Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  ‘I did speak to him. Everything will be fine. I assure you it’ll be fine. I explained to the director that...’

  The expression on my face rather undermined him.

  ‘He said it’ll be fine, but that you’ll have to wait till Christmas. That’s when the editorial budget increases. And you’ll be the first to be paid.’

  He rambled on, clearly embarrassed. I smiled. Then suddenly he looked up and stared at me from behind his glasses.

  ‘Are you short of funds?’

  I was tempted to exaggerate: ‘I’m completely broke.’

  The editor looked at me sympathetically: ‘It’ll be fine... you have my word.’

  I was tired and thoroughly fed up. I had humiliated myself and had nothing to show for it. The editor had won. The editor always wins.

  He showed me the corrections for my latest article. And I got a brief glimpse of the front page of the review. I blushed.

  ‘What else are you working on?’

  Smiles.

  ‘You have plenty of talent...’

  Smiles.

  ‘I’ll publish anything you write. I have confidence in you.’

  Smiles.

  ‘What do you say, young man?’

  ‘What can I say, sir?’

  ‘Life is what you make of it!’

  ‘Precisely...’

  ‘Just never lose heart.’

  ‘...’

  ‘You have no right to. You’re young.’

  ‘...’

  ‘If I told you everything that I’ve been through, eh!’

  ‘I can believe that, sir.’

  ‘So much, young man, so much...’

  ‘...’

  ‘I’ll have you know that I’ve written a whole collection of poetry that I still haven’t found a publisher for...’

  ‘...’

  ‘A publisher, sir, do you hear me? It’s unbelievable.’

  The editor was getting carried away. Every now and then he scratched his head. I smiled at him. He talked to me for quite a long time. Then eventually we shook hands and bowed to each other.

  I realized that victory belonged to the editor.

  I went back to school, dejected.

  Fourth period had already started. But I made a solemn promise to myself that day, never to send anything else to Mr Ilie Leontescu. Even though I have plenty of talent. Even if he does have confidence in me, and even if I could actually write...

  November

  So now I know. I’m just like all the rest: a dreamy, sentimental adolescent. There’s no point trying to hide it. I’m sentimental. I’m ridiculous.

  On this November afternoon I’m feeling sad. Although there’s no reason for me to be sad. I don’t have to be sad... I’m looking out of the window at the poplars. And I’m lost in thought. Naïve thoughts, idiotic and sickeningly naïve. How hard I’ve tried to uproot this weakness from my soul, a weakness that goes by the name of melancholy.

  I’m melancholic. Therefore I’m stupid. I lack motivation, virility, personality. Why should I be melancholic this afternoon, when the sun is shining through the leafless trees? Why am I looking out of the window instead of getting on with my work? Why do I dream of being a rich and handsome man strolling through empty parks, with their moss-clad fountains, statues bathed in the blood-red rays of the setting sun, and ivy covering the bridges and castle walls?

  Times like these only bear witness to my lack of willpower. Instead of fighting against the foolish nostalgia of the November sunshine by whipping myself until I bleed, I sit writing in a notebook that no one will ever read.

  So many efforts have been in vain this afternoon... so many hours spent with my teeth clenched, so many hot, moonlit nights enticing me to dream and roam the streets, nights spent all alone and which came to nothing. But all my tears, my pride, the sufferings of my flagellated body are powerless when confronted by a November day.

  It was bound to happen. In fact I’ve been waiting for this day, when I would stop work and just stare out of the window. Week by week my willpower has slowly evaporated. And now today, disaster has struck. Instead of thrashing myself, resisting myself to my last breath, I sit here calmly writing. Perhaps I think this is a way of paying off my debts.

  A November day. A day like any other. The sun is sad, and from all sides come strange stirrings. A warm day. A day when old men and women think about the past and weep. But what do I have to be sad about? Why do I feel as if my soul is filled with unfamiliar, sweet, terrifying sensations? Why do I want to cry? Why am I waiting for something that I know will never come?

  But I’m not going to indulge myself with any of this. I’m not like other adolescents, a naïve dreamer, sickly, foolish, sentimental and ridiculous. My soul is made of sterner stuff. My will might be absurd, yet it is still firm, formidable, thrusting aside and choking off all that stands in its path. I have to be the same person at all times and in all places. Solid as a rock, brows lowered, eyes fixed on my goal, lips clamped firmly together in rage, fists clenched ready to strike myself, to inflict pain on my flesh. That is how I should be. Because that is what I want to be. Me, the one and only master of my body and soul, the only male in the flock of spineless adolescents, the only one with the willpower to grip an iron bar in my teeth until they shatter, to whip myself until I scream, until my flesh is burning, as agonizing as an open wound.

  That is how I should be. Like I used to be in the days when I took pleasure in inflicting pain on myself. The days when I woke at dawn and went to bed after midnight. When I drove away sleep with my fists. When I read till my eyes filled with tears and my eyelids stung. Until my head grew heavy and my eyes grew dim. Until my mind clouded over.

  The days when I used to whip myself.

  Those were the most wonderful days of my life. I kept my whip behind a bookshelf. Every night before turning out the light, I would indulge in fifteen minutes of sweet, painful pleasure. I gripped the rope, doubled it over and counted to ten. The first blow – thrown over my shoulder with my eyes closed – bit into my bare, white, fleshy back. I stifled a scream. This was the most agonizing blow of all. After that the rope fell faster and faster, cut deeper and deeper. My flesh quivered, my cheeks trembled, my lips drained of colour. I kept my eyes tightly closed so I wouldn’t see the rope falling. The pain excited me. I lashed ever faster in short, sharp strokes. My flesh began to swell, to catch light. My temples were ablaze, salty sweat trickled down my forehead. But I savoured this triumph of the spirit. The will that trampled my putrid flesh filled me with an enthusiasm that was both holy and virile. As my flesh moaned, I whistled victoriously through clenched teeth. Pain and pleasure mingled in a frenzy I had never known, and I drank it down in a delight that was beyond price. It was the only pleasure I allowed myself.

  After this came a moment of ecstasy. The pain brought me closer to myself; purified me. That one moment was my reward for an entire day’s work. A single moment. Followed by exhaustion, inner turmoil, trembling. My body felt utterly spent, as if after an illness. I barely had the strength to put the rope back behind the bookshelf, and to cover my scourged back with my shirt. Warm blood would sometimes trickle down from my shoulders to my waist. The blood stained my shirt, and I had to get up at dawn to wash it.

  But there were times when pleasure and pain didn’t overwhelm me. I would often pace up and down impetuously, but my limbs wouldn’t tremble when my shirt touched my shoulders, which were striped by the whip.

  There were victorious days when I shouted the word ‘I’ at the top of my voice. When I was intoxicated with myself. When I was dazed by the vortex that I could feel ravaging my soul.

  With my eyes closed like a visionary, I would shout: ‘I, I, I, I...’ And I look back on those days with sorrow, now I’m sad that the sun is shining through the leafless trees.

  I wish I had a soul like Br
and’s. A tortured soul, harsh and solemn. Yet beneath which was concealed the white-hot lava of enthusiasm, love and hate. I knew it wouldn’t be long before my voice would be feared and envied throughout the land.

  Yet I didn’t want – and still don’t, even now – to expose any of my anxieties, or the dark shadows and flames of my soul.

  No one should see me exhausted from the fight; nor should anyone know the name of the God for whom I struggle.

  I wanted to be able to move among my fellow men unrecognized. To be regarded as an ugly, boring adolescent, while all the time my mind and soul were made of rock. To suddenly appear, to subdue the cringing herd and reduce those who despised me to impotent astonishment. To whip them, to desecrate their faces, to glory in the sensation of my body quivering with fruitfulness and creativity.

  I have never enjoyed having friends. I had no desire to bare my soul to some pallid, melancholic adolescent. The pride of knowing that I had a secret that no one would ever guess was enough for me.

  The thought that one day I would terrify whole multitudes of human beings intoxicated me. I knew who I was. This filled my soul with boundless confidence, forcing me to flex the muscles in my arms as if in preparation for the fight. And most of all, because no one had any idea who I was, who I would become.

  But that’s not how things really were. Like all weak people I have sought friends. In myself I recognized a soul in search of consolation and support. I’ve uncovered certain dark corners of my secret, and let other people see things that, by rights, only I should know. I wanted to be merciless. But I’ve never succeeded. I’ve been fickle and quick to compromise, like any adolescent. I’ve told jokes, I’ve laughed more than necessary, I’ve wasted time talking to stupid classmates and boring friends, I’ve slept for eight hours solid like all the others, and at night I’ve wandered the streets, baring my soul; I’ve stolen glimpses at women with warm bodies, and lost my innocence one rainy night in a damp little room, on a bed where dozens of other bodies had once entwined, accompanied by the laughter of those waiting outside the door.

  I, just like all the rest. I, just like the herd. Just like any other spineless, lecherous adolescent, who sleeps for fifteen hours on Sunday, laughs loudly, flirts with young ladies at tea parties, pinches women who walk past him in the street at night, dances in night clubs, bets on the horses, reads Rampa, loves Mosjoukine17 and tries hard to be blasé. Like Robert, who admires Musset...

  And that’s not all. I’ve disregarded the best decision that I ever made: to preserve within me, in order to perfect them, all those things that I intended to bestow on others at a later date. But instead of striding out with a proud, sure tread, with my ideas still intact and my books completed, I’ve revealed myself little by little in the form of articles in popular magazines, on pages where my heart and soul are not to be found, in lines devoid of éclat or originality.

  With difficulty – like all the others – I’ve gained a place for myself in second-rate literary reviews, who published my articles with spelling mistakes and without my full name.

  There is so much baseness fermenting in my soul, that I’ve waited impatiently for a translation to be published and got angry when it was delayed. I began to behave like all the others who call themselves a ‘writer’. Who has shoulder-length hair, wears a black cravat and a wide-brimmed hat. Who makes friends with magazine editors in order to have a novella published every month. Who has a collection of poetry produced by a provincial printer, as well as a collection of short stories with a brightly coloured cover, who enters the Civil Service, marries and spends the rest of his life weighed down by a scraggy little wife and several badly brought-up children. I too have had my moment of glory. I’ve experienced the meagre satisfaction of having an article published on the front page, without spelling mistakes, my name beneath the title...

  And I’ve stooped even lower. I got a tailor to make me some ‘modern’ clothes. I’ve started wearing silk socks, I’ve regretted not having longer hair, I’ve used talcum powder just like Dinu, I too have read the latest French novels and literary magazines, I too have gone to the cinema, and – after every defeat – my friends, my good friends, all assure me that I’m becoming civilized, that I’m almost ‘normal’.

  So I can’t blame myself for wasting an entire afternoon standing in the corner, staring at the sky and thinking about my sorrows. It simply had to happen.

  Night is drawing in. My memories have driven away the melancholy. I’ll be able to read without fear of spending a whole hour on one page. I’m feeling calm and depressed. There’s a void in my soul that no human will can fill. It would be futile to even try.

  * * *

  17Mosjoukine: Ivan Illyich Mozzhukin (1889-1939) was a Russian film actor. His name usually appeared in publicity in the French transliteration, Mosjoukine, as used in Eliade’s original text.

  Rehearsals

  Rehearsals for A Model Lycée have begun. We meet every evening in the music room. The director is Mr Filimon from the National Theatre. Mr Filimon directs all the plays that we put on for school festivals. He knows the boys and enjoys their company. He smokes all the time, gives us friendly taps on the shoulder and secretly tells us little anecdotes. Anecdotes that, he hastens to add, shouldn’t be repeated at home or in class.

  The masters warmed to the idea of Fănică’s ‘variety show’. About ten days ago we all got together in the music room at the end of school. The Headmaster was there, smiling and frowning, depending on the circumstances. The other professors sat in the front row, making a lot of noise and smoking as they waited to hear a read-through of the show. Fănică, who was red in the face because of his tight collar and anxiety, stood next to the piano. I was going to accompany him. On a small table nearby he had put a pile of musical scores that I had to decipher. There were ballads, modern dances, marches and couplets.

  I began to play. Fănică hummed along, his voice quavering. He simplified the tenor parts or dropped an octave.

  The masters listened very closely, captivated, while the Head­master kept looking at them one by one, trying to establish what attitude he ought to take towards the pupil Bănățeanu Ștefan’s variety show. The masters encouraged him.

  Then Fănică explained the show to them: ‘The man-about-town boys each sing a verse in the Headmaster’s study’

  Filled with curiosity, the Headmaster asked: ‘And I gave them permission to sing to me?’

  ‘Oh, no! You won’t be in your study at the time.’

  ‘So where will I be?’

  ‘Teaching a class.’

  Finally the Headmaster understood. He smiled. Fănică – as nervous as he was in trigonometry lessons – went on: ‘...And then suddenly you walk into your study. You find them singing and dancing, you get angry and shout: ‘What are you doing in here? What sort of uniforms do you call these? Why is your hair so long? Where are the numbers on your tunics?’

  Fănică did his best to imitate the Headmaster when he was in a rage. The Headmaster was flattered. He laughed, supporting his belly with one hand. – a gesture left over from when he was wounded in the war.

  Verse after verse, dialogue after dialogue, the masters approved of everything.

  ‘We now have the verses sung by the pupil who caught jaundice in a chemistry class.

  Knowing glances between Fănică and Toivinovici. The masters roared with laughter and smoked away contentedly. Before he began, Fănică asked me to give him the note. I played three white keys, one after another. Then six opening bars. It’s a very well known tune that can be heard every summer at the Cărăbus Theatre. The lively rhythm of the verses won them over. Fănică was overflowing with enthusiasm. He tapped his foot in time with the music. After every verse he paused to explain.

  ‘Now the master sings...’

  Toivinovici went bright red. Who knows what was going through his mind at this point.
>
  And then the pupil sings:

  ‘Every night I leap out of bed,

  a question buzzing round my head:

  What is alcohol,

  What is phenol,

  Or benzine

  glycerine

  stearin,

  paraffin,

  phosphates

  and hydrates,

  What’s with this chlorine,

  or vitriol,

  and oxine,

  and amine,

  oxygen,

  hydrogen,

  sulphite,

  cuprite,

  fructose

  glucose,

  apatite,

  galalith...

  Whether I’m alive or dead,

  they’ll still be buzzing round my head’.

  The masters didn’t object to anything in Act I. Act II, however, with its triumphal march and the protest against the ‘Lalescu Scale’ gave them something to think about. But Fănică carried it off yet again. The masters laughed at any verses that made fun of their colleagues. And so in the end, everyone had his share of satisfaction and resentment.

  The Headmaster decided that we could begin rehearsing. The masters all lit cigarettes, and left the music room, offering Fănică their congratulations. Fănică wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, because he wasn’t a tenor.

  The other boys, who were waiting outside in the courtyard, greeted the news with great excitement. The minor roles were then distributed.

  We get together in the music room. Apart from the ‘actors,’ there are a few other boys who help us. Minculescu, from the Upper Sixth, was one of the first to volunteer. He has a large nose, but is very kind and gentle. And he’s an outstanding prompter. Dinu, who is very keen to attend rehearsals, usually sits next to him. Petrişor, Furtuneanu, Perri and various others also come. They stand at the back and comment on the different parts. They also give their views on how each of us will perform. For me they predict a great success.