Diary of a Short-Sighted Adolescent

by Mircea Eliade

  At midnight comes the time for erotic overtures and accomplishments. We always take our time before choosing the ‘girls.’ Not because we want to pick the best goods, but because we wish to look at them for as long as possible out of pure curiosity.

  *

  In a room with an icon and many chairs, the girls sit and wait. Youthful or withered bodies, slender or stout. Bedroom attire, brightly coloured, short, transparent. Much-handled flesh at rest. Soft arms drape over the backs of chairs or hang heavily by their sides. Sterile hips that look inanimate, turned to stone. An impression of bones overheated by work, muscles left exhausted, blood grown turbid. Shoulders still bearing the imprint of the hands that coveted them. Large, round breasts hang shapeless.

  But the wait doesn’t last for long. Through the window, male eyes evaluate and choose. Features lit up by the nearby lamp, the girls study the group of men, and smile. With every gesture they hope to acquire a new client. This gives them new life. They deploy the last of their personal charms, which have so far remained hidden. Brazenly they stretch out their legs, uncover their thighs up to the hip. Then they fix their eyes on the men and wait for the sign.

  Every now and then, one of the lucky ones comes back into the room, smiling. An old woman who sits in the corner making coffee gives her a kindly, consoling look. The others continue searching for partners among the group of men outside the window.

  When we decide, the girls quickly get up and come and join us in the courtyard. Smilingly, they entice us into rooms with heavy curtains, from where we emerge satisfied, with slow, assured movements and brightly glowing cheeks.

  And then we leave the courtyards and their red-lit lanterns, and make our way back along the same old streets, deep in discussion. We discuss with the same passion as before. The memory of the red lights doesn’t make us quiver in the least. We don’t bewail the fate of those bodies in transparent clothing. We shed not a tear over the injustice of the world. We walk on into the night, unflinching, and feel fresh blood pulsing through our veins.

  *

  But there are days when the streets are bathed in sunlight, and our bodies crave other bodies.

  Why not admit it? Many a time I stare voraciously at hips and breasts hidden beneath clothing. I’ve inhaled the scent of a woman, my eyes glazed. In the tram and at the library I’ve imagined caressing the flesh of the temptress sitting next to me. I’ve wandered through dubious places, far off the beaten track. I’ve lusted after legs and white shoulders. I would have sunk my teeth into depraved, curling lips gulped down the trickling blood as if it were a rare and precious drink.

  I’m ugly and morose. I hurry scowling though the streets, a suspicious look on my face. I’m afraid of attracting attention to myself too soon. The day will come when I will walk down the street with the light of victory shining from my eyes. But for now, I’m frightened. And scowling makes me even uglier. Beneath my half-closed eyelids, my eyes cloud over.

  Bewitching bodies appear on every street corner. Fragile bodies, enticing bodies – mignon, shy, hypocritical – or tall, proud, serene. Bodies wracked with emotions that make the blood gush wildly through the veins, which throb impatiently, blaze with desire, shudder expectantly, struggle to hold back fear. Or bodies that hint at nights spent in purification, calming labours, caresses that bring contentment and composure. Lissom bodies in clothes that still owe something to childhood. Bodies that hide nothing, and simply dissemble. Bodies that quiver in the wind, in anger, in delight. Bodies nourished by red-hot sap, blossoming with smiles and sin.

  I caress them with my eyes, steal from each and every one of them. Made smaller by drooping eyelids, within the dark rings of insomnia, shedding hypocritical, myopic tears and hidden by disgusting, deforming lenses, my eyes are never noticed. No one suspects how much lust, how much cruelty, how much hate they conceal. No one has ever noticed these glances of mine, which steal flesh, expose bodies, bite virgins. I’m ugly, my lips are pale and pinched, my bones are brittle. The bodies I see avert their gaze from my disfigured face. These bodies are looking for rosy cheeks and thick, red, fiery lips, big blue eyes or big dark eyes, and arms that know how to caress. What do I have to offer the enchanting bodies that appear to me on street corners awash with sunlight?

  More and more I hide myself in ash-grey clothes; I’d like to be a speck of dust, to always go unnoticed. Because the contempt from these bodies fills my soul with pain.

  But it won’t be long before things change. I’ll speak. I’ll draw close to these bodies in their enticing garments and I’ll speak, and they’ll feel the heat of my words, the red-hot embers of my being will sear their flesh. And then they’ll call out to me, and love me. I might not have beautiful eyes or cherry lips to offer them, but my body will be like a rock, my virile limbs will grind and pound, my muscles will tense and pulse like a knot of strangled snakes. I’ll give off a cloud of sparks that melts any last, remaining doubts. My gestures will bear witness to my insatiable desires, my caresses will be refined and brutal, like a sex that delights and dominates.

  I will speak. And what body will resist me? What hands will hold clothes to their breasts when my fingers sink into them to conquer their flesh? What thighs will refuse to open? What eyes will dare meet mine? My lips will bite, my arms will pummel the convulsing body while my steely chest crushes white breasts. My body will be spattered with blood. And my victory will leave my partners exhausted at my side, their eyes filled with astonishment.

  My pleasure will be the pleasure of an aroused, impassioned male. No beautiful face, no colourful clothes. Simply sex, a lively rhythm, a steadfast gaze, a foamy outpouring of desire. A virility free of the shackles of libido. A virility that shines like the stars above.

  As I steal scowling through the streets, these thoughts console me. My fury subsides. My visions make me smile. The vision of my victory over all the rest...

  I’m plotting my revenge against the bodies that treat me with disdain and disgust, them and their perverse, devilish refinements. In years to come they’ll seek me out. Already I’m undressing them, weighing their charms, dominating them. And deep down I smile.

  Then I’m back in the street, all alone. And I walk on, my determination growing, my eyes fixed on the ground. No one must notice me, no one must suspect me. I walk in the shade of the chestnut trees. With me go my visions. I conceal them within me, to urge me on. Occasionally I imagine that I have reached the mountain top, and in my mind I stop to rest. And a feeling of blessed languor gradually penetrates my flesh.

  But soon I wake up. I’m not there yet. I’m still climbing through the thorn bushes, my mind clouded with visions. My hollow cheeks fill with gloom. Shaded from the light, my eyes sparkle. Secretly, unseen, my fists clench. I feel the blood pulsing in my neck.

  And I decide not to wait till Saturday.

  * * *

  22Facla: an independent socialist newspaper founded in 1913 by Nicolae Dumitru Cocea, a journalist, novelist, critic and left-wing activist.

  Papini, Me and the World

  Today I read The Failure by Giovanni Papini. I’m a failure too. My novel will never make it onto the page. And I also have to change. I have to, or people will accuse me of being like Giovanni Papini.

  I’ve had a love-hate relationship with him all afternoon. I hate him because he’s already said things that I’d like to say myself. And I love him because his book describes my life. A childhood poisoned by suppressed rage, by jealousy for people with pretty faces, hatred of the rich and powerful, as well as those who are happy. An adolescence tortured by myopia and mental obsessions, eaten up by wild ambition, scourged by impotence, consumed by tears that no one heard or suspected, and never helped me to dry.

  I’ve lived the life of Papini. I’ve also wept, I’ve whipped myself, I’ve cried out in my solitude, and I’ve been filled with untrammelled joy when I read The Failure. I was that man. But I wasn
’t a failure. I couldn’t be. If Papini used up all the treasures that lay glittering in the depths of his soul – treasures that also glitter in my soul – it holds no terrors for me. I’ll create a new soul and set off in search of new roads to travel. I don’t want to be another Giovanni Papini.

  Today, just before sunset, I died. From now on, a different light will shine on my disfigured face. My clouded eyes will see the world in a different way, and another life will rise up from the depths of my soul.

  I don’t want to be Giovanni Papini. I don’t want to be someone else. I don’t want my shoulders to bear the burdens of others. I don’t want to suffer other people’s pain. And I don’t want to follow in someone else’s footsteps.

  Papini is ugly, terribly ugly, and he’s short-sighted. I’ll be handsome, I’ll bewitch the ladies, I’ll have a clear and penetrating gaze. I’ll slap my hollow cheeks until I feel the blood tingling painfully beneath my skin. I’ll smash my glasses and widen my eyes until they’re big, really really big. Clear eyes. Dark eyes, if Papini’s are green. And green eyes if his are dark.

  This will be my aim in life: to be different from Papini. Not to look like him; not to be him.

  Papini is now my mortal enemy. He stole the treasures of my soul. He blackened, consumed, trampled, violated and prostituted the values that I was meant to proclaim to the world. He dissected and laid bare the putrefaction of his soul. And in doing so he raised himself up, became great, reached the summit, the place that I was supposed to reach. All I could have done, all I could have created, has been created by Papini. My God has poured the hot coals and the ice of a perverse joke over my head. I’m just a piece of rag in the hand of the Demiurge. I’m the mask of clay that was thrown into the world twenty years after the original was made. I was created to slither like a worm at the feet of my master: Papini. I was created to plead for my life, broken and ruined, at the feet of my master: Papini.

  The masses and the morons, the imbeciles and the mentally ill, the simpletons with beautiful eyes and narrow brows, the creatures who compromise their sex, all those young men who deserve to get my fist, and the fists of a few chosen ones like me, in their faces, will never understand the tragic pain and suffering of my life. They’ll accuse me of aping Papini. Of doing, of my own free will, those things that make me similar to Papini. That I’m nothing but an epigone, a shadow, a foolish Balkan reflection of the man from Florence.

  But this won’t happen. I don’t give a damn about the craven will of the Creator. I don’t give a damn about what becomes of me. I don’t give a damn about myself.

  Soon I’ll be another person. I’ll show people that the river of my soul can flow into different seas. Everywhere I go I’ll bear new fruit. I’ll shine a light into new places of darkness and, bleeding and torn, I’ll climb new flights of stairs. What does it matter if I’ve damaged my eyes reading books, filling notebooks, creating indexes that won’t be of any further use to me? What does it matter if I’ve wasted years preparing for things I’ll never achieve? What do my aspirations, my joys, my sufferings and my vendettas matter? They’ve all faded away, along with the setting sun. They’ve faded, far far away from my soul. They’ve fallen into dark waters, and I look down on them and smile.

  My real life is only just beginning. And so is my real struggle. The struggle against Papini, the World, and the Demiurge. And the struggle against myself: the fiercest of all.

  Papini has been my most ruthless enemy and my most generous friend. While reading him I was both tormented and filled with delight. I found myself. Quite unexpectedly, a light shone into the depths of my soul. Life demanded different prices from me. Prices that I had already glimpsed, but hadn’t dared face up to. Papini helped me to be myself. Papini taught me to stride boldly into the light and cry: ‘Look! This is me.’ From now on I won’t be afraid of other people. Any doubt that was seeping from my soul has vanished. I shall hold my head up and spit my laughter and my venom into the face of the crowd.

  What, up till now, has been trembling fearfully inside me, has begun to thunder with a deafening roar. I have suddenly been overwhelmed by forces beyond my control. I feel life pulsing through me so wildly that the sight of those around me fills me with terror. They all seem so powerless, insignificant and drab. In the faces of people who pass me in the street I see only a risible reflection of myself in miniature.

  ME! Only now do I understand its true worth, all the gold, all the divine gifts that are secretly contained within that terrifying and seductive word.

  ME! Only now do I understand my desires, my ceaseless efforts, my pain. Papini gave me rose-tinted glasses with which to see the world, and thrust me onto this hard and narrow road. But I’m not afraid. My muscles are strong and my bones are solid, my blood flows hot, mightily and red, and the stale slops of adolescence will no longer seep into my soul. No longer will an autumn twilight or foolish visions fill me with dread. My body will be constantly poised, ready to launch itself higher and higher. And in my soul I will preserve the same masculine tumescence, and the seed of my thoughts will fertilize furrows without number. Because I have such riches in abundance; I have no need to fear that one day I will dry up, and will have to beg from other people. In the depths of my soul there flows an endless, foaming torrent, just awaiting the order to pour out into the world. The day of the blood-red dawn is nigh. And then who will dare challenge me? Who will dare approach me, without fear of my smouldering eyes and thoughts? What snail will detach itself from the mob and attempt to drag its slimy being towards my haunches? I’d like to see my friends and my enemies, to look into the eyes of the thousands of human wrecks who roam the streets. I’d like to see them tremble as they bow down to the ground in submission. How they’ll writhe in agony, their entrails seared by the burning poison of envy and crippled impotence.

  I fear no one. I’m ready to show anyone my gold and my jewels. Even Giovanni Papini. And I’d like to hear someone dare accuse me of plagiarism, that my novel is an imitation of The Failure. I’d like to meet the man who doubts the power of my flesh and my mind. He’ll find that I’m a short-sighted adolescent buried beneath a mountain of books in my attic. So let him come, with his jealousy and peevish questions. I’ll make him welcome, let him run his paws over my innermost thoughts, turn out the drawers of my desk, prod my old wounds. And perhaps, eventually, as night begins to fall, one of us will smile.

  A Year

  A year has passed.

  A year has passed, and I haven’t written a word in my notebook. Why should I write? The Diary of the Short-Sighted Adolescent seems a waste of time. Every time Dinu reminds me about it and my other plans, I laugh. The glory of being a young, up-and-coming novelist holds no attraction for me anymore.

  A year has passed. And not one of us has died, although it feels as if many of us are dead. I’ve re-read everything I’ve written so far. How distant some things seem now, while others are so strange... I’ve lived with all of them, almost every day. Yet if I look back over my life as it was two years ago, and over the past year, I realize how much we and our souls have changed.

  My friendship with Robert has cooled. It happened gradually, almost without us realizing. He thinks I’m pedantic, I think he’s naïve. He bores me, while I annoy him. He visits me less and less often. And when he does come to see me we have nothing to talk about. But because he doesn’t know what else to say, he always asks me the same question: ‘What are you reading?’

  And I point to the book in front of me. And we look at each other distrustfully. He tells our friends that I’m a victim of my own erudition. I speak ill of him all the time.

  Nor are we classmates any longer. Along with Furtuneanu and Bricterian he went to a private school for his final year, and they all failed their exams. The other two retook them and passed, and are now at university. But Robert didn’t want to spend another year at a lycée. So instead he went to the Conservatoire, like Bricterian, and wear
s bizarre clothes in order to draw attention to himself.

  A year. Sitting staring at this notebook, I feel so confused. What can I write? What has been most important to me this year? It passed just like that, one event after another, they affected me then I forgot about them. I continued to read and write. And I became more and more isolated. The others stopped off at places that I’d prefer not to contemplate. They let me move on, all alone. Some of them regard me with suspicion. Meanwhile I’ve turned in on myself more and more. And I haven’t found a soulmate, not a single one.

  But this shouldn’t grieve me in any way. I’m going to become increa­singly isolated. Isn’t it better that way? Isn’t that what I really wanted?

  Yet I can look back on the spring that has just gone by without causing myself any pain. A spring that I spent almost completely in the library. Warm afternoons and tranquil evenings, blood-red sunsets that filled the room with their melancholy light. And I was there on my own or with Marcu, and we would see young couples, and students, and my thoughts would turn to the university, to the Greek I would have to learn, which would tire my eyes and take up the best years of my life.

  There were so many thoughts, and I felt things so deeply in my soul, but I didn’t have anyone to confide in. Perhaps I suffered a great deal, but I told myself that that this wasn’t suffering, that this was happiness: solitude.

  That’s how spring went by, sitting staring at the same enormous, green, leather-bound book that no one requested any more. Then summer came, the afternoons got even hotter and longer, the female students wore flimsy white dresses, they were pretty and always smiling, while I was ugly and read the same book without ever raising my eyes. Why should I? And beside me sat Marcu. We smiled when beautiful girls walked past, and on the way home we discussed them.