Diary of a ShortSighted Adolescent. Mircea Eliade

I quickly washed my face with cold water so no one would see an emotional, short-sighted boy with tears in his eyes. All day long I was in love with Sonia. I even believed I’d had more success with her than Stefānel did. I imagined that I was handsome, interesting, and illustrious. I imagined myself at la Medeleni, playing Scheherezade, with Sonia near me.

      It’s true that, this morning, two more spots appeared on my face. I studied them in the mirror for a long time, and wondered if Sonia would like me. So I asked her. And Sonia replied that she was more impressed by my genius than by the number of spots on my forehead...

      There’s no point pretending: I’m unhappy. I’ve never been to the ‘country.’ And when spring sunlight streams through the open windows of my attic, I dream of orchards and blossom-laden branches, springs, luxuriant bowers, young maidens and romantic idylls during the Easter holidays. Even though I’ve never been to the country.

      On summer evenings I roam the streets, stroll under the acacia trees and dream of rustic love affairs, avowals in the moonlight, or passionate words that I’ll never utter. On summer evenings it’s pointless to try and finish a chapter of Felix le Dantec. My heart has undergone a change, and I blow out the lamp and begin to dream. Many, many times I’ve wondered what comes over me on summer evenings. But I’ve never found the answer.

      And today I read Childhood Lane, and cried. I cried because I’ve never experienced the same emotions as the heroes in this book. I’ve only ever dreamt about them. I’ve never had a country estate and I’ve never had girlfriends who come there to convalesce. When I was small I used to go to sleep shivering with cold, and played with the bootmaker’s daughters from next door, who never owned a pair of stockings and wore calico dresses. I’ve only ever dreamt of young ladies, while still playing with the bootmaker’s daughters.

      So I cried, and then I put the book back on the shelf and laughed. I laughed at myself, because I was still a sentimental dreamer. I said to myself: Childhood Lane is a praline for faint-hearted mummy’s boys like Robert and Dinu. It’s a book full of expensive dolls, with posed pictures and idyllic romance. It’s a book for boyars’ sons, who ride horses, smoke, and kiss the apricot blossom.

      I’ve never kissed apricot blossom. But I’ve bitten my lip because I don’t know who I am. I’ve asked myself a thousand questions and tortured myself to find the answers, and I’ve wasted away because I was unable to find them.

      I’ve felt my flesh quiver, and whipped myself because we were poor and couldn’t do what other people did.

      Have I forgotten all of this? Have I forgotten my novel? Have I forgotten my soul, which suffers unbeknown to anyone, my mind that struggles on, yearning for things that the idiots around me have never even heard of?

      Did I cry because a rich, handsome adolescent with chestnut hair fell in love with a boyar’s daughter who enjoys smoking and plays Scheherezade on the piano? Did I see my own generation reflected in the happy young people at Medeleni? Did I waste my holidays thinking about Sonia’s eyes, or did I spend my summer in rooms full of old papers, my myopic eyes watering, my body tormented by the sap of adolescence, my soul feverish from waiting for a truth I had been seeking day and night?