"They were talking about you today, before you came, they said you were working on a novel of manners, set in Bucharest, and I could barely keep from laughing...maybe if you wrote about Paşa, me, Panta--with anyone else you won't know what you're doing..." 
"I would have started conversation, if the musicians had not begun precisely that waltz for which Pantazi had a weakness, a slow, dragging waltz, voluptuous and sad, almost funereal. In its mollitious oscillation, it traced a nostalgic and endlessly somber passion,..." 
"Nene, when are you going to give this stuff up? When? You'll turn your brains to mush with all this bookwork." 
That's Pirgu to the narrator. But since it's Pirgu maybe us bookish types can treat him condescendingly as well...