe inspire and help other people as well?
Starting with the nonfiction genre, there are two titles which had shaped my mind set, helped me improve my life-style and gain important skills. “Atomic Habits” by James Clear and “The Good Psychopath’s Guide To Success” by Kevin Dutton and Andy McNab. Combined, these masterpieces have taught me more about the real world than school managed to do in almost 12 years! Both of them offer great pieces of advice, which has a scientific base and has been tested and experimented for a long time before being recommended to us. The reason why these books became bestsellers is far more solid than the reason “Rich Dad, Poor Dad” has. Unlike Robert Kiyosaki, Jordan Peterson, Napoleon Hill and all the other “writers” who talk too much without actually teaching you something applicable or useful, Mr. Clear and Mr. Dutton know what they are talking about and they explain it in the best possible way. Their books not only kick some motivation into the brain of a professional procrastinator, but they also teach you how to get rid of the toxicity in your life. I always like recommending these books to people that are not satisfied or happy with their current life-style because I know how much they have helped me and other millions of people struggling to make the sort of 180° change that their life needed.
Moving a little bit further, but not quite leaving the nonfiction area, I have to talk about Stephen King’s “On Writing”. This book is literally The Holy Bible of any aspiring writer. It talks about the King’s becoming and it also gives practical advice on how to improve your fiction writing. A nonfiction book teaching you how to write fiction, isn’t it funny?
Speaking of fiction and Stephen King, I feel the need to discuss a little about the works of this humanoid God. Unfortunately, I have laid hands on just a small amount of his writings, but they completely fascinated me. “IT” and “Gerald’s Game” were my first contact with the King’s superpowers. I found it an absolutely genius move to be able to write a whole 300 pages long novel about a woman handcuffed to a bed. King’s descriptions appear to be the only ones that I can read without getting bored to death. The same story goes with “IT”. 1368, that lovely little book has! And it took me three months to finish it. Three months during which Pennywise was a constant leitmotif of my dreams. Now, judging by me, that’s exactly what a Horror novel has to do to you in order to be called a masterpiece.
Sticking to the Horror genre, as it’s my favourite, I have to hand an honourable mention to Sir Edgar Allan Poe. He had inspired most of the Horror short stories that I have written on my blog. Reading his works has unleashed my darkest and toughest and cruellest type of creativity. Which made me capable of putting on paper something along the lines of anyone’s worst nightmares.
When it comes to fiction, my favourite genres are, you guessed it!, Horror and Crime Fiction. However, I have some favourite titles in other subgenres, as well. But the classics, such as “The Book Thief”, “To Kill a Mockingbird”, “Harry Potter” (how my depression was cured by J.K. Rowling’s life story and motivational speeches given through her characters, is absolutely fascinating to me!), “Mary Poppins” , “Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children” or “Christmas Carol”, will always be close to my heart. And I can’t afford passing by without reminding “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” or “Murder On The Orient Express”.
Another great classic which had a surprisingly powerful impact on my life is “The Picture Of Dorian Gray” by Oscar Wilde. (Too bad Wilde was most probably gay, I would have played with an Ouija board and have a long-distance relationship with the dude.) And I guess I just said how much I adored that book. =)) Every single page of this work of art made me fall in love more and more with the whole concept of Art, with all the characters (except from Basil, he was being too boring) and most of the principles that I guide my life after right now, were inspired by His Greatness Oscar Wilde. And honestly, I don’t know if that’s a moral or immoral thing… I’ll have to think about it.
They say that writing requires “stealing” from other writers who are better than you. So the writers that I have “stolen” from are Stephen King, Oscar Wilde, J.K. Rowling and Neil Gaiman. Since Mr. Gaiman is the only one that I haven’t talked about yet, let me introduce you now in the fandom of “Good Omens”. I loved this book, as it is the only Fantasy novel presenting the Apocalypse in such a funny way. Also, the writing style, the word plays, the characters, everything simply amazed me!
As an ending — yeah, finally, the ending! — I will say one last phrase that will probably leave you thinking:
Maybe you won’t like this, but what you read has the power to shape your mind and impact your life in a greater way than you could ever imagine. Therefore, I suggest you to choose wisely the books on your wish list, as to not waste your (otherwise valuable and precious) time on books that don’t teach you anything worthy of that time (either a positive or negative lesson).
“Yeah, your personality is fine, not gonna lie, baby. But your body is even finer!”, he confessed, his eyes full of physical desire.
That’s one cut.
She yells in pain as the knife glides along her skin. But she doesn’t seem to be so bothered. She keeps crying out her internal pain. The physical one isn’t strong enough to make the mental one go away.
“You’re so beautiful, honey!”, another guy was telling her, as his breath was becoming heavier and she was feeling his pulse accelerate. ‘This isn’t one of those sweet compliments’, she thought to herself. ‘This is getting sexual. But I like it.’
‘Actually, I don’t. Not anymore.’
That’s another cut.
Hot tears streaming down her face, she reaches out a bleeding hand to grab the bottle of whiskey in front of her. There are approximately two more sips in it. She laughs shortly. She doesn’t remember how long it took her to empty that bottle. But apparently, she almost did. She takes a sip. And then she puts the bottle right back on the floor, where she took it from, having something added up to it: blood around its neck. It looks pretty much aesthetic.
“Shit, you’ve got that body and you’re telling me you’re underage??? Girl, I’d say you’re 20 or so!”
“Well, thanks for the compliment. But I’m 17…”
“Ohh… I see… then, I’m sorry little one… But I guess we’ll have to part ways.”
And that’s another cut.
For another jerk.
And another scream.
Not a scream of pain, though… a scream of rage. A growl.
Not giving a damn about the amount of blood that she is losing, she grabs the knife harder this time and begins sliding it around her thighs, making small, straight, short scratches one next to another, from the knee upwards to her hips.
Then she throws the knife away and growls again.
“If you only want me for this piece of shit that you call ‘a hot as hell body’, let’s see how much you’ll want me now, you FUCKERS!”, she shouts from the bottom of her lungs, not able to contain her rage anymore. She is feeling so fed up with being objectified, seen as a sex tool, not as a fucking person. So she scars her body, because she is curious.
Curious to feel the pain. Curious to feel the blade twist beneath her skin. Curious to see if anyone would ever want her with those scars. Curious to see how many people would push her away and think of her as being gruesome, instead of seeing her real beauty– which, of course, consists of her mentality and personality, not of something that can be as easily cut and degraded as paper.
She makes a considerable effort to place her trembling fingers around the neck of the whiskey bottle and lift it off the floor, put it to her mouth and swallow whatever alcohol was left inside the bottle. Her throat still burning, she gets up to her feet, losing her balance a little bit. After a few seconds, regaining her steadiness, she targets the wall in front of her and, without even thinking, she throws the bottle with as much strength as she’s capable to summon at this moment. The bottle smashes to thousands of pieces that are now scattered on the floor, everywhere around her. Still standing, in the middle of the glistening pieces of broken glass, she thinks of how the bottle represents a metaphorical comparison to her soul: emptied by someone and then shattered. Or a metaphorical comparison to her body: bloody and destroyed.
Not able to resist the urge to see her newest masterpiece, she starts running over the broken glass, again not giving a fuck about how the tiny pieces are stabbing at her feet. Her direction is set towards the bathroom, to the biggest mirror in her house. She is taking off her clothes and throws them away as she climbs the stairs, leaving bloddy footprints behind her. Now naked, she opens the bathroom door and then stops dead in her tracks, staring at the mirror on the opposite wall.
“Damn, this is bad!”, she whispers under her breath. Below her breasts, on the stomach, there was a long, trembled dark-red line. There was blood dripping from one of her thighs and from around her collarbone, where she had made a diagonal cut. She is thinking of her body as a chevalet at this point. Blood was the only paint she had available on stock.
No matter how horrifying it might look from the outside, she likes the updated version of her body. She feels satisfied at the thought that she will no longer have the opportunity to fall in love with someone who only wants her for her body and abandons her as soon as they find out that they can’t have it.
She smiles, content with her choice.
And then she moves to the sink to take out some bandages.
“… fondul comediilor lui Caragiale este rece și cinic. Realitatea ce el ne zugrăvește nu ne poate încălzi, necum să ne entuziasmeze; ea e repulsivă și va deveni, din ce în ce mai repulsivă cu cât omenirea va înainta pe calea progresului moral. În nici o operă clasică nu vei găsi situațiuni de valoare ca cele pe care dramaturgul nostru le primește în acțiunea dramatică– le primește și le menține cu seninătatea cea mai desăvârșită– chiar la sfârșitul și după sfârșitul ei.”
Scriitor cu opere reprezentative în toate genurile majore ale literaturii, I.L. Caragiale se evidențiază, însă, prin opera sa dramaturgică și, mai ales, prin forța comediilor sale. El își găsește un apărător important în persoana lui Titu Maiorescu care, în “Comediile domnului Caragiale” îi laudă spiritul critic ascuțit, precum și puterea reprezentării unei întregi societăți, cu moravurile și subtilitățile ei, dramaturgul fiind un creator al unui univers ce-l oglindește pe cel al timpurilor contemporane lui.
Reprezentată pe scenă pentru prima dată în 1884, comedia “O scrisoare pierdută” de I.L. Caragiale este a treia dintre cele patru scrise de autor, operă de căpătâi a genului dramatic în literatura română, care-și păstrează actualitatea prin perpetuarea moravurilor unei anumite categorii sociale de la o epocă la alta, ambițiile, privilegiile, dorința de avere și de ascensiune socială neffind limitate la o singură epocă.
Opera literară “O scrisoare pierdută” de I.L Caragiale este o comedie de moravuri, în care sunt satirizate aspecte ale societății contemporane autorului, fiind inspirată din farsa electorală din anul 1883.
Comedia este o specie a genului dramatic, care stârnește râsul prin surprinderea unor moravuri, a unor tipologii umane sau a unor situații neașteptate, având un final fericit și, adesea, un rol moralizator. Personajele comediei sunt inferioare în privința însușirilor morale, conflictul comic fiind realizat prin contrastul dintre aparență și esență. Sunt prezente formele comicului: umorul, ironia și diferite tipuri de comic (de limbaj, de situație, de caracter, de nume).
Încadrându-se în categoria comediilor de moravuri, prin satirizarea unor defecte omenești, piesa prezintă aspecte din viața politică– lupta pentru putere în contextul alegerilor pentru Cameră, pe fundalul căreia se realizează contrastele dintre aparență și esență a diferitelor personaje– și din viața de familie– relația dintre Tipătescu și Zoe, pretext al piesei.
De la stâlcirea neologismelor, la diferite nume care trădează caracteristici ale personajelor, comicul este scos în evidență de-a lungul întregii piese, fiind doar un element care vizează, alături de altele, precum finalul fericit ori radiografia socială efectuată prin intermediul personajelor-stereotip, corupția politicianismului românesc.
Derivând din caracterul de comedie de moravuri al operei, tema principală este cea a vieții degradante a claselor conducătoare și imoralității din viața politică și privată, sesizate de dramaturg. Acestora li se adaugă teme secundare precum corupția, lupta pentru putere, prostia, ambiția și parvenirea.
Două secvențe reprezentative pentru tema operei sunt cea a intrigii și cea care conturează conflictul secundar.
Scena inițială din actul I prezintă personajele Ștefan Tipătescu și Ghiță Pristanda citind ziarul lui Nae Cațavencu, “Răcnetul Carpaților” și numărând steagurile. Scena intrigii este declanșată de apariția lui Trahanache cu vestea deținerii scrisorii de amor de către adversarul politic. Acesta este convins că scrisoarea este un fals și, orb în fața realității, se teme că Zoe ar putea afla de mișelia lui Cațavencu. Naivitatea, fie ea reală sau simulată a lui Zaharia Trahanache și calmul său contrastează cu zbuciumul amorezilor Tipătescu și Zoe Trahanache, care acționează impulsiv și contradictoriu pentru smulgerea scrisorii de la șantajist. Scena intrigii conturează cel mai bine degradarea moravurilor vieții de familie prin adulterul comis de Zoe și Ștefan Tipătescu, dar și corupția vieții politice prin introducerea motivului șantajului.
Cealaltă scenă reprezentativă este scena de debut a actului secund, desfășurată cu o zi înaintea alegerilor, când grupul Farfuridi-Brânzovenescu se teme de trădarea prefectului. Actul continuă cu cererea lui Tipătescu ca Pristanda să-l aresteze pe Cațavencu și să-i percheziționeze locuința pentru a-i găsi scrisoarea și ordinul contradictoriu dat de Zoe (ce încearcă să-l convingă pe Tipătescu să-l susțină pe Cațavencu pentru funcția de deputat în schimbul scrisorii), sfârșind cu o depeșă primită de la centru care solicită alegerea unui alt candidat pentru colegiul al II-lea.
Patru elemente ale textului dramatic, ilustrative pentru conturarea viziunii despre lume sunt deznodământul, caracterizarea personajelor, comicul și dialogul.
Deznodământul aduce rezolvarea conflictului inițial, dat fiind că scrisoarea ajunge la Zoe, iar Cațavencu se supune condițiilor ei. Satirizarea societății pe care și-o propune dramaturgul este accentuată prin intervenția unui nou personaj, Dandanache, care întrece stupiditatea și lipsa de onestitate a candidaților locali. Propulsarea lui politică este cauzată de o poveste asemănătoare: și el găsise o scrisoare compromițătoare. Este ales în unanimitate și totul se încheie cu o festivitate condusă de Cațavencu, unde adversarii se împacă. Astfel, se trasează profilul unei elite conducătoare profund corupte, între reprezentanții căreia nu există nuanțe morale, ci doar diferențe de interese– finalul este o sărbătoare comică a degradării umane, un final fericit care afirmă imposibilitatea vreunei schimbări.
Caracterizarea personajelor depășește cadrul comediei clasice, acestea fiind individualizate prin particularități de limbaj, caracter, nume, dar și prin combinarea elementelor de statut.
Comicul își găsește în piesă mai multe surse, care servesc intenției autorului de a satiriza defectele omenești puse în evidență pe fundalul campaniei electorale.
Dialogul este principalul mod de expunere, prin care personajele își dezvăluie intențiile, sentimentele și opiniile, prin intermediul său prezentându-se evoluția acțiunii dramatice. În această operă comică întâlnim, pe lângă dialog și monologul dramatic (în discursurile electorale ale lui Cațavencu și Farfuridi).
Prin urmare, lumea oferită de I.L. Caragiale este una a arivismului fără scrupule, unde personajele au ca singură maximă pe cea care susține că “scopul scuză mijloacele”, urmărind doar parvenirea: obținerea de funcții publice respectate și atingerea unui statut social nemeritat.
O scrisoare pierdută este o comedie de moravuri sociale și politice, scrisă de dramaturgul român Ion Luca Caragiale, în anul 1884, publicată în revista „Convorbiri literare”.
Comedia O scrisoare pierdută este împărțită în patru acte. Textul este conceput ca o succesiune dinamică de replici, iar principalul mod de expunere este dialogul. Intervențiile autorului, adică indicațiile scenice sau didascaliile, sunt prezente de obicei la începutul comediei, al unui act, sau sunt intercalate replicilor. Ele se referă la cadrul acțiunii, statutul personajelor, mimica și gestica acestora etc, și utilizează ca moduri de expunere descrierea și narațiunea.
Criticii teatrali ai timpului au socotit însă piesa lipsită de calități literare (Ionescu-Gion, Dassè, Claymoor), excepție făcând Ollănescu-Ascanio care a scris favorabil despre piesă. O apreciere favorabilă despre „O scrisoare pierdută”, scrie, fără a semna, și Gh. Panu în ziarul Lupta în decembrie 1884, cu ocazia reprezentării piesei la Naționalul ieșean.
Pe cei prezenți la reprezentațiile din 1884, Scrisoarea pierdută i-a impresionat prin acțiunea ei vie și prin forța extraordinară a satirei politice. Chiar detractorii lui Caragiale nu i-au putut refuza cunoașterea meritelor indiscutabile și în acest sens a fost nevoit să scrie în 1903, în “Causeris littèraires”, Pompiliu Eliade, pentru care Scrisoarea pierdută era „cea mai bună bucată literară care s-a scris vreodată în limba română“, capodopera de necontestat a repertoriului nostru dramaturgic, o piesă clasică, în măsură să consacre nu numai un autor, ci și o întreagă literatură.