This I bought and started reading in Romania itself, albeit in translation. I balked pretty hard, like an alpha-male chicken, when I saw immediately, right on the back cover, that the author flew into Romania after fascists took power, to congratulate them.
He does read like someone who went to Paris for inspiration, stayed fo the nightlife, only to regress to cynicism when certainty suits him. I'd have liked to read further for the comedy factor, since he follows long nihilistic digressions with bizarre, wholly uncharacteristic praise for frivolity. He sounds like another Hitler-era artist who wants order on his own strange, selfish terms, but I imagine the frivolity would be literally in reading this whole book.