Searching for Cioran Book

Very sad because the woman who wrote it escaped from Romania at the age of 22 and died at the age of 52 in 2005 - after having married a very nice Wordsworthian teaching at IU when she was young. And she was so pretty, and so aristocratic-for-a-Romanian (she was a relative of the great Romanian conductor Zarifopol. So much of this book was unfinished and un-thought out, and the second part descends into the struggles between Romanian exiles that Bellow depicts in the Dean's December - which makes it more fascinating than a book on Cioran alone might have been.
Here's what's remarkable about it - she tells what is like to be relatively young and attractive and to be an object of pleasure for an aging literary genius - it's a charming moment. She describes, and lives, the frustration of coming from a country that is too small for one - and she adds to the picture of the generation of Eliade and Cioran, and their brief fling with totalitarianism, now so unforgiveable in retrospect (flogged by literary opportunists); now so common in our public life - re-enacted by nice guys like Tom Friedman whose China-philism is exactly akin to the appeal of Mussolini and Hitler to journalists and politicians in the early 1930s. Cioran merely writes better than Friedman, as Z-J describes him: "beautiful style places in the service of the most melancholy of themes, the decadence of Western civilizations. The death of the west ...symptoms are liberalism, democracy, and the parliamentary system,,,, longing for a utopia, un delire neuf capable of exciting the collective imagination of a nation and inciting it to revolution. Blah blah blah - you can read it in NYRB and in Friedman's columns and those of Martin Wolf these days, and will for the next few years. Not longer, one hopes.