Diary of a ShortSighted Adolescent. Mircea Eliade
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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?
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