Issued:

December 2017

Prima apariție a revistei datează din anul 1967: http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/1967.pdf

Publicaţia a fost fondată în anul 1966 (cu titlul anterior Lucrări ştiinţifice) având ca scop
valorificarea activităţii de cercetare a Facultăţii de Filologie a vechiului Institut Pedagogic
din Oradea (între 1967-1979). Seria nouă, intitulată Analele Universității din Oradea.
Fascicula Filologie, apare cu această denumire din anul 1991. Actualmente revista este
editată de Facultatea de Litere a Universităţii din Oradea. Între 1991-1995 ISSN-ul revistei
este 1221-129X. În 1996, titlul complet a devenit „ANALELE UNIVERSITĂȚII DIN
ORADEA. SERIA FILOLOGIE. [FASCICULA] LIMBA ȘI LITERATURA ROMÂNĂ”, cu
ISSN 1224-7588. În 1996, revista s-a divizat în Fascicula Limba si Literatura Română și
Fascicula Limba și Literatura Engleză.
Pentru detalii, a se vedea:http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/archives.html

First issue: 1967. Previous name: Lucrări științifice, Institutul Pedagogic Oradea, between
1967-1979 http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/1967.pdf
New series: 1991. Title: Analele Universității din Oradea. Fascicula Filologie,
ISSN 1221-129X between 1991-1995
1996: Split into Fascicula Limba și Literatura Română and Fascicula Limba și Literatura
Engleză. New ISSN, from 1996-present: ISSN 1224-7588
”Analele Universității din Oradea. Seria Filologie. Fascicula Limba și Literatura Română”
is the same journal with ”Analele Universității din Oradea Fascicula Limba și Literatura
Română”. Initially Seria Filologie referred to the two fascicules in the series, now there is
only one fascicule in Seria Filologie.
One issue yearly. It may be referred to either as “volume 24, issue nr.1/2017” or as “volume
24, 2017”

ISSN 1224-7588
Responsabilitatea opiniilor, ideilor și atitudinilor exprimate în această publicație
revine exclusiv autorilor/The responsibility of the opinions, ideas and attitudes
expressed in this journal belongs solely to the authors

ADRESA REDACŢIEI
Contact

University of Oradea
Facultatea de Litere/Faculty of Letters
Universităţii Street no. 1, Pavilion C / 005, Oradea, 410087
Bihor, Romania
Fax/Tel: 00-40-259-408178; 00-40-259-408159
Email: analeromana@uoradea.ro
facultateadelitereoradea@gmail.com

Site-uri oficiale/Official Site: http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/

www.uoradea.ro; litere.uoradea.ro
www.facebook.com/pages/Facultatea-de-Litere-Oradea/174479065930383

©1967-2017

2
 ANALELE UNIVERSITĂŢII DIN ORADEA
FASCICULA LIMBA ȘI LITERATURA ROMÂNĂ

ALLRO

FASCICULA
LIMBA ŞI LITERATURA ROMÂNĂ
2017

ANNALS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ORADEA

ROMANIAN LANGUAGE
AND LITERATURE FASCICULE
Volume 24

EDITURA UNIVERSITĂŢII DIN ORADEA

2017

3
 A LLRO

COMITETUL DE REDACŢIE
EDITORIAL BOARD

EXECUTIVE EDITORS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Professor Ion SIMUȚ, PhD
Department of Romanian Language and Literature,
University of Oradea, Romania; Literary critic

ASSOCIATE EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Professor Ioan DERŞIDAN, PhD

EDITORIAL SECRETARY
Senior Lecturer Marius MIHEȚ, PhD

REVIEWS EDITORS: Associate Professor Dana SALA, PhD

Senior Lecturer Delia Maria RADU, PhD

SECTION EDITORS & WEB-MANAGEMENT:

Associate Professor Crenguța GÂNSCĂ, PhD
Associate Professor Dumitru DRAICA, PhD
Professor Florin CIOBAN, PhD
Senior Lecturer Magdalena INDRIEȘ, PhD
Senior Lecturer Paula NEMȚUȚ, PhD

4
 A LLRO

COLEGIUL ŞTIINŢIFIC
ADVISORY BOARD

Professor Marcel CORNIS-POPE, PhD

Virginia Commonwealth University, USA
Professor Fabrice DE POLI, PhD
Université de Lorraine, France
Professor Dan Octavian CEPRAGA, PhD
Padova University, Italy
Professor Marta CYWINSKA, PhD
State University, Warsaw, Poland
Professor Ambrus MISKOLCZY, PhD
ELTE University, Budapest, Hungary
Professor Aliona GRATI, PhD
„Ion Creangă” University, Chişinău, Moldova
Professor Antoaneta OLTEANU, PhD
Bucharest University, Romania
Professor Alexandru RUJA, PhD
West University, Timişoara, Romania
Professor Mircea A. DIACONU, PhD
„Ştefan cel Mare” University, Suceava, Romania
Professor Iulian BOLDEA, PhD
„Petru Maior” University, Târgu-Mureş, Romania
Professor Marian Victor BUCIU, PhD
Craiova University, Romania
Professor Gheorghe PERIAN, PhD
„Babeș-Bolyai” University, Cluj-Napoca, Romania
Professor habil Rudolf Windisch, PhD
University of Rostock, Germany

5
 CUPRINS / TABLE OF CONTENTS

201 7 A LLRO

CONFESSIONAL LITERATURE

OPENINGS /9

TEODOR MATEOC - HISTORICAL TRUTH AND FICTIONAL

REPRESENTATION IN WILLIAM STYRON’S THE CONFESSIONS OF NAT
TURNER / 11
IOANA CISTELECAN - FEMININE CONFESSIONS. EXPOSING YOUR TRUE
SELF / 20

CONFESSIONAL LITERATURE /29

ION SIMUȚ - REBREANU’S WORK – AN INDIRECT CONFESSION / 31

M A G D A L E N A I N D R I E Ș - MIRCEA ELIADE’S POETICS OF DIARY
WRITING/ 40
MARIUS MIHEŢ- LENA CONSTANTE. CONFESSIONS OF AN
INDESTRUCTIBLE HUMAN BEING / 57
D A N A S A L A - THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GENERATION AT
CROSSROADS: TIMPUL CE NI S-A DAT (THE TIME BESTOWED ON US) BY
ANNIE BENTOIU / 69
CRENGUŢA GÂNSCĂ - MARIN SORESCU’S CONFESSIONAL WRITING / 79
FLORICA MATEOC - VASSILIS ALEXAKIS: FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO
FICTION / 86
IOANA ALEXANDRESCU - SUR L'AUTOBIOGRAPHIE BRÈVE / 101
ALEXANDRA IOANA BOLDIȘ - CONFESSION AND ANTI-CONFESSION
IN THE NOVEL CEI DOI DIN DREPTUL ȚEBEI / 108
IULIA NEDEA - CONFESSION AND FICTION IN THE ESSAYS OF ILEANA
MĂLĂNCIOIU / 115
OANA NEICU - VIRGIL TĂNASE: AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND LITERARY
CREATION / 122
BEATRICE SZILAGYI (LUCACIU) - GABRIELA MELINESCU. THE IDENTITY
OF A WRITER IN EXILE / 127

6
TOUCHSTONES OF POST-WAR ROMANIAN LITERATURE / 133

ALIN ȘTEFĂNUȚ - ON THE CENTENNIAL OF HORIA LOVINESCU / 135

FLORIN CIOBAN - CĂTĂLIN DORIAN FLORESCU – BETWEEN BIOGRAPHY
AND FICTION / 143
RÓBERT FANCSALI - FILIP FLORIAN`S NOVEL DEGETE MICI AND
MAGICAL REALISM IN ROMANIAN LITERATURE / 148

CULINARY DISCOURSES & PRIVATE SPACE / 157

DELIA MARIA RADU - “VOT IS CUM’D TO MEIN KRAUT?” OR FOOD

AND DRINKS IN POE’S SHORT STORIES / 159
ANEMONA ALB - PARADIGMS (RE)-VISITED IN MARIUS CRISTIAN'S
"LEGENDS ON THE PLATE" / 168
DANA SALA - KITCHEN AND THE HEART(H)LAND OF A SPIRITUAL
JOURNEY IN THE FORTY RULES OF LOVE BY ELIF SHAFAK / 174
ADINA PRUTEANU - IMAGES OF WOMEN IN ROMANIAN FILMS
DURING COMMUNISM / 181

BOOK REVIEWS / 189

MARIUS MIHEȚ - ROMANIAN LITERATURE AS WORLD LITERATURE / 191

IOANA ALEXANDRESCU - JAMES RHODES: THE REDEEMING POWER OF
MUSIC/ 194
DANA SALA - THE SEAL OF CRITICISM / 197
RODICA BOGDAN - CARAGIALE AND THE IDENTITY COMPLEX / 200
FLORIN CIOBAN - PRESERVING THE ART OF STORYTELLING / 204
MARIUS MIHEŢ - POST-CANON MEMORY. WHAT CAN SURVIVE IN IT?
/ 207
IOANA ALEXANDRESCU - ENCOUNTER ON THE MIDDLE WAY / 210
DANA SALA - HAPPINESS AS A SOCIAL CONSTRUCT /213
MARIUS MIHEȚ - GABRIELA ADAMEȘTEANU. THE MONOGRAPH OF
PROVISIONALITY / 216

7
8
OPENINGS

DESCHIDERI

9
10
 HISTORICAL TRUTH AND FICTIONAL
REPRESENTATION IN WILLIAM STYRON’S THE
CONFESSIONS OF NAT TURNER

TEODOR MATEOC
tmateoc@uoradea.ro
Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universității Street no 1 Oradea, Romania
Article code 534-150

Abstract: The Confessions of Nat Turner illustrates best the change

of emphasis in the writer’s fiction. His direct involvement with a
controversial historical and political topic manifests itself in two ways: by
his (re)telling the story in the first person, from Nat’s perspective and by a
specific use of language that would reveal the mind of the black slave and
its motivations in a credible way. In Styron’s own words, the novel is “a
meditation on history” dealing with the specific issues of slavery and race
and involving a historical figure, but it also tackles issues like fictional
representation of history, authorial intention, or narrative reliability. My
reading of the novel is both thematic and rhetorical, looking at how
religious myth and specific cultural discourses may explain both the
motivation and the downfall of the hero.
Key words: American South, slavery, history, fiction, religion,
whiteness, blackness

Introduction

William Styron’s beginnings are clearly under the auspices of modernism.

His first novel, Lie Down in Darkness (1951) is a narrative of psychological
experimentation, celebrating the “private, subjective experience over public
experience”, as well as “language and technique” at the expense of
“traditional content”. (Barth, 65-71). This story of private neurotic anxieties
illustrates the modernist separation from history and the use of art as a
means of ordering reality. With its themes of guilt, time and incest, the
novel echoes William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury; the
psychologically vulnerable Peyton Loftis and her alarm clock reminds one
of Quentin Compson’ watch, both marking their countdown into death.
What may be less obvious in the novel is that Peyton’s struggle to define
her identity and understand the past- related through the use of stream-of-

11
consciousness technique in the penultimate section of the novel- is
paralleled by efforts of the author himself to find an authentic literary
voice. Both try to come to terms with the authoritative voices of the father:
in Styron’s case, Faulkner, in Peyton’s, her own loving father, Milton who
had turned to alcohol and is drinking his life away.
However, as Bakhtin had stated, “one’s own discourse although
born or dynamically stimulated by another will, sooner or later, begin to
liberate itself from the authority of other’s discourse” (Bakhtin, 348). In this
respect, Styron’s moving away from Faulkner and from the modernist
concerns is achieved by his growing interest for larger, historical issues, be
they militarism (The Long March, 1952), slavery (The Confessions of Nat
Turner, 1967), war and the Holocaust (Sophie’s Choice, 1979)
The narrative draws upon a single historical incident, the 1831 slave
uprising led by Nat Turner in the county of Southampton, Virginia, the
first of its magnitude in the long tradition of black slavery.1Apart from the
distorting temporal perspective, the other difficulty was the scarcity of
evidence concerning the rebellion and its leader; the only historical
document available was a twenty-page manuscript containing the
confessions of the rebels’ leader, made in prison while awaiting execution.
Nat’s words had been taken down to paper by the delegate of the Court,
Judge Thomas R. Gray and they were to be evidence for the prosecution.
But, the ‘disregard of facts”, as Styron argues in the Afterword to the
Vintage edition, allows the writer to move away from “the real” into “the
plausible”. It is exactly this fictitious elaboration upon historical data that
makes the novel artistically true and psychologically plausible.
The fictional biography of Nat Turner reads as bildungs roman, a
portrait of the black leader as a young man, following his progress from
infancy to a mature age. His emergence as a black leader is somehow
unexpected taking into account the particularities of his condition and of
his plan: race, context and time. In what concerns the first, Nat cannot
even pretend to act on behalf of his race. His own condition sets a limit to
his intrusion into the dominant culture, while his peculiar frame of mind
sets a limit to his immersion into his own culture. Aware of his difference
and of his standing within his master’s family, he begins more and more to
regard the “negroes” of the mill and fields as creatures “beneath contempt”.
As for the context of the actions, it can hardly justify his radicalism
since the three people that owned him: Samuel Turner, Thomas Moore
and Joseph Travis were all tolerant masters; on Marse Samuel’s property,
Nat remembers, “I became a pet, the darling, the little jewel of Turner’s
Mill”. (Confessions, 169). It is here that he learns to read and write and also
the trade of a carpenter, which accounts for the growing respect both
blacks and whites show him.
1
Before they were caught and executed, Nat Turner and his five disciples had killed thirty five whites.

12
 Thirdly, in what concerns timing, there is no critical moment in
the relations between the two races to justify the commencement of the
bloody crusade. One has to acknowledge, however, the symbolic
significance of Independence Day as the date when the insurrection
started.
The difficulty of dealing with Nat’s spiritual evolution and his
motivations has also to do with the religious screen that blurs the reader’s
perception of his actions. For Nathaniel (one of the twelve apostles, also
known as Bartholomew) is an exceptional, awe inspiring character.
Religious imagery is central in the book as it is central in the African-
American cultural expression. Nat Turner is a religious fanatic who
repeatedly uses the Bible as a “Conjure Book” in order to induce into his
black audience social, political and metaphysical transformations by ritual
incantations of such notions and figures as Egypt, Captivity, Exodus,
Moses or the Promised Land. Haunted by visions, hearing voices, fighting
carnal temptations, he seeks God’ guidance for his enterprise which he
seems to get when pretending to have heard. God tell him “I abide”.
Character treatment makes also use of subtler motivations
springing from cultural and behavioral roots. As E. B. Du Bois had stated in
his historical description of the African-American mind, The Souls of Black
Folk, being a black in America is a psychological state. The black man has a
double consciousness, this sense of always looking at oneself through the
eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on
in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels one’s twoness, an American, a
Negro; two souls, two unreconciled strivings, two warring ideals in one
dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder
(Baker& Redmond, 198)

The image of the divided psyche is reinforced by a second

significant description of the black mind by the same author in his
autobiography, Dusk of Dawn:
”It is difficult to see the full psychological meaning of caste segregation. It
is a though one, looking out of a dark cave…. sees the world passing and speaks of
it… but notices that the passing throng does not even turn its head, or if it does,
glances curiously and walks on. It gradually penetrates the minds of the prisoners
that the people passing do not hear, that some thick sheet of invisible but horribly
tangible plate glass is between them and the world. They get excited, they talk
louder, they gesticulate. The desire to break through the glass plate may drive
some people hysterical and violent” (qtd. in Baker and Redmond, 199)
Both formulations could apply to Nat Turner’s case. Living in a
world divided by race, he comes to internalize the divide and its historical
injustice. The opposite impulses between self-preservation and self
assertion turn him into a schizoid personality. Incapable of achieving
either, he feels “suspended… between two existences, troubled by
abandonment and loss” (Confessions, 229). After having finally broken

13
through the “glass plate” in a last desperate attempt to set the world right,
he is aware of the same split within himself” “It is not I who’s doing this, I
thought abruptly, it is someone else” (ibidem, 385).
Nat’s sense of total alienation from self transcends his concrete
situation and acquires larger existential meaning. Character treatment in
the framework of the narrative functions to foreground both an exemplary
human destiny and a communal tragedy. Nat Turner is Man in History; by
probing into his consciousness, Styron points to the dehabilitating effects
of a hierarchically organized society where human worth is assessed in
terms of color of the skin.

Myth as historical narrative

Styron’s novel, focusing, as it does, on an exceptional hero, invites a

reading that is akin to myth/archetypal criticism. As Northrop Frye had
argued, the purpose of myth “is not to describe a concrete situation, but to
contain it in such a way that it wouldn’t limit its meaning to that situation
alone. Its truth lies in its structure, not outside of it” (Frye, 78). Further on,
Frye speaks of two aspects of mythos:
“one is its narrative structure, which brings it close to literature, the other
is its social function of prospective knowledge, what is important for society to
know (…). Just like the poetic aspect turned back in literature to the biblical times,
the functional aspect turned toward historical and political thinking” (ibidem, 79)
Myths are, by nature, collective, communal and ubiquitos in time
and place. They transcend such determinations by uniting traditional
modes of belief (the past) with current values (the present) and reach out
toward the future, i.e., to spiritual and cultural aspirations.
In Southern literature the mythical dimension is accompanied by
the tragic mood. Indeed, in most narratives where the racial conflict is
central, the tragic dimension is inevitable since the conflict involves a hero
posited against impossible odds. Estrangement occurs both in the field of
social intercourse and in the metaphysical dimension. When the
connection between man and Transcendence is cut off, the result is the
feeling of ontological abandonment and meaningless despair. It is what
Nat Turner experiences while awaiting his sentence in Court “the same
feeling of apartness from God… washed over me in a chill, desolating gush
of anguish” (Confessions, 33). This is the protestant, Calvinistic God; divine
knowledge and predestination denies man any chance to shape his own
destiny. One does not choose, one is chosen. Nat repeatedly stresses the
“election” and even his desire to confess comes from God. He stresses the
idea of “innocence” in the sense of not having a choice but to obey, as is
apparent in one of his conversations with Thomas Grey in prison: ‘When
the Lord said to me, Mr. Gray, I knowed there was no other
course’...’What’d the Lord say to you again, Nat? Confess your sins, that-

14
what?’ ‘Not confess your sins, sir’, I replied. ‘He said confess. Just that.
Confess. That is important to relate. There was no “your sin” at all’.
Predestination may be the most general explanation for the tragic.
Driven by a power beyond his control, the hero, in challenging the limit,
can resort. to violence as a solution for fulfilling his destiny and as a way of
escaping suffering. Archetypally, “tragedy is a mimesis of sacrifice… a
paradoxical combination of a fearful sense of rightness (the hero must fall)
and a pitying sense of wrongness (it is too bad that he falls)’ (Frye, 216). In
this sense, the ending of Nat Turner is both inevitable and ironic.
Inevitable as he challenges the codes of a racially-structured society, the
universal order in the American South. On the other hand, Nat is innocent
or, rather, he is guilty only in the sense of being part of a guilty community.
The incongruous irony is that his death- ultimately as the victim of that
community - acquires something of the dignity of innocence that is
associated with scapegoating rituals.
Myth as religion and the tragic spirit are pervasive in the novel.
Both tragedy and Christianity reveal an epiphany of law, of what is and
must be, whether we speak of the law of, or of God. Just like Jesus Christ
enacts the inscrutable degrees of the Father, Nat Turner as the Black
Messiah may be said to repeat the Christic pattern of election, death and
resurrection into a mythical figure. (To one of Gray’s provocative
questions, Nat’s reply is: “Was not Christ crucified?”).
The myth of Nat Turner has been associated with either demonic
or benign features, depending on those who have used him- pro and anti-
abolitionists, fellow blacks etc- as an imagined configuration of
convictions, hopes and fears. The complexity of Nat’s figure is large
enough to include the present or, at least, the contemporary. The early
sixties, when Styron started working on the book, was somehow a period
comparable to the fictitious time of the narrative and its theme of slave
rebellion has echoes in the racial tensions of the Civil Rights Movement
and the dream of its leader, Martin Luther King.

White vs. Black. Dialogic Discourse and Cultural Imposition

The interplay between ‘whiteness’ and ‘blackness’ is manifest in the novel

primarily as a clash of discourses that is the result of the dialogic nature of
Nat’s narrative voice and of the concert of voices out of which his story
emerges.
A first argument for an interpretation of the narrative in terms of
its dialogic discourse is that the biblical/mythical, dream-like imagery lends
itself to a linguistic analysis. For Paul Ricoeur, the dream expresses “the
private archeology of the sleeping subject”. Dream, a private mythology
and myth as the actual dream of a community meet in the linguistic realm
because it is only through language that they can be told and interpreted,

15
since “any mythos implies a latent Logos that must be revealed” (Ricoeur,
23; 27)
Secondly, the very choice of Nat as narrator bespeaks the novel’s
concern with language. Many of the conflicting patterns in the narrative
are related to Nat’s use of language and his inability to communicate even
with sympathetic whites. Actually, his discourse is reader oriented rather
than oriented toward other characters in the novel. As Eugen D. Genovese
has shown, part of what Styron is saying comes down to the truth that” the
perversity of slavery and the racism at its root imprisons oppressor and
oppressed, with human communication breaking down under the tyranny
of the system (Casciato &West, 201)
Nat’s discourse and its dialogic nature has been the subject of
frequent critical discussions. Samuel Coale, in William Styron Revisited
(1991) sees Nat as having two languages, as copying two linguistic modes:
“the nigger gabble” (Styron’s phrase), i.e., the servile rhetoric that masters
expect of him, and the prestigious language of reason and the Bible. In
Gavin Cologne-Brookes‘ opinion, the protagonist’s use of language is even
more complex; he may be seen as using four modes of speech: the “nigger
gabble’ he uses with most whites, his black dialect used with his fellow
slaves, his preacher rhetoric and his narrative idiom.
Although it is clear that the narrative voice is dominant, it is far
from being unitary. Nat’s narration is itself dialogic as his confessions, like
most autobiographical writings, illustrates the mental and temporal gap
between the voices of the present and former, younger selves. Nat as the
protagonist of the events feels secure, even proud of his linguistic abilities
and confident that such skills may help him in the future. Nat as narrator,
on the other hand, has become more skeptical about his destiny and also
more aware that the ambiguity of language can work not only for, but also
against him. Narrator and narrative figure converge in the retrospective
examination as “Nat traces the gradual loss of his sense of destiny and
turns his search to trying to understand what has happened” (Brookes, 104)
The position of language as a major trope is apparent from the very
beginning. The novel is framed, in a palimpsest-like manner by several
texts before actually reaching Nat’s narrative: the alpha-omega sign, the
Author’s note, Gray’s introduction to the historical confessions and a
biblical passage.
The alpha-omega sign is obviously related to Nat’s biblical
motivation and it also points to what is religiously allegorical in the novel,
since it is the sign denoting Christ in the New Testament.
In the Author’s Note, Styron seeks to explain a purpose behind the
account and to emphasize the fictionalized quality of the narrative: Styron
is not Nat, but the man portrayed by Styron is not Nat, either, but only an
imaginative recreation of him as part of his “meditation upon history”. The
reader is warned about the volatile relationship between the historical

16
material and the author’s use of it and informed that, since 1831 is “a long
time and only yesterday” (Confessions, 442), the novel extends its relevance
to beyond its strict historical context and subject.
As for Thomas Gray’s depiction of Nat as “diabolic” and “gloomy
fanatic”, it led Styron to recreate and re-humanize Nat:
”I didn’t want to write about a psychopathic monster…So, without
sacrificing the essence of the Old Testament vengeance that plainly animated Nat,
I attempted to moderate this aspect of his character and in so doing give him
dimensions of humanity that were almost totally absent in the documentary
evidence. When stern piety replaced demonic fanaticism, the man could be better
understood”. (Idem, Ibidem)
Concerning the fourth text, taken from the Bible, Brookes makes
the subtle remark that “being a prophecy….it is phrased with certitude.
Through its insistence that final judgment is yet to occur, it challenges
whatever judgment whites have passed on Nat” (Brookes, 106)
Nat’s own narrative is very different. It comes from a man whose
certitude has disappeared; if young Nat had found pride in his early ability
with language, Nat as narrator has a far better knowledge of its power and
traps. He has also come to realize the need to use a discourse meant to
deceive or persuade rather than actually communicate. He signifies upon
Gray’s authoritative discourse in order to deconstruct and denounce his
hypocrisy and that of the system he represents. When he speaks, he
responds to Gray with his mild ‘nigger gabble’ so as to oblige him and keep
him in a favorable mood: ‘Now sir, I’m a tired man, but I’m ready to
confess, because the Lord has given this nigger a sign’ (Confessions, 15).
The fact that Gray fails to smell the falsity of Nat’s words questions his
own linguistic ability; eager for the confession and flattered by the use of
sir he feels reassured and safe and agrees to have Nat’s manacles removed.
And, significantly, only then does Nat’s true confession flow freely.
The cell where Nat is imprisoned, can be seen as a microcosm of
the southern world and also as that of his mind, ‘a battleground for power
through language (Brookes, 114). In Nat’s retrospective reconsideration of
his destiny, the language trope remains central since this identified him
with the white cultural formation. Yet his education hid a contradiction in
the sense that it taught him the values of a society that was to block his
path. With verbal access to both white and black worlds, he was at home in
neither. Alienated from blacks, he felt no closer to whites. Inevitably his
bondage is both actual and cultural. Everything he had learnt shows just
how entangled he is with everything he aims to reject: the choice of the 4th
of July as the onset of his rebellion; the white clichés and ideology
embedded in his discourse; manifest destiny, new world, liberty; his pride
in being, probably, the only one ‘among his race in bondage’ to have read
Walter Scott and know the ‘name of the President’ and ‘the capital of New
Jersey- they all show that his bondage is more than physical.

17
 Nat’s original faith in language was tied up with religious belief:
the word fused with the Word, the Logos. When his master breaks his
promise to set him free and sells him, Nat loses all confidence in the word
and embittered by the ambiguity of the social discourse undergoes a sort of
rebirth into hatred and takes the Bible as his accompanying ideology.
However, although the Bible is the fundamental source underpinning
Nat’s sense of destiny, its messages are themselves ambiguous. From its
heteroglossia, passages can be selected to validate contrary viewpoints and,
as Judge Cobb does, even to validate slavery:
”Theology must answer theology. Speak you of liberty? Speak you of the
yoke of bondage? How then, country magistrate, do you answer this? Ephesians
Six, Five: Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the
flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ? Or this,
my hayseed colleague, how answer you this? One Peter, Two, Eighteen: Servant, be
subjects to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to
the forward. There, friend -there- is not that divine sanction for the bondage of
which you rave and prattle?” (Confessions, 64)
With all its inner contradictions, the Bible remains important not
only for Nat, but also for what it suggests as a solution for the racial
dilemma, i.e., that there might be another way, apart from vengeance, for
spiritual and social comfort across the color line. At the end of the novel,
we come across another biblical reference: “Beloved, let us love one
another; for love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God, and
knoweth God” (Confessions, 426). The implication is that Nat’s reaction to
the wrongs he has suffered, however justified, runs counter to his
fundamental yearning for harmony rather than for hatred.
If such a suggestion could be taken as Styron’s intended message
for the novel, Nat’s own viewpoint is contradictory to the very end. (‘I
would have done it all again”). But what Styron intended and so brilliantly
achieved was to bring historical facts, and in particular slavery, into the
light of contemporary historical consciousness, with the hope of renewed
awareness of the evil of the past and of man’s moral responsibility for it.

Conclusion

In dealing with the issue of slavery and race, William Styron’s novel brings
into prominence religious mythology together with issues of language and
of the textuality of history. He returns to race, a crucial concern for much
Southern writing, out of moral indignation, willing to confront and
understand blackness in an effort to understand the insidious ways in
which the workings of a particularly restrictive cultural context can distort
and pervert human nature. Nat’s madness is the madness of slavery, his
efforts to ground his actions in some sort of ontological certainty are those
of any individual caught in a limit situation, a cultural schizophrenia
impossible to transcend, as he is both part of and excluded from it.

18
REFERENCES

Baker, Houston, A & Redmond, Patricia, eds. (1989) Afro-American Literary Study in
the 1990s, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.
Bakhtin, Mikhail (1981) The Dialogic Imagination. Four Essays, translated by C.
Emerson & M. Holquist, Austin, Texas: University of Texas Press.
Barth, John (1980) ‘The Literature of Replenishment: Posmodernist Fiction’, in
The Atlantic, no.245.
Casciato A. D & West, James. W. eds (1982), Critical Essays on William Styron, Boston
University Press
Cologne-Brookes, Gavin (1995), The Novels of William Styron. From Harmony to
History, Baton Rouge, Louisiana State University Press
Frye, Northrop (1990) Anatomy of Criticism. Four Essays, Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press.
Ricoeur, Paul (1983) ‘On Interpretation’, in A. Montefiore, ed., Philosophy in France
Today, Cambridge UK: Cambridge University Press.
Styron, William (1993) The Confessions of Nat Turner, New York and London: Vintage
Books.

19
 FEMININE CONFESSIONS. EXPOSING YOUR
TRUE SELF

IOANA CISTELECAN
ioana_cistelecan@yahoo.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code - 535-151

Abstract: The present paper intends to perform a sort of an x-ray

on concepts such as: diary, femininity, feminism and then focus on the
particular case of Simone de Beauvoir - woman and philosopher, by
underlining both the singularity of her diarist voice and the daring attitude
transpiring all over her philosophical texts.
Key words: diary, femininity, feminism, confession, marginality

Preamble

Nowadays we wonder sometimes whether more is written (rightly or

wrongly) about meta-literature than about literature itself; and of course,
many words are spilled (since ink is hardly around any longer!) on the
legitimacy of such an approach. The fact is that among the many
approaches to "marginality" at least one enjoys a long pedigree and has
been debated for a good number of decades, perhaps centuries: the diary.
Diaries have been around in one way or another for a long while
perhaps precisely because they involve so many kinds of marginality. The
most important among these seems to be that diaries are somehow half-
way between the oral and the written, partaking of features belonging to
both. Almost as important is the symbiosis between the documentary and
the fictional (or the "constructivist", not to say “the imaginary”). Finally, the
broad aperture and communication between the literary-canonical on the
one hand and the ordinary-colloquial on the other in the case of many
diaries ought not to be overlooked.
The literary genre of the Journal intime / intimate came out in
France in the 19th century. Previously, many diarists kept and left records
of their daily doings and observations, which are of great interest to the
historians. Most diaries, even those of writers, have been published

20
posthumously, not having been intended for the public eye.1 From the
1840s, however, the journals intime attained the status of a literary genre,
and from this time on, if not before, diarists have usually been conscious of
writing not for themselves alone, but for the future readers. In some cases,
such as those of Gide, Mauriac, and Green, they began to publish their
journals in their own lifetime.
A diary is definitely a strange document. When somebody keeps
one, he/ she is certainly aware of the reality that someone might publish it
posthumously, years after he/ she first got famous, years after they’ve died.
Readers will have a new vision on their work. Nevertheless, their friends
and lovers might stumble on and find something in its pages to shock
them. The diary, even today - or especially today - is purer and less slimy
than the blog. Even if you publish it before you die, à la Anais Nin, there’s a
certain craft to what you publish. Before sending it out into the world, you
find its whole skeleton, its master themes, instead of spewing arbitrary bits
of bitterness into the ether. It is a beautiful thing. Readers can watch you
transform from the inside out.
Diaries are by definition linear; the disruption of chronological
narration is one of the most recognizable characteristics of early
modernism. Elizabeth Podnieks2 persuasively argues that the techniques of
diary-writing, for example dashes and ellipses indicating a fluid stream of
thought, resemble those in Joyce's or Woolf's fiction. This leads to the
more problematic assertion that the "diary may be considered the
quintessential text of modernist fragmentation"3. The fragmentation
referred to represents the regular intervention of the date; on this basis, all
diaries from any period are modernist within Podnieks' definition, "at once
fragmentary and unified"4. Podnieks focuses on four women writers:
Virginia Woolf, Antonia White5, Elizabeth Smart1, and Anaïs Nin. She
1
According to Brian Dobbs, Dear Diary: A Survey of Diaries and Diarists (London, 1974).
2
Elizabeth Podnieks is an Associate Professor in the Department of English and the Joint Ryerson/York
Graduate Program in Communication and Culture. Her teaching and research interests include
Modernism, Motherhood Studies, Life Writing, Popular/Celebrity Culture, Scholarly Editing, and
Digital Humanities. She has published on a range of figures from Modernists Emily Coleman, Virginia
Woolf, Anaïs Nin, and Zelda Fitzgerald to Perez Hilton, Angelina Jolie, and celebrity mom bloggers.
3
See Elizabeth Podnieks, Daily Modernism: The Literary Diaries of Virginia Woolf, Antonia White,
Elizabeth Smart, and Anaïs Nin (McGill-Queen’s UP, 2000).
4
See Elizabeth Podnieks, quoted edition.
5
Antonia White was a British writer. Although she is remembered as a modernist writer, she developed
a terrible fear of writing after a misunderstanding when she was 15. She had been working on what was
going to be her first novel, meant as a present for her father. She wanted to surprise him with a book
about wicked people whose lives are changed as they discover religion. She attempted to give a detailed
description of the evil characters, but, because of her lack of experience, she was unable to describe
their wickedness except to say that they “Indulged in nameless vices”. The story was found unfinished
by officials at her Catholic school and she was then expelled from the school without being given the
opportunity to explain her book. She describes this incident as being her most vivid and tragic memory.
“My superb gift to my father was absolutely my undoing” she remarked in an interview. She did not
begin writing novels again until 20 years later, when her father died. (Frost in May; The Lost Traveller;
The Sugar House; Beyond the Glass; Strangers.)

21
argues that the diary as a genre is a fluid form which crosses generic
boundaries into autobiography and fiction. Some of her writers seem to
have created in their diaries a fictitious version of their domestic lives -
what they would have liked to happen rather than what actually occurred.
Disappointment, neglect, and embarrassment can be transmuted into an
idyllic childhood and passionate love affairs in a diary; Podnieks suggests
that rewriting the script may provide a kind of therapy and eventually
enable self-analysis. The writers' relationships with their diaries are
described, as well. It is always intimate and sometimes as powerful as a
human bond, in that Nin, for example, comments that all the men in her
life "would slay the journal if they could"2, as if it were a sexual rival.
Podnieks shows how the writers re-read, re-wrote, and edited their diaries,
arguing that all of them saw their journals as publishable texts, though the
evidence for this is much stronger for Nin than for Woolf. Podnieks is
particularly illuminating in her detailed account of the physical appearance
of the original diaries. Woolf's early interest in book-binding is exemplified
revealingly through her 1899 diary: "A sudden idea struck me, that it would
be original useful & full of memories if I embedded the foregoing pages in
the leaves of some worthy & ancient work.".3 She chose Isaac Watts' Logick:
or, The Right Use of Reason, and pasted her hand-written pages on to
Watts' text; as Podnieks suggests, this was a resonant action. White's diary
is contained in thirty-nine notebooks; Smart's challenges the researcher
with a poem beginning: "Keep out / Keep out / Your snooting snout". Nin's
diaries are self-consciously presented as texts from the first, written when
she was eleven years old. Podnieks' own strategy is as fluid as that of the
diaries, in that it fluctuates between biography, literary analysis, and
gender studies. Post-impressionism is linked to an essay by Woolf written
in 1935; a passage from White's diary written in 1967 is described as totally
modernist. Though Podnieks rightly asserts that there are many versions of
modernism, it would be helpful to the reader to have a theorized model of
how the writer interprets modernism, rather than a random list of
characteristics which, individually, are not necessarily modernist.
Thematically, dreams and transgressed sexuality are staples of Renaissance
drama; stylistically, fragmentation and disruption occur in metaphysical
poetry. The argument is not clarified by the assertion that there "are strains
of autobiography that could not be transcended in the works of Joyce or
Eliot", and that good poetry "is not dependent upon the extinction of
personality"4; that writers use their own experience in their work is not in
1
Elizabeth Ann Smart-Gilmour is an American activist and contributor for ABC News. She first gained
widespread attention at the age of 14 when she was kidnapped from her home and rescued nine
months later. In October 2013 a 308-page-memoir of Elizabeth Smart's experience written with Chris
Stewart was published by St. Martin's Press. The book details both Smart's kidnapping and the
formation of the Elizabeth Smart Foundation which tries to promote awareness about abduction.
2
According to Elizabeth Podnieks, quoted edition.
3
According to Idem.
4
See Idem.

22
question, but the polyphony of Eliot's narrator in The Waste Land or of
Woolf's in To the Lighthouse destabilizes their texts, in Elizabeth
Podnieks’s professional opinion.
Historically, women kept records of their families' economic
transactions, their husbands' accomplishments, and the births and deaths
of family members. During the Victorian era, however, these records
became more personal. At a time when individual rights and liberties were
emphasized, women wrote more often of their own feelings: their opinions
on the institution of marriage, their political beliefs, and their aspirations.
Until recently, the study of nineteenth-century women's diaries focused
primarily on figures such as Jane Welsh Carlyle1 and Dorothy
Wordsworth2, both of whom were related to and acquainted with members
of the literary canon. Scholars also read diaries to study the
accomplishments of writers such as Louisa May Alcott, Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, George Eliot, George Sand, and Mary Shelley, or to witness the
political dealings of people like Queen Victoria. However, diaries of
seemingly ordinary women are now being studied because they make
apparent the thoughts of nineteenth-century women, enlarging the history
of the era. Women's private writings are thus recognized as valuable tools
to fully understanding the nineteenth century.

Applying on Simone de Beauvoir’s Wartime Diary.

Singularity and Marginality in Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex

Simone Lucie Ernestine Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir, commonly known as
Simone de Beauvoir (1908–1986) was a French existentialist philosopher
who employed a literary-philosophical method in her essays, including
Ethics of Ambiguity (1947) and The Second Sex (1949), as well as in her
novels, multi-volume autobiography, and other works.3
The Second Sex, published in French, sets out a feminist
existentialism which prescribes a moral revolution. Gender is a social
construct in which different societies display different views and thoughts
about which roles a man and a woman should fulfill. The feminist ideology
emphasis on women’s ability to show and maintain their equality through
1
Jane Welsh Carlyle was the wife of essayist Thomas Carlyle and has been cited as the reason for his
fame and fortune. She was most notable as a letter-writer. The Scottish philosopher David George
Ritchie, a friend of the Carlyle family, published a volume of her letters in 1889 under the title The
Early Letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle. Thomas published his highly self-critical Reminiscences of Jane
Welsh Carlyle out of guilt after he read her diary posthumously.
2
Dorothy Mae Ann Wordsworth was an English author, poet and diarist. She was the sister of the
Romantic poet William Wordsworth, and the two were close all their lives. Wordsworth had no
ambitions to be an author, and her writings consist only of series of letters, diary entries, poems and
short stories.
3
See Benjamin Ivry, Special to The Chronicle, Memoir review: De Beauvoir's 'Wartime Diary' Published
4:00 am, Tuesday, December 23, 2008

23
their own actions and choices in both domestic work and the workplace.
De Beauvoir defines women as the “Second sex” since women are always
defined in relation to men. De Beauvoir argued that women have
historically been considered deviant, abnormal. Beauvoir wrote The
Second Sex so that women could understand themselves as selves free
from idealized notions of femininity… She traces female development
through its formative stages: childhood, youth, and sexual initiation. Her
goal is to prove that women are not born “feminine” but shaped by a
thousand external processes. De Beauvoir claimed that this attitude limited
women's success by maintaining the perception that they were a deviation
from the normal, and were always outsiders attempting to emulate
"normality". She believed feminism should move forward. In The Second
Sex, De Beauvoir discusses the logistical hurdles any woman faces in
pursuing this goal. Her work is an exposition of "the pervasiveness and
intensity and mysteriousness of the history of women's oppression".1 As an
existentialist, Beauvoir believed that existence precedes essence; hence one
is not born a woman, but becomes one. Her analysis focuses on the
Hegelian concept of the Other. It is the (social) construction of Woman as
the quintessential Other that Beauvoir identifies as fundamental to
women's oppression. The capitalized 'O' in "other" indicates the wholly
other. Beauvoir asserted that women are as capable of choice as men, and
thus can choose to elevate themselves, moving beyond the 'immanence' to
which they were previously resigned and reaching 'transcendence', a
position in which one takes responsibility for oneself and the world, where
one chooses one's freedom. She argued that men used this as an excuse not
to understand women or their problems and not to help them, and that
this stereotyping was always done in societies by the group higher in the
hierarchy to the group lower in the hierarchy.2 She wrote that this also
happened on the basis of other categories of identity, such as race, class,
and religion. But she also said that it was nowhere more truly than with
gender in which men stereotyped women and used it as an excuse to
organize society into a patriarchy.
Beauvoir argued that women have historically been considered
deviant, abnormal. She said that even Mary Wollstonecraft3 considered
men to be the ideal toward which women should aspire. Beauvoir
promoted the idea that this attitude limited women's success by
maintaining the perception that they were a deviation from the normal,
and were always outsiders attempting to emulate "normality". She believed
that for feminism to move forward, this assumption must be set aside.
1
According to Harshita Rathee, Feminist Views in Simone De Beauvoir’s ‘The Second Sex’: A Critical
Analysis, Online International Interdisciplinary Research Journal, Volume-V, Sept 2015, Special Issue.
2
See Harshita Rathee, quoted edition.
3
Mary Wollstonecraft was an English writer who advocated for women's equality. Her book A
Vindication of the Rights of Woman pressed for educational reforms.

24
 Beauvoir wrote The Second Sex, as mentioned before, so that
women could understand themselves as selves free from idealized notions
of femininity. De Beauvoir goes into great detail to debunk what she refers
to as “the eternal feminine,” or that “vague and basic essence, femininity.”1
This myth takes many forms - the sanctity of the mother, the purity of the
virgin, the fecundity of the womb - but in all cases it exclusively serves to
deny women’s individuality and trap them inside unrealizable ideals. She
wonders on the facts that why there are no books written on women, she
wonders why there is nothing to write about the women in spite of the fact
that she is also the other part of the society and is equally important as
man. She uses the phrase “the eternal feminine” to describe all the
terrifying processes of fertility and reproduction that arose from male
discomfort with the fact of his birth and the inevitability of his death. As
the author of human history, man has conflated woman with her womb.
He has lumped all those mysterious processes of life and reminders of
death, which both confuse and frighten him, under a single dismissive
myth. She expresses that women are not just a ’womb’. Women are much
more than that. De Beauvoir points out that just as there is no such thing
as the “eternal masculine,” there should be no such thing as “eternal
feminine.” Or, to put it differently: there is no essence, only experience.
She is equally important and essential as man. Without women, men are
nothing and vice versa so there is no way to put women behind or make
them feel that they are not essential. All beings, de Beauvoir insists, have
the right to define their own existences rather than labor under some
vague notion of “femininity.”2

Singularity and Marginality in Simone de Beauvoir’s Wartime Diary

Written from September 1939 to January 1941, Simone de Beauvoir’s

Wartime Diary3 gives modern readers unabridged access to one of the
scandalous texts that threaten to overturn traditional views of Beauvoir’s
life and work. The account in Beauvoir’s Wartime Diary of her clandestine
affair with Jacques Bost4 and sexual relationships with various young
women challenges the conventional picture of Beauvoir as the devoted
companion of Jean-Paul Sartre, just as her account of completing her novel
She Came to Stay at a time when Sartre’s philosophy in Being and
Nothingness was barely begun calls into question the traditional view of
Beauvoir’s novel as merely illustrating Sartre’s philosophy.
1
See Beauvoir, Simone de, The Second Sex, Trans. Constance Borde and Sheila Malovany-Chevallier,
Random House: Alfred A. Knopf, (2009)
2
See Healey, J. F., Race, Ethnicity, Gender and Class: The Sociology of Group Conflict and Change,
2003.
3
Simone de Beauvoir, Wartime Diary, University of Illinois Press, 2008.
4
Jacques-Laurent Bost, a French journalist, a friend of Sartre and the lover of Simone de Beauvoir.

25
 Most importantly, the Wartime Diary provides an exciting account
of Beauvoir’s philosophical transformation from the prewar solipsism of
She Came to Stay to the postwar political engagement of The Second Sex.
Cast in the crucible of the Nazi Occupation, Beauvoir’s existentialist ethics
reflects dramatic collective experiences, such as joining the tide of refugees
fleeing the German invasion in June 1940, as well as the courageous
reaffirmation of her individuality in constructing a humanist ethics of
freedom and solidarity in January 1941. In providing new insights into
Beauvoir’s philosophical development, the Wartime Diary promises to
rewrite a crucial chapter of Western philosophy and intellectual history.
Wartime Diary ensures that many more voyeurs will continue to stare
admiringly. She will definitely remain a feminist icon and she indubitably
was a shocking exhibitionist. Wartime Diary is a snapshot of a woman at a
defining moment in world history, as well as the defining moment in her
own career and philosophical development. The revelations in Beauvoir’s
Wartime Diary are stunning, stimulating, and exciting. This diary shows
the importance of Beauvoir’s influence on Sartre and the originality of her
own thought. It gives the contemporary audience a first glimpse into the
world in which Beauvoir wrote some of her most important novels and
philosophical books.
Some have found Beauvoir's exclusion from the domain of
philosophy more than a matter of taking Beauvoir at her word. They
attribute it to a narrow view of philosophy which, rejecting the method of
the metaphysical novel, ignored the philosophical issues raised, explored
and argued in Beauvoir's literary works. Between those who did not
challenge Beauvoir's self-portrait, those who did not accept her
understanding of philosophy and thereby ignored the philosophical
implications of her fiction, and those who missed the unique signature of
her philosophical essays, Beauvoir the philosopher remained a lady in
waiting.1
Some have argued that the belated admission of Beauvoir into the
ranks of philosophers is a matter of sexism on two accounts. The first
concerns the fact that Beauvoir was a woman. Her philosophical writings
were read as echoes of Sartre rather than explored for their own
contributions because it was only “natural” to think of a woman as a
disciple of her male companion. The second concerns the fact that she
wrote about women. The Second Sex, recognized as one of the hundred
most important works of the twentieth century, would not be counted as
philosophy because it dealt with sex, hardly a burning philosophical issue.2

1
See Memoir review: De Beauvoir's 'Wartime Diary', Benjamin Ivry, Special to The Chronicle,
Published 4:00 am, Tuesday, December 23, 2008.
2
See Benjamin Ivry, quoted article.

26
 There are some thinkers who are, from the very beginning,
unambiguously identified as philosophers (e.g., Plato). There are others
whose philosophical place is forever contested (e.g., Nietzsche); and there
are those who have gradually won the right to be admitted into the
philosophical fold. Simone de Beauvoir is one of these belatedly
acknowledged philosophers. Identifying herself as an author rather than as
a philosopher and calling herself the midwife of Sartre's existential ethics
rather than a thinker in her own right, Beauvoir's place in philosophy is
now gaining adhesion. But above all, Simone de Beauvoir’s Wartime Diary
most definitely represents a courageous, daring and painfully honest and
direct exposure of her inner true self, a quite appealing confession for the
modern reader.

REFERENCES

Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex. Trans. Constance Borde and Sheila Malovany-
Chevallier, Random House: Alfred A. Knopf, (2009)
Simone de Beauvoir, Wartime Diary, University of Illinois Press, 2008.
Brian Dobbs, Dear Diary: A Survey of Diaries and Diarists (London, 1974).
Healey, J. F., Race, Ethnicity, Gender and Class: The Sociology of Group Conflict and
Change, 2003.
Benjamin Ivry, Memoir review: De Beauvoir's 'Wartime Diary', Special to The
Chronicle, December Issue, 2008.
Elizabeth Podnieks, Daily Modernism: The Literary Diaries of Virginia Woolf, Antonia
White, Elizabeth Smart, and Anaïs Nin, McGill-Queen’s UP, 2000.
Harshita Rathee, Feminist Views in Simone De Beauvoir’s ‘The Second Sex’: A Critical
Analysis, Online International Interdisciplinary Research Journal, Volume-V, Sept 2015
Special Issue.

27
28
CONFESSIONAL
LITERATURE

LITERATURA
CONFESIVĂ

29
30
 OPERA REBRENIANĂ - O CONFESIUNE
INDIRECTĂ
REBREANU’S WORK – AN INDIRECT CONFESSION

ION SIMUȚ
ionsimut@rdslink.ro
Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 536-152

Abstract: Liviu Rebreanu avoided first-person confession in his

fictional prose, but this could not hide the confessive character of some
of his writings. The author acknowledged in interviews or explanatory
articles the autobiographical events which were at the basis of his
narrative constructions attributed to his epic invention and imaginative
speculation. In this way, the autobiographical sources are revealed, and
Rebreanu’s work very discretely shows its confessive side, in an indirect
manner.
Key words: Liviu Rebreanu, indirect confession, autobiographical
fiction, hidden guilt, compensatory imagination

Explicaţiile scriitorilor despre motivele prezumtive ale propriului

scris sunt foarte diverse, aproape imposibil de clasificat. Câteva revin de
la un scriitor la altul, dacă avem, totuşi, curiozitatea să le clasificăm şi
dacă ne asumăm riscul să simplificăm. Unii invocă la originea actului de
creaţie literară raţiunea supremă a existenţei, un mod de răscumpărare a
păcatului metafizic de a exista, o justificare abstractă, filosofic-
existenţialistă, a propriei existenţe ca eşec. Alţii gândesc şi simt religios,
aşezând la originea scrisului literar o tentativă de înnobilare a omului, ca
o formă de compensaţie a păcatului biblic sau de participare orgolioasă la
creaţia divină. Pentru alţii, conştiinţe profane, creaţia literară e un joc
superior, o formă de exprimare născută dintr-un spirit ludic, gratuit. În
sfârşit, în cele mai multe dintre cazuri, creaţia literară se situează printre
formele de competiţie fie socială, fie estetică (afirmare a individualităţii,
exprimarea unei originalităţi, dobândirea prestigiului şi a succesului etc.).
Ştim din mărturisirile sentenţioase din Cred (1926), aşezate ca prefaţă la
volumul testamentar Amalgam (1943), că Liviu Rebreanu opta pentru a
doua variantă din cele pe care le-am particularizat aici. Arta – afirma

31
scriitorul – „înseamnă creaţie de oameni şi de viaţă”, devenind în acest fel
consubstanţială creaţiei divine: „Creând oameni vii, cu viaţă proprie, cu
lume proprie, scriitorul se apropie de misterul eternităţii”. Arta ca joc sau
calofilie, scrisul ca „jucărie agreabilă” şi „jonglerie cu fraze” sunt
repudiate. Nu mai reiau aceste mărturisiri ultracunoscute şi ultraglosate.
Explicaţiile raţionale ale unui mod de a gândi actul de creaţie
literară, sanctificat de unii (ca Rebreanu) sau înţeles în resorturile lui mai
profane de alţii, nu exclud însă motivaţiile mai obscure, din zonele
profunde ale conştiinţei. De acolo pot veni uneori, ca în cazul lui
Rebreanu, ecourile unei vinovăţii ce trebuie contracarate. Ca să anticip
consideraţiile care urmează, voi spune că proza lui Liviu Rebreanu
rezultă, nu doar în experienţele iniţiale, din străduinţa dureroasă a unei
disculpări. Dar aceste disculpări nu sunt niciodată directe sau explicite,
pentru că prozatorul evită sistematic să se pună pe sine în ecuație, din
convingerea că nu trebuie să scrie transparent despre sine, așa cum
afirma în explicația din Cred (1926), profesiunea sa de credință în
privința scrisului; proza nu trebuie să aibă o relație vizibilă cu autorul:
„M-am sfiit totdeauna să scriu pentru tipar la persoana întâi.
Hiperbolizarea aceasta a eului (...) mi se pare puţin ridicolă”.
Astfel încât este legitim să vorbim numai de o confesiune indirectă,
deghizată în opera rebreniană. Identificarea resorturilor autobiografice
ale unor proze rebreniene de ficțiune se poate face numai în urma unor
explorări documentare adecvate. Istoria literară a confruntat de mai
multe ori biografia cu opera, iar rezultatele au adus dezvăluiri
semnificative. De la debut spre maturitate, pe măsură ce epuizează aceste
resurse, opera rebreniană rupe legătura cu biografia autorului.

Disculpările învinsului

În 1919, când apare volumul Calvarul, la Editura universală Alcalay, Liviu

Rebreanu avea 34 de ani, era un publicist cunoscut îndeosebi din
cronicile de teatru şi un prozator puţin creditat şi comentat, care
publicase câteva volume de nuvele: Frământări (1912), Golanii şi
Mărturisire (ambele în 1916), Răfuiala (1919). Calvarul se prezintă ca
mărturisirea testamentară a unui poet şi gazetar, Remus Lunceanu, de 31
de ani (deci cu o mică diferenţă în minus faţa de vârsta autorului),
frământat până la istovire de suspiciunile confraţilor, în timpul primului
război. Plecat din Ardeal în urmă cu zece ani, e suspectat la Bucureşti, în
timpul ocupaţiei germane, de lipsă de loialitate faţă de statul austro-
ungar; refugiat la Iaşi, din teama de a nu fi arestat şi probabil condamnat
la moarte pentru eschivă de la recrutare, e bănuit de confraţi ca spion al
regimului de ocupaţie. Suspiciunea generalizată îl copleşeşte, îl împinge
la sinucidere, după cum se explică resorturile acestei drame în
avertismentul autorului:

32
 „Un om şi-a curmat viaţa în clipa în care a înţeles limpede că,
între el şi oamenii spre care năzuise din toate adâncimile sufletului său,
s-a deschis o prăpastie – atâta tot”.
Întregul roman nu va fi deci altceva decât confesiunea unui
învins, adresată unei posterităţi incerte, scrisă de-a lungul unei nopţi,
înainte de a se sinucide, „povestirea unei agonii zbuciumate, zvârlită pe
hârtie într-o grabă înfrigurată, în ultimele ceasuri ale scriitorului”. Un
manuscris însângerat e recuperat ca o mărturie acuzatoare pentru un
timp nefast: „În urma poetului mort de bunăvoie a rămas un teanc de file
stropite cu sânge”. Remus Lunceanu îşi descrie calvarul moral cu pistolul
pe masă, gata să-şi pună capăt zilelor îndată ce va isprăvi această
mărturisire prin care mai speră vag să se facă înţeles, cel puţin postum,
dacă nu a izbutit în timpul vieţii sale nefericite. Moartea sa îi va acuza, îi
va culpabiliza pe cei care l-au împins la gestul ultim. Modest, timid, cu un
spirit moderat al contrazicerii – după cum se descrie din primele pagini
ale confesiunii - , a favorizat urzirea în jurul său a unei „atmosfere stranii,
în care se prind prea lesne toate bănuielile, toate învinurile, toate săgeţile
otrăvite” (v. Opere 3, text ales şi stabilit, note, comentarii şi variante de
Niculae Gheran şi Nicolae Liu, Editura pentru literatură, 1968, p. 10).
Remus Lunceanu trăieşte secolul XX, de la începuturile sale, ca pe o „eră
a suspiciunii”, cum am spune după Nathalie Sarraute. El are „conştiinţa
cinstei” (p. 11), însă nu şi capacitatea de a insufla altora această
convingere despre onestitatea sa. De aici decurge toată drama sa, din
faptul că e o victimă sigură a suspiciunii, ca regim moral maladiv. Remus
Lunceanu trăia cu exasperare, ca şi Liviu Rebreanu, aceeaşi ameninţare a
suspiciunii generalizate şi a culpabilizării nedrepte.
Similitudinile dintre Remus Lunceanu şi Liviu Rebreanu
(observate şi speculate de critica biografică) sunt deopotrivă frapante şi
evidente, în ciuda unor amănunte derutante, nepotrivite tocmai pentru a
crea un fel de diversiune. Nici nu vreau să mă opresc acum la aceste
amănunte. Mai importantă e pre-istoria formării scriitorului Liviu
Rebreanu, o perioadă îngropată în trecut cu care Remus Lunceanu pare
să nu aibă nici o legătură. După ce fusese un român suspect în Ardeal
(suspect pentru administraţia austro-ungară din anii 1908-1910), să fi
simţit oare Rebreanu că la Bucureşti (prima dată în anii 1909-1910, a
doua oară în anii războiului şi ai ocupaţiei, 1916-1918) a devenit un
ardelean suspect, care nu şi-a dovedit suficient loialitatea faţă de ţară
(România, noua lui patrie) şi că nu şi-a câştigat legitimitatea de român?
Dar, mai clar şi mai concret, despre ce e vorba? O explorare biografică,
oricât de sumară, e absolut necesară, pentru a autentifica similitudinile.
În tribulaţiile de conştiinţă ale lui Remus Lunceanu, putem
presupune şi reconstitui crizele de adaptare ale scriitorului însuşi, cu
penibile dificultăţi de start datorate condiţiei sale naţionale şi regionale.
Reamintesc pe scurt o situaţie dramatică, întinsă pe un deceniu (1908-

33
1918), deşi poate că pornesc prea de departe. După ce-şi dăduse demisia
din armată, în 1908, constrâns de împrejurări (neregulile mânuirii unor
fonduri ale popotei ofiţereşti), Rebrean Oliver părăseşte garnizoana din
Gyula, revine acasă, în Prislop, şi, în aşteptarea unei soluţii, se angajează
ca ajutor de notar sau funcţionar de primărie în satele vecine. Crezuse
până atunci că ar putea deveni scriitor maghiar, simultan cu practicarea
profesiunii de ofiţer. Are loc o reconsiderare totală a întregului proiect de
existenţă, refăcut din temelii. Trebuia să redevină întâi român, pentru a-
şi construi o aspiraţie de scriitor român. Între perioada maghiară, lăsată
în urmă, şi cea românească, aflată la început, acesta era esenţialul punct
comun: opţiunea indestructibilă de a deveni scriitor. Remus Lunceanu
este construit ca personaj pe acest vector clar, chiar dacă el avea
irepresibilul sentiment al eşecului ca poet, dar experienţa lui se
suprapune cu aceea a lui Rebreanu de mai târziu. Anii 1907-1910
înseamnă o integrală reconstrucţie de sine, una întemeietoare a viitoarei
personalităţi. Plecarea la Bucureşti era singura soluţie radicală şi ea este
pusă în practică în 1909, după ce nuvelistul reuşise să debuteze, în
noiembrie 1908, în revista „Luceafărul” de la Sibiu. În octombrie 1909, va
debuta cu adevărat în România, sub patronajul entuziast al lui Mihail
Dragomirescu, la „Convorbiri critice”. În ianuarie 1910 îşi începe
activitatea de cronicar dramatic la „Falanga”, dar primeşte adevăratul
botez de scriitor român în postura de publicist militant la „Ordinea”,
unde publică în intervalul noiembrie 1909-februarie 1910 articole politice
militante „în chestiunea românilor de peste munţi”. Într-un mod
surprinzător, guvernul maghiar cere arestarea şi extrădarea publicistului,
care era cetăţean austro-ungar. Marele necaz (arestarea din februarie
1910) îl loveşte ca un trăsnet: îl dezechilibrează şi-i produce o traumă
profundă, cu consecinţe pe termen lung. Urmează umilitoarea
experienţă a detenţiei, întâi la Văcăreşti, până la expulzare, apoi la Gyula
pentru şase luni de „închisoare ungurească”, până în iulie 1910.
Enorma teamă a lui Remus Lunceanu de repatrierea în Ungaria,
în cursul anului 1918, se amplifică neştiut, exponenţial, prin acest ecou
sau transfer secret al primei experienţe traumatice a autorului. Există
complicităţi profunde ale fricii şi ale suspiciunii între Remus Lunceanu şi
Liviu Rebreanu, pe care şi le transmit unul altuia. Primul ştia de la cel de-
al doilea ce catastrofă putea aduce o astfel de întâmplare: o nouă
confruntare cu statul austro-ungar. Cititorul devotat ficţiunii din
Calvarul, fără să aibă aceste informaţii biografice, nu poate bănui ce
încărcătură dramatică se afla în această ameninţare ca Remus Lunceanu
să fie arestat în 1918 de unguri la Bucureşti şi trimis la Budapesta pentru
un proces de trădare sau de dezertare. Liviu Rebreanu o mai păţise o
dată, cu opt ani în urmă, chiar dacă atunci acuzaţia era alta, aparent mult
mai puţin gravă (probabil, lipsă de loialitate faţă de patria de origine).
Trecutul lui maghiar nu fusese lichidat. Nu atât problema naţionalistă

34
este importantă în această confruntare. Ea are, desigur, rostul său politic.
Nu atât arestarea în sine contează, cât consecinţele ei: justificată sau nu,
arestarea îl face automat vinovat pe cel inculpat. Prezumţia de
nevinovăţie se spulberă în ochii celorlalţi îndată ce arestarea se pune în
aplicare. Un urmărit, cum erau deopotrivă Remus Lunceanu sau Liviu
Rebreanu în 1918, îşi pierde fără drept de apel onoarea. Aceasta era marea
lor dramă: moralitatea le este pusă sub semnul întrebării
Liviu Rebreanu nu va fi un român întreg până la Unirea
Transilvaniei cu România, pentru că avea dincolo o parte blestemată,
nebuloasă şi suspectă, care risca să se răzbune împotriva lui periodic,
devastator, până la a-l obliga să ia totul de la început. Aceste resturi
maghiare şi transilvane, care îi vor fi imputate mereu de presa
interbelică, îi vor da în permanenţă lui Liviu Rebreanu senzaţia
umilitoare că nu este liber de trecut – un trecut demonizat de alţii,
considerat obscur şi încărcat de vinovăţii ascunse. Remus Lunceanu trăia
obsesia acestor suspiciuni, pe care Liviu Rebreanu, îndeosebi până la
Unirea din 1918, o trăise el însuşi exasperant. Confesiunea din Calvarul se
naşte din dorinţa de a elucida un trecut ce părea altora nebulos şi
culpabil. Asupra lui Rebreanu însuşi pluteau în timpul primului război
suspiciunile de spionaj şi colaboraţionism. De aceea, pentru un
cunoscător al biografiei scriitorului, Calvarul devine proiecţia în ficţiune
a unei auto-analize morale, naraţiunea unui proces de conştiinţă, valabil
în ambele planuri – în ficţiunea lui Remus Lunceanu sau în realitatea
biografiei lui Liviu Rebreanu.
În toată discuţia de până acum am lăsat deoparte un amănunt:
Remus Lunceanu vine la Bucureşti cu speranţa ardentă că îşi va găsi
spaţiul de afirmare ca scriitor român, iar nu pur şi simplu ca român.
Când constată că este înconjurat dezastruos de suspiciuni nu se năruie
doar încrederea lui în românism, ci şi visul de scriitor. Tema ratării
creatorului într-o epocă neprielnică şi într-un spaţiu moral ingrat e la fel
de importantă ca tema suspiciunii. Remus Lunceanu ştie că a riscat să fie
victima unei speranţe necugetate de a deveni scriitor român şi că
emigrarea sa din Ardeal s-ar putea să fie zadarnică. Acest gând al eşecului
total, ca scriitor, îl zdrobeşte definitiv. De spectrul suspiciunilor există o
vagă speranţă că s-ar putea elibera tocmai prin naraţiunea postumă a
disculpării care va deveni manuscrisul Calvarului, dar cum va putea
recupera şi reconstrui şansa de a fi scriitor român din moment ce şi-a
pierdut creditul?
Remus Lunceanu e proiecţia unui Rebreanu ratat, având în
acelaşi timp funcţia unei exorcizări a răului şi a nenorocului. Dar
personajul fictiv impune, paradoxal pentru realismul consecvent al
scriitorului, imaginea romantică a geniului fără noroc:
„Sunt convins că am talent… Acum, la marginea prăpastiei, îmi
pot îngădui toată sinceritatea. Da, deseori, în sufletul meu, mi-am zis că

35
sunt poate genial. Cine ştie?! E posibil să fiu, sau cel puţin ar fi fost
posibil. Noroc însă n-am avut în viaţă. Numele meu a circulat numai în
cercul acela prea strâmt care se cheamă «lumea literară şi artistică», şi
încă şi în cercurile acestea! … Viaţa te îndoaie, te suceşte, te îmbrânceşte
şi-ţi impune compromisuri de care ţi-e silă. Inima ta te mână spre
înălţimile albastre şi soarta te târăşte în noroiul uliţelor fără soare.”
(Opere 3, p. 9).
Dar această lamentaţie din 1919, care este Calvarul, va fi în
curând acoperită, chiar în anul următor, în 1920, de triumful unui succes
răsunător, odată cu apariţia romanului Ion.
Însă când apare romanul Ion, autobiografia resemnării şi eşecului
din Calvarul pierde orice interes şi orice sens al actualităţii imediate a
confesiunii. Autorul însuşi o va face uitată pentru totdeauna, nu o mai
reeditează niciodată, în timp ce celelalte cărţi ale sale, inclusiv volumele
de nuvele reluate stăruitor cu modificări şi combinaţii de sumar (în ciuda
ignorării lor de către critică), vor beneficia de ediţii repetate, mai ales
romanele. În excelenta sa monografie despre Liviu Rebreanu, apărută în
1967, Lucian Raicu ne dă cea mai bună explicaţie pentru această uitare:
după romanul Ion, Liviu Rebreanu ca scriitor impune brusc imaginea
unui învingător, în timp ce poetul sinucigaş din Calvarul propusese
imaginea (acum nepotrivită prin inactualitatea ei) a unui scriitor obstinat
în psihologia învinsului.
„Acest alter-ego şovăitor, slab – notează Lucian Raicu – a trebuit
să moară în Calvarul pentru a face posibilă viaţa şi victoria celuilalt,
prezent în operă şi, pentru noi, cel autentic” (p. 49).
Am putea spune că Remus Lunceanu este, pentru Rebreanu, o
ipoteză lamentabilă (dacă nu detestabilă) despre sine, tot aşa cum Titu
Herdelea este o ipoteză ironică. Lucian Raicu dezvoltă această
interpretare, în toate articulaţiile şi nuanţele ei:
„Tot aşa cum un alter-ego, mai nevertebrat decât autenticul
Rebreanu, este Titu Herdelea, cel din Ion, dar mai cu seamă cel din
Gorila: publicist mediocru, acomodant, adaptabil, împăciuitor, cam în
felul cum ar fi arătat Rebreanu de n-ar fi izbutit să devină «Rebreanu» şi
s-ar fi dat bătut. Astfel şi Remus Lunceanu din Calvarul este Rebreanu
înainte de a deveni «Rebreanu», în ipostaza sa de învins al vieţii, dacă n-
ar fi izbutit să depăşească marele moment de criză al anilor de război; şi
într-un caz, şi în altul sunt «vieţile posibile» ale scriitorului” (p. 49).
Cu alte cuvinte, trebuie să citim în Remus Lunceanu, dacă ne
situăm în sfera unei lecturi biografice, atât o proiecţie de identificare a
autorului, cât şi o proiecţie de contrast. Un Rebreanu care se disculpă, în
mod necesar şi testamentar, este completat, în Calvarul, de un Rebreanu
care se detestă în postura romantică de învins. Numai aşa se putea auto-
depăşi.

36
 Scrisul adoptă pentru Rebreanu, privit din perspectiva
Calvarului, funcţii morale şi forme multiple: penitenţă, disculpare,
eliberare şi reconstrucţie de sine. Învinsul, ratatul, suspectul din Calvarul
şi de dinainte de Calvarul va deveni învingătorul, scriitorul de succes,
omul de încredere din romanul Ion şi de după romanul Ion. Sensul
personal major, profund, al scrisului rebrenian e răscumpărarea prin
Operă, disculparea, pentru a şterge orice suspiciune. 1919 este un an de
cumpănă în biografia scriitorului, episodul unei transformări radicale a
învinsului în învingător, etalând în 1920 argumentul senzaţional al
capodoperei. Nuvelistul ezitant şi neconvingător va fi înlocuit de Marele
Romancier, sigur pe sine şi pe deplin convingător pentru toţi, public
cititor şi critică profesionistă.

Penitenţele învingătorului

Disculparea nu este un proces moral încheiat niciodată pentru Liviu

Rebreanu. Ea este prezentă în forme ascunse sau bănuite în toate etapele
sale de creaţie. Se poate afirma că marile sale romane au toate în
profunzime elemente de dezvinovăţire, chiar dacă în formele cele mai
evazive sau eliptice.
Mai întâi, actul de creaţie este pentru Rebreanu un chin, dar o
formă de supliciu pe care şi-l aplică eludând o vinovăţie explicită. Lucian
Raicu a numit bine acest fenomen ca „asceza muncii artistice”. Jurnalul
de creaţie, însemnările secundare la Ion şi Răscoala, graficele de pagini şi
capitole ale scrierii acestor cărţi relevă un chin nocturn la care se supune
cu obstinaţie, cu înverşunarea unui masochist. Aş vrea să fiu bine înţeles:
vorbesc de un masochism moral. Fără să-şi dea seama, într-un proces
inconştient al distilării resurselor, scriitorul se pedepseşte continuu,
presupunând că vinovăţiile de care a fost acuzat nu s-au şters. De altfel,
contestatarii şi denigratorii, printre care la loc de frunte se află Nichifor
Crainic, îi vor aminti continuu păcatele tinereţilor (întregul dosar al
calomnierilor aduse lui Liviu Rebreanu se găseşte în excelenta biografie
redactată de Niculae Gheran; a se vedea îndeosebi capitolul În centrul
intrigilor din Amiaza unei vieţi, Ed. Albatros, 1989). La data de 27
februarie 1930 era profund mâhnit când nota în Jurnal:
„Scandalurile se ţin lanţ. Campania contra mea continuă
concentric, dusă de tot felul de elemente, câţiva scriitori şi ziarele
opoziţiei. Sânt astăzi cele mai atacat om din România. Atacuri murdare
care atentează mereu la cinstea mea, la descalificarea mea. E vădit că se
caută pur şi simplu scoaterea mea din viaţa publică, adică din viaţa
socială şi politică (...) Mi se pare că sânt şi cel mai duşmănit scriitor de azi.
Astea sânt reversele gloriei” (în Opere 17, p. 86-87).
Cum să nu fie atunci scrisul o revanşă, o compensaţie, o formă de
penitenţă, o dezvinovăţire totală?

37
 Separat de aceste lucruri, trebuie să reamintim că romanul
Pădurea spânzuraţilor este scris la somaţia postumă a fratelui său Emil,
mort pe front şi spânzurat pentru dezertare întocmai ca Apostol Bologa.
Familia scriitorului, Emil însuşi, au trăit cu speranţa sau iluzia că Liviu şi-
ar fi putut salva fratele de la înrolare. Remuşcarea s-a distilat într-o
disculpare indirectă, alambicată. Dacă salvarea reală de (pe) front nu a
putut fi realizată, lui Liviu Rebreanu i-a rămas salvarea simbolică a
fratelui său, a dramei sale, într-o operă literară. E simplu spus, dar foarte
adevărat – unul dintre adevărurile biografice cel mai greu de contestat.
Titu Herdelea – s-a spus suficient de multe ori – este o proiecţie
autoironică a scriitorului: e ceea ce ar fi putut deveni el, modul în care ar
fi eşuat, dacă nu ar fi ajuns marele scriitor, ipostaza la care a aspirat ca la
o formă de răscumpărare a mediocrităţii la care ar fi fost condamnat.
Titu Herdelea ilustrează neutru, dar mai ales ispăşeşte destinul unui
Liviu Rebreanu mediocru.
Dar, mai subtil decât atât, Ion însuşi, ca personaj care îşi înfruntă
destinul, este supus unei cumplite dezbateri morale, pe care o va verifica
şi plăti cu propria viaţă. A reduce acest roman şi acest personaj la
problema dobândirii pământului de către un ţăran sărac este o
interpretare reductivă, profund păgubitoare. Adevărata temă majoră a
romanului Ion este aceea dacă un individ, aflat într-o situaţie nefastă, îşi
poate schimba destinul. Dezbaterea morală pe această temă este
verosimilizată de motivaţiile şi îndemnurile contextualizate social pe
care le oferă, într-o polemică deschisă, învăţătorul Herdelea şi preotul
Belciug. În eşecul lui Ion, Liviu Rebreanu experimentează, la modul
generic, o altă ipoteză despre sine, alta decât în cazul lui Titu Herdelea.
Înţelegem acum mai bine, cu o răsfrângere autobiografică, ce se
ascunde în subtextul consideraţiilor morale din Cred:
„Dacă priveşti arta drept creaţie, trebuie să-i atribui şi o valoare
etică. Arta ca uşoară jucărie ar fi fost tot atât de incomprehensibilă ca şi
viaţa socotită fără rost. Arta n-are menirea să moralizeze pe om, evident,
dar poate să-l facă să se bucure că e om şi că trăieşte, şi chiar să-l facă om.
Contemplarea vieţii pe care o oferă creaţia poate fi uneori mângâietoare
ca o rugăciune...” (v. Opere 15, p. 163).
Când scrie aceste consideraţii, Liviu Rebreanu se gândeşte la
valoarea etică a artei pentru cititor, iar noi ne putem gândi, la fel de
justificat, la scriitor. Pentru Liviu Rebreanu scrisul are o valoare etică
supremă, pentru că dă un rost vieţii sale, îl transformă ca om, iar unele
dintre scrierile sale, cele mai bune, pot fi interpretate ca „rugăciuni” sau
implorări simbolice de iertare, pentru că suspiciunea, care l-a afectat
profund pe scriitor, creează vinovăţia – chiar şi fără justificare reală, dar
cu atât mai greu de înlăturat. Învinovăţit continuu, de la tinereţe până la
maturitate, de vini care îşi creează vinovatul prin simpla lor acuzare
publică, Liviu Rebreanu încearcă cu disperare, prin unele dintre scrierile

38
sale, să se disculpe în forme mai mult sau mai puţin explicite, sub
aspectul simbolic al artei ce lasă să răzbată ecourile autobiografice, cu
toate eforturile autocenzurii şi ale obiectivării. Deşi s-a „sfiit totdeauna
să scrie pentru tipar la persoana întâi”, după cum declară în Cred, Liviu
Rebreanu nu poate ascunde o vinovăţie, mai mult sau mai puţin
inventată, decât prin tertipurile sublimării într-un imaginar care
răscumpără şi disculpă prin alambicurile nevăzute dar desluşibile ale
inconştientului.

BIBLIOGRAFIE

Rebreanu, Liviu, Opere 3, text ales şi stabilit, note, comentarii şi variante de Niculae
Gheran şi Nicolae Liu, Editura pentru literatură, București, 1968.
Rebreanu, Liviu, Opere 15, ediție critică de Niculae Gheran, stabilirea textului în
colaborare cu Nedeea Burcă, Editura Minerva, București, 1991.
Rebreanu, Liviu, Opere 17, ediție critică de Niculae Gheran, Editura Minerva,
București, 1998.

Gheran, Niculae, Rebreanu. Amiaza unei vieți, Editura Albatros, București, 1989.
Liviu Rebreanu după un veac. Evocări, comentarii critice, perspective străine,
mărturii ale prozatorilor de azi, o carte gândită și alcătuită de Mircea Zaciu, Editura
Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1985.
Raicu, Lucian, Liviu Rebreanu, Editura pentru literatură, București, 1967.

39
 LA POETIQUE DU JOURNAL
DANS LA CONCEPTION DE MIRCEA ELIADE
MIRCEA ELIADE’S POETICS OF DIARY WRITING

MAGDALENA INDRIEȘ
magdalena.indries@gmail.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 537-153

Abstract: As an author and a passionate reader of intimate

diaries, Mircea Eliade was preoccupied with the poetics of this literary
genre. In his opinion, two are the traits of an intimate diary: authenticity
and intimacy. With a few interruptions, he wrote his diary during his
entire life. He often used the material of the diary for his literary
production. Writing this diary, he intended not to confess himself, but to
save fragments of concrete time. Eliade believed that the diary would
have a great future, because the new generations would love personal
texts.
Key words: diary, intimate, authenticity, confession, time
perception

La place du Journal dans l’œuvre littéraire d’Eliade

Dans la création littéraire de Mircea Eliade le Journal occupe une place à

part. Au-delà du rôle de document ou de témoignage, qui fait que tout
journal soit toujours actuel, dans le cas d’Eliade, celui-ci s’est constitué
comme matière première, d’où ont jailli beaucoup de ses œuvres
littéraires. Il y en a qui portent le titre de Journal,1 d’autres, l’Inde ou
Chantier, ont été rédigées sous forme de journal, et quelques-unes
contiennent des pages de journal modifiées2.
« Eliade considère son Journal comme l’œuvre la plus importante. On
trouve cette information plusieurs fois dans son œuvre mémorialistique. Il traite
son Journal comme un chantier, qui reflète la diversité des préoccupations de
l’écrivain, de l’homme en chair et en os, avec ses faiblesses, ses nostalgies et ses

1
M. Eliade, Journal, I-II, Humanitas, 2006, publié à Gallimard, 1973, sous le titre de Fragments d’un
Journal, dans la traduction de Luc Badesco; Journal Himalayen, L’Herne, 2013; Journal portugais et
d’autres écrits, Humanitas, 2006.
2
Le Roman de l’adolescent myope, La Nuit Bengali, La Forêt Interdite, Océanographie.

40
réussites.»1 Même si ce n’est pas la plus importante œuvre littéraire d’Eliade, le
Journal est en échange la plus chère à son auteur. En 1985, lorsqu’un incendie a
éclaté dans son bureau de Meadville, Eliade a eu peur que le manuscrit du
Journal ne fût brûlé. Le Journal, l’œuvre la plus précieuse, qui amasse la matière
brute de son œuvre littéraire, contient les souvenirs des périodes décisives pour
sa formation intellectuelle et d’écrivain. Eliade relisait attentivement ses notices,
il les expliquait, il les annotait, parce qu’il était convaincu que « tout doit être
rangé, tout doit être éclairci. »2
L’écriture du Journal était une occupation à la fois réconfortante
et reposante. Eliade la faisait surtout après d’intenses heures de travail,
souvent pendant la nuit, mais non seulement. Le charme de ce genre
littéraire était déterminé par la notation des détails, des aspects, des
nuances, des évènements de la vie de l’auteur. Eliade excluait
catégoriquement de l’écriture du Journal tout ce qui appartenait à
l’érudition, à la science. La grande vertu de ce genre littéraire résidait
dans le fait qu’il l’obligeait à regarder avec une plus grande attention tout
ce qui se passait autour de lui pour extraire de la masse amorphe du
quotidien, le plus significatif des sentiments et des pensées. Pendant la
rédaction de son propre Journal, Eliade était préoccupé par le sens de
celui-ci. Il lisait souvent et passionnément les journaux d’autres écrivains
et il cherchait à définir les traits du journal intime. Eliade était moins
fasciné par les journaux transformés en « atelier de travail » par leur
auteur et pourtant son propre journal suivait cette voie:
« Je pensais noter dans un cahier spécial des faits, des impressions, des
citations. Mais je me dis qu’un tel cahier, en dehors de mes préoccupations
actuelles, risquerait de devenir un dossier inerte. Je préfère inscrire ici, même au
hasard, quelques-unes de ces impressions de lecture. Je serai amusé à les relire
(plus tard) ensemble avec les peu nombreuses notes balzaciennes de mon journal
de 1933-1940.»3
Le biographe de Mircea Eliade, Mircea Handoca, soutient que le
Journal, cette œuvre d’entre les œuvres,4 compte dix mille pages, plus
que les volumes des Histoire des Idées et des Croyances Religieuses.
Dans ces Mémoires, lorsqu’il parle, pour la première fois, du Journal, il ne
se rappelle plus comment il a commencé à l’écrire, mais il se souvient
qu’il le gardait caché dans „une petite boîte marron”, au fond, et au-
dessus il y avait des cahiers et de la correspondance. Avant le départ pour
l’Inde, il a bien caché les cahiers du Journal parmi d’autres livres de sa
1
M. Handoca, Le Journal inédit de Mircea Eliade, dans “Apostrof” XXI, 2010, nr. 3 (238).
2
M. Eliade, Chantier, p. 118. Toutes les citations extraites de l’œuvre de Mircea Eliade et de la
littérature critique ont été traduites par nous. Toutes les œuvres consultées sont indiquées avec
leurs titres traduits en français.
3
M. Eliade, Journal, I, 1941-1969, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2004, p. 123.
4
Nous considérons Le Journal, une œuvre littéraire malgré A. Girard, qui considère que ce genre
littéraire n’est pas vraiment une œuvre littéraire. À voir A. Girard, Le journal intime, un nouveau
genre littéraire dans « Cahiers de l’Association des études françaises », 1995, volume 17, Numéro 1,
pp. 99-109.

41
bibliothèque vitrée. Le commencement du Journal est situé en 1921,
lorsqu’il notait toutes ses activités quotidiennes, les titres des livres qu’il
consultait, des commentaires, des observations sur ses amis et leurs
conversations. Petit à petit, l’enregistrement de tous les événements de la
vie de l’adolescent, qu’il était, devenait une habitude et lorsqu’il a écrit
son premier roman, Le roman de l’adolescent myope, bien des pages du
journal ont été transformées en pages de roman. Il se rappelle que le
chapitre « Le samedi» ou d’autres chapitres, où il présentait la société des
adolescents intitulée « La Muse », leurs distractions et leurs problèmes
étaient tous extraits du Journal.
Un autre biographe, Florin Țurcanu considère que le premier
journal a été rédigé à 12 ans, sous l’influence de la lecture du livre de
Jean-Henri Fabre, intitulé Souvenirs Entomologiques et qu’il ne
contenait « rien d’autre qu’un recueil de minutieuses observations
entomologiques et botaniques ramassées pendant l’année scolaire ou
pendant les vacances passées en Transylvanie. »1 Les pages du journal
d’adolescence sont les premières pages publiées par Eliade dans le journal
« Ziarul Ştiinţelor Populare » sous le titre Du cahier d’un chercheur et
elles contenaient les notes sur ses voyages en Bucovine et en
Transylvanie, de même que sur ses excursions dans les montagnes
Carpati. À cette époque le Journal était son meilleur confident auquel il
confiait « les excès de lyrisme et ses lamentations.» La relecture de ses
pages déterminera, un peu plus tard, l’abandon du Journal, jusqu’à l’été
de l’année 1928. Florin Ţurcanu souligne le rôle du journal d’adolescence:
«Tout d’abord, il se protège, en écrivant, contre un milieu qu’il tenait à
distance, par l’intermédiaire de l’imagination. D’autre part, le désir précoce de
rester lui-même est ce qui stimule son penchant pour l’autobiographie, destinée
à devenir un ressort essentiel de son écriture. Il n’y a rien d’étonnant dans le fait
que son premier récit de ce genre, Le Journal d’un railleur est une tentative naïve
de résoudre ses rapports directs avec l’école.»2
Pendant l’été de l’année 1928, avant de partir pour l’Inde, il
reprend le Journal: «J’avais commencé depuis peu de temps à tenir mon
Journal. Cette fois-ci je ne demeurais plus, comme pendant le lycée, des
heures entières, devant le cahier, en écrivant tout ce qui traversait ma
pensée, en m’analysant, en me plaignant. C’étaient des notations courtes,
des détails qui me semblaient significatifs pour plus tard, des idées et des
observations quant aux idées que j’envisageais. Mais, avant tout, c’était
un journal personnel, écrit en exclusivité pour moi. Je n’hésitais point
devant aucune indiscrétion, bien que je me proposasse de renoncer de
temps en temps à certaines pages, surtout si je doutais qu’il y eût le
risque de tomber sous les yeux de quelqu’un. Avec quelques
1
F. Ţurcanu, Mircea Eliade, Le Prisonnier de l’Histoire, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2003, p. 46. (n. tr)
2
F. Ţurcanu, op. cit. p. 51, (n. tr.)

42
interruptions, j’ai continué ce journal jusqu’aujourd’hui. »1 Ce journal
l’accompagnera en Inde.
Pour Mircea Handoca, Le Journal acquiert une signification
particulière, parce qu’il a été rédigé en roumain et grâce à cela il
appartient, dit-il, à la littérature roumaine. L’existence de cette œuvre
confirme l’intuition d’Eliade, qu’il a eue assez tôt, le talent d’aborder tout
genre littéraire. Mircea Eliade a entretenu une relation spéciale avec son
Journal. Les périodes où il y notait avec frénésie alternent avec des
périodes de désintérêt ou même d’abondon total. Lorsqu’il vivait
intensément, ce cahier lui semblait plein de stupidités2. De même,
lorsqu’il travaillait à un livre, il négligeait le Journal: « Je suis heureux
lorsque je peux travailler et je suis malheureux lorsque la fatigue
m’accable, pendant la nuit. Ce Journal m’interesse peu, maintenant. Je ne
le relis plus. Il y à tant à faire. »3 Ou le 10 février, 1944, où il notait: « J’ai
très bien travaillé aux Prolégomènes. L’abandon du Journal s’explique
tout d’abord par l’enthousiasme et la continuité (Dieu soit loué) avec
laquelle je travaille depuis presque trois mois à ce livre. »4 Parfois il
ouvrait rarement Le Journal à cause du dégoût ou de la mélancolie qu’il
éprouvait. Il y a eu plusieurs périodes où il a interrompu la rédaction du
Journal.5 Il y a eu aussi des périodes où l’attraction du Journal était
irrésistible. Il était en Inde, lorsqu’il a eu l’intention d’écrire un livre sur
l’âme de l’Inde moderne, mais il avait peur de ne pas céder à la tentation
du journalisme, c’est à dire de parler de nouveau de lui-même. Mircea
Eliade avait des moments où il se dédiait avec abnégation à l’écriture de
cette œuvre, comme en 1944, lorsqu’il rédigeait le journal de Cordoue,
occasion pour revivre les instants passés là:
« J’utilise les notations, mais j’aime surtout écrire, en les sauvant de la
disparition, sur tant de pensées, images, qu’à cause de la fatigue ou par mégarde,
je n’ai pas notées ici. »6
L’intérêt particulier pour le Journal se manifeste de la sorte:
«Je suis resté dès le matin jusqu’au soir au bureau, retranscrivant, en
annotant, en refaisant des textes plus vieux. J’ai découvert une douzine de petits
papiers dans le tiroir du bureau et je les ai trouvés tous admirables, dignes d’être
copiés dans le Journal. Une fièvre intellectuelle, une volupté que je rencontre
extrêmement rare: celle de ‘m’éditer’, de fouiller parmi les papiers pour trouver
une notation précieuse, une phrase juste, un état d’âme obscur, qui ne doit pas
être perdu. »7

1
M. Eliade, Mémoires 1907-1960, vol. I, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 1991, p. 166.
2
Idem, Chantier, p. 36.
3
Ibid., p. 18.
4
M. Eliade, Journal portugais et d’autres écrits, p. 223.
5
Selon ses propres confessions, il l’a interrompu pendant les années 1921-1928, et 1940-1941.
6
M. Eliade, Le Journal portugais, p. 265.
7
M. Eliade, Chantier, p. 82.

43
 Le Journal devenait une soupape, lorsque son auteur passait par
une période de stérilité créative. C’est alors qu’il confiait à ce confident
de longue course, les pensées suivantes:
«Je crois que jamais de ma vie je n’eusse pas passé une période plus
sèche que celle-ci, commencée le 21 février (Lorsque j’ai commencé Kosmos et
Histoire). J’étais incapable d’écrire quelque chose depuis lors, à l’exception de
quelques pages de Journal et des fiches d’une étude sur la royauté davidique. »1
C’est alors qu’il note des pensées ou des observations
insignifiantes, comme celle sur la bêtise des hommes qui épousent des
femmes inférieures. Il écrit n’importe quoi pour l’entraînement de
l’écriture: « Je me suis entraîné dans ces petites observations parce que je
voulais à tout prix écrire, à me réhabituer à l’écriture. »2 Il paraît que
pour Eliade, la condition de l’écrivain est pareille à celle de l’athlète: il
faut un entraînement continu. Le Journal l’aide dans ce sens, surtout
parce qu’il était conscient qu’il n’était pas doué pour une écriture
parfaite, et d’autre part, parce qu’il n’a jamais été le prisonnier de la
forme. Le Journal est en même temps le témoin de l’effort constant
d’Eliade de se connaître3, de se maîtriser, ce qui est synonyme, dans son
opinion, de la garantie de la maturité de l’être:
« Seuls les hommes qui réussissent à se découvrir, à se maîtriser
pleinement, qui acquièrent un minimum d’autonomie spirituelle, qui réalisent
la grandeur de la condition humaine – ceux-ci seulement peuvent être appelés
mûrs, des hommes élevés, full-sized men. »4
Cet examen de soi-même a commencé tôt, dès l’époque
indienne: il s’analyse, il se justifie devant soi-même, se condamne pour
avoir trahi l’homme de science, qui vivait en lui, par le vagabondage,
auquel le poussait l’âge. De la sorte, le Journal devient « le laboratoire
d’une pensée, que l’on voit s’enrichir dans les essais qu’il publie sans
interruption à partir de 1932. »5 Dans le même lieu, il explique son crédo
artistique: « J’essaie une chose grandiose: une nouvelle synthèse de la
culture universelle. Je suis parmi les peu nombreux qui ont accès aux
mythes et aux symboles obscurs, aux sens spirituels de la vie depuis
longtemps dépassée dans l’évolution mentale de l’humanité »6 ou il
souligne sa manière personnelle « de juger le fait mystique et
l’expérience religieuse »7, parfaitement organisés, logiques et cohérents,
dans son opinion. On se pose naturellement la question: qu’est-ce que ce
genre littéraire offrait de plus à Eliade? Pourquoi ne pouvait-il pas
s’exprimer par l’intermédiaire des autres genres littéraires: le roman, le
1
Idem, Le Journal portugais, p. 350.
2
Ibid., p. 352.
3
F. Ţurcanu appelle ce besoin de se connaître „l’obsession littéraire du moi” ou „la fonction littéraire
du narcicisme”.
4
M. Eliade, Le Journal portugais, p. 378.
5
F. Ţurcanu, op. cit., p. 264.
6
M. Eliade, Le Journal portugais, p. 140.
7
Ibid., p. 161.

44
récit, la dramaturgie? Adrian Marino donne une réponse possible, en
soulignant l’importance de la notion d’authenticité dans la création de
Mircea Eliade et le refus de celui-ci de tout ce qui était artificiel:
« La passion pour les journaux intimes, pour les confessions, pour les
documents autobiographiques a la même motivation: Une tentative d’évasion de
la littérature, de la construction (fantastique ou réaliste, n’importe) – et
l’exploration d’une authenticité révélée quotidiennement, instantanément et
discontinûment... la soif du document-vivant, personnel, inédit... »1
Pour Mircea Eliade, la vraie authenticité signifiait vivre et penser
par soi-même, ce qui ne devait pas du tout se confondre avec
individualisme ou égocentrisme, au contraire c’était l’unique possibilité
de se joindre à l’universel. De ce point de vue, tout journal intime devient
très précieux:
« Un journal intime a, pour moi, une plus grande valeur universelle
qu’un roman avec des masses de mille individus. Les faits du premier, tout à fait
authentiques et si „personnellement” exprimés qu’ils dépassent la personnalité
de l’écrivain et se joignent aux autres faits décisifs de l’existence, représentent
une substance qu’on ne peut pas ignorer. Au contraire, un roman avec dix mille
individus est un simple livre construit, avec des personnages, avec originalité. »2
La valeur d’une œuvre littéraire dépend de son degré
d’universalité et « celle – ci ne se retrouve que dans des créations
strictement personnelles. » Eliade était fasciné par la force de survivre
des choses insignifiantes, dépourvues de solennité et d’ambition. Le
même attrait il l’éprouvait pour la lettre morte, les pensées mortes des
journaux intimes, qu’il appelait « des cimetières ». « Il n’y a pourtant rien
de plus fascinant que ces cimetières. »3 Le charme des notations intimes
proviennent, selon lui, de la manière dont elle sont écrites, sous
l’impulsion du moment vécu, « subitement comme une mort ». Leur
nudité et l’absence de tout fard, de tout artifice les rendent très
précieuses, de même que leur caducité dans un monde en permanente
transformation.
La poétique du Journal a beaucoup préoccupé Mircea Eliade. Il
affirmait que pour écrire un journal, l’on a besoin d’un talent spécial,
différent du talent nécessaire pour écrire un récit ou un roman. Il
donnait l’exemple de Julien Green qui excellait dans ce genre de
littérature:
« Au fond, tout homme n’est pas capable de tenir un journal
intéressant, significatif. Le talent d’écrivain n’y joue, dans ce cas, presque aucun
rôle. L’on a ou non la bossa du journal intime, comme l’on a celle de la nouvelle
ou du récit fantastique. Par exemple, Julien Green est toujours passionnant,
même s’il enregistre des détails insignifiants. Il est ‘fait’ pour une pareille
manière d’écrire, l’on devine le bonheur de ses promenades dans les rues de

1
Apud A. Marino, L’Herméneutique de Mircea Eliade, Cluj-Napoca, Editions Dacia, p. 397.
2
M. Eliade, Océanographie, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 1991, p.126.
3
Ibid., p. 81.

45
Paris, de la revue de certains tableaux de Louvre, l’émotion avec laquelle il se
souvient des événements de son enfance, l’on devine surtout le besoin de sauver
le temps concret, ces secondes - là irréversibles du coucher du soleil, des
ombres évanescentes, pleines de révélations. »1
Le talent de Julien Green résulte surtout de la comparaison avec
Ramuz, tout à fait dépourvu de talent pour ce genre d’écriture. Selon
Mircea Eliade, ce genre littéraire s’impose surtout par deux traits: «
l’authenticité et l’intimité. »2 Dans l’évolution de l’écriture d’Eliade, le
Journal occupe une place privilégiée, parce qu’à un moment donné,
l’écrivain avoue que l’écriture autobiographique était la seule possible:
« À un moment donné, j’ai senti que je ne pouvais plus écrire qu’à la
première personne, que toute autre sorte de littérature, exceptée celle
directement ou indirectement autobiographique, n’avait pas de sens. »3
La passion d’Eliade pour le journal a comme source « son désir de
concilier philosophia perennis avec ‘l’expérimentalisme’ du plus
luxuriant individualisme » :
« De là ma passion bizarre pour le symbole, pour la métaphysique
traditionnelle, pour l’occultisme et pour l’ethnographie – et, si non en même
temps, alternativement, ma passion aussi importante pour tous mes ‘états
d’âme’, pour tout ce qui est lié à l’instant, à l’expérience du drame fulgurant »4
Eliade avait la passion de « l’éphémère et de l’insignifiant », il
était tenté par « l’expérience du quotidien », il était préoccupé par le sens
de l’histoire, il souffrait de « l’égocentrisme des grands désespérés. » La
nécessité de tenir un journal s’encadre très bien dans la conception
d’Eliade sur l’œuvre qu’il concevait comme une totalité. Il était conscient
que l’écriture de plusieurs œuvres supposait beaucoup de temps, d’effort
et même le risque de la dissipation. Il s’assumait ce risque, parce que les
cimes de l’œuvre devaient s’étayer sur une base solide. La concentration
sur une seule œuvre ne lui garantissait la naissance d’un chef-d’œuvre:
« J’ai préféré me laisser guidé par l’instinct, écrire de la même façon que
jusque là ; avec tout risque. Je savais que le risque était considérable. Parce que si
je n’avais pas réussi à écrire assez, et dans différents domaines, pour que le profil
de l’œuvre commence à s’entrevoir, les livres publiés n’auraient pas pu révéler
cette dimension secrète que seule la totalité de l’œuvre puisse illustrer. »5
Il exemplifiait avec La Comédie Humaine, dont la valeur était
assurée par dix ou douze chefs-d-œuvres, qui incitent le lecteur à lire les
œuvres de Balzac moins connues. Comme le Faust de Goethe reflète sa
lumière sur des œuvres comme: La Métamorphoses des plantes ou
Egmont.
1
M. Eliade, Journal, 1941-1969, tome I, pp. 83-84.
2
Idem, Journal portugais, p. 265.
3
Idem, Mémoires, I, p. 73.
4
M. Eliade, Journal portugais, Humanitas, 2006, p. 135.
5
Idem, Mémoires, I, p. 328.

46
 Dans les périodes les plus difficiles de son existence, Le Journal
était un refuge1. Parfois l’écriture de celui-ci devenait une nécessité:
« Je sens que je dois noter au moins quelques-uns des détails
extraordinaires, que j’apprends de Madame Froebe. »2

La grande tentation

À un moment donné, Eliade avait la conviction que le Journal pourrait se

transformer dans le livre capable d’exprimer toute sa personnalité. Alors
il imaginait les conditions idéales pour l’écriture d’une pareille œuvre: un
lieu isolé, sans livres, sans ses notations. Là il aurait pu écrire un journal
qui contienne « des souvenirs, des réflexions, des commentaires » sur sa
propre pensée, sur ses livres, sans aucun ordre. Il a subi cette tentation au
Portugal, en 1945, après la mort de sa femme, lorsque le journal était « un
instrument de défense contre le néant ». Il sentait la même tentation de
transformer le journal dans son vraie œuvre, mais il se rendait compte
qu’il devrait changer de style de travail, s’il s’engageait dans cette
direction:
« je devrais méditer avec lui à mes côtés, revenir sans cesse sur les pages
écrites, les annoter, me rappeler ici des événements que j’y ai traités d’habitude
trop sommairement, ou que je n’ai même pas notés. C’est la seule manière de me
rassembler, de me recueillir. M’y abandonner à ce passé qui m’obsède. Sauver ‘le
temps passé’ en le remémorant. »3
Cette tentation apparaît lorsque le journal, selon F. Ţurcanu, «
gagne en profondeur ».4 Si la passion du journal s’est manifestée chez
Eliade, assez tôt, elle est devenue plus puissante sous l’influence du
groupe Criterion, dont les membres cherchaient surtout l’authenticité,
l’expérience immédiate et le concret d’ordre biographique et c’est
pourquoi ils appréciaient surtout les journaux intimes, les confessions et
les documents.5 Mircea Eliade écrit, dans les pages du journal, surtout
pour „sauver le temps concret”, parce que le temps l’obssédait
«Tout passe. Voilà mon immense souffrance. Pourquoi les choses ne
demeurent-elles, au moins jusqu’à ce que nous nous dégoûtions d’elles, jusqu’à
ce que nous soyons prêts à nous en dégager »
ou
« Je sentais avec une formidable sensibilité, lucidité, clarté – comment
le temps courait autour de moi, comment tout moment enterre les autres,
comment tout ce qui nous enchante ou nous trouble n’est qu’un éclair
éphémère... Le temps, le temps – m’obsède jusqu’à la neurasthénie. Pourquoi ne
puis-je trouver des points stables, absolus, éternels? Lorsque je deviens conscient

1
V. F. Ţurcanu, op. cit. p. 53.
2
M. Eliade, Journal, I, p. 230.
3
M. Eliade, Journal portugais, p. 313.
4
F. Ţurcanu, op. cit., p. 429.
5
Ibidem;

47
du temps qui coule, sans aucun pouvoir de l’arrêter - je tremble. J’ai l’impression
de devenir fou - ou que je dois absolument faire d’urgence un exploit. »1
Le premier exploit est celui de transformer la réalité en
littérature, séduit par la métamorphose exercée par l’écriture sur la
première:
« tant de détails banals et des observations médiocres semblent
ennoblis par le simple fait d’avoir été enregistrés, d’avoir été ‘écrits’. » 2
À mesure que la passion du journal le gagnait, Eliade revenait sur
les détails notés, sur les impressions dues à différentes expériences pour
les soumettre à des vérifications ultérieures.
« J’écris pour me relire plus tard. Il m’est indifférent si quelqu’un
d’autre me lira, mais je n’écris pas pour lui. J’écris pour me retrouver plus tard,
pour me rappeler le temps perdu en vain. » 3 Eliade a vécu avec l’obsession de ce
qu’il appelait « cette volupté amère du retour dans le temps, dans le passé. » 4

La trahison du Journal

En écrivant ses Mémoires, Mircea Eliade avoue que son premier roman
l’a aidé à s’exprimer mieux que ne l’avait fait le Journal:
« Mais à part tout cela, quelle soupape de sûreté a été pour moi d’alors
ce roman! Mieux que dans le Journal (car j’espérais publier le roman) j’échappais,
en l’écrivant à tous les échecs, à toutes les humiliations. »5
Parfois il a le sentiment que le Journal le trahit:
« Je n’y retrouve presque rien de tout ce qui a signifié pour moi
l’automne de l’année 1947, ni le mythe de la diaspora roumaine, qui donne du
sens à mon existence d’exilé... »6
ou
« Le journal est le mien, plus exactement il était le mien. « il l’était »
n’exprime pas une mélancolie, mais une constatation. Jadis il m’appartenait, il
était écrit par moi et peut-être me reflétait-il, autant que puissent refléter les
confessions d’un jeune homme l’âme de ce jeune homme. Depuis lors, quelques
années se sont écoulées - pas trop - et le journal a cessé de m’appartenir. Je le
publie donc sans aucun sentiment de gêne. Je ne me reconnais presque pas du
tout dans ses pages. Ou je m’y reconnais comme tout homme dans les livres de
l’époque. Celui-là qui a écrit 504 pages (ne vous effrayez pas, je ne publie pas
toutes) avait des qualités que je ne me reconnais pas, des préoccupations qui ne
m’appartiennent pas, et un âge, que je suis heureux, finalement, d’avoir dépassé.
Avec ce monsieur qui a tant porté mon nom, et qui répondait à mes
signalements, l’auteur a mené une longue et pénible lutte, dans les détails de
laquelle les lecteurs ne puevent pas entrer. » 7

1
M. Eliade, Chantier, p. 27.
2
Idem, Journal, vol. I , 1941-1969, p.
3
Ibid., p. 251.
4
M. Eliade, Journal portugais, p. 122.
5
M. Eliade, Mémoires, I, p. 88.
6
Ibid., p. 136.
7
M. Eliade, Chantier, roman indirect, Bucureşti, Editions Rum-Irina, 1991, p. 11.

48
 Les pages du Journal ne réussissent pas toujours à retenir
l’intensité de l’enthousiasme et du bonheur vécu par son auteur, lorsqu’il
a découvert, par exemple, Ticino et le Lac Maggiore ou lorsqu’il a
rencontré Olga Froebe, l’organisatrice des conférences Eranos, ou C.G.
Jung et G. Scholem.

La trahison de l’auteur

Le Journal devient une œuvre de fiction, où l’auteur se transforme dans

un personnage. Dans le volume Chantier, publié surtout par des
nécessitées financières, Eliade transforme les pages du Journal dans « un
roman indirect. »1 Dans ce but, il sacrifie l’unité de style en faveur du
romanesque et de la sensation. Par « roman indirect », il veut dire que la
perspective narrative est assumée par la volonté de l’auteur, toutes les
observations philosophiques et philologiques disparaissent, toutes les
descriptions des pays de l’Inde sont supprimées, de même que toutes les
analyses des questions politiques; il grossit les éléments extérieurs qui
présentent la vie d’un Européen dans une pension anglo-indienne, il
ajoute des détails, des précisions et des réalisations. Le roman gagne par
la présentation spontanée et simple des événements et des états d’âme.
Le roman naît tout simplement par le récit des histoires et des
personnages.
« Tout ce qui vit peut se transformer en épique »2, par contre, la
théorie et la rêverie n’ont pas le même pouvoir de métamorphose. Eliade
considère le roman « une triste catégorie de la création épique », parce
qu’il limite et ne valorise pas toute la force de la création et de
l’imagination. Bien que dans Chantier il eût supprimé toute analyse et
toute refléxion, il est d’accord qu’elles peuvent se constituer en sujet de
roman:
« Au contraire je crois très sérieusement que les étapes d’une
intelligence, comme les phases d’un sentiment peuvent se constituer en roman.
Je ne comprends pas pourquoi pourrait devenir „un roman” un livre où l’on
décrit une maladie, un métier quelconque ou une cocotte – et il ne serait pas
autant roman un livre où on décrirait la lutte d’une personne vivante avec ses
propres pensées, ou la vie d’un homme entre ses livres et ses rêves [...] Tout ce
qui arrive dans la vie peut constituer un roman. »3
Le Journal, dans la vision d’Eliade, doit retenir des choses
regardant les gens, des états d’âme et non pas des éruditions. Dans
Chantier, il avoue que le but du journal est de signaler les figures des
personnes connues, des histoires et des états d’âme. Quant à la
1
Florin Ţurcanu dans op. cit. apprécie la valeur de document de ce„roman indirect” et mentionne la
critique d’ E. Ionesco relative à cette œuvre.
2
M. Eliade, Chantier, Bucureşti, Editions Rum-Irina, 1991, p. 13.
3
Ibid., p. 13.

49
publication du Journal, il lui semble que la distance envers ses amis,
envers ses connaissances lui donne plus de courage, parce qu’on peut
plus facilement accepter « les horreurs et les les naïvetés » de ce genre
littéraire. La trahison d’Eliade se réalise quelques fois par une
présentation plus sensationnelle des faits réels. Il revient sur ses notes et
reconnaît: « En réalité la scène n’a pas été si géniale comme la présentait
le Journal. »1 Des fois il est vraiment injuste envers le Journal, dont il ne
voit plus le sens, parce qu’il a la sensation que ce qui est plus vif et plus
authentique dans ses sentiments y échappe:
« J’écris toujours à minuit, après avoir fini mon travail, lorsque je suis
fatigué et vide. De simples notes sans importances, qui ne disent rien de mon
agonie de Calcutta, de l’héroïsme avec lequel je lutte. » 2
Le Journal ne retient non plus grande chose du « sentiment
sténique », qu’Eliade éprouve lorsqu’on lui refuse la bourse de la
Recherche et tout cela parce qu’il reconnaît n’avoir bien écrit dans le
journal depuis longtemps. La trahison s’accomplit des fois par
l’impuissance de l’auteur d’enregistrer des images globales ou de
surprendre la plénitude d’une passion :
« Par exemple, la mer vue de la terrasse ou d’en haut, de la montagne, le
panorama avec les deux baies successives. Incapable « d’exprimer » de pareilles
images globales ou – j’oserais dire de pareilles heures; de pareilles unités de
temps concret. Je ne peux pas noter dans ce carnet que des événements et parce
qu’ils manquent; des fragments d’une vision. »3

Le maintien de l’identité

L’écriture du Journal est une modalité de maintenir l’identité roumaine,

c’est un contact permanent avec le roumain, lorsqu’il se trouve à
l’étranger:
« Je me suis habitué à travailler pendant toute la journée et à penser.
Pas devant ce cahier. Sans doute, où j’écris seulement des histoires drôles et
presque sans signification, que je dois noter, pourtant pour converser avec
quelqu’un, frivole, intime dans ma langue. »4
Le Journal est donc son premier confident, une occupation
reposante, mais aussi un impératif. Le Journal satisfait la soif immense
d’écrire, de faire de la littérature, parce qu’il était conscient qu’il ne
pouvait faire rien d’autre: « Je suis incapable de toute autre chose. »5. S’il
n’écrivait pas chaque jour, il avait l’impression de perdre du temps. Et
pourtant lorsqu’il est accablé par des événements, il note rarement dans
le journal. Il l’ouvre pendant des jours où rien ne se passe, où lorsqu’il n’a
1
Ibid., p. 60.
2
Ibid., p. 144.
3
M. Eliade, Journal, I, p. 186.
4
M. Eliade, Chantier, p. 42.
5
Ibid., p. 50.

50
pas d’idées pour écrire. Le journal est le lieu où l’auteur en dialogue avec
soi-même, se juge, se justifie, se condamne ou se pardonne, où il essaie
de se comprendre, d’apaiser l’écartèlement entre la passion pour la
science et celle pour l’aventure. Il y enregistrait rarement des moments
de bonheur parfait:
« J’ouvre ce cahier, ce matin, pour dire: je respire le bien, je respire
l’amour. La plus pure expression du bonheur. C’est ça. Inutile d’y ajouter encore
quelque chose. »1.
Dans Chantier, il y a beaucoup de confessions, qui témoignent de
l’effort de l’auteur dans la direction d’une meilleure connaissance de soi:
« Ce qui est plus douloureux, plus extraordinaire, est la simultanéité
des sentiments que je découvre en moi. Le même jour, je suis un penseur calme,
exigent envers les choses et envers moi-même, mais je suis aussi un jeune
homme sans colonne vertébrale, qui interrompt sa lecture pour une promenade
avec une fille dans le jardin. »2
Mircea Eliade déclare qu’il n’écrit pas pour se confesser, ni pour
se mieux connaître ou pour être mieux connu. Dans ce but, il considère
plus adéquates les mémoires ou l’autobiographie. « Un autoportrait
serait très bien placé dans une confession exemplaire, avec un certain
sens moral ou profétique. »3 En réalité, du point de vue d’une meilleure
connaissance de l’auteur, le Journal n’offre aucune garantie. L’auteur
peut choisir les fragments destinés à la publication, ce qui veut dire que
le lecteur apprendra seulement ce que veut celui-ci. Les seuls
témoignages qu’on trouve dans le Journal d’Eliade concernent surtout la
genèse de ses œuvres littéraires et scientifiques.
Dans une petite notation écrite le 15 avril 1945, il explique les
ressemblances et les différences entre lui et le personnage du docteur du
roman Isabel et les eaux du diable. Il y a eu des périodes dans la vie de
l’écrivain roumain où il ne croyait plus dans le sens de sa création
littéraire et scientifique et alors il lui restait l’écriture du Journal, qui
devenait la seule utile et importante, c’est pourquoi il notait le 7 janvier,
1943:
« Et parce que je ne peux pas vivre sans lutter avec mes pensées, je
devrais acheter un cahier où noter, avec plus d’amour que je ne l’ai pas fait
jusqu’à présent, la récolte de chaque jour. Il serait plus intéressant, parce que je
n’ai jamais écrit dans ce journal des réflexions philosophiques, les observations
scientifiques, les anecdotes érudites. »4
L’écriture du journal était une occasion d’entrevoir sa destinée
posthume d’écrivain. Il était conscient qu’il devait écrire des œuvres
d’une valeur incontestable pour s’imposer, puisque l’activité de publiciste
ne représentait que quelque chose de passagère, provisoire. Quoiqu’il
1
Ibid., p. 67.
2
Ibid., p. 75.
3
Ibid., pp. 99-100.
4
M. Eliade, Journal portugais, p. 167.

51
n’aimât pas les journaux « carnet-atelier », comme celui de Charles du
Bos, le sien lui échappe et devient un pareil « carnet-atelier. » Il
expliquait le manque des chefs-d’oeuvres de sa production littéraire par
une certaine hâte, qu’il éprouvait lorsqu’il écrivait. Il s’efforçait aussi
d’être attentif au lecteur, qu’il ne voulait pas ennuyer avec des détails
inutiles. S’il n’avait pas eu ces scrupules, il se croyait capable d’écrire
comme Tolstoi, Dostoievski ou Balzac. Du point de vue scientifique il
soulignait son intention de valoriser au maximum la vie des gens de
l’époque archaïque, en révélant le sens métaphysique de celle-ci, qui
pourrait donner un nouvel essor aux sciences ethnohistoriques.
Dans des moments de détresse terrible, l’écriture du journal
devenait une consolation, une obligation de se concentrer sur le présent
pour vaincre sa propre passivité. Pendant ces moments-là, il confiait au
Journal bien des choses. Il y parlait d’un secret, qu’il n’avait pas le courage
d’avouer. Les journaux tenus pendant la période 1928-1940, avec d’autres
manuscrits et lettres ont été confié à N. I. Herescu, mais tous ont été
perdus. Le Journal a été interrompu pendant son séjour à Londres, de
l’avril 1940 jusqu’au 10 février 1941.

La typologie des journaux

Les interprètes de l’œuvre d’Eliade ont établi une typologie des journaux:
le journal d’adolescence, le journal indien, le journal portugais et le
journal d’exil. Chaque type de journal correspond à un autre type
d’expérience et a été écrit dans un autre but. Dans le premier, Eliade était
préoccupé par la connaissance de soi-même, comme tout jeune homme.
Pendant la période indienne, le journal sert à l’enregistrement de ses
impressions, de ses sentiments, de ses inédites expériences de l’Inde. Le
journal portugais se transforme dans l’écho des cris de détresse,
l’expression d’une vraie Descensus ad Inferos, la plus difficile période de
la vie d’Eliade. Il était désespéré par la situation politique de la
Roumanie, qui allait entrer pour longtemps sous l’influence soviétique:
« Je suis troublé par le néant que je vois devant moi: la civilisation
latine-chrétienne sombrant sous la dite dictature du prolétariat, en fait, la
dictature des plus vils éléments slaves. »1
« Ce que je ne peux pas accepter, ce que je ne peux pas assimiler, c’est la
tragédie de mon peuple. À la pensée que l’État et le peuple Roumains pourraient
disparaître à cause des Russes et à cause de l’imbécilité de Churchil ou Roosvelt
– je deviens exaspéré. Mon désespoir trouve sa source surtout dans ce destin
Roumain. »2
Dans ce contexte historique là, il ne croyait plus dans le salut par
la création, il souffrait à cause du complexe d’infériorité d’appartenir à
1
Ibid., p. 137.
2
Ibid., p. 160.

52
une culture mineure. Il avait perdu son emploi et sa femme et il avait pris
la décision de ne plus revenir dans son pays. Et tout cela est accompagné
par une stérilité sur le plan de la création. Et alors le Journal portugais
s’est transformé, selon l’opinion de Sorin Alexandrescu, dans « la
véritable œuvre d’Eliade au Portugal.»1 Ce journal-là révèle, selon Mihai
Zamfir, « un Eliade génuin et sans fard, à la recherche de son propre
identité. »2 C’est le seul journal qu’il n’a pas voulu publier qu’après 1967,
parce que la pensée de la publication bloquait la confession. Plus tard il
s’est rendu compte qu’il pourrait faire comme Julien Green, c’est-à-dire,
choisir quelques fragments pour la publication.
Quant au journal d’exil, celui-ci enregistre pas à pas la
renaissance d’Eliade et son affirmation dans un autre espace culturel, la
conquête difficile de la célébrité, de même que les étapes de l’élaboration
de l’œuvre scientifique et littéraire. On y trouve aussi le drame de
l’écrivain exilé qui ne peut plus revenir dans son pays, où il revient
seulement par l’intermédiaire de ses souvenirs.
D’autres exégètes3 ont séparé les journaux en: journal de crise,
journal portugais et journal d’existence, le Journal 1941-1969, 1970-1985.
Mihai Zamfir affirme qu’Eliade préférait le journal d’existence selon le
modèle de Gide et de Julien Green.

La rédaction du journal

Eliade écrivait ses impressions sur des petites feuilles séparées et à un

moment donné, il s’est rendu compte qu’il devrait noter tout dans un
cahier. Glossarium et quelques notices de voyage ont été écrits de la
sorte, c’est pourquoi il s’est proposé de les inclure, un jour, dans le
Journal portugais. Finalement, le journal devenait un genre hybride qui
engloutissait des notices de voyages, des notes d’agenda. Il appelait «
néfaste » sa manière de travailler, parce qu’il ne réussissait à écrire
chaque jour et d’une manière organisée. La rédaction était souvent un
effort, qui lui redonnait en échange l’appétit d’écrire. Il y écrivait souvent
pendant la nuit, comme au temps de son adolescence, où il était obligé
de recourir à cette période, pour se soustraire à la surveillance de son
père. À cette époque-là, il écrivait dix ou douze pages d’un coup et il
passait des heures et des heures devant ce cahier. Pendant l’époque
indienne, la rédaction du journal était une activité fébrile:
« Je revenais plusieurs fois par jour noter dans le Journal encore une
conversation avec le très érudit Vidhushekar Shastri ou une nouvelle
indiscrétion relative à la légendaire existence de Tagore. »4

1
S. Alexandrescu, op. cit., p. 27.
2
M. Zamfir, Mircea Eliade et le Portugal, dans M. Eliade, Journal portugais, p. 77.
3
V. Idem.
4
M. Eliade, Mémoires, I, p. 190.

53
 Pendant la révolution civile d’Inde, il avait l’habitude de noter
toutes les informations recueillies du territoire et des journaux, parce
qu’il avait l’intention d’en écrire un livre. Les pages de ce journal-là
seront publiées dans le roman indirect Chantier. Le Journal a été aussi le
témoin de son expérience dans la maison du philosophe Dasgupta. Les
pages en parlant deviendront plus tard des pages du roman Maitreyi:
« Souvent je transcrivais des pages entières du Journal et si le Journal de cet
été, de 1930, avait été plus copieux, peut-être l’aurais-je transcrit tout entier. »1
Dans le camp de concentration de Ciuc, Eliade se rappelle qu’il
écrivait le Journal sur du papier hygiénique, qu’il foulait ensuite sous le
pied pour pouvoir le coller sur le corps et le rendre invisible. Il lui a pris
ensuite deux semaines pour le retranscrire.

Mircea Eliade sur d’autres journaux

Eliade a été un lecteur passionné des journaux d’écrivains comme Julien

Green, André Gide, Charles du Bos, Sebastian, Ramuz, Papiuni,
Barbellion, Paul Leautaud, Junger, Paule Regnier, Tolstoi, etc. Même
dans les moments de détresse intense, où il ne pouvait lire que la Bible,
Sestov et Kirkegaard, les journaux intimes l’enchantaient par leurs
„notations futiles et sans valeur œcuménique”.2
Il trouve de l’intérêt dans la lecture du journal de Tolstoi
seulement lorsque celui-ci y notait des faits menus, des états d’âme ou
des souvenirs. Il remarquait aussi l’effort de l’écrivain russe de tout noter,
de ne perdre aucune pensée. La découverte du journal d’Amiel a eu lieu
trop tard, pour qu’il puisse le trouver intéressant. Il a été enchanté en
échange par la lecture des journaux de Léon Bloy et de Rémy de
Gourmont. Chez le dernier il a apprécié le drame et l’érudition
personnels, mais il s’est déclaré irrité par « la naïve admiration envers la
science » et par « le scepticisme à bon marché. »3 Le journal du Charles
du Bos est intéressant par son contenu riche en citations, commentaires
et notations sur différents auteurs et livres. L’auteur semble vivre pour
lire et relire. Par exemple, les premières trente pages sont consacrées au
style d’Amiel. De ce journal, Eliade a retenu une affirmation de Percy
Lubbock:
« le livre ou l’article que l’on n’est pas en train de faire, que l’on se
propose de faire après, est toujours le seul arbre en fleur du verger de l’esprit.»4
Même s’ils étaient écrits avec intelligence, sensibilité et précision,
Eliade déclarait qu’il préférait les journaux où « il y a en abondance des
notations quelconques, des notations regardant les visites banales, des
1
M. Eliade, Mémoires, I, p. 260.
2
Idem, Journal portugais, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2006, p. 306.
3
Idem, Mémoires, I, p. 144.
4
Idem, Journal I, p. 88.

54
ennuis; des rêves, des illusions – preuve que l’auteur écrit ‘le journal pour
soi. » 1 A cause de la manière de la rédaction, le Journal de du Boss s’est
transformé dans « un exercice d’atelier une sorte de préessai », dépourvu
surtout des plus passionnants traits de ce genre littéraire: l’intimité, les
allusions et la notation courte. Les journaux de du Bos, de Green et de
Gide prouvent que ce genre littéraire ne contribue pas à une meilleure
connaissance de leurs auteurs, malgré l’analyse et l’effort de ceux-ci pour
s’observer.
En lisant une chronique sur ces journaux, Eliade se demandait si
le rôle du journal était bien celui de déterminer l’auteur à se mieux
connaître et à se confesser. Il reconnaissait avoir eu cette tendance
pendant la jeunesse, mais plus tard il a senti le vrai goût du journal, celui
d’enregistrer des impressions et des détails quotidiens, insignifiants en
apparence, mais pleins de révélations à une lecture ultérieure. En tant
que genre littéraire, qu’importance esthétique, historique,
psychologique, le journal est précieux parce qu’il immobilise des
fragments de temps concret, comme, par exemple, les pages de son
Journal de Cordoue écrites en octobre 1944 incluses dans le Journal I
1941-1969. La lecture du Journal de Sebastian lui a provoqué « une
terrible crise de détresse », parce qu’il a réalisé qu’il s’était écarté de sa
vraie vocation, celle d’écrivain roumain et il a eu en conséquence le
sentiment d’une perte irrémédiable des premiers six ans passés à
l’étranger. À Calcutta, il a lu le Journal de Barbellion, qu’il a beaucoup
aimé, parce qu’il s’y retrouvait: partagé entre la science, l’art et le désir de
vivre pleinement.
« J’ai été aussi séduit par la manière dont il tenait son journal, ces
délicieuses petites choses, qui alternent avec les confessions graves, les
expériences d’un naturaliste débutant, les impressions recueillies dans un
musée, ses ambitions, le regret de mourir jeune, inconnu, les espérances qu’il
mettait dans la publication du journal. »2
Julien Green est charmant par son désir de « sauver les instants »,
même s’il est bien des fois tout à fait banal. Il écrivait dans son journal
parce qu’il avait besoin de satisfaire le besoin d’écrire, parce que ce genre
littéraire lui permettait plus de liberté d’expression. Il y pouvait être «
fragmentaire, personnel, allusif ». Dans le cas de l’écrivain Paule Régnier,
Eliade s’est rendu compte que le journal pouvait assurer à celle-ci la
survivance littéraire et qu’il y avait beaucoup de choses qui ne pouvaient
être exprimées que dans un journal. Il était évident que quelques
écrivains tenaient les journaux pour les publier et dans ce cas, il est
devenu conscient qu’il fallait accorder plus d’attention à la rédaction. Il
déclarait pourtant que le sien était écrit pour lui seul, pour se retrouver
et que la publication était un but secondaire. Le Journal de Romain
1
Ibid.,p. 60.
2
Ibid., p. 409.

55
Rolland le détermine à penser à ses propres notations sur Tagore, et à
son intention de les publier seulement après la mort du poète. Chez
Ernest Jünger, il appréciait la technique de la rédaction, la notation
quotidienne des infirmations courtes et fragmentaires et ensuite leur
reprise pour la rédaction sous forme de paragraphe, qui retenait
l’essentiel de celles-ci. Il considérait que le Journal de Ernst Jünger
illustrait un genre qui serait à la monde à l’avenir, parce que les jeunes
générations ne seraient plus intéressées par « des œuvres systématiques
», mais plutôt par « des créations personnelles », par « des textes libres »
et par des « fragments significatifs ».

Conclusions

Il est incontestable que le Journal a donné un plus de valeur à l’œuvre

littéraire d’Eliade. Grâce à cette œuvre, Eliade est situé à côté des grands
écrivains comme: Green, Gide, du Boss. L’importance du Journal réside
dans le fait qu’il offre des normes pour ce genre: un talent spécial,
l’enregistrement des faits insignifiants, des trais distinctifs: l’authenticité
et l’intimité. Dans le cas d’Eliade, nous apprenons qu’il écrivait non pas
pour se confesser, mais pour sauver des fragments de temps concret.
Eliade a utilisé le Journal dans divers buts, en fonction de l’époque et de
son parcours littéraire et humain. Le Journal a été pour l’écrivain
roumain: le réservoir de sa création littéraire, le meilleur confident, un
refuge, un atelier de travail, une façon de garder son identité, une œuvre
qui participait à la totalité de sa production littéraire.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Handoca, Mircea, La vie de Mircea Eliade, Cluj-Napoca, Editions Dacia, 2002;

Journal inédit de Mircea Eliade, dans „Apostrof”, XXI, 2010, no. 3, (238).
Eliade, Mircea, Journal portugais et d’autres écrits, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2006;
Journal I, 1941-1969, II, 1970-1985, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2004; Chantier, roman
indirect, Bucureşti, Editions Rum-Irina, 1991; Mémoires (1907-1960), Edition et
préface de Mircea Handoca, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 1991; Océanographie, Bucureşti,
Humanitas, 1991.
Girard, André, Le journal intime, un nouveau genre littéraire dans « Cahiers de
l’Association des études françaises », 1995, 17, Numéro 1, pp. 99-109.
Marino, Adrian, L’Herméneutique de Mircea Eliade, Cluj-Napoca, Éditions Dacia,
1980.
Turcanu, Florin, Mircea Eliade, Le Prisonnier de l’Histoire, Bucureşti, Humanitas,
2003.
Zamfir, Mihai, Mircea Eliade et le Portugal, dans M. Eliade, Journal portugais et
d’autres écrits, Bucureşti, Humanitas, 2006.

56
 LENA CONSTANTE. CONFESIUNE UNEI
FIINȚE INDESTRUCTIBILE
LENA CONSTANTE. CONFESSIONS OF AN INDESTRUCTIBLE
HUMAN BEING

MARIUS MIHEȚ
mariusmihet@gmail.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea/ „Comenius” University, Bratislava
Universitatii Street 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 538-154

Abstract: Lena Constante’s post-carceral confession - ”The Silent

Escape” - remains one of the most shocking testimonies of the last
century against totalitarianism. The writer (also a visual artist) x-rays the
whole carceral metabolism from a unique perspective. Lena Constante,
like most of the prisoners of Romanian totalitarianism, has undertaken
three stages of temptation: doubt, freedom and suicide. The trauma
renders the narrative voice a broken aspect in the first part, attenuated as
the confession unfolds, able to be tempted by new zones: of style and of
autofiction. Apart from political aspects, the most violent plot of the
book is the bystanding of the separation from herself in the body. This is
an experience more intense than torture, interrogations, hunger, or
diabolic people. She learns how to renounce her body, how to dismiss it,
as ascetics do, she redefines her body with the help of the mind. During
the nine years of solitude in prison, she develops a therapy of the
spiritual. She becomes a winner to the extent that she wins over her-
feeble-self, over that self afraid of death and agnostic. After going
through all the circles of an inferno, in her expressionist poetry of
writing, on the flesh of her youth there is an outgrowth of words,
prolonged as painted images, either. Her story of words and painted
images is the story of an indestructible being, who has overcome the
absurd by assuming the costs of metamorphoses.
Key words: confession, political prison, trauma, carceral
feminine literature, body, femininity, totalitarianism, communism

O libertate discutabilă. Precauțiile libertății.

Câte precauții la această scriitoare trecută prin toate cercurile

infernului! Lena Constante notează la bătrânețe despre experiențele ei
care preschimbă tinerețea fericită într-una asasinată. Peste carnea inutilă
a tinereții a crescut sistematic una de cuvinte. Spre sfârșitul vieții, Lena

57
Constante arată ca un om de cuvinte. Iar ele, roditoare, se prelungesc și
în imagini. Picto-poeziile ei spun povești tămăduitoare. Putem afirma că
ea trăia deplin o crepusculară stare poetică. Scrie și pictează înainte de
marea trecere ca și cum ar ști că testamentul acesta e singurul ce poate
traduce întregul ei destin. Și, poate, unicul ce lasă în urmă o interogație
specială.
Cine vrea să priceapă ce-i cu acest destin special, trebuie
numaidecât să coboare și să privească apoi de la înălțimile suferinței
Lenei Constante. Faptul că se grăbește să scrie ce înmagazinase în
memorie nu ține defel de mândrie, nici de teama de-a nu se pierde în
postcomunism memoria trecutului.
Nu are defel ambiții de scriitoare. Și se simte mereu rușinată că a
călcat pe teritoriul interzis al scrisului confesiv, mai ales cu elanul ei
întârziat. Nu a fost niciodată o timidă. Nici în tinerețe - când exuberanța
ei era molipsitoare. Nici la senectute - când tablourile și tapiseriile iau
locul expansiunii fizice. De asemenea, nu se poate afirma că scrie dintr-o
reacție de defulare. Totul se întâmplase deja demult, în experiențele-
limită care aduseseră la suprafață o ființă nouă și veche, uitată înlăuntrul
ei.
O ființă de lumină, de extracție dostoievskiană, capabilă să vadă
prin întuneric și să nu se poată desfăta până la capăt cu lumina de afară.
O ființă spiritualizată, care începea tot mai des să se lovească de lucruri,
ca într-un poem de Nichita Stănescu, nu înainte de a fi locuit în culori.
Numai în postcomunism Evadarea tăcută vedea lumina tiparului.
Probabil că trauma și neîncrederea în noua ordine politică instalată au
redirecționat apariția cărții în Franța, ca și cum România nu ar fi revenit,
după Revoluția din 1989, între țările libere. E semnul cel mai limpede că
Lena Constante era contaminată de scepticism până și în idealitatea ei.
Se vede bine că indivizii cu experiență totalitară se hrănesc din
normalitate cu prudență. Indiferent de epocă.
Evadarea tăcută este o carte-trăită și memorată; de fapt, pentru
Lena Constante în ipostaza de condamnată, Evadare tăcută este memoria
însăși. O carte-dialog cu sine și, totodată, o formă de terapeutică. În
singurătatea celor 3000 de zile de închisoare politică, Lena Constante
pricepe curând faptul că numai dialogul intim - în lipsa oricărei
comunicări - o ține departe de alienare. Sau cel puțin o amână. În Franța,
apariția cărții intra repede în efervescența pe care societatea franceză a
arătat-o patriei francofone de la Est, atât de obscurizată vreme de
aproape jumătate de secol. Numai că reacțiile se sting precum au
început. Curiozitatea se reformulează politic și idelologic.
Pentru cei care n-au trăit nimic din totalitarism, mărturia nu e
mai mult decât o poveste tragică, printre atâtea altele, reale sau
inventate. Sau, dacă luăm de bune anumite studii apusene, o curiozitate
statistică. Cu siguranță că, dacă promovarea cărții s-ar fi făcut în jurul

58
experienței de gen, Evadare tăcută ar fi acut o carieră îndelungată în
Occident.
E limpede că Lena Constante își lua toate aceste prevederi fiindcă
nu credea în libertatea întreagă. Definitivă. Cu siguranță, la fel ca în
timpul carceral, ea învață să evalueze viața în funcție de micile încântări
și de oportunitățile mărunte. Să fi pierdut ea, prin experiența închisorii,
bucuria întregului?
Mai mult ca sigur, Lena Constante nu putea îmbrățișa libertatea
însăși altfel decât pe felii. În bucăți. Așa cum condamnatul se veselește de
firimiturile de pâine împărțite cu cine știe ce viețuitoare, la fel
procedează scriitoarea în privința libertății. De bună seamă, ea se temea
ca nu cumva istoria să nu-i joace încă o festă, acum, când memoria ei
scrisă putea fi multiplicată.
Nu se poate spune că Lena Constante era o naivă în momentul
arestării. La 40 de ani, cât avea în 1950, ea profitase de ceea ce se cheamă
o tinerețe fericită: familia devotată și progresistă, educație elaborată,
prieteni numeroși etc. 12 ani mai târziu, tot ce însemnase până atunci o
memorie a normalității se prăbușea. Mărturia ei reprezintă una dintre
cele mai profunde experiențe ale intimității din secolul trecut.

Terapeutica spirituală. Poetica extremei.

Cuvântul-esență. Tripla memorie.

Lecția închisorii se transferă într-una a Istoriei. Se poate spune că în

culturile aflate sub comunism, închisoarea face Istoria, îi dă sens, chiar
dacă unul absurd. Scepticismul Lenei Constante vine tot dintr-un dialog
multiplu: cu răul, cu tortura și cu degradarea.
Se mulțumește cu puțin pentru că, așa cum ne lasă să pricepem
Evadare tăcută, cartea e un manual al supraviețuirii prin asumarea
disprețului ca revelație spirituală.
Cu alte cuvinte, la fel ca primii creștini - sau de la Plotin încoace -
, ea mută semnificația dinspre închisoare ca spațiu închis, spre asceză.
Învață cel mai bine unica filosofie a supraviețuirii într-o primă etapă:
cum să-ți disprețuiești trupul? Singurătatea ei traumatică cedează trupul
și ia forma superioară a ascezei. De aici șansa miraculoasă a unei femei
aflată în fața a trei mii de zile de singurătate.
Interpreții cărții, numeroși, au ignorat taman intriga principală,
dincolo de aspectele politice: conflictul alimentat de despărțirea de ea
însăși prin trup - care rămâne intriga cea mai intensă. Ea întrece
interogatoriile, anchetele, oamenii diabolizați, tortura și neputințele de
la marginea sinuciderii. Infernul propriu-zis.
Triumful interiorității ascetice face convingătoare Evadarea
tăcută. În aproape nouă ani de singurătate a închisorii, prizoniera are
șansa recunoașterii unei, i-aș zice, fără să exagerez, terapeutici spirituale.

59
Dacă până atunci scrisul și lectura nu merg mai departe de preocupări de
divertisment, ele devin acum forme de supraviețuire. Scrie și citește în
gând, memorează-rememorează, rescrie. Pe un ecran al minții din care a
șters realitatea toxică. Totul într-un proces al memoriei ca unică formulă
a supraviețuirii.
Operațiune mentală ce ia locul inimii în tot acest timp carceral.
Câtă rigoare interioară! Ea crede că toate cuvintele cer timp, că e
imposibil să spui totul dintr-o dată și astfel e dificil să exprimi o spaimă a
cuvintelor. Altfel spus, ea face din medicamentul mental, din exercițiul
acesta al supraviețuirii prin compunerea în memorie, ceva mai mult și
mai puternic: o estetică. O poetică a carceralului ascetic. Paradoxal.
„Mi-ar trebui un cuvânt unic - spunea ea. Un cuvânt de sinteză. Un
cuvânt – lovitură de ciomag. Un cuvânt lovitură de trăsnet. Un cuvânt
însângerat. Urlat cu gâtul strâns de spaimă (...). Spaima care-ți răsucește pieptul
sus, la stânga, un loc, un punct, unde – de obicei – nu se află nimic. Inima. Un
cuvânt din carne. Un cuvânt din sânge. Acest cuvânt nu există. Atâtea cuvinte și
nimic nu e spus încă”.
Iată cum această estetică aparent întâmplătoare, a căutării
cuvântului care să întregească toată condiția ei carcerală, ia forma
poeziei. Nu oricare. O poezie, la prima vedere, a visceralității. Mărturia
Lenei Constante are această calitate de-a se ridica în abstractul poeziei.
Căci ce altceva e fragmentul de mai sus decât poezie? Ce fel de poezie
până la urmă? Evident, poezie expresionistă. Căci scriitoarea nu se
diferențiază de poeții războiului. Chiar dacă nu au de-a face unii cu alții,
ea nici nu plămădește din poezie un criteriu artistic, nici când se află în
libertate. Cu toate acestea, Lena Constante este o poetă cu totul
comparabilă poeților din gruparea „Albatros”. Prin intuiția cu care
traduce o stare-limită, având ca decor nu războiul, ci senzația
apocalipticului, alienarea, și, mai ales, închisoarea-infern. Cea din urmă
ia locul morții și a chipuirilor ei. Intensifică senzațiile infernului și a
intimității morții. Tocmai pentru că se petrec toate în viață, într-o
tulburătoare reluare, și impresia e că moartea ar fi o salvare, dar nu mai
simplă decât infernul camuflat în lumea carcerală.
Reținem apoi din această estetică expresionistă din Evadare
tăcută și devalorizarea sentimentului. Criteriile anti-sentimentale.
Renunțând la trup și învățând să-l disprețuiască, Lena Constante este
nevoită să redefinească ceea ce există, dar golit de însemnătate. Inima, ca
principiu vinovat al existenței trupești, se reduce la un simplu artificiu.
Pentru Geo Dumitrescu, de pildă, inima nu era mai mult decât o gămălie
de chibrit (Portret). Ceva ce se aprinde brusc și apoi dispare, lăsând în
urmă ruina a ceva ce altădată era etern. La Lena Constante, inima
primește funcția unei entități străine - un corp străin, un virus - de care
nu poate scăpa, oricât rabat ar face de la luciditate:
„Nimic nu se petrece în cap. Totul se petrece numai în această masă de
carne, de obicei insensibilă, mută, inexistentă. Deodată în acest rău, în durere, în

60
frică, îmi simt inima dușmană. Știam, doar teoretic, că este acolo. Acum o simt.
Mă doare. Mă doare până la țipăt”.
Tragicul acestei experiențe înseamnă mai mult decât se vede. Se
prelungește într-o tăcere prelungită într-o moarte ce întârzie să vină.
Căci el, tragicul, presupune a înlocui o inimă romantică cu una
expresionistă. Cu alte cuvinte, Lena Constante trăiește, evitând cinismul,
experiența simulacrului.
Schimbarea fundamentală de, să-i zicem, paradigmă interioară în
Evadare tăcută se petrece când Lena Constante înlocuiește inima cu
cuvântul. Iar cuvântul este organul vital. Fără el, supraviețuirea, viața
însăși nu au sens. Și toate astea unde? Într-o lume a tăcerii.
Cât paradox, atâta dramă în scrisul Lenei Constante. Să cauți
cuvântul esențial în tăcere. Nu în tăcerea filosofică, nici în cea mistică. Ci
în tăcerea infernului. La ce bun? Care e utilitatea, de vreme ce
supraviețuirea e oricum absurdă? Frumusețea ideii implicate aici vine din
multiplicarea ariei semantice. Cuvântul nu e doar noua inimă, ci timpul
însuși. El măsoară, calculează, acționează. Cuvântul este putere și
acțiune. Numai el poate, în imperiul tăcerii impuse, să fie zgomotos,
chiar rămas într-o interioritate. Una, se vede bine, asurzitoare. Așadar,
Lena Constante dezbate în singurătatea închisorii o problemă de limbaj
care să fie atât de cuprinzătoare, încât să conțină deopotrivă organele
vitale și timpul. Individul se reduce la idee în situații tragice. Lena
Constante nu face excepție: esențializează totul în cuvânt.
Dacă totul scade în ea, de la sentimentul vieții fragile, la moartea
atotcuprinzătoare, până la dezumanizarea fără întoarcere, un singur
lucru crește. Care devine unica realitate generoasă: spiritualitatea.
Cuvântul și memoria se hrănesc din revelație. Agnostica de altădată
învață că rugăciunea substituie întreaga existență, schimbă viața și face
moartea suportabilă. Le să un sens:
„Știu că în celulele noastre mizerabile sute de femei înfometate,
hăituite, despărțite de familiile lor, de copiii lor îi mulțumesc lui Dumnezeu
pentru a fi salvat o paznică de închisoare. Pe una din acele femei care aplicau cu
rigoare regulamentul sadic, numai pentru că ea ea, între toate, a îndrăznit, din
când în când, să zâmbească... Simt fizic cum prin ziduri străbate fervoarea
rugăciunii și pune stăpânire și pe mine, negând răul și preamărind binele și
speranța”.
Scena în care deținutele se roagă în același timp pentru una
dintre supraveghetoarele lor și rememorarea procesul lui L. Pătrășcanu
sunt cele mai izbutite fragmente din întreaga carte. Prima insistă pe o
tensiune a interiorității comune, desăvârșite prin suferința revelată,
cealaltă pe simulacrul istoriei, pe mistificarea orbitoare, ce nu poate fi
notată decât prin sarcasm și ironie. Din ambele se înalță aburul unei
credințe nestrămutate în spiritul care nu poate fi distrus. Ideea majoră a
cărții: a indestructibilității.

61
 Ion Vianu opina că „miezul vieții ei a fost suferință, dar întreaga
ei viață nu a fost numai suferință”1 Același scriitor crede că despre ea că a
avut o bătrânețe lungă, poate și pentru că folclorista, scenografa de
altădată, se reinventează - după achitarea din 1968 - în autoare de cărți
pentru copii și ca artist plastic. Cărți precum Păpușile harnice (1972) și O
poveste cu un tată, o mamă și trei fetițe (1995) nu înseamnă doar o
întoarcere la preocupările din tinerețea celei care s-a numărat printre
fondatorii teatrului „Țăndărică”, cât o reconfirmare a regenerării ei
spirituale. Iar miezul de care amintește Ion Vianu, ca și lumina -
identificată în alte locuri, țin de perspectiva dostoievskiană pe care el o
citește în toată suferința ei.
Tot din acest punct de vedere religios, Nicolae Steinhardt scrie
despre Lena Constante o surprinzătoare cronică plastică. De fapt, și el, ca
mai târziu, Ion Vianu, vede în preocupările ei felul cum suferința se
transformă în credință.
Să zăbovim puțin asupra cronicii lui Steinhardt. Intitulată Lena
Constante: smerite nestemate; textul2 e orice altceva numai cronică
propriu-zisă nu. Criticul literar vede în tapiseriile ei, în mozaicurile și
tablourile Lenei Constante ceva nedefinit, „pânze impregnate în aloe și
în mir, decoruri pentru un teatru atemporal, picturi țesute, blajine
dedale”. Ele sunt, nici mai mult, nici mai puțin decât „certe miracole” ce
definesc „harul armonizator și globalizant al ineditei artiste”. Făurirea
„noutății prin asamblaj”. În procedeul „tainic” al asamblării, Nicolae
Steinhardt observă „un soi de liturghie, o lucrare comunitară, nu desigur
o liturghie cosmică (în sensul lui Maxim Mărturisitorul), doar
microcosmică, însă tot o sinteză, o sinergie, o simfonie, o interconexiune
cu efect polifonic, de angrenaj, relaționalitate și laolaltă așezare”.
Concluzia, una dintre ele, păstrează același ton exaltat: „Și minunea
aceasta e: realizarea unei impresii unitare: e pluribus unum.
Funcționează (și pulsează) un holism de părți orânduite în scop exclusiv
integrator”.
De ce vede Steinhardt în toate exponatele ei aceste adevăruri?
Pentru că citește în „miezul” lor exact suferința și detașarea purificate
prin rugăciune. Cu alte cuvinte, el privește expoziția Lenei Constante ca
pe una de icoane! Nu va fi surprinzătoare concluzia: în creația ei artistică
se vede sfințenia.
Pentru cei familiarizați cu artista Lena Constante, va fi
surprinzătoare reinventarea ei de la scenografia teatrală - la cuvântul
esențializat. Mai interesant va fi și celălalt proces, ultim, când artista
traduce cuvântul în imagine. Picturile și tapițeriile ei trebuie înțelese ca
proiecții de cuvinte-monade. Dacă inima era un „cuvânt din carne”,
1
Ion Vianu, Apropieri, Iași, Editura Polirom, 2011, p. 238.
2
Nicolae Steinhardt, Drumul către isihie. Ispita lecturii, Iași, Editura Polirom, 2014, pp. 208-2011;

62
pictura îi deschide inima culorii. Un deznodământ, să recunoaștem,
ideal. De care scriitoarea s-a atașat, după eliberare, până la sfârșitul vieții.

E foarte util de urmărit arhitectura memoriei din aceste

confesiuni. Cu modestie, naratoarea recunoaște fluxul conștiinței drept
vinovat: „Povestesc așa cum îmi vin în minte frânturi de amintiri. Dar
știu cu precizie că aceste probleme mi-au acaparat spiritul ca urmare a
legăturilor mele cu ființe umane, după ce-am avut de-a face cu monștri”.
Fragmentul aparține ultimei părți din volum și se pot recunoaște aici
deja distanța și seninătatea dobândite. Nu teama, teroarea și frica
devastatoare.
Inițierea ei în seninătate este probabil cea mai frumoasă poveste
din aceste istorii tragice.
Se poate spune că memoria Lenei Constante urmează mai multe
etape de maturizare:
i) perioada cât lucrează ca scenograf la teatrul de păpuși: o
memorie ce evoluează firesc, cu rutina unei meserii mulțumitoare, chiar
dacă nu cu totul fructificate. Însă are un eu social, cu ecouri ce fac din
existența ei o normalitate fericită.
ii) în perioada carcerală ea supraviețuiește prin memoria socială
ideală, conservată, dar la care renunță treptat, pe măsură ce se desparte
de corporalitate și astfel de feminitate.
Căci, dincolo de toate, Evadarea tăcută este povestea despărțirii
tragice de feminitate.
Scena în care femeia se privește, după cinci ani de temniță, în
oglindă, este grăitoare. Îmbătrânirea bruscă, și, în genere, mecanica
împotrivirilor exterioare, găsesc în scrisul Lenei Constante sensuri în
disciplinarea voinței. De altfel, Evadarea tăcută este un manual de
îmblânzire a voinței, o poveste tulburătoare despre demnitate. Femeia
din oglindă se regăsește într-una abstractă, cu o voință nestrămutată.
iii) etapa post-carcerală, când memoria se disciplinează în viziune
artistică, nu într-un act de supraviețuire extremă.
Așadar, în tot ce scrie Lena Constante distingem o triplă
memorie: socială, carcerală și artistică. Printre ele se insinuează, discret,
o proaspătă memorie religioasă. Sunt totodată etape și concepte ce
soluționează intimitatea la extreme.
Cât de intensă se dovedea problema memoriei se poate observa și
atunci când, în vara lui 1981 – așadar, după douăzeci de ani de la
eliberarea din închisoare - ea mărturisește că memoria este o scară urcată
și coborâtă până în 1961 (anul eliberării). Vreme de douăzeci de ani, ea
meditează, dincolo de cuvânt și în miezul lui, la ceea ce-l
permanentizează. Iar Memoria, cu variațiile ei, înseamnă segmentul
dintre eul social și cel carceral. Dincolo de el, Lena Constante nu poate
accepta nimic. Însă chiar detașarea unei asemenea meditații înseamnă că

63
ea se ridicase deasupra extremelor (dintre memoria inocentă - de
dinainte de încarcerare, și memoria traumatizată - din timpul închisorii).
Simplul fapt de a gândi extremele o înfățișează drept ființă
ontologică.
După 1981 până la moartea ei, faptul că ne găsim exclusiv într-o
memorie artistică, prin preocupări, trădează o formă de esențializare și
de vindecare a memoriei. Ce a tulburat sau amânat memoria artistică a
fost, evident, insecuritatea libertății. Oricând, fosta deținută politic, cu
domiciliul supravegheat, putea fi reîncarcerată. Deci nu poate renunța la
cuvântul interior. El trebuia să urmeze același proces al scrisului interior,
în aparenta libertate. El nu putea fi transcris.
Din punct de vedere naratologic, notațiile ei se încadrează într-
un biografic hibrid: nici memorii, nici jurnal, nici autoficțiune. Din toate
câte puțin, păstrând un suspans metodic. În Evadarea imposibilă, ce
urmează celor 3000 de zile de singurătate carcerală, portretistica ia locul
poeziei tăcerii. Tipologiile înlocuiesc intimitatea revelată. Chipurile
umane șterg proiecțiile interioare.
Poezia expresionistă din Evadare tăcută aparține unei intimități
revelate. Lumea din conviețuirea colectivă țintește dezumanizarea și
absurdul. „Trebuie să-i invidiem pe câini. Să-i plângem pe oameni”,
notează Lena Constante. Iar cuvintele pot fi oricând alături de versurile
lui Ion Caraion, de pildă.
Trecerea de la o condiție a intimității particularizate la
intimitatea colectivă se face prin jocuri de perspectivă narativă. Chiar și
în Evadare tăcută, perspectiva narativă din prima parte înseamnă
confesiune fără literaturizare. Ea rămâne ca intenționalitate în mirajul
jurnalului mental, cartografiind tenebrele închisorii și rememorând
carceralul cât mai crud cu putință. Vocea narativă sugrumată de
experiența traumatică din prima parte se diluează pe parcurs, fiind chiar
disponibilă, prin detașarea de evenimente, să exerseze zone noi: de stil și
autoficțiune. Cele trei capitole subliniază foarte bine și structura
memoriei.
Unul dintre câștigurile silențioase, dar nu mai puțin
fundamentale, este conștiința tragică. Lena Constante nu trece propriu-
zis printr-o autoexorcizare, nici prin tenebre psihologice la vedere. Ce
face ea - mai întâi involuntar, apoi sistematic, transformat în poetică a
carceralului, cum spuneam - este să amplifice artistic experiențele.
Sesizăm pretutindeni în Evadare tăcută cât de vii sunt conservate scene,
chipuri, fenomene din experiența carcerală. Oricât de hidoase, imaginile
rămân pe retina scriitoarei ca și cum participă în direct la toate. Semn că
repetase mental fiecare scenă. Decenii de-a rândul.
De aceea, Evadare tăcută trebuie citit ca un extraordinar
document al autenticității. Nu e de mirare că lipsesc senzaționalul,
anecdoticul gratuit.

64
 Repetarea mentală a scenelor traumatizante sau revelatoare o
păstrează într-o poziție de putere asupra evenimentelor: cea de regizoare
care-și reface în amănunt experiența tragică. Nu uită să lase din loc în loc
ambiguități, simboluri care trebuie să spună ceea ce ea, din frică sau din
modestie, lasă nespus. Sau din pudoare.
Când cititorul constată acest supramesaj al cărții, își dă seama că
nu citește simple notații despre experiența carcerală, ci adevărate pilde
poetice despre competiția cu singurătatea, cu asumarea conștiinței
tragice și cu puterea retrăitului. În primul rând, Lena Constante este o
campioană pentru că se învinge pe ea-cea-slabă, temătoare de moarte,
agnostica. Sau, cum spune la un moment dat, cartea întreagă nu vrea să
recupereze doar demnitatea umană, cât „speranța că într-o zi îndepărtată
omul va învinge firea”. Iată adevărata luptă, purtată dincolo de ziduri și
durere, de concret și istorie. În acest moment, proiecțiile eului se
stabilesc definitiv. Ea își dorește, aproape cioranian, „ispita de a nu mai
dori nimic. De a te lăsa în voia soartei. Dusă de valuri. De a pierde totul.
De a te pierde. De a te da la fund în haosul minții. Cea mai rea dintre
lupte. Împotriva dușmanului celui mai perfid. Celui mai subtil. Tu
însuți”. Ajunsă pe acest teren al ființei interioare, lupta se intensifică.
Mai e o curiozitate la nivelul dirijării limbajului recuperator:
niciun moment lipsă, niciun salt temporal nu par să conteze. E dovada că
memoria ei esențializase deja totul. Evadare tăcută este o poveste despre
un triumf asupra purgatoriului.

Cele patru cercuri carcerale. Dedublarea. Tripla ispită

Există în Evadare tăcută mai multe cercuri carcerale și mai multe tăceri.
Fiecărei închisori îi corespunde o dimensiune a scrisului și o reintegrare
în interioritate.
Prima detenție, primul cerc, din interiorul închisorii, se întinde
între trup și spirit; sunt momente când frica de afară se amână.
A doua închisoare / al doilea cerc reprezintă limbajul - până ce
cuvântul dobândește puterea să evadeze în el însuși, cu sensuri noi,
izbăvitoare. El reconfigurează realitatea, oferind nuanțe de suportabil.
Al treilea cerc carceral pare și cel mai adânc, dostoievskian: cel al
subconștientului. „Aici totul este mort”, spune ea în mijlocul unui
discurs ce virează brusc în zone turbulente. Nu întâmplător, în acest cerc
ea mărturisește fricile adăpostite până atunci cu stăpânire de sine: este
vorba despre teama de viol, de spaima de tortură etc. Însă cel de-al treilea
cerc carceral îi oferă ceva până atunci neînțeles, poate chiar inutile:
suprarealitățile – ca evaziuni sau alternative. Începe să citească detaliile
cu gândul că sunt purtătoare de mesaje magice ori cel puțin
vindecătoare, că ele împlinesc un rol misterios de umplere a vidului
instalat. Însă și citirea semnelor, în acest cerc, se dovedește amăgitoare.

65
Nu o dată: „Mania semnelor şi a deducțiilor este în închisori o adevărată
epidemie. Să construiești pe un fir de nisip o lume de silogisme șchioape.
Să trăiești din iluzii”.
În ultimul cerc infernal ea se asigură, cum spunea mai devreme,
de „haosul minții”, și că întâlnirea cu dușmanul perfid - cu tine însuți -
nu se compară cu nimic. Asistăm acum la unul dintre momentele-cheie
ale confesiunii: naratoarea-protagonistă are senzația că trăiește viața
altcuiva într-un „amurg de începuturi”. Totuși, al patrulea cerc arată
șansa unui echilibru interior, care, deși fragil, ascunde o extraordinară
fortificație spirituală.
Lena Constante accentuează ideea de libertate ascunsă în spirit
ca existență secundă, salvatoare, și ideea de prag – resimțită în mai multe
rânduri violent. E o etapă tragică prin speranța materializată numai prin
dorința de a muri. Așadar, structura primei părți, cu închisorile-cercuri,
sfârșite în celula-sicriu, anunță, poetic, trecerea într-un discurs diferit.
De aici începe resurecția. Ceea ce pomeneam mai devreme despre poezia
și poetica acestei cărți, despre identitatea nouă, spiritualizată – date
identitare observate de comentatorii amintiți la începutul studiului
nostru.
Resurecția debutează cu coborârea pe scara istoriei înainte de
începerea evenimentelor totalitare. Ca om nou, Lena Constante își
dorește și un început asemănător. Narațiunea radiografiază generația
fără noroc, formată din atât de mulți oameni exemplari, din toate
punctele de vedere. Între ei, soții Pătrășcanu și personajul cu adevărat
negativ al cărții, Herbert Zilber, pe care ea îl consideră principalul regizor
al documentarului fantast în care ei i se distribuie un la fel de absurd rol
al spioanei. Lunile din 1948, care înghesuie cutremurul începutului, lasă
deoparte tot ce știe cititorul despre închisoare. Ajuns la această etapă
narativă a întoarcerii în timp, cititorul evadează deodată cu ea în
libertatea ce se instalase iluzoriu după război și privește prin ochii ei
purificați de suferință.
Ce observă acum noua Lena Constante? Un început ratat, căci el
debutase înainte de sfârșitul războiului, când regimul bolșevic instalase
stâlpii totalitari, și în anii premergători lui 1948, când laboratorul de
supraveghere se modificase și luase forma întregii țări. Ca unul ce și-a
înfrânt firea, Lena Constante are acum și puterea să se mire de propriile-i
metamorfoze.
Lena Constante insistă pe o triplă ispită - specifică, aș spune,
pentru toți condamnații din sistemul concentraționar românesc -
urmărită în diverse faze: a îndoielii, a libertății și a sinuciderii. Ispită cu
atât mai dramatică cu cât, la închisoarea de la Miercurea-Ciuc, de pildă,
ea are în sfârșit șansa comunicării.
Ultima parte a cărții recuperează epilogul eului social. Doar că
frica de reintegrare umană, de renunțare la singurătate, e mai puternică

66
decât orice. Trecând de sinucidere, cea mai extremă dintre toate, cu
ajutorul regenerării spirituale, ea rămâne până la sfârșit cuprinsă de
îndoielile legate de Celălalt și de realitatea libertății.
Poate mai convulsivă dintre toate temerile se deosebește
problema timpului. Care, până de curând, încapsulat simbolic, cu atâtea
strategii ale memoriei, trebuie pus din nou în relație cu istoria nouă.
Timpul suspendat se sparge pentru a deveni din nou Istorie. Lena
Constante se lasă absorbită de noul decor social, execută salturi în timpul
memoriei selective, toate pentru a se întâlni cu voința colectivă a
femeilor închise.
Lumea din Evadare tăcută apune exact ca noua memorie
selectivă: adică pe fragmente, amenințată oricând de seisme pe care le
așteaptă însă senină. Refugiul în cuvinte și rugăciune, credința în sensul
poetic al lumii s-au fixat definitiv în memorie și o fac indestructibilă.
Mesajul cărții acesta este.
Dobândirea unui nou eu social aduce cu o înviere. E momentul
în care Lena Constante poate să liricizeze și să modeleze povestea cu
dezinvoltură. În Evadarea imposibilă va desăvârși noul Eu și drumul spre
ficțiune este evident, căci nu intimitatea reglează acum destinul, ci
renunțarea la ea. Iarăși operațiune aproape dramatică pentru cea care,
înainte de încarcerare, socializa plină de efuziune. Apoi, fusese nevoită să
uite ca să reziste. Și acum, din nou, trebuie să învețe mersul socializării.
După ce compune mii de versuri și opt piese de teatru ca să nu-și piardă
mințile, după ce învață limbajul zidurilor ca să descopere adevărata
comunicare cu sine și trăiește desprinderea totală de feminitate, Lenei
Constante îi rămâne să renunțe, paradoxal, la singurătatea absolută
întoarsă acum spre ea cu folos.
Evadare tăcută este parabola tragică a cutiei negre din istoria
unei inocente dezumanizate. Însă autoarea română depășește simpla
transcriere confesivă specifică genului literar abordat. Ea radiografiază
întregul metabolism carceral dintr-o perspectivă unică în literatura de
specialitate. Povestea ei atât de neverosimilă pentru cititorii care au avut
șansa să nu trăiască niciodată vreo formă de totalitarism rămâne una
dintre mărturiile cutremurătoare ale secolului încheiat. Mai mult,
povestea unei ființe indestructibile, care a priceput că absurdul poate fi
depășit odată ce costurile metamorfozei sunt asumate.

În loc de încheiere. Deschiderile geografiei carcerale.

Relativizarea carceralului

Cercetările academice recente abundă în concepte sociologice

care ar trebui să explice - conform specialiștilor - mai nuanțat lumea
carcerală. E și cazul geografiilor carcerale, sintagmă ce definește o arie
mare de acoperire: de la practici carcerale, la studiul condamnaților și al

67
deținuților, până la cel al supraveghetorilor, gardienilor etc., încheind cu
instituțiile. Cu alte cuvinte, carceralul nu mai desemnează un spațiu-
închis, limită; o închisoare dintr-un regim prin excelență totalitar.
Dimpotrivă. Universitarii contemporani, precum Dominique Moran - de
la Universitatea din Birmingham, folosesc termenul de carceral „pentru
înțelegerea restricțiilor de autonomie într-un context generalizat” (vezi
Dominique Moran, Carceral Geography: Spaces and Practices of
Incarceration, cap. Prison Transport and Discipline Mobility, p. 71). Încă
o dată, lipsa unei istorii sau experiențe totalitare moderne – sau chiar
pre-moderne – au îndemnat specialiștii occidentali spre statistica
sociologică și spre studii psiho-sociale, nu spre studierea unui fenomen
ce pare a fi în prelungirea unui ev mediu sofisticat. Ce vreau să spun este
că astăzi asistăm la o nouă formă de relativizare a carceralului totalitar
prin deturnarea sociologică. Unde s-ar potrivi atunci mărturiile Lenei
Constante, în ce context? Dacă ne gândim că termeni precum ”post-
carceralul”, „spectacolul pedepsei” sau „peisaj cultural și design carceral”
defilează și se distribuie alert în spațiul universitar occidental, atunci nu
ne rămâne decât să integrăm comentariul critic aplicat unei confesiuni -
ca cea de față - la rigorile sociologiei literare, sau să deformăm discursul
universitar mainstream prin întoarcerea la criteriul esență al carceralului.
În orice caz, mărturii ca cea a Lenei Constante din Evadare tăcută, în
primul rând, dar și cea din Evadare imposibilă, trec astăzi printr-o nouă
probă, nu a cenzurii, nici a libertății. Ci a unei, cum spuneam, relativizări
ce duce interpretarea aproape de zona fantasy, nicidecum de cea a
adevărului istoric. Sau, după alte criterii, mărturia ei nu contează din
punct de vedere literar, ci doar statistic. Recursul la memorie vine astăzi
să reziste împotriva statisticii și relativismelor. Ce ar fi spus Lena
Constante? Probabil ar zâmbi trist. Tortura, carceralul, chiar
totlitarismul, pentru unii, rămân statistici într-o rubrică sociologică.
Cartea Lenei Constante nu poate fi inclusă în nicio statistică,
oricât de elaborată. Poate doar cifra să-i fie furată, nu și cele 3000 de
singurătăți în infernul concentraționar.

BIBLIOGRAFIE

Lena Constante, Evadarea tăcută. 3000 de zile singură în închisorile din

România (în versiunea românească a autoarei), ediție îngrijită, cuvânt înainte și
note de Ioana Bot, Bucureşti, Editura Humanitas, 2013;
Nicolae Steinhardt, Drumul către isihie. Ispita lecturii, Iași, Editura Polirom,
2014;
Ion Vianu, Apropieri, Iași, Editura Polirom, 2011;
Dominique Moran, Carceral Geography: Spaces and Practices of Incarceration,
London-New York, Editura Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2016;

68
 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A GENERATION
AT CROSSROADS:
TIMPUL CE NI S-A DAT (THE TIME
BESTOWED ON US) BY ANNIE BENTOIU

DANA SALA
dsf_dana@yahoo.com
Associate Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 539-155

Abstract: Born in 1927, Annie Bentoiu has the gift of turning

memory into a flux of events where history is reconstructed along its
interpretation. Her book is the autobiography of a generation. Timpul ce
ni s-a dat. Memorii 1944-1947 appeared for the first time in the year
2000. A second volume, containing the years 1947-1959, appeared in
2006 (2009, 2nd edition). Annie Bentoiu is a prime witness of the
communist takeover in Romania. Her book is a decipherment of the past
in the light of memory entwined with ethics. The writer’s memoirs are
not merely an account of her own life story, but also the regain of dignity
through writing, as a compensation for imposed years of silence during
the Stalinist years of abuses in post 1947 Romania. The ”autobiographical
contract” (Lejeune) becomes, in her case, a pact to tell the truth, since
there is no invented fact in her confessional writing. The conflict in this
novel is that between free mind and abusive ideology, between an epoch
that imposed lie as a norm and the previous education system when
honesty was the norm, between conscience and its own limits.
Key words: autobiography, Annie Bentoiu, communist takeover,
diary, life under communism, confessional writing

Imprisonment in history. Anchors and strategies of survival

Born in 1927, Annie Bentoiu is a prime witness of the communist

takeover in Romania. In 2000, irrespectively 2006, she published her
book of memoirs, about fifty years after the narrated events.
Annie Bentoiu’s book, Timpul ce ni s-a dat, reveals the evolving
of the writing self from the cocoon of family life straight into the
upheaval of history, in Bucharest and around, in 1944, trying to capture
the movements of the coming years which will prove to be more
dystopian. There is one element of choice that could prolong the

69
continuity of Oltenița familial paradise, and for Miss Nini (Annie) that
element is represented by books and reading.
The book Timpul ce ni s-a dat. Memorii (The Time Bestowed on
Us. Memoirs), written by Annie Bentoiu in two volumes, referring to the
years 1944-1947 (I), irrespectively 1947-1959 (II) is a decipherment of the
past in the light of memory entwined with ethics.
Along with the upheaval of history, above any individual choice,
what makes Annie Bentoiu’s book a fascinating reading is the subtle
presence of history as an individual choice and history as a collection of
individual choices. As the author says, towards the end of her first
volume: what if history is nothing else but a construct of our minds and
of our deeds? This is not the history that leaves scars, as it is the case
with history above choice. The scars are present, yet not visible, they can
act like limiting beliefs that can cripple a person’s potential.
”Istoria, istoria! unui observator superficial, curgerea ei îi pare cu
neputință de zăgăzuit. Dar ea nu poartã nici o vină, ea nu este un personaj activ,
ci o simplã construcție a minților și faptelor noastre. Dramele și tragediile ei
sunt mai întâi interioare, ele se petrec în spațiul dintre dorință și acțiune, dintre
poftă și minte, dintre iubire și ură. […]”1
In what way does Annie Bentoiu’s confessional writing make
room for history as a choice? The book speaks about the power to say
‘no’ to the pressure of history. It is through a classical education that one
can cultivate the exercise of freedom and feel unbound in everyday
reactions. The book interweaves the destinies of other people who had
the courage to preserve their inner freedom.
„De la întâmplările povestite aici a trecut o jumătate de veac, dar în
mintea generației noastre ele sunt proaspete ca ziua de ieri. Șocul acelor ani ne-a
scos dintr-o stare de normalitate ținând de legea firii, iar în lumea în care
intraserăm n-aveam nici un fel de reper. Nimic nu era ce părea să fie, nici o
realitate nu mai corespundea cu numele său: era o ocupație străină ce se
prezenta drept eliberare, o dictatură denumită democrație, un război civil
intitulat lupta pentru pace, o ură declarată «sfântă», o frică răsplătită ca
devotament, o plăcere a sadismului cultivată în chip de conștiință superioară.
Cuvintele își vedeau desfigurat înțelesul, semnul fiecărei valori era întors.
Această jumătate de veac n-a trecut fără urme. Ele sunt scrise pe obrajii
noștri, dar și în cutele din creierul fiecăruia. Ferice de cei care au putut practica
un dialog interior liber și uneori chiar un dialog cu glas tare, fără urmă de
ascunziș, între prieteni !2”
In Annie’s case, the most affected generation was that of her
parents. The new structures of Soviet power had all the names of the
people who belonged to the historical parties before 1944, although it
was a natural right to belong to a party in times of democracy. Not so
1
Annie Bentoiu, Timpul ce ni s-a dat. Memorii 1944-1947, ediția a II-a, București, Editura
Humanitas, 2007, p. 308
2
Ibidem;

70
after Communism was at power in Romania. The liquidation of the
members of the historical parties, considered ”the class enemies” had
started before people could realize it would take such a toll. A whole
rhetoric was launched to stigmatize and hate a political class.
How can inner freedom be defined so powerfully as to map a
new territory of everyday gestures and reactions by not giving in, by not
giving away the personal power in case of pressure with interrogation or
with torture?
Annie Bentoiu’s book gives an answer to this problem. Through
the very selection of memory, we can see that history is not regarded as
merely a setting of super-imposed events, as the playground of the gods,
uninfluenced by human reactions. The book shows somebody’s fight
with the regime in the most mundane acts, since Annie’s case was not
the case of a detention. Education appears as the most powerful tool of
resistance, of cultivating freedom. The book does not operate a narcissist
selection of events, on the contrary, it comprises more intersected
destinies, followed in detail by the empathy of the author. Thus, history
means, for the narrating self, not only an intersection of events, but also
an intersection of people, with their fates, their reactions, their
resistance to compromise or their eagerness to it.
Timpul ce ni s-a dat starts from the premise of not giving away
the personal power to react in front of unexpected constraint, under
circumstances of freedom.
It brings in its support the whole education absorbed by a young
girl of a bourgeois family, (not very rich) before the war, at the most
famous and severe Pension for Girls, and immediately after the war at
the Faculty of Law in Bucharest, a faculty from which she could not
graduate. The non-desired students as they did not belong to the new
proletarian class were not accepted in higher education.
In Annie Bentoiu’s memoirs, history can be regarded as an
incomprehensible force, but at the same time, as an intersection of
people, history gains a familiar face. The book will not have the
discontinuity of a diary or its fragmentary features. The book will
recreate the flux of events. The memory flux makes room for history’s
flux, carrying the events with their burden and their interpretation.
In order to reconstitute the flux of events, Annie’s book resorts
to all people who played a part in the destiny of the author. Thus the
writer makes room for an open dialogue with a multitude of characters,
accounting for a polyphonic resonance of this book, although the main
voice belongs to a single person.
This renders the whole confessional writing the complexity of a
novel. Most of the characters in this novel, people who helped Annie and
her family (most of the time, there are also some exceptions), had their
power to see history as a choice rather than a predetermined faith. A

71
luminous figure with whom the writer connects indirectly, through her
sister-in-law, is that of Camil Petrescu. Annie Bentoiu sees both sides of
the coin, she does not jump to conclusions or to judging the fact that the
famous writer obviously received some privileges because he agreed to be
on the side of the new Communist power. On the contrary, she captures
in her book the dialogue through which we can witness the
disappointment of our famous writer: there was a common ground at
the beginning, the anti-bourgeois position, but Camil Petrescu did not
expect the turn that would happen. We, the reader, can see how he
regrets his naiveté about making a pact with the new power, but at the
same time we have a glimpse into what he really thought, we see that
Camil Petrescu was not confiscated as inner choice by the new ideology.
Through an account of her youth, Annie Bentoiu writes in fact
the radiography of her generation, a radiography having the complexity
of a novel. For her, history is not only a junction of super-imposed
events, history means also the intersection of certain people, not others.
Timpul ce ni s-a dat is a crossroads of historical hurricanes, the
very events that would lead to the crushing of Eastern Europe after
WWII. The book shows the impossibility of common citizens to openly
fight off efficiently a system of terror that was using all its means against
the so-called ”enemy of the people”. Only the inner fight was possible,
only the commitment to one’s values. As the writer points out, the
institutions engendered by the new Soviet system had no intention to
show transparency. An Institution like Securitatea did not publish
anything about the activity behind its doors. It did not publish its own
budget, the laws under which it acted, the name of the victims.
If we regard Annie Bentoiu’s book as a novel, the conflict is that
between free mind and abusive ideology, between an epoch that imposed
lie as a norm and the interwar education system when honesty was the
norm, between conscience and its own limits. It is a novel containing
debates, open questions, political analyses, small joys of life and
irrepressible sadness for the parents’ generation (both Annie’s father and
father-in-law were imprisoned merely for belonging to the National
Peasants’ Party irrespectively to the National Liberal Party, they were
declared ”enemies” of the Communist Party, they were charged with
imaginary crimes, such as complot against the state), and for the
impossibility to defend them. As Denis Deletant put it,
”The second step to totalitarianism was the consolidation of the single
mass party composed of an elite and dedicated membership. This was achieved
by dissolving the major opposition parties, the National Peasant and National
Liberal parties in summer of 1947, and by the forced merger of the Social
Democrat Party with the Communist Party on 12 November 1947 as the result of
Communist infiltration”1

1
Denis Deletant, Romania, 1948-1989: A Historical Overview ‹retrieved 25.08.2017›

72
 The book has the value of a document, on one hand. Educated by
the last generation of top professors at the Faculty of Law in Bucharest,
young Annie is eager to absorb knowledge, however, she will be denied
the right to finish her higher education and she will be denied the right
to find a job. Reading and attending lectures will remain her top
strategies of survival, along with writing in her diary or writing literature.
Annie sees with clarity how the abuse becomes the new law, and
yet, like her peers, is naïve about what was to come.
On the other hand, apart from being a document of life under
communism, the book is made of the very moments that form the
substance of life: of sorrows and celebrations, of small joys and victories
(like obtaining food in times of hunger), of lessons of survival. Finding a
job as a typist is, in those times, a great achievement.
The most important event in Annie’s life is the advent of love.
Annie meets a new colleague at the Faculty of Law, Pascal, whom she
dismisses at first but who would soon gain her respect. Pascal studies law
at his father’s wish, but he longs to be a composer. Regardless the
obstacles of the time, the impossibility to sustain a family by studying
music, Pascal will gain his name as a composer. His father will be
released from prison; will be happy to find out about his son’s carrier in
music. Through an absurd coincidence, Pascal’s father, Aurelian Bentoiu,
will be caught again, tortured in prison, deprived of his necessary
medicine, denied medical assistance and forced to die in prison under
the most inhumane conditions.
Based on a non-fictional unpublished diary of Annie Deculescu,
before her twenties, before her marriage to Pascal, the confessional
writings, Timpul ce ni s-a dat, unfolds chronologically and gains the
amplitude of a river. Annie Bentoiu’s memoirs are not merely an account
of her own life story. Writing this book is an act of freedom which
compensates for the years of imposed silence. At the same time, it is an
act of integrity, an act of seeing history as a choice rather than as a super-
imposed structure.
A survivor from the clash of history with her generation, Annie
Bentoiu resorts to the non-invented facts as the substance of her book.
The sense of history is captured through the events witnessed directly
but also through what happened to her own family members and people
who surrounded her at a certain time.
Timpul ce ni s-a dat. Memorii 1944-1947 was published in 2000
at Vitruviu Publishing House, followed in 2006 by a second volume. A
second edition has appeared at Humanitas Publishing House in 2007,
irrespectively 2009.

http://www.php.isn.ethz.ch/lory1.ethz.ch/collections/coll_romania/introduction0445.html?navinfo=
15342

73
 It is the fatidic year 1947 which acts as a divider of the two
volumes of Annie Bentoiu’s autobiography, marking the fall from the
familial paradise and the inexorable ending of a stage in Annie’s own life.
It is the time Romanian society exits the economical boom of the
interwar epoch. But the citizens could not imagine what would come
after the elections of 1947: a repression along with the falsification of
elections, the repression of all members of democratic parties (which will
result in the imprisonment of Annie’s father and father-in-law) and the
forced exile of the Romanian King, Michael.
Annie Bentoiu is the lucid conscience of a generation
traumatized by WWII. She and her peers witnessed the fragility of
political alliances and the unpredictable collapse of democracy under the
Soviet militarization the Eastern Bloc. The ordeal reached soon
intensification, when prison for political reasons could happen virtually
to anyone. Some events are zoomed in, others are zoomed out. There are
knots where destinies met. There are stories of innocent people who got
into prison for absurd reasons. There are parentheses where the
unfolding of events is for a while suspended, and the analysis with other
means takes its place. There are miracles of survival, such as the miracle
of not dying of hunger, the miracle of a good book or of a good concert.
She recognizes that her parents’ generation was the one who received the
blow to its fullest. Formed in the spirit of democratic values, having the
chance to be taught by the most accomplished professors, Annie’s
generation had inferred, with their education, the best strategies to
resist, to cope with the changes without resorting to plain compromise.
From this point of view, Timpul ce ni s-a dat can be regarded as a novel
about inner freedom. Imagination did play an important role, yet Annie
Bentoiu makes a strange choice- she will not resort to imagination to
invent facts or the facts of her novel. She will resort to her the opposition
to fiction only. After fifty years, the writer captures her position on an
isthmus, between the past, with its monsters, and demons, and the
future, with the premise of oblivion. This premise is as bad as the
upheaval of history. Therefore, the author must secure the flow of her
writing, making room for the flow of history into it. This creates the
inner tension of writing. Worse than history itself is forgetting about
history altogether. Annie Bentoiu's book is one of the most lucid and
accurate descriptions of everyday life under the so-called obsessive
decade. Based on a diary, the book is not fragmentary, is nothing like a
diary. But at the same time, this is the great narrative of the author. By
means of writing, she changes her life into a great narrative of the past.
In Annie Bentoiu’s book, imagination, a function inherently associated
with memory, is not used to invent facts, but to explore literary
potentialities. The very end of the second volume confesses about the

74
auctorial choice regarding the events that make up the substance of the
book. Truth or fiction?
The author simply states that there is not a single invented fact
contained in the pages of her book. We can say, after Paul Ricoeur’s
fusing together memory and imagination1, that imagination may be a
memory not passed through the filter of history. Memory is imagination-
but an imagination deprived of freedom, forced to take the path of
history. Annie’s book is a non-conventional novel about the inner
freedom of a sacrificed generation. The outer events are a continuous
flux, the inner strategies of survival are anchors in this flux, they are the
events that truly matter.
Timpul ce ni s-a dat. (The Time Bestowed on Us) by Annie
Bentoiu becomes thus a testimony-novel, refusing to resort to fictio in
the sense of literary invention and convention, but staging and re-living
the non-invented clash between history and the writer’s generation. The
substance of the book is made of real facts, in a chronological unfolding,
with flash-backs and digressions from the time of the narration to the
present of writing. It is also the grand narrative of an encounter. Her
generation at the encounter with history, her generation through the
trials and tribulations of everyday life. Could this writing be an
autobiography? That is too little, the writing is a novel beyond the genre,
because the prevalent tension is that between a new system, of its
terrors, and the genuineness of everyday life. At the root of everything,
this novel speaks about formation as a practical way to exercise history as
a choice.

Memory and the evolving selves

Annie Deculescu - Bentoiu belongs to a generation that, in the capital of

Romania, got the last chance to train themselves with top-professors,
both in high-school and at University. This is the very generation that
was to be sacrificed under the new regime. The Pension of Girls, in
Bucharest, gives the author the impression of a universal order. It is a
place of escape. Here Annie the teenager, Miss Nini, is encased in a
sacred space, somehow exempted from the realities of war. She literally
absorbs knowledge and feeds herself with it. The spirit of the school is to
instill industriousness and correctness. At University, at the Faculty of
Law, she has the last chance to listen to courses conducted by important
names. She gets the chance to form her ideas about democracy.
Apart from this, she follows the courses of the French Institute in
Bucharest as a supplementary formation, more in tone with her
1
Paul Ricoeur, Memoria, istoria, uitarea; trad. Ilie Gyurcsik și Margareta Gyurcsik, Timișoara,
Amarcord, 2001, p. 35.

75
openness towards values and towards cherishing knowledge and
formation. She has become now, by the force of events, a real witness of
the surrounding reality. After the reality of bombs falling in Bucharest,
she realizes she is not immune to death, neither is her family. There is
more to come: the hunger, the fear, the impossibility of finding a job, the
hope.
The future is impossible to predict and, for optimist natures, like
Annie, it is hard to take measures.
A confessional writing whose main source is the author’s Diary
in her teen and youth years, Timpul ce ni s-a dat (The Time Granted to
Us) surreptitiously becomes what Annie Bentoiu had meant to write,
namely the novel of her sacrificed generation caught by the turmoil of
World War II and its aftermath in a country whose immediate future
appeared to be more dystopian than the war itself. As M. Foucault said it,
“As an element of self-training, writing has, […] an ethopoietic function:
it is an agent of the transformation of truth into ēthos.”1
Educated to follow truth as her core value, and in the spirit of
honesty, Annie realizes that a whole epoch is over. Annie Bentoiu’s
maternal language is French. Her father was a physician, her mother a
Swiss governess from Vaud, sent to Romania. As a paradox, the absent
space in the novel, that of maternal landscape and heritage, is present
under a different form, that of poetry. Lyrism becomes thus a more
intimate way to connect with maternal heritage. Just like her mother,
who could have been in a different state, who could have had a different
destiny but who proves happy with the way things turned out, the good
with the bad, the miraculous facets of life along with oppression, abuse
of human rights, the destiny showed its implacable face, yet as it was met
with dignity, the implacable was changed into something else.
The narrating self starts her recit at seventeen, in the year 1944.
Overprotected in a cocoon by her family life, developing in a second
encasement, a second cocoon brought by education, she gradually
acquires a new conscience in which the prevailing sentiment is that of
fear, combined with crass carelessness in front if the evidences of
hazardous deaths after bombing.
After this confusion of the first years in which only education
could bring order, stability, the other years are the years of survival, the
years of continuous blows to her family.
This book becomes the voice of responsibility towards the
history with which she has struggled, the history which allows reshaping,
allows interpretations, understanding Time on its irreversible course, no
event can be undone. The story of her life is told from the middle of a
1
Michel Foucault, Self Writing, https://foucault.info/doc/documents/foucault-hypomnemata-en-
html

76
stream of history. That is why the metaphor of the river appears as a
narrative frame and as a main metaphor. A river’s course cannot be
undone, the same as history’s course cannot be undone, and therefore
the novel will be shaped after a premonitory feeling.
The organization of the novel follows the impression of a hatch.
All the words are already established, the recollections are not provoked
but brought to the core and the inexorable character is already present
there.
Where is the self in all this hatch? Streaming along. Taking care,
going downside sometimes and coming to terms. Memory is the main
medium. It is a memory shaped by complex factors. First of all, by a
tenderness of regarding fellow beings with love. Then by education, one
of the best and most powerful emotional trigger, memory trigger. Why?
Because education has proven the safest anchor, education has given all
the necessary endowments. Memory is helped by transcription of
historical events, such as the radio discourse, the records of suffering,
sweet and bitter souvenirs, objects, artifacts, re-reading the press. There
are also verbatim transliterations from Annie’s diary and from the kept
written or read letters.
The younger self of the author is a self with normal expectations,
a normal coquettish behavior for a gorgeous young lady. What happens
every day contradicts this normality. There are cases of worse suffering
and treatments, of more disruption, more sorrow. But what remains
prevailing and unexpected is the courage. The traumatic events are
centered on the fathers of her family. Her own father, a physician, and
her husband’s father, whose fate was tragic, a release from prison
followed by a second imprisonment in the time of relaxation, in the time
when the so called Stalinist excesses were over.
Unlike other types of diaries, completely free in form,
fragmentary, scattered, devoted to the narcissism of the author, serving
as a necessary mirror to the restitution of his/her self, Annie Bentoiu’s
book of memoires is based on a diary but it takes a unique form. We have
the extended journal of the years which contained in her life the peak of
a history’s upheaval, we have a brave confrontation with a hurricane, the
preparation for it, the human desire to keep herself at the distance,
before it strikes, facing its devastation with courage and integrity, with
the gratitude that her basic family members are alive, and the second
strike, the unexpected blows when she least expected it. Memory is the
main enactor and the medium of this confrontation.
On one hand we clearly have a young self of the author eager for
knowledge, absorbing books, eager to be initiated in a superior way of
life as far as her intellect is concerned. We have the evolvement of such a
life, the portrait of family members, their understanding, and a portrait
of the extended family.

77
 On the other hand, the archi-character is history. History brings
in a very uncommon unexpectedness. History will come with coup
d’états and changes that displace the world.

Conclusion

Annie Bentoiu’s book, an account of the youth of a generation, fuses

together the dimension of memory with the life underneath it. Daughter
of a Swiss mother, having French as her maternal language, Annie leaves
the territory of poetry to her maternal language and gives her true novel
in Timpul ce ni s-a dat. In this novel, there is a tension between her
evolving self and the turmoil of history. Yet, unusual for a confessional
writing, she takes the truth as her unique tool of passing from a level of
existence to another. Her adherence to truth helps her see history as a
matter of personal choice. Annie Bentoiu’s book is one of the most
accurate analyses of the trespassing of the law under communism.
History is made not only of super-imposed events, but also of the
people who cross your destiny. It is fidelity to truth that makes her find
her equilibrium in judging the others. Love is the essential advent of her
life and fidelity to truth has helped her recognize love. Apart from her
manuscript, this book contains smaller books or manuscripts, such as her
father-in-law’s collection of carceral poetry.

REFERENCES

Annie Bentoiu- Timpul ce ni s-a dat. (I) Memorii, 1944-1947, București, Editura
Humanitas, 2007; vol. II. Memorii, 1947-1959, București, Editura Humanitas, 2009;
Dennis Deletant - Romania, 1948-1989: A Historical Overview;
http://www.php.isn.ethz.ch/lory1.ethz.ch/collections/coll_romania/introduction044
5.html?navinfo=15342;
Philippe Lejeune - On Autobiography, University of Minessota Press, 1989, ed. Paul
John Eakin
Michel Foucault- Self Writing, https://foucault.info/doc/documents/foucault-
hypomnemata-en-html
Paul Ricoeur, Memoria, istoria, uitarea; trad. Ilie Gyurcsik și Margareta Gyurcsik,
Timișoara, Amarcord, 2001

78
MARIN SORESCU’S CONFESSIONAL WRITING

CRENGUȚA GÂNSCĂ
crenguta_g@yahoo.com
Associate Professor, PhD University of Oradea
Str. Universităţii nr. 1, Oradea
Article code 540-156

Abstract: The poet Marin Sorescu does not extricate himself

entirely from the baits of literature in diarism but, aware of their
presence, counters them off with irony and self-irony. More than a
diarist, the writing self behaves exactly like a character of a novel. This
very fluidity through space and time is that of a literary character more
than of a diarist’s voice. The narrator re-lives the history of the places he
visits just like it was designed for a played part. It is his resort to
imagination that helps him overlook the temporal barriers and have a
dialogue with vanished people or with fictitious characters. He turns
from a spectator into an actor. Sorescu’s confessional writing encumbers
a feeling that he must get off the stage, so powerful is the imprint of his
inner spectacle. With such an approach, Marin Sorescu puts into a
parodic subtle equation the above mentioned diary convention
Key words: Marin Sorescu, diary, irony, travel writing, diary
versus records

”I would keep a diary myself but I fear that one will read it1”
Marin Sorescu

Marin Sorescu has a genuine feature of nonconformity. This

renders to his texts an odd quality: they are not what one would expect
them to be. For example, his theatre is poetry whilst his poetry is theatre.
At the same time, his essays are poetry and his criticism is essay. Hence
the title Diary for the only book of confessional writing signed by
Sorescu, published so far, and the deterrent subtitle pretending to be
elucidative, Travel Novel. The subtitle is as misleading as the writer’s
first-page warning, a played confusion, of course, blurring thus any clear-
cut definitions of this genre: ”diary-like” and ”novel-like”.
Reading the author’s preface, we find out that the hesitation in
defining his own book on the first page stems out from Marin Sorescu’s
1
Marin Sorescu. Jurnal. Romanul călătoriilor, ediție îngrijită de Mihaela Constantinescu și Virginia
Sorescu, Editura Fundației „Marin Sorescu”, București, 1999, p. 255. In the original: „Aș ține și eu un
jurnal, dar mi-e teamă că se citește”. Translation mine, this and the followings.

79
own hesitation in front of public diary, published, as an expression of
intimacy in literature.
”It is this intimate feature that attracts the curious. It is impossible for a
writer to be exact in his own diary, firstly because of his family and secondly
because of the train dispatchers in his own house. Wives are as curious as train
dispatchers; the dispatchers, in turn, know everything as wives do. Having the
intuition of this, the writer [...] attempts to fend away; he uncovers the life of his
soul up to the Civil Code and gives up anything that might cause frictions
around. If so, why should he write for, then?1”
Supersaturated with conventions, ready to expose them
whenever he has the occasion, Marin Sorescu reacts in a similar way
when diarism is concerned, especially when travel diary is on focus. Apart
from the suspicion of insincerity, see above, there is a certain narcissism
that could be reproached against this genre, in Sorescu’s opinion.
”A diary’s fault, or a travel’s diary fault, is that you meet yourself too
often. You become your own character. You are goofed up to dizziness. It is
about what you have been seeing, about what you have been told, what you have
eaten”.
The danger of literaturization is imminent.
”The best diaries are, in my opinion, those from which the microbe of
literature has been cleansed away, sterilized. Something like the category of
Maiorescu’s Însemnări zilnice (Daily records). Brief, precise, useful records. 2”
Throughout the book, the obsession of writing the diary becomes
recurrent, as a form of self-suggestion.” I shall write a diary neither
contemplative nor livresque. A journal of the roof of the mouth, of the
fingertips and of the thenars of feet.”3
The poet Marin Sorescu does not extricate himself entirely from
the baits of literature in diarism but, aware of their presence, counters
them off with irony and self-irony. Within the special type of confession
undertaken by Sorescu, ingenuity counterbalances the livresque. Under
these circumstances, ingenuity appears as staged, as a mask, as
premeditated, ensuing an atypical diary in which the frontier between
imagination and fantasy is very relative:
”The Dutch enjoy building dykes even in a house. Out of pleasure or out
of habitude. Around the bathtub. Why does it rain so much in Holland? Precisely
because they enjoy building dykes” and ”The Dutch people abroad, maybe they
are ready even to filch an inch of land, to put it into their pockets and take it

1
Ibidem, p. 7. In the original: „Acest intim atrage curioşii. Scriitorul nu poate fi exact în jurnalul său,
în primul rând din cauza familiei şi, în al doilea rând, din cauza impiegaţilor de mişcare. Soţiile sunt
curioase ca nişte impiegaţi, impiegaţii ca nişte soţii. Intuind aceasta, scriitorul [...] încearcă să pareze,
îşi simplifică viaţa sufletească până la Codul stării civile şi renunţă la tot ce ar putea deranja în
dreapta şi în stânga. Şi atunci, de ce să mai scrie?...”.
2
Ibidem: „cele mai bune jurnale de călătorie sunt, după părerea mea, cele total sterilizate de
microbul literaturii. Cele din categoria Însemnărilor zilnice ale lui Maiorescu. Însemnări prescurtate,
precise, utile”.
3
Ibidem: „O să scriu însă un jurnal necontemplativ şi nelivresc [...]. Un jurnal al cerului gurii, al
buricelor degetelor şi al tălpilor”.

80
home for dyke-building. Here Demostene would have been at a loss of pebbles
for his mouth”1.
The diarist enjoys playing out the ignorance. For example,
speaking about the monarchs named Henry, he confesses that he does
not know all of them by heart2. On other occasions he manifests a staged
preciosity:
”It is here that the existentialism could have been born, but it was not
the case, and we shall explain this phenomenon with figures and facts,
somewhere else”3.
In Marin Sorescu’s Diary, it is the subtitle of the book which
reflects the contents more accurately than the title. The volume can be
called indeed a travel novel. It is the description of the voyages abroad,
undertaken by the writer himself. The travels throughout Romania are
also present. Perhaps the first title of this book might not have been seen
as sufficiently incentive: Retina records. It is, however, the most accurate
title for its contents.
Out of all the entries in this Diary, not all of them are
unpublished. There are fragments and poems that had been published in
various literary gazettes. Together they acquire a certain literary unity.
Sorescu’s Diary is not a diary-novel. However, taking into account that
no genre could be strictly defined in Marin Sorescu’s works, the subtitle
travel novel (’romanul călătoriilor’) pictures exactly the substance of the
book. What pertains to diary-writing indeed is the fact that the
fragments, with a specified localization and anchor in pace and time, are
arranged chronologically. There are also concrete references to places,
people, and events.
More than a diarist, the writing self behaves exactly like a
character of a novel. The diarist-character moves back and forth. This
very fluidity through space and time is that of a literary character more
than of a diarist’s voice. We can think of Orlando’s capacity to alternate
the epoch in Virginia Woolf’s novel. Sorescu’s diarist-character longs for
this fluidity.
The diarist-character is not merely the writer Marin Sorescu
while he travels. The writer had a scholarship in U.S.A in Iowa City, he
was also invited as a playwright in Paris and Prague, or at conferences
and symposiums in Spain, Tenerife, Sweden. The narrator re-lives the
history of the places he visits just like it was designed for a played part. It
is his resort to imagination that helps him overlook the temporal barriers
1
Ibidem: „Olandezii îşi fac diguri şi-n casă. De plăcere ori din obişnuinţă. În jurul căzii. De ce plouă
atât de mult în Olanda? Pentru că le place foarte mult să facă diguri” – p.75; „Pe olandezii din
străinătate: să-i supraveghezi să nu fure pământ în buzunare, să ducă în patrie, să înalţe digul. Aici
Demostene s-ar bâlbâi de-a pururi, negăsind material de luat în gură”- p. 69
2
Ibidem: „... n-am fost niciodată tare în Henrici, îi încurc pe rupte”
3
Ibidem: „... iată unde se putea naşte existenţialismul, dar nu s-a născut aici, şi fenomenul îl vom
explica tot noi altă dată, pe bază de cifre şi fapte concrete”

81
and have a dialogue with vanished people or with fictitious characters.
He turns from a spectator into an actor.
In this quality, he belongs to a spectacle. Not to the spectacle of
the present, but to the spectacle of the past. This is visible when he reacts
to his surrounding reality, on the spot. His writing encumbers a feeling
that he must get off the stage, so powerful is the imprint of his inner
spectacle. While visiting a prison in Hague, the narrator has to adapt to
reality and does not react to a street meeting:
„Your affairs, I am telling myself, I am not in at all. I have just got out of jail.1”
He is not any kind of spectator, he is the ideal spectator, sampling
whatever is offered to him. The begetting of every visited monastery in
the Carpathians is retold majestically, with admiration and sometimes
with humor, as if we, the readers, were to see it in wonder set upright
before our eyes. The voivodes, founders of monasteries, become
themselves characters. Into their houses, the writer Marin Sorescu steps
with piety.
The famous paintings in various museums of the world are seen
as virtual realities. The diarist accommodates them in a casual attitude.
Sorescu is himself a painter in his spare time. He devotes special
attention to some of world’s most famous paintings he has the occasion
to see and to the paintings of the churches in Maramuresh, and in
Walachian monasteries. The contemplation of these paintings produces
surprising imaginary scripts. He interacts with the models in the
paintings so deeply that he can afford comical remarks:
‘The neck of Veneziano’s lady does not tell me much now. She elongates
her neck to see what? I have changed meantime [if she is so curious]”2.
Other paintings inspire real micro-essays. A poetry inspired by
the museum of Mexico is typical for the way he interacts with the reality
induced by what he sees:
So tired I am, ever since I came in.
First man- missing.
I am him.
I remake history- and I have been tired
Ever since I came in.
I am waiting to have my teeth tattooed,
To have my skull elongated,
To have my nose and my ears pierced with feathers
I shall be given the command of a tribe
For whom I must fight

But I am even more frightened

By the choir of erecting a pyramid. Me again?
Why me the one who coats the old pyramid
With a new one? Singing its wings with dragons1.

1
Ibidem: „Problemele voastre, zic eu în gând, nu mă bag. Abia ieşii din puşcărie” (p. 76)
2
Ibidem: „Gâtul femeii lui Veneziano nu-mi spune azi nimic. Îşi lungeşte gâtul să vadă. Ce să vadă?
Şi eu m-am schimbat mult între timp” (p.98)

82
Sorescu, the diarist-character, is at the same time the atypical voyager. He
counters his overflowing feeling– just like in other spheres of his work –
with down-to-earth remarks. Underneath them, a keen sense of
observation and an overwhelming imagination are present:
„Boticelli’s Venus and Simonetta must have had, I guess, the same whig. At least
three hearty women, sound in their minds and with healthy hair, must have
contributed with their blonde thesaurus. They must have been German, where
do you see so blonde in Italy?2”
Rembrandt's Anatomy Lesson stirs up the viewer's appetite for
game-playing, the inhibition usually given by the encounter with a
masterpiece is replaced by nonchalance:
"Eight characters and no one thinks of the corpse. And after all, they're
all too old to have the pride to learn. They’d rather only pretend they would be
learning. Who's the dead? Why did he die? None of them seems to think about
why the dead man died. All the starched ones. The lace collars have the color and
stiffness of the dead body. Moustaches (all), and Van Dyke beard [...] You got an
idea. What if the dead man resurrected? Stay there until Easter. And to see the
others what they will do, when the dead one who may be Christ is risen again –
as whatever Rembrandt touches is holy ‒ he would say, «Peace be with you».
What would Professor Tulp do? Would he be so sure about the Latin name of the
outright ridges? 3"
In addition, this "journal" recovers an important dimension of the
writer's personality, almost absent in the rest of the creation, namely the
descriptive dimension. We meet here Sorescu, the landscape observer,
unexpectedly patient with the landscape that keeps his attention. It is a
poetry of the places that the very "prosaic" Sorescu (as some critics have
named him) reveals with great sensitivity and even with pedantry. This
time it does not seem to be a staged pedantry.
Sorescu proves to be an ideal observer, original and assiduous, of
the Romanian space. The originality of contemplation is visible here. He
recreates through a sum of details the atmosphere of places. Without
being idyllically viewed, this atmosphere has a mythical aura. The legends
1
Ibidem: „Sunt obosit încă de la intrare. / Lipseşte primul om./ Eu sunt acela./ Refac istoria – şi sunt
obosit/ Încă de la intrare./ Mă aşteaptă tatuajul dinţilor,/ Turtirea craniului,/ Penele în nas, în
urechi./ O să mi se dea un trib,/ Pentru care va trebui să mă lupt [...] Dar şi mai frică îmi e de
corvoada/ Ridicării piramidei. Tot eu? De ce tot eu/ Să îmbrac piramida veche cu una nouă? /
Băgându-i pe mânecă dragonii”
2
„Venus şi Simonetta lui Boticelli au, cred, aceeaşi perucă, la care au contribuit, pe puţin, trei femei
zdravene la minte şi la păr, cu blondul lor tezaur. Or fi fost nemţoaice, unde vezi aşa blonde în
Italia?” (p.98)
3
Ibidem: „Opt personaje şi nici unul nu se gândeşte la cadavru. Şi la urmă, sunt toţi prea în vârstă, ca
să mai aibă chef să înveţe. Mai bine pozează c-ar învăţa. Cine e mortul? De ce-a murit? Nici unuia nu-
i dă prin gând să se gândească de ce-a murit mortul. Toţi scrobiţi la maximum. Gulerele de dantelă au
culoarea şi înţepeneala cadavrului. Mustăţi (toţi), şi barbişon [...] Ţi-a venit o idee. Dac-ar învia
mortul? Să stai acolo, până la Paşti. Şi să-i vezi pe ceilalţi ce vor face, când va învia mortul, care ar
putea fi Cristos – pe tot ce pune mâna Rembrandt e sfânt – şi-ar zice: <Pace vouă>. Ce-ar face
profesorul Tulp? Ar mai fi el atât de sigur pe denumirea latinească a cutăror striaţiuni?” (p. 71).

83
and the simple events in the life of people become fantastic happenings
when retold by Sorescu. Some of them already have literary resonances.
He projects them onto an eternity or onto another type of perpetuity,
that of paper. It is a hunger of the retina, which can only be translated by
the hardworking pen:
"I only take snapshots with my thoughts and develop them with my
eyelids, at night when I do not shut them up1."
In fact, some days are marked only by inspirational lyrics and
people, so we can hardly call them diary pages, others, on the contrary,
they have a voiced telegraphic style, mercantile records like the price of
the hotel, the dinner, the tickets to the museums - is a confusing mix of
styles that keeps the spirit awake. With such an approach, Marin Sorescu
puts into a parodic subtle equation the above mentioned diary
convention. The self-irony that appeals to the classic image of the
traveler - Sorescu sometimes plays the role of the hurried tourist turned
into a souvenir hunter and hunter of "spot" pictures ("We photographed
with the statue, we can not think of it anymore2") - also indirectly
concerns this convention.
A fragment that makes a breech into the overall discourse, a
tectonic ramp into the usual vivacity of Sorescu is a dramatic moment
that marked the writer's biography - it is also the only truly diaristical
fragment without literary transfiguration - namely the 1980 sore hoaxing
of the so-called "sect" of transcendental meditation, a masked pretext for
removing many inconvenient or simply non-cooperative writers from
literary and public life. The Communist authorities used the practice of
set-up charges with felony, to have a reason to conduct inquiries about
the undesirable opponents of the regime.
Not having the expected result, this set-up was followed in the
case of Sorescu by a series of public "exposures" and at least two attempts
at the life of the writer - one of them reported here.
After this year there is a sensible change in the tone of the story.
The childish joy of meeting with other spaces is attenuated, it becomes a
joy of escape, of a hunted man out of the target for a while. An important
part of the volume consists of happy encounters with famous writers and
famous figures of world literature, from the most diverse spaces.
The first published interview with Mircea Eliade (Mircea Eliade was not
accepted by the Communist authorities), meetings with Petre Țuțea, Max
Frisch, Elias Canetti, Emil Cioran, Dominique de Roux, Gerald Bisinger,
Oskar Pastior, Giancarlo Vigorelli.
Although gathered under the title of Marin Sorescu in dialogue,
these fragments are more than mere conversations, they can not simply
1
Ibidem: “Eu nu fotografiez decât cu gândul şi developez cu pleoapele, noaptea când nu se-nchid” (p.
2
Ibidem: („Ne-am fotografiat cu statuia, putem să nu ne mai gândim la ea”)

84
be categorized as interviews, like those in the book Tratat de inspirație
(Inspiration Treaty). Because we do not enter the dialogue right off the
bat, but often in a play with "scenographic" and "directorial" details, the
overall impression is that of an artistic stage, with longer or shorter
prologues, narrative or eseistic, descriptive or portraiture, sometimes
details in the manner of Balzac, without forgetting the duty of the
journalist, this time, to give full and useful information about the
characters in question, carefully taken out of dictionaries and lexicons.
The interlocutor's reactions are to be noted, but also the intimate,
unspoken emotion or thoughts of the "reporter": "A moment of silence.
Shall I ask him about the plans? Come what may!1 " There is a constant
concern for shape, atmosphere, impression, but also for staging, role-
playing, performance.
Among the portraits, Petre Ţuţea is very memorable - very
dynamic, as he must have been during the '67s-68s when the two became
very close. The portrait of a brilliant representative of the oratory, of the
peripatetic philosophy, of a real philosophy performer that made a waste
of spirit around him, to the detriment of the written word he was
excessively scrupulous about, and to the desperation and regret of the
interlocutors, who tried to catch the word out of the flight and put it on
paper. In fact, these portraits are all sort of travels. In the workshop of a
painter, in the world of words of a writer, in the labyrinth of the mind of
a genius thinker, the writer's talents as a memoirist make you walk
through so many "paths". It is the writer’s talent what makes you follow
the path with pleasure and nostalgia, while other paths render the feeling
of Columbus discovering America.
One can hardly say about Sorescu’s diary that it is one of the
biggest for this genre. Without making tremendous revelations, without
overturning hierarchies, opinions, images, this book, Sorescu’s Diary, has
earned its special place on a bookshelf. It brings to light again the
nonchalant esprit of Marin Sorescu, the same open spirit that moves
easily in all registers in all spaces, be they geographic, cultural, human,
but also very sensitive to clichés and to the awkward "frames" of literary
conventions, never trapped or framed by conventions.

REFERENCES

Marin Sorescu. Jurnal. Romanul călătoriilor, ediție îngrijită de Mihaela Constantinescu și

Virginia Sorescu, Editura Fundației „Marin Sorescu”, București, 1999.

1
„Un moment de linişte. Să-l întreb despre planuri? Fie ce-o fi!”.

85
DE L’AUTOBIOGRAPHIE A LA FICTION CHEZ
VASSILIS ALEXAKIS

VASSILIS ALEXAKIS : FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY TO FICTION

FLORICA MATEOC
mateoc_florica@yahoo.fr
Associate Professor PhD., University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 541-157

Abstract: A francophone writer of Greek origin, exiled in France

after 1968 and the beginning of the colonels’ dictatorship in his country,
Vassilis Alexakis is concerned with the issues of identity and exile, the
choice of language in which to write and with self-translation. These
issues are present in his book Paris-Athenes, a remarkable
autobiographic text. Our intention is to identify autobiographical
elements in his novel La langue maternelle and to present various
features of his Greek space of origin as well as of his mother tongue
which the exiled author wants to regain.
Key words: autobiography, fiction, identity, exile, mother tongue,
native space.

Introduction. Séquences biographiques

Vassillis Alexakis fait partie de la famille des écrivains partagés entre

deux pays, deux langues et deux cultures. Né à Athènes en 1943, il quitte
son lieu natal en 1968, après l’instauration en Grèce de la dictature des
colonels. Il possède à cette date des connaissances assez faibles de
français qu’il a appris, encouragé par sa mère, à l’Institut français
d’Athènes. Mais c’est grâce au français et à sa vocation de langue
universelle, de langue de la liberté qu’il a choisi la France comme terre
d’asile. Il se confesse à ce sujet et montre son admiration pour les
écrivains qui ont choisi une autre langue d’écriture comme Beckett,
Nabokov ou Conrad. Vassilis Alexakis suit les cours de l’Ecole de
journalisme de Lille, travaille ensuite comme dessinateur humoristique
pour différents journaux français mais aussi à la radio France Culture, se
remarquant par ses interventions à l’émission Des papous dans la tête. Il
est à même d’employer le français d’une manière ludique tout en gardant
la douceur de son accent grec.

86
 En 1974, après la chute du régime des colonels, l’écrivain prend la
décision de rester en France et publie ses premiers romans en français :
Le Sandwich en 1974, Les Girls de City Boum Boum en 1975 et La Tête du
chat en 1978. Ce sont des romans légers où son espace d’origine est
presqu’absent. Avec Talgo, publié en grec en 1981, puis en français en
1983, l’écrivain fait une tournure dans sa pratique scripturale : il renonce
au français et revient à sa langue maternelle, adoptant bientôt l’exercice
de l’autotraduction. Les critiques parlent, dans le cas d’Alexakis,
d’identité déchirée ou d’identité apatride, d’un certain flou dans la
classification de ses écrits ; certaines oeuvres sont revendiquées par la
littérature grecque, d’autres par la littérature française. Son va-et-vient
entre les deux pays commence par ses invitations à l’Institut français
d’Athènes lors de la parution de ses romans. Les aller-retour entre Paris
et Athènes rythment son existence et marquent sa vie ainsi que son
écriture. L’emploi de la langue française l’éloigne de la langue grecque
comme l’observe avec amertume sa mère qui suit ses interviews mais qui
est incapable de les comprendre. L’écrivain en devient conscient après
son décès, en 1993. Il veut lui rendre hommage et décide de se pencher
sur sa langue maternelle, mettant signe d’égalité entre les deux.
La reconnaissance littéraire de Vassilis Alexakis devient évidente
à partir de 1995, lorsqu’il remporte Le Prix Médicis pour son roman La
Langue maternelle. D’autres prix allaient récompenser les qualités
littéraires de l’écrivain grec: Le prix de la Nouvelle de l’Académie
française pour Papa en 1997, Le Grand Prix du Roman de l’Académie
française pour Après J.C en 2007 et Le Prix de la langue française en 2012,
pour toute l’activité littéraire.
Vassilis Alexakis est un représentant de marque de la
francophonie grecque actuelle et de la problématique de l’exil. Comme le
dit à juste titre Marianne Bessy,
« dans ses romans et ses nouvelles, on remarque une réflexion poussée
sur le choix de la langue, l’autotraduction, le bilinguisme littéraire, mais aussi
sur l’exil et l’identité. Souvent, Alexakis brouille la distinction entre fiction et
autobiographie en mettant en scène dans ses romans un écrivain grec
s’interrogeant sur son art et sur sa situation, ce qui lui permet, par un jeu de
miroirs interposés, de se mettre lui-même au centre de son œuvre et d’étudier
son propre statut d’écrivain grec francophone exilé. »1
Alexakis exploite cette situation et transfère les expériences
vécues dans son roman. Le personnage principal, le dessinateur grec
Pavlos Nicolaïdis vit lui aussi en exil à Paris. Comme tout étranger, il
essaie de s’intégrer dans le pays adoptif, réussissant d’acquérir une
nouvelle identité mais le lieu natal, avec les appartenances premières, la
1
Marianne, Bessy, Vassilis Alexakis: exorciser l'exil, déplacements autofictionnels, linguistiques et
spatiaux, https://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/gradschool_dissertations/3456 (consulté le 2 novembre
2017

87
famille, les gens et la langue lui manquent. C’est pourquoi, il s’éloigne de
la France et, à l’aide de la fiction, il fait le retour imaginaire à ses origines.
Le roman La langue maternelle est une représentation de ce périple.
Notre propos est d’y identifier les ressemblances entre l’écrivain et son
personnage, de montrer la quête de son espace d’origine, de la culture et
de la langue grecques. Nous allons accorder une attention particulière à
sa relation avec la langue maternelle qu’il se propose de réapprendre.

Une certaine autobiographie. De Paris-Athènes à La langue maternelle

L’œuvre romanesque d’Alexakis ressemble à l’écriture autobiographique,

par l’attitude d’introspection des narrateurs qui emploient la première
personne. Cependant, l’écrivain ne respecte pas les normes de
l’autobiographie générique telle qu’elle a été définie par Philippe Lejeune
dans son fameux Pacte autobiographique :
« récit rétrospectif en prose qu’une personne réelle fait de sa propre
existence, lorsqu’elle met l’accent sur sa vie individuelle, en particulier sur
l’histoire de sa personnalité »1
Selon lui, un texte acquiert la qualité d’autobiographie lorsqu’on
a affaire à l’identité de l’auteur, du narrateur et du personnage. Leur
superposition dans un texte constitue ce qu’il appelle « pacte
autobiographique » et qui lui confère la qualité d’autobiographie.
Parmi les oeuvres d’Alexakis, on peut identifier un texte pareil
intitulé Paris-Athènes, un texte écrit en 1989, où l’écrivain raconte des
séquences de sa vie, notamment l’enfance, l’exil et les premières
expériences littéraires. Il parle de lui-même et se soumet de la sorte aux
contraintes du « pacte autobiographique ». Toutefois, il ajoute à ce livre
le sous-titre « récit », ce qui pourrait éveiller des doutes sur son statut.
D’ailleurs, Alexakis s’est confessé à ce sujet :
« Je n’ai plus la liberté d’inventer mon histoire. L’exercice de cette
liberté me donnait un réel plaisir. Un texte autobiographique, c’est peut-être un
genre de roman écrit sans plaisir. Qui sait? Cela finira peut-être par ressembler à
un roman, avec des personnages qu’on perd de vue et qu’on retrouve à la fin. Si
les vents me sont favorables, cela devrait ressembler à un roman ».2
C’est toujours dans Paris-Athènes qu’Alexakis débat le problème
de l’identité et de la langue d’écriture. Après cette période
d’interrogation, qui est en quelque sorte une explication avec la langue
française, le retour à la langue maternelle semble s’imposer de plus en
plus. Pourtant, à partir des années 90, il adopte une nouvelle pratique
linguistique qui est un va-et-vient entre le grec et le français, le choix se
faisant selon le sujet du roman. Et l’écrivain avoue : «La langue
maternelle n'est que la première langue étrangère qu'on apprend » pour
1
Philippe Lejeune, Le Pacte autobiographque, Paris, Seuil, 1975, p. 14.
2
Vassilis Alexakis, Paris-Athènes, p. 28

88
conclure d’une façon détachée : «Je suis peut-être en train d'écrire un
livre grec en français.»1 Dans l’épilogue de cette œuvre, il ajoute à ce
sujet:
« La musique de ma langue maternelle me manque: c’est probablement
pour cette raison que j’ai éprouvé le besoin de mentionner tant de mots grecs
tout au long de ce récit. J’espère que le lecteur en aura retenu quelques-uns, qu’il
aura au moins appris que dèn xéro signifie «je ne sais pas». Cela me ferait
plaisir.2
Six années plus tard, sous le nom de son héros, Pavlos, l’écrivain
fait pour la première fois le voyage Paris-Athènes sans billet de retour : «-
Quand rentres-tu à Paris ? m’a-t-elle demandé. -Je ne sais pas »3 répond-
il aux questions d’une amie, juste après l’arrivée à Athènes pour
compléter plus tard :
«C’est la première fois que je me trouve ici sans avoir de billet de retour.
Si je savais pourquoi je suis venu, je pourrais prévoir la date de mon départ. »4
Le roman La langue maternelle dévoile le fait que son auteur soit
attiré plutôt par la fiction et par la liberté que cela lui confère. Tout
comme dans d’autres écrits, son moi devient fictionnel ; biographie et
fiction s’entrecroisent et se mêlent. Les études critiques sur l’œuvre
d’Alexakis dévoilent sa dimension autobiographique comme le souligne,
entre autres, Efstratia Oktapoda-Lu. Il est important de noter que la
veine autobiographique s’intensifie au fur et à mesure que le temps passe
et que les publications se multiplient. Selon Oktapoda-Lu, « on assiste à
une alternance continuelle, un métissage du vrai et du faux, de la réalité
et de la fiction » alors que l’on découvre, au fil des lectures, les multiples
doubles de l’auteur.5
Après avoir parcouru le bref itinéraire biographique de l’écrivain,
on s’aperçoit que le roman La langue maternelle est clairement
d’inspiration autobiographique. Le narrateur du récit, le dessinateur
Pavlos Nicolaïdis a bien des points communs avec son auteur. D’abord,
tous les deux ont quitté la Grèce et se sont réfugiés en France où ils ont
vécu les expériences de l’exil. L’abandon du pays natal, l’éloignement de
la famille et surtout de la mère leur provoque un sentiment de culpabilité
qu’ils essaient de guérir par le retour à la culture grecque et à la langue
maternelle. A Paris, le héros du roman fait des dessins humoristiques
tout comme l’auteur dans la première étape de son exil français.
Quoiqu’il ne soit pas écrivain, Pavlos est préoccupé de l’écriture. De
retour en Grèce, il tient un journal et, en plus, il transcrit dans un cahier
toutes les inventions lexicales de son jeu avec la langue grecque. Une
séquence de la biographie d’Alexakis dévoile ses préoccupations
1
Vassilis Alexakis, Paris- Athènes, Paris, Seuil, 1989, p. 191.
2
Idem, p. 271.
3
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, Paris, Fayard, 1995, p. 36.
4
Idem, p. 65.
5
Efstratia, Oktapoda-Lu, Vassilis Alexakis ou la quête d’identité, p. 293.

89
oulipiennes lors de ses interventions à la radio France Culture pour
l’émission Des papous dans la tête.
Pavlos est préoccupé d’une énigme réelle, celle de la signification
de la lettre « epsilon » qui a hanté des générations de spécialistes depuis
la nuit des temps. Il se passionne aussi de l’acte d’écrire et s’interroge sur
l’utilité d’une forme littéraire basée sur les confessions : « Quel genre de
fin pourrait avoir un texte qui n’est qu’un journal intime ?»1. Nicolaïdis
est conscient de la superposition du narrateur et de l’auteur et affirme à
cette fin : « Je fabrique des phrases... Je me regarde dans un nouveau
miroir »2
Nombre de gestes, de passions et de traits physiques de l’écrivain
sont visibles chez son personnage. Les données biographiques sur
Alexakis montrent le fait qu’il avait porté une barbe mais à cause de la
perte des cheveux, il l’a rasée. C’est ce qui fait Pavlos de la sienne, après
l’avoir porté depuis longtemps. On retrouve le même plaisir de fumer la
pipe chez l’écrivain et chez le dessinateur. Ils se ressemblent même par
leur penchant vers certains loisirs comme le jeu de ping-pong. C’est
pourquoi, Pavlos veut installer une table de ping-pong dans son
appartement d’Athènes.
Les amis grecs le considèrent un Français bien intégré dans le
pays d’accueil comme le fait sa copine Vaguélio, lorsqu’ils débattent la
situation de la Macédoine :
« - Tu ne peux pas comprendre parce que tu ne vis pas ici m’a-t-elle dit ;
ça t’importe peu qu’une guerre éclate, n’est-ce pas ? Tu as bien la nationalité
française, non ? Elle m’avait déjà posé cette question à deux reprises mais il faut
croire que ma réponse ne l’avait pas convaincue. 3»
Pavlos dévoile à ses amis sa nouvelle identité française soulignant
qu’en France il s’appelle Paul et qu’il travaille depuis longtemps au
journal Miroir de l’Europe en tant que dessinateur de caricatures
politiques après avoir fait, pendant des années, des dessins
humoristiques. Il a l’air d’être très passionné de son travail, surtout de
son côté anthropologique qui lui permet de représenter la diversité des
milieux de provenance des personnalités et des hommes politiques.
Quoique bien ancré dans la société et dans la culture française, le héros
éprouve un brin de nostalgie de l’espace d’origine.

La Grèce et les Grecs

De retour dans le pays natal, il veut regagner ses appartenances
perdues, son lieu natal, sa culture d’origine et sa langue, le grec. C’est
pourquoi, le cadre de la narration est la Grèce. Il se propose de faire une
recherche sur une lettre symbolique de l’alphabet grec- l’Epsilon- ce qui
1
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 166.
2
Idem, p. 49.
3
Idem, p. 57.

90
lui permet de faire un voyage à travers le pays qui lui a manqué et qu’il
veut reconquérir. «Cela vous fera du bien de rester un peu en Grèce, ça
vous renouvellera »1considère l’un des personnages. Il semble tellement
ancré dans le monde grec que Paris lui semble loin et il lui arrive même
de douter de son vécu là-bas.
Robert Jouanny a très bien deviné les intentions de l’auteur à ce
sujet :
« Son séjour est une ré-initiation à la Grèce, depuis longtemps perdue
de vue : souvenirs nostalgiques d’une amie longtemps aimée, rencontres avec de
vieux amis, échos de la vie mondaine, artistique et nocturne, lecture ironique
des amours de son frère, vagabondages entre Delphes, Jannina, les tavernes
athéniennes et les cafés de la Place Kolonaki, étreintes sans lendemain,
souvenirs fragmentés de la mère disparue, images d’un père gentiment délirant,
évocations discrètement sensuelles des fleurs, des parfums, des bruits de la
Grèce »2
Par son héros, l’écrivain veut se réapproprier d’abord l’espace
géographique grec. Les endroits favoris sont les villes d’Athènes,
d’Amphisa, de Janinna et le village de Delphes.
Il revoit et décrit avec nostalgie des séquences de son enfance et
de sa jeunesse, son quartier modeste d’Athènes, sa vieille école primaire,
le cimetière et le stade. Pavlos se rappelle les professeurs, la cour de
l’école avec sa terre battue et même les sandwiches particuliers que sa
maman emballait soigneusement tout en écrivant au-dessus du papier le
contenu de chacun. Ce sont des détails qui trahissent la nostalgie
sehnsucht, définissant toujours un sentiment, à savoir, l’aspiration
douloureuse du retour au passé.
Les images de la ville d’autrefois font voir peu de voitures dans
les rues mais beaucoup de fiacres tirés par de petits chevaux d’origine
hongroise. L’Athènes de nos jours a perdu la perfection de même que
l’ordre des temps anciens et semble être un chantier interminable. Le
quartier de son enfance a l’air déprimant avec les nouveaux immeubles
d’appartements qui ont remplacé une bonne partie des vieilles maisons.
Les endroits connus de sa capitale représentent un espace-temps comme
l’avoue l’écrivain : « Ce quartier n’est pas un endroit, ai-je pensé, c’est
une époque. Je traverse une époque. »3 Nous pensons que cet aveu
renvoie à la conception de V. Jankélévitch qui souligne l’idée que l’espace
d’origine représente toujours un paysage sacré, qu’il s’agit « d’une
géographie pathétique, d’une topographie mystique dont la seule
toponymie par sa force évocatrice met déjà en branle le travail de la
réminiscence et de l’imagination »4 En effet, par son héros, l’écrivain
1
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 147.
2
Robert, Jouanny, «Le Vertige d'un romancier entre deux langues: le cas d'Alexakis.» in Bayreuther
Frankophonie Studien, 2 /1998, pp. 55-66.
3
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 80.
4
V. Jankélévitch, L’irréversible et la nostalgie, Paris, Flammarion, 1974, p. 30.

91
revit des épisodes de sa jeunesse athénienne lorsqu’il énumère avec
précision des noms de rues de deux quartiers qui se différencient par la
situation sociale de leurs habitants. Le quartier aristocrate Colonaki
rappelle des noms illustres de la culture grecque comme Homère,
Démocrite, Pindare, Héraclite, Hérodote ou Plutarque tandis que le
quartier modeste Pangrati comprend des noms moins illustres comme :
Hellanikos, Pyrrhon et Chrémonide. Pavlos veut se ré-encadrer dans la
vie d’Athènes pour renouer ses vieux liens ou pour se créer d’autres. Il se
plaît dans ce monde bruyant et accueillant qui lui manque depuis son
départ pour Paris où la société est cloisonnée, la communication avec les
étrangers est difficile ou presqu’impossible comme il le dit avec humour
mais aussi avec un brin d’amertume :
« Ce n’est pas difficile de faire des rencontres à Athènes. Il y a une
attente dans le regard des gens. Les conversations progressent rapidement. On
dit en une heure des choses qu’on ne s’avoue à Paris qu’au bout de dix ans, de
vingt ans, d’une vie. Il est normal que tout le monde se connaisse puisque les
relations se nouent aussi facilement. »1
Dans cette société, la dimension temporelle privilégie le présent
tandis qu’à Paris les gens se font des projets pour l’avenir qu’ils
s’efforcent d’accomplir. Au cours du récit, Pavlos se sent de plus en plus
concerné par la vie d’Athènes. Il se sent réconforté d’être accepté par la
société athénienne qui ne le considère plus un étranger.
Quelques figures se distinguent dans ce monde: une ministre,
ancienne comédienne, l’actrice Amalia Stathopoulou, des chercheurs
passionnés comme le professeur de littérature comparée Caradzoglou,
un archéologue aveugle nommé Préaud, capable de déchiffrer à certaines
heures, selon un véritable rituel des inscriptions du temple d’Apollon, des
hommes misogynes, un frère pharmacien qui se complaît dans des
relations frivoles et des chauffeurs de taxis assoiffés de faits divers et
d’histoire. Dans le monde des intellectuels se remarque l’écrivain Manos
qui attire l’attention de Pavlos par l’un de ses livres où il établit des
relations entre les chants des poèmes homériques et les lettres de
l’alphabet. Ainsi, le chant premier rend-il hommage à l’alpha, le
deuxième au béta et la liste pourrait continuer. Sa conclusion est
qu’Homère fait naître l’alphabet.
L’un des endroits chers à l’écrivain est Amphisa, le lieu de
naissance de sa mère et la ville où se trouve Le Musée d’art et des
traditions populaires. Il met en évidence quelques éléments qui assurent
l’identité de ces parages comme les fameuses olives au thym ou les gens,
renommés pour la passion avec laquelle ils faisaient leur métier : les
tanneurs, les sonnettiers ou les bergers. L’écrivain se rappelle les
moindres détails sur leur mode de vie et leur mentalité dont il dévoile
1
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 190

92
des curiosités amusantes comme dans le cas des bergers qui mettent des
heures pour choisir avec minutie des clochettes en guise de signe
identitaire de leurs moutons. Ce sont des gens de peu très attachés à la
nature, trouvant le plaisir de vivre dans les petites choses. Le visage
actuel d’Amphisa a changé, la ville est dépeuplée et la majorité de ceux
qui sont restés travaillent dans les carrières de bauxite de Parnasse.
D’autres endroits se distinguent par des phénomènes climatiques comme
la ville de Jannina qui se noie dans le brouillard :
« Le brouillard est si dense que je ne distingue pas la rue. Il bouche les
fenêtres et la porte ouvertes, il a même pénétré un peu à l’intérieur de la
pharmacie. Les clients apparaissent soudainement. Je ne les vois pas venir…Ils
sortent du brouillard comme surgissent parfois du fond de la mémoire des
silhouettes oubliées. »1
Les habitants de Jannina s’identifient par le travail passionné des
métaux. Pavlos est fasciné par les sons et les rythmes des forgerons qui
produisent toutes sortes d’objets en cuivre et en argent. Ils ont réussi à
maintenir la ferronnerie toujours florissante dans la petite ville.
Le village de Delphes se remarque par sa richesse et par l’égoïsme
de ses habitants. Ils sont très nationalistes mais, paradoxalement,
ouverts puisque beaucoup d’hommes épousent des étrangères. Comme
l’omphalos est toujours là, ils ont raison de cultiver une certaine attitude
ethnocentriste. Il n'y a plus de Pythies à Delphes, du moins ne lisent-
elles plus dans les fèves : «elles ont enfin compris que les fèves n'ont
aucun génie, qu'elles sont aussi bêtes que les pois chiches. »2 Il en est
resté quand même un petit nombre qui lit dans le marc de café. L’auteur
n’oublie pas de souligner un détail comique sur la population de
Delphes, à savoir l’existence d’un grand nombre de jumeaux.
Pavlos complète les images de sa Grèce natale et rappelle la
mythologie lorsqu’il s’arrête pour voir l’Achéron. Il raconte des histoires
amusantes du temps où les Grecs pensaient que les dieux sentaient bon,
se demandant ce qu’ils font lorsqu’ils achèvent leur mandat et où ils
passent la retraite. L’écrivain garde la même tonalité lorsqu’il parle de
l’Iliade et de l’Odyssée ainsi que de l’histoire qui circulait sur Homère
dans son lycée : «Neuf villes revendiquaient sa naissance, mais en réalité
il est né dans trois d'entre elles seulement.»3
Le désir de rapprochement des siens et de réparation des
ruptures de l’exil est visible dans l’attention accordée à la figure de son
père dont il a hérité, paraît-il, le don de l’imagination et le goût de la
lecture. L’ancien fonctionnaire de banque est décrit comme un solitaire
entouré néanmoins de femmes qui étaient ravies de son don de conteur
des interminables aventures d’un certain héros Pim. En tant que grand
1
Idem, p. 259.
2
Idem, p. 324.
3
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 110.

93
 collectionneur de photos des célébrités, des présidents d’Etats et des
artistes, entre autres, il fait la preuve de passions et de goûts raffinés.
Quoique l’écrivain éprouve une certaine misogynie, surtout
envers les mères qu’il rend coupables pour avoir laissé leurs enfants se
résigner à la déchéance du pays, il s’intéresse au destin de la femme
grecque. Il prend part au lancement du livre L’Eternelle Grecque, tout en
faisant des remarques sur le patriotisme fervent et sur le rôle de
quelques femmes illustres de la société grecque. Pavlos se plaît à
rappeler leurs noms et leurs faits remarquables : Sapho, Anna Comnène
ou Bouboulina.
Dans son désir de donner plus de détails sur l’anthropologie de
son peuple, l’écrivain s’arrête sur quelques éléments d’ethnologie,
notamment sur des traditions gardées encore de nos jours. Ainsi précise-
t-il que les Grecs cassent toujours des assiettes pendant les repas de fête,
ayant la foi que le bruit chasse les mauvais esprits. La même idée reste
valable pour la tradition pascale qu’il décrit pour la faire connaître à son
lecteur français :
« Nous avons d’abord trinqué avec des oeufs durs teints en rouge
comme l’exige la tradition pascale. Je ne sais pas pourquoi nous donnons cette
couleur aux oeufs ni pourquoi nous pratiquons ce jeu qui s’achève lorsque
toutes les coquilles sont cassées sauf une, la plus solide. »1
Il ne veut rien oublier de ce qui compose l’identité grecque et
rappelle, entre autres, deux éléments de la gastronomie : l’ouzo, la
boisson nationale, dont il collectionne les étiquettes de diverses
marques et « youvarlakia », une soupe de tomates aux boulettes.
L’écrivain n’hésite pas d’énoncer ses opinions et de débattre avec
ses amis la situation de la Grèce actuelle qui se trouve dans une grave
crise morale comme lui avoue le professeur Karadzoglu:
« - Il faut que vous sachiez que la Grèce est une jungle, a-t-il dit. Nous
aussi, nous avons changé. Nous sommes devenus des fauves. La crise que nous
traversons est d’abord morale comme en Italie. Vous souvenez-vous de la
cupidité des chercheurs d’or dans les vieux westerns ? Nous avons le même
regard fiévreux qu’eux. »2
Il se rend compte que le nationalisme monte en rapport avec
l’aggravation de la crise économique mais, au fond, les gens aiment leur
pays et leur histoire tout en dénonçant les lois européennes et les regards
des étrangers sur la Grèce. Mené du même sentiment, l’écrivain partage
les idées et l’attitude des acteurs et des « figurines du théâtre d’ombres »
à la fin d’un spectacle :
« Elles pleurent lorsque les étrangers humilient notre pays... Quand ils
piétinent nos emblèmes, nous dépouillent de notre histoire...Quand ils
revendiquent notre espace, notre mer, nos îles…ça déplaît à ces messieurs de

1
Idem, p. 25.
2
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 107.

94
l’Europe que nous soyons orthodoxes ! Eh bien, tant pis ! Tant pis ! Les
Allemands, les Français prétendent que nous leur coûtons trop cher ! Ils
oublient ce qu’ils doivent à la Grèce, qu’ils ont usurpé notre culture ! Leurs
musées sont remplis des œuvres qu’ils nous ont volées ! »1
Les Grecs restent cependant optimistes et croient dans l’avenir
du pays où se cache une énergie latente : « ils ne savent pas, ces
messieurs, grecs et étrangers, de quoi ce pays est capable ! »2 Quoiqu’il
soit Français d’adoption, Pavlos est à côté de ses compatriotes dans
toutes les épreuves ; la société grecque l’accueille chaleureusement tout
en appréciant sa notoriété internationale. Il se sent vraiment à la maison.
Tout ce qu’il a écrit dans son périple à travers le pays est un exercice de
langue maternelle qu’il veut réapprendre :
«Le texte que j’ai écrit n’est qu’un exercice sur ma langue
maternelle… C’est une conversation avec ma langue…Je poursuis avec elle les
discussions que j’avais avec ma mère… Nous sommes les enfants d’une langue…
C’est cette identité que je revendique…J’écris pour convaincre les mots de
m’adopter... »3

La quête de la langue

La perte de la mère lui éveille la passion de s’approcher davantage de sa

langue pour se réconcilier avec lui-même. En première étape, il le fait par
la traduction de ses livres français en grec, pour que sa mère puisse les
lire. Cela est plutôt une réécriture, sa première langue est celle des
personnages dont il veut être le plus proche possible pour imaginer leur
histoire. Le passage n’est jamais privé d’une sorte d’agitation car les deux
langues ne sont jamais sur pied d’égalité, l’une l’emporte toujours sur
l’autre. C’est pourquoi il doit être toujours pris dans un processus
d’apprentissage-réapprentissage. Aussi se propose-t-il de s’attarder sur
les mots de sa langue et de les interroger, d’expliquer le sens de certaines
expressions dans son désir de faire connaître aux francophones la culture
ancienne grecque ou la réalité actuelle de son pays.
Ce n’est pas par hasard que le roman La langue maternelle
commence par un cours de langue, un cauchemar qui est dévoilé aux
lecteurs seulement à la fin du livre :
« C’est le deuxième cauchemar que je fais relatif à ma vie parisienne,
depuis que je suis en Grèce. Le premier, je l’ai déjà raconté : je suis dans une
classe d’émigrés et j’apprends une nouvelle langue étrangère. »4
Il s’agit d’une rupture linguistique que l’exil a provoquée et qu’il
se propose de réparer. L’auteur souligne que les intellectuels grecs de la
diaspora comme Corays et Psycharis, vivant à Paris, ont beaucoup
1
Idem, p. 222.
2
Idem, p. 223.
3
Idem, 278.
4
Idem, p. 367.

95
contribué à l’enrichissement de la langue tandis que lui, il l’a beaucoup
oubliée pendant ses années d’absence.
Vassilis Alexakis traverse une étape voulue de reculturation après
le processus de déculturation inhérente à tout exilé et celui
d’acculturation dont il a fait la preuve par ses activités professionnelles
en tant que journaliste et écrivain. L’appartenance linguistique est un
besoin d’existence, un signe identitaire essentiel. L’écrivain ne dévoile
pas les ennuis ou les peines subies pour apprendre le français et pour
écrire en cette langue comme l’ont fait, entre autres, les grands exilés
roumains Panait Istrati ou Emil Cioran. Par contre, il relève ses efforts,
ses préoccupations diverses et ses sentiments complexes pour retrouver
et réapprendre la langue maternelle de même que la culture de ses
ancêtres. Le roman d'Alexakis est l'histoire d'un homme qui s’ambitionne
de dévoiler le mystère de l’Epsilon, "E", cette lettre qui, selon lui, occupe
parmi les voyelles la même place que le soleil parmi les planètes. Il en
trouve d’abord des renseignements dans un guide offert par son amie
Vaguélio. A l’entrée du temple d’Appolon étaient gravées des maximes
célèbres énoncées par les Sept Sages comme : « Connais-toi, toi-même »
ou « Rien de trop ».1 Parmi ces inscriptions se trouvait une lettre isolée,
un Epsilon majuscule dont la signification reste inconnue. Cette énigme,
qui a fait l’objet de nombreuses hypothèses depuis Plutarque jusqu’aux
archéologues d’aujourd’hui, passionne à son tour Pavlos qui démarre une
recherche à ce sujet. Le narrateur donne une nuance comique à ses
propos lorsqu’il compare cette entreprise à une affaire de femme qui ne
l'a jamais intrigué autant que cette lettre. Le E le hante et lui tient
compagnie ; il note dans un carnet les mots commençant par Epsilon.
Cette démarche commence par « Elpida » (espérance) pour arriver à
« Elia » (olivier) en passant par « Eos » (aube).
L’énigme de l’Epsilon est une sorte de prétexte qui permet à
l’écrivain de rencontrer et d’inventorier de nombreux mots grecs
commençant par ce fameux epsilon que son héros, Pavlos se propose de
collecter dans un cahier d’une quarantaine de pages. Plus précisément,
quarante mots, chacun sur une page. Pour mener à bon terme son projet,
il fait appel à toutes sortes de méthodes et de stratégies : l'étude de
documents anciens en bibliothèque, la fantaisie, la superstition, le voyage
en autocar jusqu’à Delphes. Dans son travail de documentation il
consulte des livres de référence comme le dictionnaire Antilexico de
Vostandzoglou, Sur l’E de Delphes de Plutarque et Le Trésor de la langue
grecque d’Henri Estienne. La fantaisie s’associe au travail de la mémoire
lorsque les mots, renvoient à des personnes connues et à des expériences
vécues par leur sonorité et leur sens. Le verbe élissomai «se faufiler» (p.
98) lui rappelle le discours d’un politicien sur les dangers qui menacent la
1
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 33.

96
Grèce tandis que ektaktos «exceptionnellement» (p.98) ou eris (p.121)
renvoient à sa copine Vaguélio et à leurs innombrables disputes. D’autres
mots comme eurisko «trouver » (p. 121) ou ainigma «énigme», (p.121)
font allusion à sa démarche.
Cette quête de l’epsilon dans tous les sens a l’air d’un travail
pénible mais l’écriture en grec s’avère être une thérapie :
« L’écriture me fatigue, me tourmente mais elle me procure en même
temps un certain plaisir. Je crois qu’il est dû au contact de la langue. Je respire
tout près de la langue, voilà ce que je suis en train de faire. »1
Lorsqu’il manque d’inspiration, il joue avec les mots dont
l’initiale est la lettre « e » et construit des phrases qui rappellent la
technique des oulipiens. Ce qui en résulte est l’inverse du roman La
disparition de Georges Perec où la lettre « e » manque dans tout le texte.
«J’ ai inventé le jeu suivant qui m’occupe quand je manque
d’inspiration: je compose des phrases en utilisant exclusivement des mots qui
commencent par E. J’en ai produit trois pour l’instant. Erpeton échon
énochlissin ex éntonou ellipséos édesmaton éphagen étéronerpéton : reptile
souffrant d’un manque intense de nourriture dévora un autre reptile.»2
L’exercice d’imagination continue pour toutes les lettres à l’aide
des comparaisons et des renvois à la réalité ou à la culture grecque.
Quant à l’epsilon, il s’avère très difficile d’en configurer une image claire.
Les sources consultées, les opinions des amis et ses propres idées le font
avancer plusieurs hypothèses pour donner un sens à cette lettre
énigmatique. L’écrivain se plaît à consigner les idées de Plutarque qui se
montre lui aussi assez confus à ce sujet ; il fait appel à l’astrologie
lorsqu’il souligne que l’epsilon occupe parmi les voyelles la même place
que le soleil parmi les planètes ou à l’arithmétique de Pythagore lorsqu’il
le voit ressembler au chiffre 5. Il complète ces explications par un petit
traité de théologie dans lequel l’epsilon serait l’initiale du verbe être, de
sa forme de deuxième personne - tu es- qui traduit la foi dans le dieu
Apollon et dans la nature divine. Les doutes l’accablent et c’est pourquoi
il se donne la peine d’éclairer son image. Le dessin qu’il en fait ressemble
d’abord à un temple à trois colonnes ou, vu d’un autre angle, on peut
penser à la lyre d’Apollon. Toujours mécontent de son interprétation, il
ne perd pas l’espoir et continue son travail. Le talent de dessinateur
d’Alexakis se met à l’œuvre lorsqu’il peint un homme agenouillé, en train
de prier, qu’il remplace aussitôt par un autre qui fait semblant de lire
dans le marc de café pour le transformer en fin de compte dans une
femme qui rappelle Pythie.
Parfois, Alexakis offre au lecteur un véritable imaginaire des
lettres de l’alphabet grec:
1
Idem, p. 63.
2
Idem, p. 64.

97
 « L’alpha (A) ressemble à un compas, le bêta (B) est une femme enceinte
dotée d’une grosse poitrine, le gamma (Γ) une potence, le delta est une
pyramide...Le zêta (Z), sans doute parce que le nom de Zeus commence par cette
lettre, m’a fait songer à l’éclair. L’êta (H) est une toute petite échelle…Le iota (I)
renvoie à un tas d’objets, une bougie, une queue de billiard. Le kappa (K) fait
penser à un soldat allemand qui défile le bras tendu…le mu (M) à un couple qui
se tient par la main… »1
Le cahier de Pavlos ramasse d’autres mots dont on retient : ego
(217), elpida «l’espérance» (p. 232), eros « l’amour» (p.267), ecclissia
« église » (250) ekpatrisménos «l’expatrié» (p.290), épistrophi «le retour»
(352), ta ellénika «le grec » (p.375), eleuthéria «la liberté» (p.391), ellipsi
« le manque » (393). Une brève analyse sémantique de cette sélection
traduit le parcours et le statut de l’écrivain par la voix de son narrateur
qui se montre content d’avoir mené à bon terme son entreprise.
Comme il se confie à ses lecteurs, il n'a pas écrit dans sa langue
depuis l'école, se rappelant qu'il ne connaît pas le grec ancien, quoique
longuement étudié. Il se plaint de n’avoir jamais disposé d'une
grammaire de grec moderne:
«On nous contraignait à écrire dans une curieuse langue artificielle,
intermédiaire entre le grec moderne et le grec ancien, appelée pure,
catharévoussa… Nous avons été élevés dans la certitude qu'aucun texte de
qualité ne pouvait s'écrire dans le grec que nous parlions, que nous n'aurions
jamais rien de mieux à présenter que les oeuvres du passé. »2
À Delphes, le héros consulte une vieille femme qui lit dans le
marc de café. Elle lui annonce qu'il rencontrera une femme dont le
prénom commence par A. En même temps il découvrira le mot clé, celui
par qui la libération viendra: ellipsi, (p. 393) le manque. Le deuil de la
mère fait son travail. Ce mot grec qui apparaît dans la dernière page du
roman est très suggestif: Pavlos arrive au bout de sa quête sur la tombe
de sa mère:
« J’ai songé une fois encore à l’epsilon. Le nom de ma mère, Marika
Nicolaïdis, ne comporte pas cette lettre. Ni le mien d’ailleurs. J’étais certain
pourtant que le mot qui me manquait pour compléter mon cahier était là,
quelque part (...) J’ai soudain pensé au mot ellipsi, le manque.-Tu nous as
manqué, Marika, ai-je pensé. »3
La langue et la mère se réunissent dans le titre du roman qui
symbolise la relation fusionnelle entre elle et son fils. Le retour au pays,
après l’absence due à l’exil, rend possible la quête de l’epsilon. Comme le
souligne Bernard Alavoine, l’originalité d’Alexakis réside dans le fait de
parvenir « du manque de la mère (ellipsi), à la quête de la langue: ta ellènika
.»4
1
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle, p. 155.
2
Idem, pp. 115-116
3
Vassilis Alexakis, La langue maternelle p. 294.
4
Bernard Alavoine, Vassilis Alexakis ou le choix impossible entre le grec et le français, p. 13, in Ier
.letras.up/pt/uploads/ficheiros/10345 (consulté le 10 octobre 2017)

98
Conclusion

Avec ce roman, paru la même année en Grèce et en France,

Alexakis reconquiert l’espace grec, il se « grécise ». Son écriture en style
alerte mais rigoureux trahit un certain équilibre dans son écriture et dans
son existence. La quête de l’epsilon lui a permis de faire un long voyage à
travers son pays et son histoire. Pour écrire ce roman l’auteur a dû se
documenter, se rendant compte qu’il ne connaissait très bien ni
l’histoire, ni la culture, ni la langue grecque actuelle. Ce faisant, il a refait
et il a renforcé en même temps ses appartenances identitaires, brisées par
l’exil. L’expérimentation ludique se mêle aux documents sérieux sur les
mythes, la culture et les traditions de son peuple qu’il veut transmettre le
mieux possible à son lecteur français. Très fier de ses origines, « Alexakis
fait chanter le grec au cœur du français » comme le dit Bernard Alavoine.
1
Le retour dans la terre nourricière et à sa langue maternelle se veut un
tribut payé à son pays et à sa mère. C’est aussi un geste thérapeutique
pour guérir les blessures de l’exil.
Après avoir identifié des ressemblances entre l’auteur et son
personnage, on peut affirmer à juste titre que La langue maternelle est
un roman d’une forte nuance autobiographique. En même temps, il
s’avère être un hommage rendu à sa mère, son premier conseiller
littéraire, qui lui a fait apprendre le français et qui lui a donné le goût des
mots et de la lecture.
Quoiqu’il ait réussi à revenir à sa langue maternelle, il ne renonce
pas au français. Alexakis s’est habitué à voyager d’un pays à l’autre, à
passer d’une langue à l’autre, trouvant un certain équilibre dans cet
entre-deux : « en somme, j’ai une langue pour rire et une autre pour
pleurer » 2 Il assume à haute voix sa situation, comme il se confesse dans
son récit Paris-Athènes :
« Je suis peut-être en train d’écrire en français un livre grec. Je découvre
que je peux me souvenir en français aussi…J’avais décidé d’assumer mes deux
identités, d’utiliser à tour de rôle les deux langues, de partager ma vie entre Paris
et Athènes.» 3

1
Idem, p. 13.
2
Vassilis Alexakis, «Une langue pour rire et une langue pour pleurer » in „Synergies Monde”, n° 5
/2008, pp. 29-30.
3
Vassilis Alexakis, Paris- Athènes, p. 242.

99
BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Textes
Alexakis, Vassilis, La langue maternelle, Paris, Fayard, 1995.
Alexakis, Vassilis, Paris- Athènes, Paris, Seuil, 1989.

Bibliographie critique
Alavoine, Bernard, Vassilis Alexakis ou le choix impossible entre le grec et le français,
in Ier .letras.up/pt/uploads/ficheiros/10345 (consulté le 10 octobre 2017)
Bessy, Marianne, Vassilis Alexakis: exorciser l'exil, déplacements autofictionnels,
linguistiques et spatiaux
https://digitalcommons.lsu.edu/gradschool_dissertations/3456 (consulté le 2
novembre 2017)
Jankélévitch, Vladimir, L’irréversible et la nostalgie, Paris, Flammarion, 1974
Jouanny, Robert. «Le Vertige d'un romancier entre deux langues: le cas d'Alexakis.»
in Bayreuther Frankophonie Studien, 2 /1998, pp. 55-66.
Lejeune, Philippe, Le Pacte autobiographique, Paris, Seuil, 1975.
Oktapoda-Lu, Efstratia, « Vassilis Alexakis ou la quête d’identité » in Langue de
l’autre ou La double identité de l’écriture, Dir. Jean-Pierre Castellani, Maria-Rosa
Chiapparo et Daniel Leuwers. Actes du colloque international de Tours (9-11
décembre 1999).

100
 SUR L'AUTOBIOGRAPHIE BRÈVE

IOANA ALEXANDRESCU
ioana.alexandrescu@uab.cat
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea/Autonomous University of Barcelona
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 542-158

Abstract: The starting point of this paper is based on the

observation that, despite the abundance of studies on autobiographical
texts, there is a lack of research dealing with these texts from the
perspective of their length. Filtered through this parameter, a separate
category within the genre emerges: short autobiographical texts. This
paper supports the usefulness of this kind of approach, proposes a
definition of this category and an analysis of its features, using the
example of other autobiographical forms in order to point out
differences between these and short autobiographical texts. The paper
provides several considerations that could trace a path towards a
theorization of the short autobiographical discourse.
Key words: short autobiography, theory of autobiography,
autobiographical essay, autobiographical discourse

Le genre autobiographique est sans doute l'un des domaines les plus
représentés aujourd'hui, autant bien dans ses aspects théoriques,
d'analyse et de réflexion sur ses traits caractéristiques, que dans sa
dimension créative, avec une abondance d'œuvres autoréférentielles sur
le marché de l'édition ou d'autres espaces de diffusion.
Les chercheurs ont appliqué à ce genre plusieurs divisions et
expansions, en essayant d'en explorer l'espace dans des perspectives très
diverses. Cependant, on a moins considéré une autre division possible,
ayant trait à sa forme, et selon un paramètre du plus « formel » et simple
: la longueur. En filtrant les textes autobiographiques à travers ce critère
unique, apparaissent des cas qui ne font généralement pas l´objet
d´étude de recherches qui aspirent à les intégrer dans une catégorie à
part: les textes autobiographiques brefs. C'est l'objet de l'étude de cet
article1, qui cherche à apporter quelques considérations pour une
possible théorisation de cette catégorie moins souvent analysée, mais
point dépourvue d'intérêt.
1
Cet article représente une traduction adaptée d'une partie de mon livre sur l'autobiographie brève.
Voir Alexandrescu (2013)

101
 J'inclus dans le syntagme « discours autobiographique bref »
l'ensemble de textes en prose de dimension réduite, généralement écrits
à la première personne, qui présentent des aspects de la vie de leurs
auteurs.
Cette proposition de définition fait surgir une série de questions
concernant les critères qui en déterminent la formulation: pourquoi
seulement des textes?, Pourquoi seulement en prose?, Qu'entend-on par
dimension réduite?
En effet, la présence du mot « texte » dans la définition exclut
des objets que le syntagme, en raison de son énonciation, ne saurait
refuser, car il pourrait inclure des formes du discours visuel, par exemple,
des courts-métrages, une exposition de photographies, des
enregistrements divers, à condition qu'ils soient autobiographiques et
qu'il soient considérés brefs. Par conséquent, l'exclusion de ces objets est
plutôt une décision de délimiter le champ d'étude et non pas une
déclaration de non-appartenance de ceux-ci à l'espace cerné par la
formulation du syntagme.
En ce qui concerne la restriction opérée par le mot « prose », elle
écarte une série de poèmes explicitement autobiographiques tels que
Autoportrait de Rosario Castellanos ou Note autobiographique de Gloria
Fuertes, entre autres. Cette restriction se doit moins à un désir de
circonscrire l'objet d'étude dans un espace préformé qu'à la conviction
qu'il existe des aspects clés ayant trait à la liberté / contrainte de l'écriture
et à la construction du destinataire qui différencient la poésie des autres
formes du discours autobiographique bref.
Le critère de « dimension réduite» est assez problématique, car
même si l'on a tous une idée sur ce que veut dire court, bien qu'il y ait des
instances qui montrent avec la précision d'une machine ce qu'elles
entendent par ce mot, j'évite de poser un nombre limite de pages. Je
préfère avoir recours à un autre facteur qui pourrait indiquer
l'appartenance de ces écrits à la catégorie de textes autobiographiques
brefs: ils ne forment généralement pas un livre à eux seuls, ils ne sont pas
publiés d'une façon indépendante, mais dans un espace qui inclut aussi
un ou plusieurs textes ou images. Publiés dans des livres, magazines ou
journaux, les textes autobiographiques brefs manifestent une certaine
condition d'accessoire, souvent paratextuelle, et bien que l'accent puisse
finalement tomber sur eux, ils sont presque toujours situés comme des
satellites.
Selon les paramètres recueillis dans la définition du syntagme, les
objets du discours autobiographique bref peuvent recevoir des noms tels

102
que: article, autobiographie, autoportrait, note, essai, prologue,
curriculum, discours de réception1 etc.
Il y a un élément essentiel qui sépare ces productions
autobiographiques des mémoires, des romans autobiographiques, encore
plus nettement des journaux. Ces textes brefs partagent souvent une
donnée relative aux circonstances de leur production: ils sont
généralement écrits sur demande, à la demande d'éditeurs, de magazines
ou d'autres organisations, situation qui n'est pas typique pour les autres
modalités autobiographiques, tout en n'étant pas improbable non plus.
Ce devoir imprègne dès le début l'écriture des textes autobiographiques
courts, en la différenciant de l'élaboration d'un roman autobiographique,
par exemple, qui semble répondre à un désir, à un but et à une décision
propre de l'auteur, pas nécessairement conditionnés par une proposition
/ exigence de quelqu'un d'autre.
Une autre différence importante entre les modalités courtes et
«longues» du discours autobiographique est liée au facteur mentionné
ci-dessus et consiste dans le fait que la liberté implicite d'un écrit motu
proprio ne garantit pas que le produit pénètre le marché de l'édition,
tandis que, puisqu'il répond à une demande d'un organisme de diffusion,
le produit d'un projet autobiographique «contraint» à ses origines est
plus susceptible d'être publié2. Quelqu'un peut écrire une autobiographie
très intéressante, avec un contenu particulier et une écriture
irréprochable, mais dans de nombreux cas les maisons d'édition ne la
publieront pas, à moins que l'autobiographe soit déjà une personne
connue, ait déjà parcouru la scène publique, soit «quelqu'un». C'est l'un
des facteurs qui distinguent clairement, au-delà des caractéristiques
internes de l'œuvre, un texte proposé comme fiction d'un texte déclaré
autobiographique, puisque le premier n'aura pas besoin de productions
antérieures de son auteur pour être publié, tandis que le second, dans la
plupart des cas, oui, de sorte que l'existence de cette trajet littéraire /
artistique / scientifique etc. chez un auteur, est, à quelques exceptions
près, une condition pour qu'une œuvre autobiographique soit
intéressante pour les éditeurs. Philippe Lejeune l'affirmait excellemment:
« si l'autobiographie est un premier livre, son auteur est donc un
inconnu, même s'il se raconte lui-même dans le livre: il lui manque, aux
yeux du lecteur, ce signe de la réalité qu'est la production antérieure
d'autres textes (non autobiographiques), indispensable à ce que nous
appellerons «l'espace autobiographique» (1996: 23). Le même caractère
1
Cet article ne se penche pas sur chacun de ces objets et n'analyse pas comment ses dénominations
influencent la composition des textes, des aspects intéressants qu'il faudra étudier pour aboutir à
une vision plus élaborée du discours autobiographique bref.
2
Il convient cependant de souligner que tous les textes autobiographiques courts ne sont pas issus
d'une proposition éditoriale et ne sont pas destinés à être publiés. Par exemple, l'essai
autobiographique peut être un outil de sélection du personnel ou des étudiants et sert un but
indépendant de toute raison éditoriale.

103
d'annexe des brefs récits personnels que nous signalons ci-dessus
suppose cette existence parallèle d'autres productions littéraires,
scientifiques, artistiques etc. chez l'auteur, qui est représenté
principalement par des formes non autobiographiques du discours et
celles-ci offrent une information supplémentaire, séparable en fin de
compte du matériel à travers lequel l'auteur s'est fait connaître par le
public.
La thématique des autobiographies brèves semble se construire
dans la tension de facteurs rivaux qui, d'une part, lui donnent de la
liberté et, d'autre part, l'en privent.
L'indépendance essentielle du discours autobiographique bref de
tout critère thématique doit être soulignée dès le départ: si quelqu'un
parle tout simplement de la façon dont il nourrit son chat, ce ne sera pas
la raison pour laquelle son texte cesse d'être un essai autobiographique.
Par conséquent, il est surprenant de voir à quel point le modèle de la
note biographique est utilisé, avec ses sections typiques - études,
profession etc. - ou du curriculum, dans l'exécution de ces courts textes.
Comme si le schéma biographique était transféré à l'autobiographie et
que les auteurs compartimentent leur vie comme ils ont vu qu'on la
compartimente d'habitude chez les autres ou chez eux-mêmes.
Certes, l'exigence de brièveté limite assez la liberté de
composition de ces écrits. La mémoire doit trouver des souvenirs déjà
liés les uns aux autres autour d'un axe, d'un thème ou d'une image pour
répondre aux exigences de cohérence possibles dans les dimensions
réduites des textes. Et ce qui est choisi comme axe, thème ou image a
souvent à voir avec la catégorie professionnelle, avec le renforcement du
côté public du parcours professionnel par l'inclusion du privé, par les
détails qui relient la vie à sa représentation, la personne à son image, le
produit à ses circonstances.
Ainsi, il n'est pas rare que les auteurs composent des textes qui se
concentrent sur des aspects concernant la lecture et le parcours
professionnel, en égrainant livres de chevet, enseignants, prix littéraires,
machines à écrire etc. En exécutant leurs autoportraits, même si ceux-ci
ne portent pas l'étiquette d'« autobiographie intellectuelle », ils semblent
considérer que la reconnaissance publique dont ils jouissent est basée sur
des caractéristiques relatives à la culture et à l'éducation, au devenir
intellectuel et non pas sur le fait qu'il sont aussi, par exemple,
d'excellents joueurs de cartes dans leur temps libre. Et, avec cette pré-
construction du destinataire, ils essayent peut-être de donner au lecteur
ce que celui-ci est censé leur demander.
Mais, pour l'essentiel, les attentes du lecteur ont principalement
à voir avec la brièveté du texte, avec sa véracité, et avec son
représentativité pour l'auteur (la dernière des trois dérive de la première);
en principe, il acceptera donc comme brève autobiographie n'importe

104
quel texte dans lequel l'auteur parle de tout aspect de sa vie pourvu qu'il
soit vérace et représentatif. Le problème de la représentativité est
intéressant, car, bien qu'un auteur ait le droit de ne pas vouloir coller
l'étiquette de « représentatif » à aucun de ses traits en particulier - bien
qu'une autobiographie brève puisse se baser sur des détails considérés
par l'auteur, dans une introspection honnête de lui-même, comme
périphériques, ceux-ci vont être lus comme représentatifs, définissants,
essentiels de sa personnalité, à cause des dimensions réduites du texte
qui les contient. Le lecteur suppose que les événements racontés ont une
grande rélévance pour l'auteur, puisqu'il les indexe dans le résumé de sa
vie.
Ce conflit évident entre le modeste espace de développement des
modalités courtes et les attentes ambitieuses qu'elles engendrent (en
ajoutant pour les écrivains l'exigence d'un « bon » texte) l'écriture essaie
de le résoudre comme elle peut. Pour cette raison, elle recourt parfois à la
structure prédéfinie du curriculum, au modèle biographique, en vêtissant
narrativement un squelette de vie. C'est aussi pourquoi elle subvertit
cette structure, en essayant de faire fi de ses sections, bien qu'elle se
retrouve toujours, d'une certaine façon, dans l'une d'elles.
Qui choisit une autre formule, refusant à comprendre les
sections typiques de la note biographique, fait de son écrit une
déclaration implicite de non-soumission à ce modèle qu'il connaît
sûrement, une subversion de la tradition, un élargissement des
possibilités de déconstruction de la vie pour sa mise en page. Les textes
rebelles exécutent le geste poétique de sauver ce qui est humble en le
plaçant au premier plan, en s'arrêtant sur des détails que le modèle
biographique passerait peut-être sous silence, et que l'on considérerait
peut-être comme périphériques, effaçables sans problèmes de l'histoire
d'une vie.
Le conflit évident entre l'espace modeste, étroit, et les demandes
ambitieuses de représentativité fait de l'autobiographie courte un terrain
peu aimable que tout le monde n'est pas ravi d'arpenter, à moins qu'on
leur demande de le faire. Les auteurs mentionnent souvent ce passé
contraint de l'écriture (qui n'en a toutefois pas empêche la production),
en faisant référence à des circonstances très éloignées de leur désir et de
leur choix:
„Si j'écris sur moi-même, je ne le fais pas motu proprio, comme on dit,
mais parce que quelqu'un me le demande. Ce ne sera pas un schéma
d'autobiographie, Dieu me garde d'une telle hardiesse!, mais tout au plus un
regard sur mon passé d'écrivain, réduit à cela, sans sortir du schéma nécessaire.
(Torrente Ballester, 1986: 19)
Très peu enthousiaste, il semble même que Torrente Ballester
blâme ce « quelqu'un » pour son écriture. En effet, à l'encontre des
autobiographies brèves, les modalités plus longues peuvent être des

105
espaces aimables. Elles permettent des digressions, des ramifications, des
voyages multiples, las confusion temporelle, les identités toujours
recherchées, toujours en train de se faire:
„L'autobiographie n'est pas [...] l'image achevée, la détermination
permanente d'une vie personnelle: l'être humain se construit sans cesse; les
souvenirs aspirent à une essence au-delà de l'existence et, en le précisant,
contribuent à sa création. En parlant à soi-même, l'écrivain ne cherche pas à dire
le dernier mot, ce qui fermerait sa vie; il ne cherche qu'à se rapprocher du sens
toujours secret et inaccessible de son destin. (Gusdorf, 1991: 17, m.t)
Au lieu de cela, l'autobiographie brève demande que les choses
soient, en quelque sorte, déjà faites: détails pertinents, densité,
représentativité, clarté. L'écrivain argentin Osvaldo Soriano, entre autres,
remet en question la pertinence de cette écriture qui prétend refléter une
vie comme si celle-ci était déjà faite :
„Il y a quelques jours, une chercheuse qui prépare un livre d'interviews
à des écrivains argentins nous a demandé de tracer chacun une brève
autobiographie. Comment le faire? Comment parler de nous-mêmes si nous ne
savons pas qui nous sommes? Je lui ai dit que je n'avais pas de biographie.
(Soriano, 1993: 20)

Comparées au roman autobiographique, par exemple, les

modalités courtes demandent beaucoup et donnent peu. Elles semblent
ingrates, elles offrent une mémoire dès le début orientée, un visage de
l'auteur que celui-ci connaît déjà, tandis que le roman sait lui donner le
spectacle de l'écoulement de sa mémoire, la joie d'une petite ou grande
révélation quelque part sur la route, le plaisir d'une construction étape
par étape, un fin tissage dans plusieurs directions. Conçues, en principe,
pour exalter l'intellectuel, le créateur, le poète, les formes brèves finissent
par le frustrer. Sans éprouver de grandes joies, sans espoir de catharsis,
sans voyager avec la mémoire à la découverte de soi-même, l'auteur peut
sentir qu'il travaille objectivement pour l'autre, pour lui offrir, avec des
informations variées et soigneusement dosées, le synopsis d'un film qu'il
ne verra jamais. Cette auto-objectivation ne se manifeste pas d'une façon
aussi évidente, par exemple, dans les romans autobiographiques, où
l'écrivain construit le personnage à travers la mise en scène des souvenirs
et le ramène à la vie en le jetant dans un espace qui n'est pas exactement
la vie mais c'est comme s'il l'était, avec les discours directs, avec les
sensations à fleur de peau, avec l'obscurité de ce qui est inchoatif. Tandis
que les autobiographies courtes ne semblent pas aspirer à ce ce jeu als ob
avec la vie, mais plutôt à disséquer la vie, à la concentrer en quelques
mots, à en connaître l'essentiel; d'une certaine manière, à s'en détacher.

106
BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Alexandrescu, Ioana. (2013). Brevemente, la vida. Un accercamiento al discurso

autobiográfico breve. Oradea: Editura Universităţii din Oradea.
Castellanos, Rosario. (1975). Poesía no eres tú: obra poética (1948-1971). México:
Fondo de Cultura Económica.
Fuertes, Gloria. (2001). Obras incompletas. Madrid: Cátedra
Gusdorf, Georges. (1991). “Condiciones y límites de la autobiografía”, Suplementos
Anthropos, no. 29, pp. 9-18.
Lejeune, Philippe. (1996). Le pacte autobiographique. Paris: Le Seuil.
Soriano, Osvaldo. (1993). Educación sentimental, Página /12, 1993, no. (28 Nov. 1993),
p. 20.
Torrente Ballester, Gonzalo. (1986). Nota autobiográfica, Anthropos, 1986, no. 66-67,
pp. 19-21.

107
 CONFESIUNE ȘI ANTICONFESIUNE
ÎN ROMANUL CEI DOI DIN DREPTUL ȚEBEI
CONFESSION AND ANTI-CONFESSION
IN THE NOVEL CEI DOI DIN DREPTUL ȚEBEI

ALEXANDRA IOANA BOLDIȘ

alexandraiboldis@gmail.com
Doctoral School, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 543-159

Abstract: The novel Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, published in 1973,
reproduces Romeo and Juliet’s story in a Transylvanian countryside
surprised by the Communist regime. Dumitru Radu Popescu, one of the
most important writers of the sixties, develops his epic text based on the
formula of multiple epic. The confession is a masked one, a kind of
confession in absentia or an anticonfession, linked to the theme of love.
Each character has the role of confessing and ambiguating the epic.
Characters neither stagnate, nor evolve, nor they engage; they do not
change. Psychologically, they do not transmit any morality or
immorality. Speech is the one that puts them in motion the chance to
narrate and reveal themselves.
Key words: D. R. Popescu, anticonfession, love, novel,
communism

Romanul Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, apărut în 1973, reproduce

povestea lui Romeo și Julieta într-un cadru rural ardelenesc surprins în
vâltoarea regimului comunist. Comunismul a reprezentat o pagină
nefastă în istoria umanității, o forță totalitară care a subjugat societatea
și fiecare compartiment al său. Există documente istorice, mărturisiri și
înregistrări cu un impact emoțional puternic, însă cea care reușește să
transmită omului secolului XXI ceea ce a însemnat cu adevărat perioada
1944-1989 este literatura. Să punem acest lucru pe seama paradoxului
uman care rezonează mult mai transparent cu un personaj decât cu
realitatea.
Dincolo de formele pe care le ia literatura în epocă, confesiunile
personajelor și formele pe care le ia adevărul în contextul romanelor sunt
cele care atrag atenția. Vorbim în acest caz de o confesiune susținută atât
de realitatea individului, cât și de realitatea colectivă. Tematica este
permisivă și oferă posibilitatea scriitorilor de a da glas experiențelor prin
propriile metode de construcție ale unei lumi. Personajele, întâmplările,

108
dialogul, formulele narative adoptate se transformă în ustensile pentru
conturarea unei viziuni complexe referitoare la ceea ce a fost
comunismul în societatea românească. Generația ̛60 este cea mai
prolifică în acest sens. Începând cu Augustin Buzura, Nicolae Breban,
Paul Georgescu, George Bălăiță sau Dumitru Radu Popescu, tema
adevărului în comunism capătă forme și interpretări diverse.
În ceea ce privește romanele lui Dumitru Radu Popescu,
confesiunea adevărului nu este una întâmplătoare sau generată cel puțin
de nevoia personajului de a se destăinui. Este grăitoare pentru
înțelegerea construcției textale a romanului caracterizarea pe care i-o
face Alex Ștefănescu:
„D.R. Popescu merită studiat când joacă șah. Urmărește atât de atent (și
cu atât de mare dorință de a câștiga) mersul partidei, încât nu mai înregistrează
nimic din ce se întâmplă în jur. Este, fără îndoială, un ambițios, dar unul
enigmatic care nu își declară intențiile. Nu are nimic de fanfaron”1.
Confesiunea se transformă în romanele sale într-un conglomerat
rezultat din mecanismul vorbirii. Ceea ce surprinde este o confesiune
mascată, un fel de confesiune in absentia. De cele mai multe ori cititorul
are impresia că descoperă firul narativ pentru ca apoi o nouă confesiune
să îl adâncească și mai mult în intrigă.
Marele merit al lui Dumitru Radu Popescu, dincolo de
obscuritatea și incifrarea mesajului epic, este jocul de cuvinte prin care
logica dobândește un sens estetic. El se îndepărtează de polemic, de
vibrație, erudiție sau ludic și creează din frazele sale un magnetism
derutant, un univers care se naște în mod continuu, care transformă
nimicul în supranatural, care metamorfozează inutilul în fundamental,
care pune adevărul în stare descoperindă, niciodată elucidată:
„D. R. Popescu este în esență un spirit deopotrivă grav și ironic, care a
înțeles mai devreme ca alții că râsul reprezintă, ca și seriozitatea, o formă a
adevărului. Acesta este paradoxul, dar și adevărul său”2.
În romanul Cei doi din dreptul Țebei confesiunea apare ca un
rezultat al temei dragostei. Totuși trebuie menționat că iubirea nu este o
temă centrală pentru Dumitru Radu Popescu. Ea este prezentă doar
pentru a sugera grotescul și macabrul unei viziuni. Acțiunea romanului
se petrece pe fondul sfârșitului celui de-al Doilea Război Mondial,
perioadă în care românii și maghiarii se află într-un continuu conflict.
Trebuie menționat faptul că Cei doi din dreptul Țebei este singurul
roman în care se prezintă iubirea într-o oarecare formă. Dragostea dintre
Ilie și Ilonca este protejată de bătrânul Gălătioan, însă fratele fetei, Tibi,
nu acceptă ca sora sa să își amestece sângele cu un român:
1
A. Ștefănescu, Istoria literaturii contemporane 1941-2000, Ed. Mașina de scris, București, 2005, p.
557.
2
P. Poantă, Radiografii, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1978, pp. 41-42.

109
 „N-au călcat nicio lege cerească, ei pentru Tibi au călcat legea neamului
ei, care era singura lege de care Tibi ținea atunci cont”1.
Pentru eroii acestui roman, adevărul ia formă de lege, iar acesta,
deși necunoscut, este cel care dictează ordinea în lume și nu iartă.
În acest text, Dumitru Radu Popescu mizează pe polifonia vocilor
negative. Adolescenții devin torționari, ucid fără milă doi preoți ai satului
prin crucificarea și umflarea cu pompa de la bicicletă, fapt care
anticipează macabrul scriiturii derespopesciene.2 Răzbunarea lui Tibi
este pedepsită, căci el și Ilie vor muri împreună, legați de o salcie în
timpul unui atac. Ilonca este cea care rămâne singură în pragul nebuniei,
căci adevărul în acest roman provoacă demență. Finalul o prezintă pe
Ilonca trăind singură în casa de vânătoare a bătrânului Gălătioan,
„stând cu fața spre pădure și dând să sugă din țâța stângă copilului, ce-l
ținea pe mâna stângă (...) adică din țâța ei dreaptă sugea lapte ținut de mâna ei
dreaptă un pui de căprioară.”3
Considerat de Constantin Cubleșan un microroman, Cei doi din
dreptul Țebei este un text ce mizează pe arta confesiunilor deghizate.
Structura asemănătoare nuvelei facilitează individualizarea discursurilor
narative. Dincolo de proiecția războiului dintre români și maghiari, la pol
opus de atmosfera umană îmbibată în contradicție, specifică de altfel lui
Dumitru Radu Popescu, se naște în acest roman un ritual al confesiunii.
Oamenii vorbesc și își vorbesc fără a aștepta o soluție. Confesiunea își
indeplinește rolul de a servi drept aparență pentru normalitate. Întregul
roman este un arsenal de momente care sub masca banalului ascund
chipul pervertirii, degradării umane. Fiecare personaj are rolul de a se
confesa și de a ambiguiza epicul. Personajele nici nu stagnează, nici nu
evoluează, nici nu involuează; ele nu se transformă. Psihologic nu
transmit nicio moralitate și nicio imoralitate. Discursul este cel care le
pune în mișcare șansa de a nara și de a se dezvălui.
Oamenii lui Dumitru Radu Popescu trăiesc traume, suferă de
distorsiuni, spaime și se manifestă în atitudini paradoxale. Setea de
putere, brutalitatea și grotescul situațiilor se dezvoltă pe fundalul unor
experiențe umane cu o moralitate deformată. Confesiunea are rolul de a
distrage atenția cititorului de la adevăratele drame ale personajelor.
Oamenii din Cei doi din dreptul Țebei trăiesc în propria lor realitate, o
realitate care la un anumit nivel se amestecă cu demența sau cu visul. De
altfel, personajele se camuflează în alte identități. La un nivel tematic de
interpretare, se observă o constantă a culturii comuniste și anume
încercarea de a distorsiona realitatea, de a crea o altă existență. Lucian
Boia punctează în Mitologia științifică a comunismului că „omenirea se
1
D. R. Popescu, Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1973, p. 117.
2
C-tin Cubleșan, Dumitru Radu Popescu, în labirintul mitologiei contemporane, Ed. Școala
Ardeleană, Cluj-Napoca, 2015, pp. 68-69.
3
D.R. Popescu, op. cit., p. 209.

110
obișnuiește greu cu propria sa condiție și cu istoria sa. Dintotdeauna a
visat o lume diferită.”1 Prin urmare, nu surprinde starea de demență în
care se afundă Ilonca, căci ea va trăi conform propriei dorințe.
Incipitul romanului stă sub semnul evazivului. Se povestește un
fapt banal într-o manieră tragi-comică, fapt ce îl are în prim-plan pe
Ștefan, cel care deși era mort, voia să strănute:
„Ștefan stătea întins pe pat și lumânările ardeau în jurul lui înecându-se
de căldura oamenilor înghesuiți ce se jeleau ascultând jelania preotului înalt de
doi metri și patruzeci și cinci de centimetri. Ștefan stătea întins pe pat și tămâia
din cădelniță umpluse toată încăperea și-i intra în nări (și el de mic strănuta
când simțea tămâie în aer, probabil că prima dată, - copil fiind! - când intrase în
biserică fusese acolo frig și el desculț fiind pe cimentul rece strănutase și legase
strănutul de mirosul cald de tămâie și nu de ciment)”.
Treptat se dezvoltă imposibilitatea iubirii dintre Ilie și Ilonca.
Tragicul poveștii de dragoste este anticipat de finalul fetei lui Ițic și a
ofițerului cu mustăcioară, care sunt găsiți morți în lanul de porumb.
Imaginea morții anulează exuberanța iubirii imposibile. Cei doi sunt
surprinși în plină descompunere, scriitorul insistând asupra vizualului.
Dacă acceptăm ideea că iubirea este simbolul vieții și
descompunerea cel al morții, literatura ne învață că există posibilitatea
de a ne afla între cele două. Omul poate fi și mort și viu prin intermediul
visului. Ori microromanul lui Dumitru Radu Popescu adâncește și
această idee prin inserarea noțiunii de nebunie. Ce se întâmplă atunci
când omul devine prizionerul propriilor vise și realitatea sa se naște din
profunzimea viselor sale? În primele pagini ale romanului apare această
discuție legată de ambiguitatea realitate/nebunie/vis concentrată în
afirmația „visele devoalează realitatea cea mai profundă a omului,
conținutul cel mai ascuns al viselor noastre este în visele noastre”.2 Astfel,
confesiunile personajelor nu ambiguizează epicul , ci dezvoltă ideea unei
realități impuse de propriile dorințe. Mihai Ungheanu susține că
romanele lui Dumitru Radu Popescu sunt construite ca un mecanism de
aflare a adevărului. Totuși, căutarea febrilă a realului se dovedește a fi
imposibilă. Pentru Ungheanu,
„Viața e în romanele lui D.R. Popescu fluidă, colcăitoare, plină de
contraste extreme, neconformă nici unei prescripții, nerușinată și inocentă,
trivială și suavă, violentă și blândă, mereu surprinzătoare și imposibil de supus
vreunei reguli. Liniile ei sînt atât de mișcătoare încât adevărul e greu de stabilit.
Proza lui D.R.Popescu încearcă celebrarea vieții în starea ei pură.”3
Ilonca vorbește despre fuga cu Ilie, dar include în relatarea sa și
prezența iepei Oradea și a unui bătrân nebun. Alex Ștefănescu observă în
proza lui Dumitru Radu Popescu o formidabilă colecție de personaje
1
L. Boia, Mitologia știițifică a comunismului, Ed. Humanitas, București, 2011, p. 9.
2
D. R. Popescu, op. cit., pp. 10-11.
3
M. Ungheanu, Arhipeleag de semne, Ed. Cartea Românească, București, 1975, p. 105.

111
bizare și întâmplări năstrușnice.1 Explicația se naște din formele epice
predilecte ale prozatorului. El se oprește asupra faptelor bizare, cu o doză
de spectacol. Personajele sunt frapante, acțiunile lor ies din cercul
normalului, confesiunile lor formează un joc de puzzle. Fiecare moment
de liniște este urmat de o întâmplare șocantă. De aceea critica nu
contenește în a numi scrierile lui Dumitru Radu Popescu un spectacol.
Decorul este populat de vrăjitoare, nebuni, fanatici, țărani.
Paul Georgescu susține că Dumitru Radu Popescu folosește în
proza sa cu mare măiestrie atmosfera, lirismul, simbolul și introspecția.
Personajele se descoperă pe sine și dezvăluie felul în care ei înțeleg fie
realitatea colectivă, fie realitatea individuală. Ilonca reușește să treacă
peste insuficiențele realității prin intermediul demenței. Se trezește
îmbrăcată în mireasă și nu conștientizează trecerea timpului:
„Și păsările zburau frumos și lin și cântau și timpul trecea și se făcea
noapte din zi și bătrânul cânta pe picioroange slujba de cină și ne dădea din mers
să mâncăm cartofi copți scoși din sânul lui - și am mâncat pe picioroange și ne-
am săturat. Și de-abia atunci am observat că eu eram îmbrăcată în alb și cu
coroniță de lămâiță și Ilie ca un ginere, și-am râs. Unde mergem?”2
Gălătioan, un adevărat activist politic interbelic3 spune că singura
greșeală a celor doi (Ilie și Ilonca) a fost că au crezut că pot trăi urmând
calea unui nebun. Același Gălătioan va spune că răzbunarea lui Tibi nu se
naște din furia pentru plecarea surorii sale, ci dimpotrivă, pentru că
societatea care nu accepta amestecarea sângelui dictează astfel. Dincolo
de dramele psihologice ale personajelor, acestea poartă în ele tot ceea ce
psihologia categoriilor morale în care se înscriu a acumulat în cursul
istoriei4. Prin urmare, Tibi este dator să îl ucidă pe Ilie pentru că a
încălcat una dintre legile etnice: uniunea dintre un român și o
unguroaică era imposibilă. Saveta face însă o precizare; va spune că Tibi a
început să îl urască din ajunul Crăciunului pe Ilie când cel din urmă a
vrut să îl colinde. Tot Ilie ar fi fost singurul martor la uciderea preotului
Dumitru:
„Tibi n-a plecat în pădure să-și caute sora doar spre a se răzbuna pentru
batjocura ce i-o făcuse vecinul; plecase din sat cu gândul precis de a-l termina pe
Ilie, în primul rând să-și salveze pielea. Ilie era singurul martor român.”5
Formulele narative abordate de Dumitru Radu Popescu sunt
întotdeauna inedite. Fiecare personaj, devenit la un moment dat narator
simte nevoia să se confeseze și să demonteze în același timp siguranța
adevărului pe care cititorul îl are în acel moment. Cititorul este obligat să
resimtă alături de personaje distorsonarea realității și să demonstreze că
1
Alex. Ștefănescu, Preludiu, Ed. Cartea Românească, București, 1977.
2
D. R. Popescu, Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1973, p. 73.
3
M. Popa, Istoria literaturii române de azi pe mâine, Ed. Fundației „Luceafărul”, București, 2001, p.
708.
4
Dicționarul General al Literaturii Române, Ed. Univers Enciclopedic, București, 2006, p. 349.
5
D. R. Popescu, op. cit., p. 87.

112
modernitatea formulei narative, cea de a schimba în mod constant
naratorii, nu reprezintă decât un instinct artistic de care nu se poate face
abstracție.1
Povestea de dragoste evoluează pentru că apare principiului
morții care îi amenință la fiecare pas. Ei încalcă legea nescrisă și devin
outsideri în propria realitate. Discursul lui Ilie este aproape inexistent în
timp ce Ilonca dă semne de demență. Confesiunile lor sunt antagonice
cu realitatea colectivă. Moartea este salvatoare, moartea clarifică într-o
oarecare măsură evoluția poveștii. Dumitru Radu Popescu spune că
istoria înaintașilor a fost mai întotdeauna legată de moarte2.
În concluzie, personajele trăiesc într-o avalanșă a situațiilor
limită. Astfel, realitatea își pierde din coerență, normalitatea devine
patologie, iar tragicul expresiei stă în imposibilitatea distingerii realității.
Romanul lui Dumitru Radu Popescu dezvăluie o lume în care legea este
subordonată confesiunii și anticonfesiunii. Acestea se adâncesc în
propriile minciuni, în propriile acțiuni imorale și sfârșesc ca victime ale
falselor realități. Tendința este de a incifra și de a ascunde fiecare adevăr
pe care cititorul l-ar putea descoperi la un moment dat. Adevărul nu este
salvator și nici nu promite o continuare. Ori viața nu are sens dacă există
un sfârșit. Această idee ar putea explica și opțiunea scriitorului pentru
finalul deschis, acea încheiere care atrage după sine întrebările unui
cititor care nu se mulțumește cu expunerea fățișă. Imaginea Iloncăi,
surprinsă în casa de vânătoare a bătrânului Gălătioan este degradantă.
Ultima frază a romanului implică o nouă șansă a cititorului de a
descoperi adevărul: Era într-o zi de Luni și berea era rece și făcea guler.3
Ziua de luni atrage simbolul începutului în timp ce berea simbolizează
lucrurile nespuse, cheia romanului. Povestirea este împinsă dinspre
prezent spre trecut, fiecare mit, fiecare etapă reprezentând o luptă a
cititorului cu textul. Cititorul are datoria de a lua cu sine informațiile
furnizate de confesiunea celor din Cei doi din dreptul Țebei și să le
utilizeze pentru a descoperi firul epic logic al acțiunii Ciclului F.
Ambiguizarea este procedeul pe care Dumitru Radu Popescu îl folosește,
Eugen Negrici susținând că utilizarea ei a devenit o inițiatică curentă și
mecanică la acest prozator intimidat de claritate, speriat de
accesibilitate.4

1
http://www.romlit.ro/d.r._popescu, anul 2012, Nr. 14, accesat în 14.04.2016.
2
D. R. Popescu, Scrisori deschise, Fundația Editura Scrisul românesc, Craiova, 2013, p. 111.
3
D.R. Popescu, Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1973, p. 209.
4
Negrici, E. Literatura română sub comunism. Proza, Ed. Fundației PRO, București, 2006, pag. 335

113
BIBLIOGRAFIE

Boia, L. Mitologia știițifică a a comunismului, Ed. Humanitas, București, 2011.

Cubleșan, C-tin, Dumitru Radu Popescu, în labirintul mitologiei contemporane, Ed.
Școala Ardeleană, Cluj-Napoca, 2015.
Dicționarul General al Literaturii Române, Ed. Univers Enciclopedic, București,
2006.
Negrici, E. Literatura română sub comunism. Proza, Ed. Fundației PRO, București,
2006.
Poantă, P., Radiografii, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1978.
Popa, M., Istoria literaturii române de azi pe mâine, Ed. Fundația Luceafărul,
București, 2001.
Popescu, D.R., Cei doi din dreptul Țebei, Editura Dacia, Cluj-Napoca, 1973; Scrisori
deschise, Fundația Editura Scrisul românesc, Craiova, 2013.
Ștefănescu, A., Preludiu, Ed. Cartea Românească, București, 1977.
Ungheanu, M. Arhipeleag de semne, Ed. Cartea Românească, București, 1975
http://www.romlit.ro/d.r._popescu, anul 2012, Nr.14, accesat în 14.04.2016.

114
 CONFESSION AND FICTION IN THE ESSAYS
OF ILEANA MĂLĂNCIOIU

IULIA NEDEA
nedea_iuliaalexandra@yahoo.com
Doctoral School, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 544-160

Abstract: The aim of this paper is to emphasize the relevance of

confession in the essays of Ileana Mălăncioiu. We have attempted to
follow up in this article to what extent the confessional dimension takes
a central place in Călătorie spre mine însămi (Journey towards myself).
At the same time, in the following, we will analyze the style and the
themes of the writer’s essays.
Key words: confession, memory, biography, self, otherness,
autofiction.

Ileana Mălăncioiu’s Călătorie spre mine însămi (Journey Towards

Myself) collects several essays, layered around certain cores. In the first
group of essays, Ileana Mălăncioiu becomes a memorialist, then prose
writer and, sometimes, a critic. Within this essay, we will attempt to
analyze some of Ileana Mălăncioiu’s texts and assess to what extent the
confessional finds its place within them.
The key to all essays is self-confession. Ileana Mălăncioiu states,
in one of her essays, that she finds it impossible to speak of something
that is not filtered through her own I, her own inner view. The essay is
titled Perpetua curgere (The Perpetual Flow) and commences with a
question that Geo Bogza once alledgedly asked the writer („Do you love
nature?”). Of course, the poet’s question becomes a pretext for Ileana
Mălăncioiu to analyze her self. The key, as mentioned above, shows itself
in the following excerpt:
„Mi-aș dori uneori să pot avea și eu durerea lumii luate în ansamblu și
un punct de sprijin în mine însămi din care să urmăresc curgerea lucrurilor
dintr-unul într-altul […] o iubesc (natura) ca pe mine însămi, dar eu fac parte
din ea și n-am să o pot privi niciodată cu seninătate de undeva de unde poate fi
privită în întregime.”1 (Mălăncioiu 30-32).

1
„I would also sometimes want to have the pain of the world on the whole and a fulcrum within,
upon which I may watch how all things flow one into the other […] I love it [nature] as I love myself,

115
 The fault that the poet finds within herself is not being able to
partake of the whole of the world with detachment. The I, always
present, always front and center, shows her a fragmented, self-referential
world. This concept, of the omnipresent, all-confessing I, is the key to all
essays within this book.
If we look at the fictional texts, we will see how this comes
together in Ileana Mălăncioiu’s short stories. The book starts with two
prose works, undated, which can be, without a doubt, defined as
autobiographical fiction. Their core lies in the death of the poet’s sister.
It is, thus, obvious that we are dealing with a necessary fiction, perceived
as an opportunity to surpass oneself or to escape a painful moment.
The first text, Călătorie cu sora mea (A Journey With My Sister),
seems to be about to trace a certain temporal pathway – naturally, any
journey begins in one point and ends, logically, at a precise destination.
And the moment it enters the domain of parable, the destination does
not even feel significant to the reader anymore. There seems to be a pact
through which this narrator has convinced us tacitly to forget about
spatial or temporal conventions.
What is significant are the symbols that comprise the parable.
First, a man in a black uniform offers his seat to the narrator, although
he does not seem to notice that she is accompanied by another person.
The old gentleman is blind – he does not see the being within his very
own existential threshold. The old man either allegorically represents
death – and is, then, blind to those alive of his own, or he represents the
image of mourning – and, then, knows very well what is happening, even
if he keeps his silence. Not long after that, the revelation occurs to the
storyteller: how could she keep carrying her sister? The scream is
followed by the realization of the impossibility to continue to bear “the
lead box.”
In fact, this entire journey is the parable of the existential path of
a tragic being: deprived of fate, she embarks in the midst of a world that
alienates her further and is forced to carry the lead box, made to keep her
lucidity in a dream she can no longer live. Or is no longer allowed to feel.
There is, however, a moment where the world topples over.
Misunderstanding comes in – stemming from the absurdity of seeing
herself carrying a dead being among the living:
„Vai, mă gândeam, cum am să mut eu cutia aceasta de plumb în celălalt
tren și dacă nici acolo nu mai trec așa ca-n vis și toți au să strige: luați-vă mortul
de-aici, nu vedeți că nu mai avem loc nici de cei vii.” 1(Mălăncioiu 8).

but I am part of it and I will never be able to watch it with equanimity from somewhere where it can
be seen in its entirety.”
1
„Oh my, I thought, how am I to move this lead box to the other train and what if I cannot even
there pass, as through a dream, and all will yell: take your dead one away from here, can you not see
that we do not have room even for the living?”

116
 Awakening to true reality happens when the character falls from
sense, the moment she comes into her sister’s stead. Falling is, otherwise,
another core of Ileana Mălăncioiu’s prose.
Where the first story cancelled or made temporality ambiguous,
the second one renders space ambiguous. It seems, in Ileana Mălăncioiu’s
fiction, that the vague is the space where the alive begins to curdle. At its
center, the text has the image of a being lost at sea. The sea is always
perceived as a space that escapes, from which being slips: „marea era în
retragere”1 (Mălăncioiu 10). The narrator becomes stranded at sea as she
contemplates the people on shore as if they were dead. At that moment,
the sea does not give her the chance to escape anymore. Life becomes
coherent during that standstill outside the world, after which it collapses
back into contingency, where it dissipates. The short “story” of Ileana
Mălăncioiu resembles Camus’ Nuptials. The difference is made by the
fact that the French philosopher exalts materiality and the present of the
world. On the other hand, Ileana Mălăncioiu allows everything to crash.
Where the philosopher stated that “death hits upon another life,” in the
poet’s texts, it is here that the fulfilment of the being can be found –
until the moment it is conscious of death, the being fumbles, wanders;
life is wandering, illusion, a dream. Fulfilment comes from the depths of
a beyond. Again we find misunderstanding – the world – preoccupied
with “what happened,” action, motion.
At that moment, words fall, people have nothing to say about the
sister’s death – she could have been any of the random people on the
street, as the beach is the very chaos from within them. The beach is the
dessert that words crash against. The sea seems, in the end, to uncover
her sister, yet it all ends in illusion.
Where the first “stories” dealt with the fall from senses and
words, another one, Urcarea muntelui (Climbing the Mountain),
portrays a fall from dreamness. Again, we have an apparently simple
parable presenting the climb of a mountain along with another being
who is accompanying the narrator. The narrator assures us from the very
first lines that climbing the mountain is her only certainty. Along with
climbing the mountain, conscience also rises from the midst of the
dream. First, we are alerted that “nothing is really happening.” Then, we
get clues for identifying, within the narrator and her companion, the
archetypes of the first people. The more she climbs, the narrator
becomes more ashamed of her naked legs. The path towards the summit
causes a series of revelations – one after the other, observations on
exteriority succeed each other. First, the being realizes she is barefoot,
then realizes her dress, and then notices the existence of several more
1
„the sea was in retreat”

117
people on the same mountain as her. That moment is where shame of
her own body turns into fear.
This parable speaks of the guilt of being seen and of seeing, but
also the fear of not being alone. In this story, loneliness becomes a dream
from which one falls into the midst of the crowd. Losing oneself
intervenes when the narrator realizes that there are other beings with
the same target as hers, namely climbing the mountain. Falling from
dreamness is falling into the misunderstanding and judgment of the
world. No matter what the answer is – blame will always be of the
untruth. We are not told who it is climbing the mountain along with the
narrator, but we are told that, at a certain point, he or she is no longer a
stranger to her. The produced symbiosis was that of words speaking the
truth. It is on that realm of truthful (or truthfully dreamt) words that the
bond between the two is created. Which is the most truthful dream, in
the end? Or which is the authentic moment of awakening? Therefore,
she states:
„De cele mai multe ori visele noastre de noapte sunt înșelătoare și nici
cele visate cu ochii deschiși nu pot să fie altfel.”1 (Mălăncioiu 42).
Two other significant concepts are present in this story: that of
the dreamt book and that of sight within dream.
In another text, Mi-ar fi plăcut să nu-i spun niciodată (I Would
Have Liked Never to Have Told Him), Ileana Mălăncioiu writes about
her debut, which she otherwise mentions during several interviews, a
debut which occurred during a Romanian language class, while writing
her term paper. What the poet underlines here is the experience that
births vivid writing. The text is part of the few that (seemingly) supports
a naïve kind of reader, who is closer to the familiarity of books (the same
is true for the texts about Marin Sorescu, where the narrator tries to
become one of the novelist’s characters).
Steadily, we are acquainted with Ileana Mălăncioiu the
memorialist. With an especially attentive eye for detail, she reconstructs
portraits which sit at the border between fiction and reality. She is
successful in this endeavor especially because of the humor with which
she infuses these portraits. Beyond this humor or, better yet, along with
it, there is a simple and raw sincerity towards her peers. For example, she
does not hesitate to name Marin Preda “The Writer” and to state that he
was a living classic. There is also the dumbstruck humor with which she
finds out, while visiting Emil Botta, that he had no book in his house.
It is possibly because of this layer of humor that these texts lack
the essayist’s detachment. The “memoirs” of Ileana Mălăncioiu are, on
the contrary, overloaded. The subject is always present, not so much to
1
„Most of the times, our nocturnal dreams are deceitful, and not even those we dream with our eyes
open can be otherwise.”

118
comment, but to explain things that happened to them. Evocations, thus,
become commentaries of personal experiences. As the ending of Casa
memorială E. Botta proves:
„Eu nu reprezint întreaga lume pentru a cărei Frumusețe s-a chinuit în
sărăcie și singurătate Emil Botta. Eu abia dacă mă pot reprezenta pe mine”
1
(Mălăncioiu 53).
The essays are, for this reason, journeys back to the I. The
notations on literature become diary entries most of the times.
Questions about literature become questions about oneself. The idea we
are left is that art is individual interrogation; although it speaks about
truth, literature, says Ileana Mălăncioiu between the lines of her essays,
must speak through the prism of my own personal truth. Of course,
another problem becomes evident here: beyond the fact that the essays
are “literaturized,” they turn into literature of a confessional kind. Value
judgments on books become judgments on one’s own vision, and the
books one reads and describes speak of the destiny of he or she who
reads them. The book becomes a mirror:
“zilele acestea am citit, cu sufletul la gură, jurnalul Virginiei Woolf,
între altele și fiindcă gândirea artistic a acestei prozatoare mi-a dat întotdeauna
sentimentul rar că o femeie poate fi cu adevărat capabilă să îmbrățișeze meseria
de scriitor.”2 (Mălăncioiu 65).
The final prose of the second part of the book “Călătorie spre
mine însămi” reiterates another important symbol, which we do not
encounter very frequently, however, in poetry as well, but has meaning
in the majority of the poet’s narrations: the mirror.
Before we discuss what the mirror symbolizes, the way in which
it intertwines with the confessional fabric of the poet must be
underlined, especially because of this binding between the significance of
the mirror and the issue of identity. But it is here that confessional
literature is born: the moment where the I becomes aware of itself as an
I.
One of the startling fragments from the abovementioned story is
when a character tells the narrator “Doamne, cum te-ai schimbat la
față!”3 (Mălăncioiu 108). Which is when something shifts both temporally
and personally for the being who is narrating. The mirror appears in
order to restore a truth, but only manages to increase the relativity and
confusion:
“când am auzit-o spunând pentru a doua oară aceste cuvinte am înțeles
clar că într-o clipă nu voi mai fi în picioare […] am dat peste o oglindă pătată și

1
„I do not represent the entire world for whose Beauty Emil Botta has suffered in poverty and
loneliness. I can but barely represent myself.”
2
„These days I read, breathlessly, the diary of Virginia Woolf among others and, because the artistic
thinking of this prose writer has always given me the rare feeling that a woman can be truly capable
of embracing the writer’s occupation”.
3
„God, how transfigured you look!”.

119
prăfuită. Am șters-o cât am putut de colțul basmalei pe care o aveam la gât. Cei
din jur se uitau curioși la mine, dar nu-mi păsa. M-am privit îndelung în oglindă
încercând să mă recunosc, dar mi-a fost imposibil. Deși știam că am numai 44 de
ani, în oglindă mă vedeam cu mult mai bătrână decât femeia care mă urmărise.”1
(Mălăncioiu 109)
This raises another problem, of otherness: the gaze that turns the
being into an object. Distinctions are, however, made: the perspective
that we have as readers is not the one of the woman who is objectifying,
it is rather that we see everything from within the transfigured woman
under the gaze of the other woman. The Other’s gaze is also assumed
and assimilated. The narrator becomes one, identical to the gaze of the
woman who looked at her: „Doamne, cum te-ai schimbat la față!” – „Mă
schimbasem cu desăvârșire la față.”2 Temporalities are also in interplay
here: the narrator recognizes her total transfiguration the moment that
the other female being utters the word. In other words, the lady’s
astonishment becomes an imperative. The other makes you becomes, he
or she is part of the transformation you are undergoing. As opposed to
Sartre’s vision, where the other objectifies and gains distance, there is
here an agreement or an identification. How are we to know whether
„the lady” who speaks the frightening reply is not a kind of double to the
narrator?
„Arătam într-adevăr de parcă eram ieșită nu de multă vreme de unde
spusese ea. Cine mai putea ști dacă nu vin chiar de acolo. Și la urma urmei cui i-
ar mai fi folosit să știe exact cum stau lucrurile?”3 (Mălăncioiu 109).
Towards the end of the story, the relationship between memory
and face is again brought to our attention. The narrator’s face is
completely changed because she has lost or made her memory relative.
Along with the words uttered by the other character, her personal history
dissolved: „De ce te schimbi la față și te faci că nu-ți mai aduci aminte?”4.
Once being loses its memory, the present is lost, and being loses its face.
Once the face becomes relative, being loses the self assumed to be their
most authentic. Ileana Mălăncioiu refers, several times, within this story
to the crowd of people watching her and with whom she feels together,
even if they frighten her. We find here Jung’s idea about the collective
subconscious, which Paul Evdokimov later builds his definition of man
1
„When I heard her saying, for the second time, these words I understood clearly that in a second I
will no longer be on my feet [...] I came across a stained, dusty mirror. I wiped it as much as I could
with the corner of the neckerchief that I was wearing. The people around looked at me curiously,
but I didn’t care. I looked at myself for a long time attempting to recognize myself, but I found it
impossible. Although I knew I am only 44-years-old, in the mirror, I saw myself much older than the
woman who had followed me”
2
„God, how transfigured you look!” – „I had truly transfigured.”
3
„I did indeed look as if I had been expelled not long ago from where she had said. Who could know
anymore if I do not verily come from there. And, when it comes to it, what would anyone have to
gain from knowing exactly how things stand?”
4
„Why do you transfigure and pretend you don’t remember?”

120
from. He claims that man becomes what he or she is, meaning that he or
she actualizes himself or herself, only when coexisting with the Other.
The narrator’s revelation is that she becomes what the other character
utters. This is what gives the entire story its effect. At the end of the
story, the temporal plane returns „home,” on familiar ground, where the
narrator is discussing with another female character and realizes that
they both come from the same place, but personal history becomes the
other’s history. True identity is found in an otherness that participation
makes familiar to the I.
We have tried to pursue the way in which confession and fiction
become the principal advantages of Ileana Mălăncioiu’s essays, during
the course of this article, and the manner in which they converge into a
type of biographical autofiction. The poet’s essays can be re-read anytime
especially because of the spontaneity of her personal commentary.

REFERENCES

Mălăncioiu, Ileana. Călătorie spre mine însămi, București: Cartea Românească, 1987;
Urcarea muntelui. Preface Eugen Negrici, București: Corint, 2007;
Camus, Albert. Exilul și împărăția. Eseuri și nuvele. Preface Irina Mavrodin,
București: Editura pentru literatură, 1968.
Evdokimov, Paul. Viața spirituală în cetate. Preface M. Evdokimov, București:
Nemira, 2010.

121
 VIRGIL TĂNASE: AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND
LITERARY CREATION

OANA NEICU
oananeicu@yahoo.com
Doctoral School, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 545-161

Abstract: An autobiographical and true novel, Leapșa pe murite is

a literary and detective story, a literary document. This book combines
authenticity with literature, having its roots in the true life. The novel
finds its place among autobiographical works, banking on the
chronological presentation of the events and representing a retrospective
story about human existence, told by a real person, emphasizing his own
life and personality. Virgil Tănase is an author whose book is read for
itself, not only as a document, being a testimony about courage, fear,
cowardice, lies, betrayal and murder. Leapșa pe murite represents the
novel of memory, confession and authenticity, delineating the
protagonistʹs adventurous destiny during the Communism.
Key words: identity, autobiography, (re)creation, fiction,
memory, confession.

An autobiographical and true novel, as the author says – “my

intention is, thus, not to create a book of memoirs, but to do my job
honestly by providing you with a novel, a true one this time” (Virgil
Tănase, 2011:7) – Leapșa pe murite truly represents a detective and
literary work, coming to light following the request of The Romanian
Institute of Recent History. Otherwise, we might have never found the
real version of the events whose main character was Virgil Tănase
himself, as the other versions, “lacking the protagonist’s testimony, are
only a reflexion of the truth.” (Nicoleta Sălcudean, 2012:13) Why a
detective story? Because it “narrates the avatars of the dead man without
death, Virgil Tănase’s disappearance from public life and its echoes in the
newspapers”. (Gabriel Dimisianu, 2013:23) Why a literary document?
Because it evokes his childhood in his native Danubian province, and his
youth spent in Bucharest, together with real characters such as Adrian
Păunescu and Ioan Alexandru. It is a book mixing authenticity with

122
literature, having its roots in the “true life, in History, where real people
fight real monsters.” (Eugen Simion, 2014:12)
The novel belongs, therefore, to the area of autobiography, based
on the chronological presentation of events and representing a
retrospective story of a real being about its own life, emphasizing his
individual life and personality. The book inevitably becomes a fictional
one, being narrative and coherent – “an inner comedy, an evolution in
front of a three-faced mirror.” (Philippe Lejeune, 2000:25) Parallel
destinies are included in a single destiny. Virgil Tănase is an author
whose book is read for itself, not only as a document, being a testimony
about courage, fear, cowardice, lies, betrayal and murder.
The Explanatory Word in the beginning helps the reader
understand and is a key for the whole text. “However amazing, the facts
are true and nobody can doubt their authenticity. I will present the
events as I remember them. The book is my account of our constant
fight against a monster, not of an epoch.” (Virgil Tănase, 2011:6) These
statements contain the purpose of this autobiographical work,
composing a guide for the reader. “It is a strategy of reconciliation
between totalitarian memory and personal history.” (Nicoleta Ifrim,
2012:43) The author is attempting to reconstruct his identity, providing a
handbook for the reader to understanding the whole history through
inner experiences.
As a consequence of the real facts, the reader will see the book as
a parable, due to the fact that beyond daily life, the author manages to
present the mystery of the human existence. The author is perceived as a
hermeneutist able to discover a fundamental truth about the writer’s
mission. Moreover, the book establishes the Romanian intellectual’s
status – a person who is caught in the claws of history, who tries not to
drown in the mud overflowing on everybody. In fact, the novel
represents a collective experience of the majority, of the ordinary people
who didn’t want to become the victims of the Communist regime. That
is why the author tries to reconstruct his identity - he becomes the writer
and the reader of his own life through the process of writing.
Symmetrically with the Explanatory Word from the beginning,
the Epilogue (a short essay of self-reflexive hermeneutics) suggests to the
reader that he should identify himself with the presented facts. ”This
book ends here: it is not the story of my life, but the real novel of a
confrontation between two heads of State. […] The author considers that
he has fulfilled his mission and it is his duty to stop here.” (Virgil Tănase,
2011:339) The two symbolical words – mission and duty – represent the
author’s battle flag under which he fights for his spiritual freedom, the
freedom of the creator whose work is a passport for his time and also the
key for transcending it.

123
 “The writer has to live in his natural environment, like a wild animal.
He should be able to fight, to feed, to hide, to spy on his public, to seduce and
assault it. This is what his freedom means. The exile is a zoo, a way of losing
freedom.” (Virgil Tănase, 1996:95)
In his view, the exile represented a temporary situation.
Moreover, he even refused the word exile, saying that his literary life
could evolve only in his country.
Reading the book, we discover the status Virgil Tănase wants to
keep, i.e. as a writer, a creator - not a dissident, not a lawyer of the
human rights, not a witness to a process nobody needs. Thus the author
emphasizes the importance of freedom, a writer’s freedom who wishes to
write and create. As a result, the aesthetic criteria can be foreseen beyond
all the manners of presenting reality.
The refusal of the totalitarian regime that disclaims the human
being, the double identity, the anguish provoked by the exile represent
the fundamental themes of writing about real life. The reconstruction of
the identity makes the writer return to himself. The book is an initiatory
quest, graphically marked by the two main parts of the novel – the first
one representing the home country and the second one the adoptive
country.
Why did the writer choose France? Because, generally, France
was always open minded, supporting artistic activity. Between the two
world wars and also during WWII, many artists who became well-known
world-wide chose this country as a refuge (Tristan Tzara, Eugen Ionesco,
Emil Cioran, Mircea Eliade, Monica Lovinescu, Virgil Ierunca, Dumitru
Ţepeneag, Bujor Nedelcovici). Virgil Tănase confessed that he referred to
France in his writings due to Emil Cioran who was one of his favorites.
Hence his surveillance by Securitate – he had become a dangerous
person for the regime. As a consequence, he was expelled from the
University and sent to the Steel Factory in Galați, as a concreter, to be
reeducated. When he returned to the University, he was asked to become
an informer for the regime. Being under pressure, he accepted the
proposal, but he didn’t gather decisive information.
Moreover, he wrote and sent to France a novel criticizing
Communism, then he gave an interview about the atrocities that had
been taking place in the country. For his courage, he was offered the
chance to leave the country. That is why he went to Paris, becoming a
French citizen without giving up his Romanian citizenship. Virgil Tănase
confesses that he went to France for aesthetical reasons, as it was the
nation whose culture he loved, not because he needed protection.
The part dedicated to Romania deals with Communist reality
and with the author’s perception of the political regime as a child and as
a grown-up. The threatening of a devastating danger that he felt during
his childhood would later on get a gloomy name – Communism – that

124
would follow him and make him reconstruct his identity. The pages
evoking the writer’s childhood with his threatened intellectual family
(his father was a magistrate and his mother had studied Medicine) have a
great amount of nostalgia and subjectivity.
The book is successful, among other things, for the strong image
it provides us of the daily post-war Romanian world, with the danger of
detention, of work on the Cannal.
The two parts of the novel are, in fact, “the two places re-lived
through the fictional-confessional imaginary” (Nicoleta Ifrim, 2012:26),
reflecting “the human being’s status as an object of the social history.”
(Jean-Claude Kaufmann, 2004:53). This idea opposes the assumption of
the exile as a solution for survival, a solution nevertheless causing
identity dilemmas and anxieties. The conflicting duality of the two
halves forms the writer’s inner universe. The mark of the Communist
regime, his escape beyond the Iron Curtain, the recovery of his inner
freedom and the failed murder attempt are the main themes of Virgil
Tănase’s identity discourse. The presented facts and the emotional load
of the book justify Constantin Coroiu’s statement that Leapșa pe murite
represents a novel dramatically lived by the writer.
In between the lines can be perceived Marin Preda’s statement
about the roller of history that cancels individual destiny integrating him
in the collective. Universal destiny can be remarked from the beginning
to the end of the novel. As a result, nothing is more difficult to foresee
than the past and the process of remembering the identity
reconstruction proves this assertion.
Virgil Tănase rediscovers himself by re-living the crucial
moments of his existence, revealing their new meanings. He succeeds in
finding the way to his own person in this novel seen as a destiny-novel
that ends with a victory, according to the author. In conclusion, Leapșa
pe murite represents the novel of memory, confession and authenticity,
delineating the protagonist’s adventurous destiny during Communism.

125
REFERENCES

Tănase, Virgil, Leapșa pe murite, București, Adevărul Holding, 2011; România mea.
Convorbiri cu Blandine Tézé- Delafon, trad. de Irina Petraş, Bucureşti, Editura
Didactică şi Pedagogică, 1996.
Fistetti, Francesco, Théories du multiculturalisme. Un parcours entre philosophie et
sciences sociales, Paris, Editions La Decouverte, 2009.
Hubier, Sebastien, Littératures intimes: les expressions du moi, de l’autobiographie a
l’autofiction, Paris, Armand Colin, 2003.
Kaufmann, Jean-Claude, L’invention de soi. Une théorie de l’identité, Paris, Armand
Colin, 2004.
Lejeune, Philippe, Pactul autobiografic, Bucureşti, Editura Univers, 2000.
Manolescu, Ion, Literatura memorialistică, București, Humanitas, 1996.
Mihăieș, Mircea, Cărțile crude. Jurnalul intim și sinuciderea, Iași, Editura Polirom,
2005.
Centa, Solomon, Leapșa pe murite in Trimestrialul de cultură Argo, nr. 3, 2015.
Ciopraga, Constantin, Despre jurnale şi memorii, în „Viaţa românească”, nr. 11, 2001.
Coroiu, Constantin, Leapșa pe trăite în „Cultura”, nr. 449, 2013.
Crihană, Alina, Memoriile unui romancier „de familie bună” sau despre o nouă (?)
etică a esteticului: Virgil Tănase – Leapşa pe murite in Caiete critice, nr. 302, 2012.
Dimisianu, Gabriel, Roman biografic și de senzație in România literară, nr. 46, 2013.
Ifrim, Nicoleta, Memorie și istorie in naraţiunea identitară: Leapșa pe murite - Virgil
Tănase, o carte- destin în „Caiete critice”, nr. 302, 2012.
Sălcudeanu, Nicoleta, Morala de catastrofă în „Cultura”, nr. 359, 02 februarie 2012.
Simion, Eugen în dialog cu Virgil Tănase în „Cultura”, nr. 478, 31 iulie 2014.
Vrabie, Diana, Descifrări în poetica eului, Revista „Limba Română”, Nr. 4-6, anul
XVII, 2007.

126
 GABRIELA MELINESCU.
THE IDENTITY OF A WRITER IN EXILE

BEATRICE SZILAGYI (LUCACIU)

silaghibeatrice@yahoo.com
Doctoral School, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 546-162

Abstract: The present work is a presentation of the condition of

the artist in Exile, as well as of her/his new identities created in the
adoptiv space. Melinescu’s Swedish diary, published in five volumes, is a
release of her soul, a confident to whom the diarist displays her feelings.
It is written in Romanian language due to her belief that only those who
speak the same language can confess to each other. The biographical
context highlights the issue of the artist’s identity in the adoptive
country. Writing about past experiences can be a way of adaptation to
the present self. The double identity of an exile occurs when she is
required a certain identity, other than her own identity re-created. This
is perceived as a tragedy by Gabriela Melinescu, a tragedy that can be
avoided by refusing the external intrusion into shaping her own identity.
The same work presents different types of identities such as: migrant
identity, the artistic identity, linguistic identity, the identity of an artist
who creates according to her own patterns and not to the preexisting
ones in the literary world, the mother identity and last but not least, the
identity of daughter. Each identity is significant because each one is a
component of the puzzle that makes up an artist’s being.
Key words: exile, identity, artist, creation, country.

A Nefertiti of Romanian literature, Gabriela Melinescu belongs

to those writers who chose the way of exile, settling in Sweden in 1975.
Her decision to leave Romania was based on the common reason of all
Romanian writers, the totalitarian regime, even if her departure was also
subjectively motivated by her love relationship with Réne Coeckelberghs,
a famous French editor. All people have many qualities, tendencies, or
talents, but some of them remain passive, while artists have a wish to
exploit everything that comes from within. In Communism, the artists
who didn’t observe the pattern imposed by the regime were condemned
to death, and those who chose the way of exile were the artists who fled
this condamnation.

127
 Melinescu’s Swedish diary, published in five volumes, is a release
of her soul, a confident to whom the diarist displays her feelings. It is
written in Romanian language due to her belief that only those who
speak the same language can confess to each other. The biographical
context highlights the issue of the artist’s identity in the adoptive
country.
Studying an artist in exile implies a certain difficulty. Gottlob
Frege thinks that identity can not be defined because “any definition is
an identity, and identity itself can not be defined.”1 The way each person
considers and accepts his past depends, in a way, on his/her conception
of the self. In this context, the present is only a reference point. Writing
about past experiences can be a way of adaptation to the present self. He
who sits at his office to write about his life is dominated by anxiety, by an
identity search he hopes to solve by writing. That is why “literature as
spiritual practice becomes, in the case of the exiled, a vital and securing
inner universe”2, where the return to an original time, to a place of total
freedom and space of retrieval, is achieved.
The double identity of an exile occurs when he is required a
certain identity, other than his own identity re-created. This is perceived
as a tragedy by Gabriela Melinescu, a tragedy that can be avoided by
refusing the external intrusion into shaping her own identity. “Faced
with the interdictions imposed on them and the dangers they are
lurking, the exiled artists designate an usual ambassador, charged with
representing them - their work of art.”3 Melinescu’s identity will be
outlined by this work of art not only in the adoptive environment, but
also in her country, where she will be received precisely by what she
creates, regaining her identity as a creator, previously denied to her in
her own land: ,,Identitatea artistei, deşi pusă sub semnul întrebării, este
construită cu multă luciditate, cu siguranţa şi logica unui diarist care ştie
locul fiecărui element al structurii identitare.” (“The artist’s identity,
although questioned, is very lucidly built, with the certainty and logic of
a diary writer who knows the place of each element of identity
structure”)4.
Migrant identity is another problem that the writer has to deal
with, but its impact on her existence is mitigated by the protection of her
husband, who protects her from the brutal contact with what is called
svenskhet. Her neighbors are kinder to her because they see her on TV,
or listen to her on the radio, so they accept her more easily among them.
Friends are universal, artists sent by destiny, opened people able to see
1
Encyclopedia Universalis, France, 1990, corpus 11, p. 896.
2
Mihai Cimpoi, (Post)fețele exilului, our translation, în „Revista Sud-Est”, no. 46, April, 2001.
3
Nora Iuga, Prizonier sau stăpân al limbii?, our translation, în „România literară”, nr. 22, 2000.
4
Inga Ciobanu, Gabriela Melinescu în dialog cu alteritatea (I), our translation, în „Revista Limba
Română”, Nr. 10-12, anul XVII, 2007.

128
beyond appearances: “The exiled are like a sun flower. Their intellectual
and spiritual gaze is always focused on their true friends.”1 The other
people can become hostile due to prejudices, often acting recklessly. Not
only foreigners look at her differently, but also those remaining in her
country. After the fall of Communism, fellow writers often raise the
question of her return, and don’t miss any oportunity to remind her their
dilemma. Laurențiu Ulici, the President of the Writers’ Union has a
critical attitude towards Gabriela Melinescu, an attitude that he
expresses outright by opposing her being awarded the Eminescu Prize.
The others do not understand that the writer’s departure is not in fact a
flight, but a legal fact, as a result of the moral harrassments she has
repeatedly been subjected to. Why would Gabriela Melinescu’s return to
her country represent a new exile? Because all her old things were seized:
her apartment, her books, the objects she held dear. Her return would
imply retrocession, processes, lawyers, things for which she doesn’t have
enough energy. Her new identity, reconstructed over the years in
Sweden, also includes Scandinavian features, such as the joy of solitude,
the pleasure of isolation, the advantage of being alien, which force her to
pay more attention to the inner woman than to the outer one. Thus,
leaving the North would trigger an inner void in her.
Marriage brings her a new identity, that of the wife of a reputed
editor, so she is no longer considered an intruder, a foreigner. Gradually,
Gabriela Melinescu manages to make herself a fragmentary identity: the
artistic identity, denied in Romania, starts getting shape through her
painting exhibitions and book publishing. The fact that she is so talented
in many areas, stirs the antipathy of those around her, who can not
understand this multiple identity of the creator. The recreation of
identity becomes a difficult process including painful moments - the
writer feels she belongs neither to Romanian writers, nor Swedish ones.
In fact, the identity she assumes is that of an artist, of a creator, not
taking into account ethnic or linguistic barriers.
Gabriela Melinescu confesses she doesn’t know what kind of
artist she is - Romanian or Swedish, and her linguistic identity is also
covered by mistery. She belongs to Swedish culture, but she thinks in
Romanian. She wrote and she still writes in Romanian language. Writing
in Romanian, Gabriela Melinescu is one person, while writing in Swedish
she is an altogether different being. There is a battle going on between
the creative ego and the outside world to keep her artistic identity in
both languages. This linguistic identity becomes clear when these two
persons (the Romanian identity and the Swedish one) work together.
Towards the end of the Swedish Diary, Gabriela Melinescu realizes she is
now perceived as a Swedish writer, although she feels she is not one.
1
Mircea Anghelescu, Despre exilul literar, our translation, in „22”, nr. 724, ianuarie 2004.

129
 Eva Behring believes that literature writen in exile has an
additional motivation, i.e. everything about social aspects and politics
becomes literature because the exiled was not able to express his
opinions freely. The artist must encapsulate his message and cast it into
the ocean of literature1. Gabriela Melinescu has created herself a special
identity, somewhere outside time and spatial barriers, the identity of an
artist who creates according to her own patterns and not to the
preexisting ones in the literary world.
The writer herself refuses the mother identity because preserving
the child would mean breaking the link with creation, a barrier between
her self and writing. The ideea of abortion is a genetic one, because she is
herself an unwanted child. The same year, 1977, represents both an
internal imbalance, and an external one, the loss of her child having a
corresponding earthquake in Romania, her home country, followed by
the death of thousands of people. Her refusal to give birth to a child is
also due to the fact that she sees her half-sons as her own children. A
peaceful person, Gabriela Melinescu knows that a new child would cause
a strong conflict between father and sons. She is aware of her sin, but she
sacrifices herself for the happiness of the others. The beginning of her
relationship with her future husband is marked by a joke he makes about
children, a joke also present in the oniric space after his death. The ideea
of a common child is both forbidden and wanted at the same time. After
her husband’s death, in her loneliness, Gabriela Melinescu feels more
and more the lack of a child who would have come as a blessing and
would have remained the living proof of their deep love.
Her last identity that can be found among the pages of the
Swedish diary is the daughter one. That identity is denied by the suicide
of her father and the impossibility of seeing her mother again. This lost
indentity is compensated by her relationship with her father-in-law, a
likable and sensitive Belgian pastor. Common passions, such as writing
and faith, create a bridge over space and time, over generations and
conceptions. As a result of the trustworthiness she inspires and her
overflowing sensibility, the daugher-in-law becomes a mediator between
father and son, managing to always settle the conflicts between the two.

1
See Eva Behring, Scriitori români din exil: 1945-1989, our translation, Editura Fundaţiei Culturale
Româneşti, Bucureşti, 2001, p. 71.

130
REFERENCES

Anghelescu, Mircea, Despre exilul literar, în „22”, nr. 724, ianuarie 2004.
Behring, Eva, Scriitori români din exil: 1945-1989, Bucureşti, Editura Fundaţiei Culturale
Româneşti, 2001.
Cimpoi, Mihai, (Post)fețele exilului, în „Revista Sud-Est”, nr. 46, aprilie 2001.
Ciobanu, Inga, Gabriela Melinescu în dialog cu alteritatea (I) în „Revista Limba Română”,
nr. 10-12, anul XVII, 2007.
Iuga, Nora, Prizonier sau stăpîn al limbii?, în „România literară”, nr. 22, 2000.
Melinescu, Gabriela, Jurnal suedez, vol. I-V, Iași, Editura Polirom, 1997-2003.
Vlădăreanu, Elena, Gabriela Melinescu: Și România, și Suedia au contribuit la
adâncirea vulnerabilității mele, în „Suplimentul de cultură”, nr. 225, 25.04.2009.

131
132
TOUCHSTONES OF
POST-WAR ROMANIAN
LITERATURE

VALORI ALE
LITERATURII ROMÂNE
POSTBELICE

133
134
 ON THE CENTENNIAL OF HORIA
LOVINESCU

ALIN ȘTEFĂNUȚ
stefanut_lin@gmail.com
Doctoral School, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 547-163

Abstract: The hundredth year since the birth of Horia Lovinescu

coincides with a rediscovery of the playwright and his dramatic work, a
rediscovery that is unexpected especially if we take into account the time
that has passed since the playwright’s death, during which any mention of
the author of Citadela sfărâmată (The Broken Citadel) has been scarce
and mostly emphasized the compromises made by Horia Lovinescu the
person, speaking less of his literature. There are clues that the centennial
has created an opportunity to reconsider the way Horia Lovinescu’s
drama has been met, which is a fundamental necessity for any literary
text. Another interesting aspect is the rediscovery by the theater troupes
of plays like Moartea unui artist (The Death of an Artist), a drama which
can be viewed this year (2017) at the National Theater in Iași, under the
direction of Irina Popescu Boieru, or Karamazovii (The Karamazovs), an
adaptation of the novel The Brothers Karamazov by F.M. Dostoyevsky, at
Teatrul Mic in Bucharest, directed by Nona Ciobanu.
Key words: playwright, drama, rediscovery, communism, social
being

A first-class playwright of the Romanian post-war period, Horia

Lovinescu was, from a literary standpoint, for around thirty years, almost
forgotten. This did not happen after 1989, but a few years earlier, around
the time of his death. Natalia Stancu’s monograph, Horia Lovinescu. O
dramaturgie sub zodia lucidității1, the only one dedicated to Horia
Lovinescu, was published in 1985, but, according to the author, was
finished on September 16, 1983, precisely the day that Horia Lovinescu
died. The book Horia Lovinescu interpretat de…, authored by Radu G.
Țeposu, carries the year 1983 on its cover. Otherwise, there has been only
silence, occasionally stirred by the rare review of the odd dramatic text of
Horia Lovinescu’s or by taking a stand against the public behavior and
compromises of the writer, and less his oeuvre. Horia Lovinescu appears
1
Natalia Stancu, Horia Lovinescu. O dramaturgie sub zodia lucidității, Cluj-Napoca, Dacia
Publishing House, 1985.

135
in the literary history books published after December 1989, which
represents an acknowledgement of his merits in what concerns the
innovation of the dramatic text and the author’s place in the Romanian
literary landscape. However, his drama has not benefitted from a serious
revision after 1989, for reasons diverse and partially explicable. Greater
attention is awarded to Horia Lovinescu the theater director in our
time, because of the Nottara Theater monograph written by Doina
Papp1, and Horia Lovinescu the man – as nephew of the ”Sburătorul”
critic – who stained the family name through his pact with the
Communist regime. At the same time, the works of the author of
Moartea unui artist have never been re-released for posterity, not even
selectively. The reception of Horia Lovinescu’s work is limited, currently,
to stray dramatic reviews and reports, as well as predominantly cursory
articles from literary dictionaries and history books, which make
mention of the titles considered being significant for his drama. Even
Mircea Ghițulescu, in his article dedicated to the author of Citadela
sfărâmată in Istoria dramaturgiei române contemporane, published in
2000, examines a part of Horia Lovinescu’s work and neglects texts such
as Karamazovii or Negru și roșu, which are interesting nevertheless from
the point of view of contemporaneity and understanding how the author
related to the historical times that he lived in. It can be said that, without
a doubt, with the passing of one hundred years from the birth of Horia
Lovinescu, we lack an overall, integrating view of his work. His plays,
often treated as individual writings, have not been analyzed beside the
entirety of Lovinescu’s work and remain somehow suspended, thus
being responsible on an individual basis with maintaining the author’s
name for posterity.
Horia Lovinescu is the author of an uneven oeuvre from a quality
point of view, featuring plays profoundly tainted because of ideology,
with no chance of redemption, and interesting dramatic creations,
valuable because of the issues they address and the emphasis put on the
human condition, with no political interference. The problem that stems
from here is that even the more resilient side of Lovinescu’s creative
output, such as the parable Jocul vieții și al morții în deșertul de cenușă
(The Game of Life and Death in the Ashen Desert), has serious
competition from the dramatic texts of writers who gained their
acknowledgement later on, but had a greater public reception, such as
Marin Sorescu. What chances does a reading of Horia Lovinescu’s
parable have when faced with the drama Iona (Jonah), even if their
themes are similar?
The premise of Horia Lovinescu’s dramas lies in one’s contact
with the other, and the interest given to the human being as a supreme
1
Doina Papp, Viața pe o scândură. Nottara, schiță de portret, Bucharest, AFIR, 2000.

136
value of creation is the principal aspect in the dramatic work of the
playwright. Horia Lovinescu proves himself a writer with an eye for the
great problems of humanity, his heroes being predominantly social
beings. His humanism manifests in collectivity, and any deviation from
this elementary logical principle of the worlds portrayed are harshly
punished. Culpability, a feature of most Horia Lovinescu characters, has
different causes, but overcoming this state is always achieved the same
way, by accepting the social and even personal sacrifice for the sake of
the other, if this is the way the character can regain their humanity.
The close relationship between Horia Lovinescu and the
Communist regime did not happen suddenly when it came into power in
Romania. On the contrary, the author joined them quite later, in the year
of Stalin’s death, which was seen with reticence both by the new order
and his colleagues who had made the step earlier than him. Aligning
with the path set by the official regime happened spectacularly, but failed
to look convincing. What is important, in the climate of the 1950s and
1960s, is Horia Lovinescu’s decision to make his dramatic voice known in
a time of profound social and political mutations. His debut in drama,
with the proletcultist play Lumina de la Ulmi, constituted, during his
entire life, an insufficiently assimilated endeavor that constantly
reappears among his preoccupations and eloquently articulates what a
writer had to go through in order to be officially accepted, especially if
they were vulnerable from a familial point of view.
Many of the dramatic texts of the former director of Nottara
Theater do not withstand a fresh reading, from a contemporary
perspective. They remain period documents, writings devoid of literary
worth, telling in what concerns the manner in which a playwright could
compromise himself in order to see their works played on stage. Minding
these nuances, we can say that, for Horia Lovinescu, success came along
with the Communist regime and ended along with it. Yet something
endures, and this something has too little to do with politics or ideology.
That something is the questioning of the human condition, the attempt
to capture it in its fundamental build.
Elena, Și pe strada noastră (Elena, On Our Street Too), 1959
(republished under the title Picu in 1978), Revederea... (Meeting Again...),
Adolescentul (The Teenager), Maria are plays which are too little-known
to the wide public, especially because of their being published in a single
edition and not being played onstage. The reasons behind this
insufficient exposure of the single-act plays are complex and probably
reflect the playwright’s choice. Conscious of the need for compromise,
Horia Lovinescu acquiesced to it, but attempted to diminish its influence
by publishing these short plays, rarely or even never set onstage.
Omul care și-a pierdut omenia and Moartea unui artist are the
two plays written by Horia Lovinescu that are in the direct lineage of the

137
aesthetic myth, as it was postulated by George Călinescu in Istoria
literaturii române de la origini până în prezent.We can distinguish at
least two incarnations of the creator in Horia Lovinescu’s plays. One of
them is the artist ground by the demon of creation, for whom existence
is unfathomable outside of creation. Art has the role to serve and
represent the human ideal, and the creator is a tool of the aesthetic. This
is the case for Manole Crudu or the hero from Omul care și-a pierdut
omenia. Nicolae Manolescu finds a socialist humanism in these heroes
„in whose perspective, even art, if you dedicate yourself to it wholly,
dehumanizes”1. Another incarnation is that of the sterile artist. As
opposed to the former, he or she is the creator who has lost themselves
in the process of creation and intends to present the angst of human
existence. For him or her, creation means suffering that cannot manage
to channel itself into an aesthetic object. Lovinescu founds their failure
in the lack of faith in the human ideal, greater than any creation.
One of the first plays by Horia Lovinescu that outline an imago
mundi on a small scale is Hanul de la răscruce, initially published in 1957.
Chronologically, Hanul de la răscruce is the third play written by Horia
Lovinescu, but, if taking under account the formula used, it marks a split
from the previous plays. The dramatic text works with symbols, the
characters have a general human valence, and the action has a general,
vaguely drawn setting: „in our time, somewhere in the West, between six
in the evening and six in the morning”2.
Humankind in Horia Lovinescu’s drama betray an acute crisis of
the human. The characters have lost faith in themselves and their other,
and man becomes an island within an immense archipelago where
connection is no longer possible. Rootless, the individual attempts to
find himself and reestablish a connection with the others, without
always managing it. The despair courses through a heterogenous,
perspective-less world, where the gestures through which the human
being wants to oppose destiny and history are pointless, but still
maintain his or her illusory faith that mankind can escape its condition.
In Jocul vieții și al morții în deșertul de cenușă, based on the
biblical myth of Cain and Abel, the playwright imagines a world on the
threshold of disintegration, dominated by an endless ashen desert whose
edge is the home of the only few people who have survived the
generalized inferno. It is an imperfect, incomplete microcosmos, not
least of all lacking the ideal purity of the first people in the biblical Eden.
There is a transfer of symbols between alpha and omega, not unlike the
arc of a circle that contains within itself the making and unmaking of
worlds. However, genesis is difficult to bring to fruition and retains the
1
Nicolae Manolescu, Istoria critică a literaturii române, Pitești, Paralela 45 Publishing House, 2008,
p. 988.
2
Horia Lovinescu, Teatru (Drama), vol. I, Bucharest, Eminescu Publishing House, 1973, p. 90.

138
biblical aspect of suffering as an effect of disobeying forces beyond the
human being. The universe here manifests more as an inverted, evil
answer to the biblical Eden, and the sensation is that of suffocation,
claustration, and it is only the power of thought alone that is able to give
meaning to an existence heading nowhere.
As for the books of dramatic texts published by Horia Lovinescu
during his life, the first being printed in 1963, we can notice the co-
existence of politically-minded plays, with a blunt propagandistic nature,
along with the plays with more general meaning, in which, one way or
another, the whole humanity can see itself. The selection of dramatic
texts that comprise the author’s books is not made based on a certain
direction of his writing, instead including both categories of plays -
realist and parabolic -, with discrepancies in terms of themes, vision,
emphasis and worth. The reasons behind such an option are numerous,
both subjective and, especially, objective. Otherwise, as the playwright
himself claims, plays such as Omul care și-a pierdut omenia, Paradisul, Și
eu am fost în Arcadia were written simultaneously with „immediately
realist” ones – such as Citadela sfărâmată or Surorile Boga1. On the other
hand, not all of the author’s dramatic texts were played onstage, so the
only way to bring the public’s attention to them – until a future stage
rendition takes place – is to publish them in a book. The books’ selection
of texts seems designed in such a way as to pass the censors’ assessment,
under whichever name they exercised their work during the time.
The last book of plays by Horia Lovinescu, published in the
„Rampa” Collection, goes by the same principle that shaped the other
books by the author. Released in 1983, the very year that the author died,
the book contains two original plays, as well as the famous adaptation of
Dostoievski’s novel, The Brothers Karamazov. The first play of the book
is Noaptea umbrelor, which the playwright said was never played
onstage, followed by Orașul viitorului, a politically-charged drama, and
then the trilogy is closed out by Karamazovii, one of the most revered
dramatic creations by Horia Lovinescu, written with director Dan Micu.
The composition of the books by the author of Moartea unui artist fully
reflects the oscillations towards his adherence to the doctrine of
communism and the destiny he had assumed, that of a playwright in a
totalitarian regime. Never fully assimilated or accepted, this existential
trajectory resulted in the creation of plays of a different persuasion,
difficult to set one alongside the other. As the fruit of a split conscience,
captive between past and present, the plays of Horia Lovinescu are the
living proof of the playwright’s hesitation, compromise and back-and-
1
See: O convorbire cu Horia Lovinescu (A Conversation with Horia Lovinescu), an interview by Paul
Tutungiu, in „Teatrul”, no. 1/January 1981, p. 48.

139
forth. However, the writer’s rebellion towards the Communist regime
never took on radical forms, as that could jeopardize his public position.
After 1989, Horia Lovinescu’s dramatic work went through an
interesting, yet somewhat predictible dynamic, especially in what
concerns the stage adaptations of his texts. Citadela sfărâmată orSurorile
Boga, both political plays, have been forgotten in favor of others that
correspond with our times. The zeniths of Horia Lovinescu’s dramatic
oeuvre, from this point of view, are the plays with a general meaning,
such as Jocul vieții și al morții în deșertul de cenușă, Karamazovii and
Moartea unui artist, the latter being the basis of 1991 film directed by
Horea Popescu and starring Victor Rebengiuc and Adrian Pintea.
Given that the dramatic work of Horia Lovinescu is rarely or
never read and analyzed in our time, we are, however, witnessing a
rediscovery of his drama in terms of the possibilities offered in what
concerns stage adaptations. Not all of Lovinescu’s dramatic creations are
as generous when it comes to conferring the impression of real life or
expressing ideas to which the spectators of today can relate to, but there
are, nevertheless, texts that can be played onstage without necessarily
taking the context in which they were created under account. The
parabolic texts are especially the case here, as they have a heightened
degree of generality and take place in a setting that manages to evade the
requirements of the official creative direction of the ‘50s and ‘60s. The
performances of Jocul vieții și al morții în deșertul de cenușă and the
Dostoievski-inspired Karamazovii stand as evidence of that.
A parable of estrangement, of the imminent apocalypse, of
assumed sacrifice, Jocul vieții și al morții în deșertul de cenușă was acted
onstage at Teatrul de Nord (the Northern Theater) of Satu Mare during
the 2009-2010 season, under the direction of Andrei Mihalache1. It must
be emphasized that, in the paper drawn up by the board of censors, the
play was deemed acceptable for publication, even if it „does not fulfill the
conditions of ideological clarity”2. According to an article in the online
drama magazine Yorick, the play, which is complex in terms of the
symbols and meanings it conveys, benefitted from a performance at the
Lipscani Theater as well, under the helm of Horațiu Mălăele, in 2015, but
Alina Epingeac, who authored the review for the show, underlined the
lack of a grey zone, present in the text, but not as much in the
performance, as a major flaw in Horațiu Mălăele’s version.3
Horia Lovinescu writes a reflexive drama, under the sign of
lucidity, as Natalia Stancu states in the title of the monograph dedicated
to the author. The characters’ meditations create the necessary space for
1
See: http://teatruldenord.ro/spectacol/31/JOCUL-VIETII-SI-AL-MORTII-IN-DESERTUL-DE-
CENUSA#stay here.
2
Despre stagiunea 1970 – 1971 și unele probleme..., in „Teatrul”, no. 8/1971, pp. 5 – 22.
3
https://yorick.ro/jocul-vietii-si-al-mortii-in-societatea-de-azi/

140
personal interrogation, which addresses the reader a long time after they
have stopped being directly exposed to the universe outlined by the
playwright.
Viewed individually and confronted especially with the critique
that focuses on the human being found on the horizon of inquiry, Horia
Lovinescu’s plays prove themselves to be of the present and – why not? –
durable in time. However, there are more than three of them and they
are in an imperative need for a minimal historical contextualization, in
order to have access to their entire array of meaning. More than that, by
getting to know the entire dramatic output, we inevitably get to know
the man behind it. In Horia Lovinescu’s case, this is not an advantage, in
spite of the increasingly visible signs, from the final part of his life, that
he rejected the path he had taken in his youth. The half-said truths, at
the threshold of definitively abandoning the scene, as the ones found in
considerable amount in Negru și roșu, do not excuse thirty years of
opportunism, as much as they do not compensate for the lack of worth
of his realist-socialist plays, with minimal, if not no chances to withstand
a reading. We cannot even consider the possibility of their onstage
presentation, unless there is a documentary value to such an endeavor in
play.
To what extent can we speak of Horia Lovinescu’s plays as
resonant today? It would be a stretch to state, based on his entire
creation, that the author of Moartea unui artist is a playwright who
speaks to our time, in the same way that we can speak of Caragiale.
Treated on an individual level, ignoring the context that generated it and
the collected dramatic work of Horia Lovinescu, the dramatic text does
raise questions of the now, this can, indeed, survive a contemporary
reading.
If we accept that an era is not to be appreciated by its mediocre
creations, but its peak offerings, its resilient side, then we will reach the
conclusion that Horia Lovinescu’s drama has minimal chances of
surviving posterity’s evaluations. It is drama that is too tailored to a
certain period and, once extracted from its context, it is stripped of much
of its meaning. However, even if his plays do not represent the best of
Romanian post-war drama, Horia Lovinescu is a playwright whose place
– indeed, a very limited one – in the canon of Romanian literature we
consider not to be up for debate. The literary history books and
syntheses on drama published after 1989 stand as testament to that. The
playwright redeemed himself through the general meaning parables,
which transcend the small space of the Romanian society specific to the
time when they were created. We should mention Lovinescu’s historical
plays too, especially Petru Rareș sau Locțiitorul, praised by Nicolae
Manolescu, as well, in Istoria critică a literaturii române.

141
 We do not believe in a spectacular revision of Horia Lovinescu’s
drama, more so because the message of most of his plays seems to be the
same – the demand to be human, finding humanity in society and never
in solitude. We do not believe that Horia Lovinescu’s dramatic output
will birth ample debate on Romanian post-war drama or that it will
attain a privileged position in the Romanian literary canon. The subjects
of many of these dramatic creations are much too dated to allow for such
a thing and, more than that, the work of Lovinescu has been forgotten
for too long a time to afford a reconsideration of his entire bibliography.
Too many critics have awarded him a rather minuscule role within the
landscape of Romanian drama to change his place in the dramatic
literature hierarchy, dominated by newer voices, with a greater impact
on the public.
Horia Lovinescu was a man of his time, and his drama fully
reflects an existential trajectory marked by back-and-forths,
compromises and belated attempts to free one’s creations from the
straps of socialist realism. From our perspective, with the intent to
preserve whatever can be preserved from an uneven output, we can say
that Horia Lovinescu’s drama is a plea for humanity and its eternal moral
values. It is drama where the protagonist, whatever their position, is the
human being found at grave ontological odds. The hero of Horia
Lovinescu’s plays is, in the words of Marian Popescu, “the man within
man” found on “the spiritual quest” and engaged in “the battle to exit the
labyrinth of illusions”1.

REFERENCES

Lovinescu, Horia, Teatru, București, Editura pentru Literatură, 1963; Teatru, vol. I,
II, București, Editura Eminescu, 1973; Teatru, vol. I, II, Seria „Teatru comentat”,
București, Editura Eminescu, 1978; Noaptea umbrelor. Orașul viitorului.
Karamazovii, Colecția „Rampa”, București, Editura Eminescu, 1983; O convorbire cu
Horia Lovinescu, interviu de Paul Tutungiu, în „Teatrul”, nr. 1/ ianuarie 1981;
Manolescu, Nicolae, Istoria critică a literaturii române. 5 secole de literatură, Pitești,
Editura Paralela 45, 2008.
Papp, Doina, Viața pe o scândură. Nottara, schiță de portret, București, AFIR, 2000.
Popescu, Marian, Chei pentru labirint, București, Editura Cartea românească, 1986.
Stancu, Natalia, Horia Lovinescu. O dramaturgie sub zodia lucidității, Cluj-Napoca,
Editura Dacia, 1985.
* Horia Lovinescu interpretat de..., Antologie, prefață, tabel cornologic și
bibliografie de Radu G. Țeposu, București, Editura Eminescu, 1983.

1
Marian Popescu, Chei pentru labirint, p. 77.

142
 CĂTĂLIN DORIAN FLORESCU – BETWEEN
BIOGRAPHY AND FICTION

FLORIN CIOBAN
florin.cioban@btk.elte.hu
Professor Habil., PhD., University of Oradea/ ELTE University Budapest
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 548-164

Abstract: Cătălin Dorian Florescu is a special figure in

confessional literary landscape. The author’s biographical data overlap,
up to a point, those of the main character in the novel Vremea
minunilor/The Time of Marvels. His superior intelligence, his
refinement coming from simplicity and the joy of one in love with the
words are obvious whether he talks about his relationship with the
world, his motivation and passion for writing, his sources of inspiration
or, simply, about himself.
Key words: confession, biography, characters, novels, sources of
inspiration

A writer of Romanian origin, settled in Switzerland and writing

in German, mainly about Romania, Cătălin Dorian Florescu, who has
recently turned 50, is a special figure in the confessional literary
landscape.
The author’s biographical data overlap, up to a point, those of the
main character in the novel Vremea minunilor/The Time of Marvels. Just
like Alin, Cătălin Dorian Florescu left Romania together with his parents
in his adolescence. The departure is, for the writer, the chance to
complete his training in the select space of German culture. He attends
and graduates the Faculty of Psychology and Psychopathology at the
University of Zürich. After five years of working as a psychotherapist in a
rehabilitation center for drug addicts, in 2001 he becomes a freelance
writer in Zürich. His first published novel, Vremea minunilor/The Time
of Marvels, was received with enthusiasm by critics and readers and
awarded several prizes. His following novels brought him the recognition
he enjoys both in the German literary space (awards such as “One year
paid for life” from the city of Zürich, Dresden Writer-in-Residence in
2008 and the Prize of Honour of the City of Erfurt (2010), and in the
European cultural space (his books have been or are being translated into
Romanian, French, Spanish, Italian, Dutch, Slovenian, English, Polish,
Lithuanian).

143
 In the German space, the writer has sometimes been associated
with migrant or migration literature, a term generally used for writers
whose work undergoes a major cultural and linguistic change. The
essential feature of this type of writing is the cultural complexity, most
writers belonging to this category writing their works in German. There
is also the case of the German ethnics in Romania who wrote from the
start in German (Hertha Müller). The same category includes the authors
who keep writing in their native tongue, in spite of having settled for a
long time in German-speaking countries.
Florescu disapproves of such a classification which he finds
reductive, an opinion shared by other writers in the German
environment who have experienced migration: Christina Viragh, Rafik
Ben Salah, or Ilma Rakusa. Their opinions, revealed in the interviews
from the project “Generation Change” and presented at the seminar
“Immigrant literature - Writing in Adopted Languages” (April, 24, 2008,
in Brussels), lead to the same conclusion: the choice of the term migrant
literature is inappropriate because immigration is seen as an exception,
opposed to the norm, emphasizing the immigrants’ foreign character,
and therefore the idea of a threat to the indigenous population.
Although these writers admit that the experience of migration has
enriched their work, they do not want to be labelled by a special term.
Therefore, the term of migrant literature, in spite of putting an emphasis
on authors having gone through the same experience, that of migration,
may shadow their work’s literary value and reduce their contribution to
cultural mediation.
A complex writer, with a literature that merges two cultures (his
training both in the Romanian and the German spaces, his fiction
written in German but focussing on themes set in the Romanian space
during Communism, his preference for story-telling, superstitions,
stories conveyed orally, but written in a style aiming to keep a balance
and rigour of form, as well as a certain musicality), Cătălin Dorian
Florescu seems to escape being framed into a canon. And an attempt of
labelling him raises a few questions: is he to be labelled from the
perspective of the Romanian literature, the German one, or simply the
European one?
His use of flashbacks and stream-of-consciousness allude both to
modernism and postmodernism. All of Florescu’s novels have a slightly
reversed chronology. In The Time of Marvels, the narrator, at the time of
his departure from the country, tells the events that have happened so
far. In Zaira, the narrating character, in the dusk of his life, remembers
his life. Teodor (The Blind Masseur) returned to the country, inserts
memories of the past in the present of events. In The Short Way Home,
as well, there are two levels of the narrative: the present and the past.
Talking about the writer’s nationality, a German daily newspaper wrote:

144
 “In view of the current discussion of a European identity, Cătălin
Dorian Florescu is an important writer, beyond any nationalism.”1
The challenge of writing about Florescu is the challenge of
writing about a river whose waters you are not sure where they would
carry him. The only way to tackle him is that of a living phenomenon
developping under the readers’ eyes with each published novel. How did
he discover his vocation as a writer? What made him chose German as
the language for his work? How does he discover his stories? These are
questions answered by the writer with sincerity, modesty and the desire
to open up to his readers in the interviews he gives to German and
Romanian newspapers. A recurrent question in the interviews refers to
the issue of identity. An understandable curiosity, if we think of the
general elements of the writer’s biography: born in Romania of the
Communist years, migrating with his family to Switzerland and chosing
to write in German, about Romania.
“For me, there are no separations, only approaches”2, he states,
identifying himself both with Switzerland (“We, the Swiss, keep looking to the
other side, to Germans”) and with Romania (“Romania is still a strong home in
my heart”3).
Like his characters, Florescu finds himself in the middle, between
two different cultures and ways of seeing life, which he embedded in his
personality.
“Although I write German literature, I remain anchored in a Latin,
Romanian way of thinking, of getting in contact with the outer and creative
world. I have been living with this contradiction for twenty years and I try doing
so in a creative way.”4
Romania represents mainly the past and the place of the stories,
while Switzerland is the daily life.
“Neither Romania nor Switzerland are my exclusive homelands,
because in each I miss the other half. The first fifteen years lived in Romania are
important for my sensorial formation, for learning the language density. That is
what separates me forever from the Swiss. I am separated from the Romanians
by the daily life, but not on a nostalgic level, let’s say, but by that reality in which
you create something and risk failing.”5
As a writer, Florescu sees his reader beyond any nationality
formula.
”There is no simple formula. The beautiful moments are those when
you realize that your definition, as a Romanian or not, is absolutely irrelevant to
the public.”6

1
General-Anzeiger, Bonn, 12.06.2003.
2
Marius Chivu, interview with Cătălin Dorian Florescu, „Oriunde aș merge, am o viață cu accent” in
„Dilematica”, May, 2010.
3
Ibidem.
4
Alina Mondini, „Interviu cu Cătălin Dorian Florescu”, published on www.casaromanilor.ch
5
Marius Chivu, Ibidem;
6
Lavinia Bălulescu, interview with Cătălin Dorian Florescu in „Adevărul de seară”, Timișoara, April,
2010.

145
 Yet, the literary field he had to conquer first and to which he
relates by the present he is living and by the very language of his work,
remains the German one.
“I am a kind of literary housewife, I need to emphasize twice or three
times that I am a German-language writer, that I have dusted my quite dusty
German literature. And that I am not the migrant to be invited to talk about
migration, which is sometimes the case.”1
The writer acknowledges the extraordinary performance of
succeeding in writing fiction in another language than his native tongue,
while stating that German was not so much a conscious choice as the
language of expressing his present:
“my strong contact with the world is accomplished through German
language. If I had spoken Swiss dialect, I would have had German friends and I
would have stayed in a café writing, in a schizophrenic sentimentalism, in a
Romanian language spoken until I was fifteen, all of these diminishing my
contact with the world. My present is German. If I were to come to Romania, my
present would be different, and in a few years’ time I would be writing in
Romanian.”2
The writer discovered his vocation in his adolescence:
“I have been writing since I was eighteen. I wrote my first poems in
highschool and I showed them to my English teacher who patted me on the
back and thanked me”3
but the desire of story-telling had already been deeply rooted
since his childhood and probably inherited from his maternal
grandfather. “I discovered early on that I liked luring people and telling
stories.”4
The author’s first story, included in his debut novel The Time of
Marvels, has, in his own words, a biographical basis. We meet Alin, an
alter-ego of the writer, talking with irony and humour about the world
he is living in, the world of Communist dementia years, whose absurdity
fails to alter the beauty of his childhood and adolescence years. The
novel is one of a happy age and innocence, and the dedication in the
beginning of the novel is addressed to his father: “To my wonderful
father and the other heroes of my childhood.”
Writing, for Florescu, is working on his own relationship with
the world, as writing begins long before putting words on a sheet of
paper. According to the novelist, the act of writing receives a life of its
own: it emanates a vital energy, it has “its own beauty”, it is necessity and
fountain of youth. It is a way of giving a deep meaning to life, of
opposing the platitude and mediocrity of life.
1
ibidem
2
Marius Chivu, interview with Cătălin Dorian Florescu, „Oriunde aș merge, am o viață cu accent”, in
Dilematica, May, 2010.
3
Alina Mondini, art. cit.
4
Marius Chivu, ibidem;

146
 “I think that art remains a way of peaceful rebellion and opposition to
the dictatorship of mediocrity, consumerism, easy and boring life. It is a way of
feeling alive. I am talking of that strong, substantial and, therefore, necessary
art. The art which preserves its authenticity and which, as I wrote in the opening
phrase of my novel The Blind Masseur, keeps believing that there is still a kernel
of beauty in the world.”1
Last but not least, writing is “the joy of creating through
language”, it is a river that links to the beginnings of civilization and to
the primary act of story-telling. A river that the writer can much more
easily follow in Romania, which has kept the magic of stories and
superstitions, as well as the joy of story-telling, especially in rural areas.
Florescu also talks about the “relative autism” of the writer who lives for
months, or, possibly, for years, in the world of books in which the
characters become important parts of his own life, as well as of the need
to get out of this world and have direct contact with the readers. The
reading hours, mostly organized in Switzerland, are such an opportunity
to have an open dialogue with the readers, a true “spiritual feast” for the
author:
“the open and sympathetic gazes take the author out of the relative
autism he lives in while writing for months and years on a book. It is the
moment the author lives in full harmony with himself and the world, he feels
alive, important. It is the moment when all the frustrations of a career full of ups
and downs, of unfulfilled dreams, unsold and unfairly criticized books – from
his perspective, criticism is always unfair -, all of these disappear, fade away, the
wounds heal, for a few hours at least.”2
His superior intelligence, his refinement coming from simplicity
and the joy of one in love with the words, destined to create beauty and
giving it to the others are obvious, whether he talks about his
relationship with the world, his motivation and passion for writing, his
sources of inspiration or, simply, about himself.

REFERENCES

Behring, Eva. Scriitori români din exil, Editura Fundaţiei culturală română, Bucureşti,
2001.
Chivu, Marius. Interview with Florescu Dorian Cătălin, „Oriunde aș merge, am o viață cu
accent”, în „Dilematica”, May 2010.
Florescu, Dorian Cătălin. Vremea minunilor, trad. de Adriana Rotaru, Editura Polirom,
Iaşi, 2005.

1
Cătălin Dorian Florescu, interview for the blog Istodor, “Lumea este plină de Rascolnicovi și mulți
umblă liberi”, February 23, 2010, http://istodor.ro/2010/02/catalin-dorian-florescu-interviu-pentru-
blogul-istodor/
2
Andra Rotaru, interview with Cătălin Dorian Florescu, “Artiștii cu biografii bi- sau multipolare
există din ce în ce mai mulți în vest”, March 7, 2010, www.agentia de carte.ro

147
 FILIP FLORIAN`S NOVEL DEGETE MICI
AND MAGICAL REALISM IN ROMANIAN
LITERATURE

RÓBERT FANCSALI
robert.fancsali@gmail.com
Sudent, ELTE University Budapest
Egyetem Street no 1-3, Hungary
Article code 549-165

Abstract: This paper aims at examining how prevalent of a

category magical realism is in our Central-European environment. As
part of a wider-scale work, it hopes to capture the results of international
studies, contrast those with the viewpoints of both Hungarian and
Romanian literary scholars and, thus, form a regionally recognized and
internationally accepted definition for magical realism. The approach
towards the genre is via postcolonial reading, however, with a certain
extent of reinterpretation. The fruitful effect of the contemporary
literary thinking’s centre-periphery relation might be worth using when
it comes to reconsidering the genre, thus extending the international
thesaurus of magical realism. By agreeing with Bényei Tamás’s views,
however keeping, what is more, emphasising regional characteristics –,
we stand for coming to consensus, i. e. creating a more exact and precise
definition. The poetic approach then satisfies the pragmatic side of the
question, aiming at making the analysing of the text easier. The second
half of the essay wishes to prove the previously described by putting it
into practice through one of Filip Florian’s novels.
Key words: Magical realism, contemporary literature,
Hungarian literature, Romanian literature, postcolonialism

Magical realism is a genre of great significance within the

contemporary literary discourse, however one about whose exact
definition – despite the constant debates and disquisitions in the past 20
years – critical consensus has not been reached. Consequently, the topic
itself poses to be worth of further research. This paper, however, aims at
examining how prevalent of a category this is in our Central-European
environment. As part of a wider-scale work, it hopes to capture the
results of international studies, contrast those with the viewpoints of
both Hungarian and Romanian literary scholars and, thus, form a
regionally recognized and internationally accepted definition for magical
realism. The second half of the essay wishes to prove the previously

148
described by putting it into practice through a novel of Filip Florian,
‘Degete mici’.1
Within the history of the notion, an important turning point was
its obtaining postcolonial and postmodern critique, which is when it was
brought to international public awareness. The works published after the
release of Zamora and Faris’s study in 1995 almost all consider the topic
within this context.2 The pair views magic realism as a place, where the
postcolonial literature intertwines with postmodernism, and where the
postmodern reloads with the energies of the peripheries: “a regional
variation of the postmodern” – as Tamás Bényei, a Hungarian literary
historian summarized it.3
Based on my experience, postcolonial thinking – and thus the re-
evaluation of our literature – did not become a compelling tradition
across Central- and Eastern-Europe. Whenever it does appear, it is as a
more general perspective. A good example of this would be the lecture-
and book series called ‘Perifériáról a centrum’, which started out in Pécs
in the 2000s and which reflected on the centre-periphery relation within
the postcolonial reading. Its main proposition is about how the small,
marginalised literatures find their places in the world literature and how
they draw near to certain western trends. Such an approach of the topic
strongly associates with the thesis of Deleuze–Guattari about minor
literature.4
Wendy B. Faris, co-writer of the afore-mentioned study, points out
that magical realism gives opportunity to discover “invisible narrative
traditions” of the western metropolises. It can be interpreted as the
revival, the comeback from peripheral areas of globalizing literature. The
worldwide spread of postcolonial thinking calls attention to the diversity
of the notion’s traditions, giving space to the interaction of different
cultures.5
A great example is the literary trope of Romanian magical realism
novels: the rhetorization of orthodoxy, its implanting into the modern,
Western-European environment, its using as a poetic device. This way,
the inclination of literary form to adapt to certain cultural relations
becomes obvious. Faris lays down the five main characteristic features of
magic realism, one of which is the instinctive reaction of the reader, i.e.
1
Florian, Filip, ’Degete mici’, Polirom, Bukarest, 2005.
2
Lois Parkinson Zamora, Wendy B. Faris, ’Magical Realism: Theory, History, Community’, Duke
University Press, 1995.
3
Bényei Tamás, ’Apokrif iratok. Mágikus realista regényekről’, Kossuth, Debrecen, 1997.
4
Deleuze–Guattari, ’What Is a Minor Literature’ = Deleuze–Guattari, ’Kafka. Toward a minor
literature’, University of Minnesota, 1986.
5
Wendy B. Faris, ‘Ordinary Enchantments. Magical Realism and the Remystification of Narrative’,
Vanderbilt, 2011, p. 2.

149
‘hesitation’, which, as he says, may differ enormously from culture to
culture.1
Christoph Warnes, a celebrated writer of recent years, makes the
observation of cultural conditions a key element, indispensible for the
interpretation of the magical. In order for the natural and supernatural,
the real and the fantastic to be easily differentiated, there is a need for
distinct referential points, based on which the contrasts can be defined.2
To this stand in close relation the contemporary film
interpretations of Dánél Mónika. Of Mundruczó Kornél’s ‘Delta’ and
Peter Strickland’s ‘Varga Katalin balladája’, she says that they represent
Eastern-European cultures; what is important is how the depicted world
is objectified and thus the colonizer-colonized opposition of the
colonizing discourse is revived. The question is whether the formation is
separable from the postcolonial view, the cultural geography. Dánél
points out the possible stigmatization of the culture, Romania appears as
“raw wildness, the place of Eastern magic” (“wildeast”), which, as it later
turns out, is a basic technique of world depiction in Florian’s novels.3
A writer of the afore-mentioned Pécs-circle, Papp Ágnes Klára in a
later, 2010 article studies why ‘hybrid’ phenomena similar to magical
realism appear in Hungarian minority literature. These hybrid
phenomena are introduced with the help of Homi K. Bhabha’s
‘translational culture’ notion. This could serve as help for the analyzing
of works that attempt the elusion of different stories, viewpoints,
cultural codes, ideologies, language layers against each other.4 Dánél
Mónika gets to magical realism similarly through the analyses of Láng
Zsolt. She talks about texts challenging geocultural readings, which often
include completely differing cultures in conversations by coordinating
them: “the archaic religious (layered) views and the modern media’s
asynchronous synchronicity and fusion results in a magically real textual
space, which exhibits the paradoxicality of cultures associated with the
given region”. In these textual places, the reactions to unfamiliarity and
not speaking each other’s languages become the imprint of “cultural
blindness, religious and social bias”.5 To us, the most important
conclusion is that these texts require a decentralizing way of reading; the
already mentioned cultural differences and simultaneous contradictions
provoke the reader.
1
‘I.b.’, pp. 30-32.
2
Christopher Warnes, ‘Magical Realism and the Postcolonial Novel. Between Faith and Irreverence’,
Palgrave Macmilian, London, 2009.
3
Dánél Mónika, ‘Kihordó természet, kultúra, nők – belső gyarmatok’ = ’Áttetsző keretek. Az olvasaás
intimitása’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-Napoca, 2013, p. 116.
4
Papp Ágnes Klára, ‘A csirkepaprikás-elmélettől a töltöttkáposzta-modellig. Kisebbségi irodalom
újraértelmezési lehetőségei a posztkoloniális kritika tükrében’, ’Bárka’, 2010/3, p. 72.
5
Dánél Mónika, ‘Kultúraköziség mint az irodalomtörténet provokációja’ = ’Áttetsző keretek. Az
olvasás intimitása’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-Napoca, 2013, p. 187.

150
 Papp Ágnes Klára reads the works of Grendel Lajos, Gion Nándor,
Fehér Béla and some other contemporary Hungarian writers as magical
realism pieces. The author sees the solution in the dissuading
mechanism of Tzvetan Todorov, the most important effect will be the
experience of crossing the lines and thus he reaches back to the notion of
‘chronotope’ by Bakhtin. This proves to be a viable analysis type. One
means of the creation of chronotopes is posterior narration. It is a
frequent framework in novels for reminiscing and story-telling. With the
blending of timelines, simultaneity and congestion in time may often
occur – a basic feature of magical realism. About chronotopes, Papp says
that they are magical realism itself. The chronotope of crammed
multifariousness, multidimensionality and multimeaningness, time
crammed into space. Its irrationality is granted by the experience of the
fact that certain codes that would rationally exclude one another in a
magic space can prevail.1
Papp uses the notion of “magical space” differently, as well –
starting from Stuart Hall –, she further unfolds it, she thinks that this
way a specific European minority version of magic realism forms, which
is most capable of combining with postcolonial critique.2
As presented, by modifying the classic postcolonial context,
shifting the emphasis from the colonizer-colonized relations to the
cultural representations and multifariousness, there is a place for
magical realism in Central Europe. For a more specific use of the notion,
however, two more important aspects need to be introduced. It is
necessary to mention Selyem Zsuzsa’s concept of “postmagic prose”3,
which, according to Bányai Éva’s interpretation, differs from the classic
definition in two features. Firstly, from a postmodern approach, she says
that the story based on arbitrary cause-effect relations is not the
meaning of words, but language itself with its various meanings, so it is
important to alienate oneself from the story-based way of reading (this is
a basic element of every magical realism explanation).
On the other hand, she emphasises the connection to the religious
worlds, the magical creation of connection.4 This, due to the orthodoxy –
not independently of the geocultural viewpoints – , becomes important
in the Romanian magical realist novels: different rites, appearance of
saints, the use of these as the basis of light-hearted speech. This is a
deeply local traditional and religious world view, which grants place for
magical elements, but is also a referential point for the cynical but
respectful towards the ancient, yet mocking way of speech, which is the
1
Papp Ágnes Klára, ‘I.b.’ 273.
2
Papp Ágnes Klára, ‘Mágikus realista történelem. Kortárs magyar kisebbségi irodalmak’, Egyetemi
Műhely Kiadó, Cluj-Napoca, 2013, p. 15.
3
Selyem Zsuzsa, ‘Glissando. Láng Zsolt bestiáriumairól’, Jelenkor 2004/7-8, p. 825.
4
Bányai Éva, ‘Térképzetek, névtérképek, határidentitások’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-Napoca, 2011, p. 243.

151
basic intonation of all such works. Whatever India’s deep religiousness
mixed with the British colonial situation is to Rushdie, Macondo to
Marquez, the nature-friendly and primitive mentality to Latin-America,
is the deep faith of the Romanian people in orthodoxy to Florian.
The third main point is partially Bényei Tamás’s idea, which leads
to a completely new analogue of magical realism in international aspects,
too. Its basis is the fact that previous works insist on the differentiating
of the fantastic and the everyday ontologic, perhaps without an
exception. For a long time, the main question is how the antinomy
between the various perceptions of reality is dissolved (if it is dissolved at
all) in the text, how these two codes can exist together without hierarchy
and conflict. Latin-American critics have been talking about this
(Echevarría, Chiampi, or Carpentier’s “wonderful reality”), but in recent
years it became the constant question of great monographies, as well.
From Faris’s definition, what we must take is that magical realism always
includes basic magical elements, which are unexplainable when
contrasted with our Western empirical world views, they go against
logic, common sense and conventional norms. These fit into the text
seamlessly, are not accompanied with comments of characters or the
narrator, they are presented as rational elements. The created, fictive
world forms on the basis of our real world, often overly detailed and
based on realist traditions. Here it is worth mentioning that, in the
Romanian literature, the relation of the fantastic and the real always
poses as the most stressed question when studying magical realism, and
its origins.
According to Daniel Cristea-Enache, in the classic novel – as per
Romanian literary traditions and culture – the miracle cannot become an
institutional element, it cannot assign the coordinates of a piece, or in
other words, it cannot become a casual phenomenon, the miracle
remains miracle.1 Disagreeing with his colleague, Eugen Cadaru,
contemporary writer, classifies several classics (even Eminescu with his
‘Sărmanul Dionis’) based on the relation of fantastic elements towards
the reality.2
Contrary to the previously introduced fantastic-based approaches,
Bényei Tamás – and this paper, too – proposes the basic idea that our
perception of the world (about both the fantastic and the everyday) is the
result of our relation towards its rhetoricity. We have to take into
consideration the existence of objects and the relations between the
rhetorical and linguistic formation of this existence. The significance of
1
Daniel Cristea-Enache, ‘Control Perfect’, ’Cultura’, April 2010. =
http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol/9280/Daniel-Cristea-Enache/Control-perfect-I-Degete-mici-de-
Filip-Florian.htm
2
Eugen Cadaru, ‘Realismul magic în proza lui Mihai Eminescu’, ’Nautilus’, November 2014. =
http://revistanautilus.ro/articole/realismul-magic-in-proza-lui-mihai-eminescu

152
this, from a literary point of view, is that we need to handle these
different codes as ‘effects’ so the focus of the review will be the rhetorical
formation.1 The speaking about the world focuses on the options of
story-telling, approaches the texts by looking at the narration as an act,
so magical realism is looked at as a way of writing that follows these. The
analysis wishes to define this style of writing.
The plot revolves around a mass grave found in the area of an
ancient Roman castra in the nineties’ Romania, and the main dilemma is
whether these are victims of a massacre by the Communist regime or
remnants from older times. One side is represented by Major Maxim,
who wishes to blame the Securitate for everything, while on the other
side stands the rest of the important characters: General Spiru, Titu
Maieru, member of the ex-political prisoners’ alliance, Sasa, the
photographer, his camel, Aladin. Dumitru M., the oldest person in town
or the Argentinean anthropologists.
To the first person narrator, Petrus, belongs auntie Paulina, his
host, her girlfriend, Lady Emburry and Jojo, Petrus’s darling. To list the
characters is not pointless since a distinctive feature of the genre can be
discovered with the help of it. The names almost always stand with
constant qualifiers, which often describe profession or the role of the
character. There is a short part dedicated to each and every one of them,
mostly completely independent of the main story line, not moving it
forward. All these come together with the character of Petrus and make
up about half of the entire novel, the other half is the life story of
Onufrie (Gherghe, Rowel), the latter two only appearing in the last few
pages. In the mentioned critique written by Daniel Cristea-Enache, he
says that with the appearance of each character, the plot does not move
forward, however the perspective of the novel develops, its cross section
widen.2 Having determined all these, one might question what the
author’s motives were.
Critics steadily agree that the novel was a type of ‘stylistic play’,
with all the positive meaning of the expression. Not only is this true for
the characters, but Tudor Urian also wrote: “even though this is the
pretext of the narration, the mass grave does not bear with a particular
significance either. If anything, it offers a possibility – similarly to
Boccaccio and Sadoveanu – for people coming from different worlds to
relate to the story with their own experiences”.3 It functions as a device,
the narrator creates a place for himself to unfold.
1
Bényei, ‘I.b.’ pp. 61-62.
2
Daniel Cristea-Enache, ‘Control Perfect’, ‘Cultura’, April 2010. =
http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol/9280/Daniel-Cristea-Enache/Control-perfect-I-Degete-mici-de-
Filip-Florian.html
3
Tudorel Urian, ‘Tonurile minore ale istoriei’, ‘România literară’, 2005/31
http://www.romlit.ro/tonurile_minore_ale_istoriei

153
 Comparing the narrator to a story-teller is not exceptional in the
Romanian literature, two classic examples would be Mihail Sadoveanu’s
‘Hanul Ancuței’ and Matei Caragiale’s ‘Craii de curtea veche’. The
narration expresses doubt towards unified narrative structures. The
language is often live speech-like, many elements of self-reflecting,
referring to story-telling or its difficulties can be discovered. There are
several text settings where the things just communicated are refined,
corrected or taken back.
The text is full of additional parenthesized thoughts, which are
usually completely unrelated and irrelevant to the story, always drawing
attention to the characteristic of the narrative. After this story-telling as
legend creation is a rudimentary technique for magical realism narration,
legend-like features support fantastic elements and form the context for
easier reception (this is clearly objectified in chapter IV of Degete mici
with the appearance of Argentinean anthropologists). The narrator does
not have a coherent, homogeneous voice, as he also draws attention to it,
he always applies himself to the given situation stylistically (e.g.: movie-
like presentation, dramatic or journalistic forms), linguistically and
knowledge-wise.
The aim of a text like this with the diverse listing of narrative
options cannot be laid down in introducing the facts, themselves; it is
about the examining of the way of speaking about those facts and events.
In such a text the narration makes itself and its reception the event,
primarily evaluated as an act, which then might be one of the main
features of texts of magic realism.
To sum it all up, it can be stated that the only approach towards
the genre of magical realism in Central-Eastern-Europe is via
postcolonial reading, however, with a certain extent of reinterpretation.
The fruitful effect of the contemporary literary thinking’s centre-
periphery relation might be worth utilizing when it comes to
reconsidering the genre, thus extending the international thesaurus of
magical realism. By agreeing with Bényei Tamás’s views, however
keeping, what is more, emphasising regional characteristics –, we stand
for coming to consensus, i. e. creating a more exact and precise
definition. The poetic approach then satisfies the pragmatic side of the
question, aiming at making the analysing of the text easier. The analysis
of the novel proved a successful test to the method and encourages
further research.

Translation by Anett Kovács-Szabó and János Levente Fülöp

154
REFERENCES

Bányai, Éva, ‘Térképzetek, névtérképek, határidentitások’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-

Napoca, 2011.
Bényei Tamás, ‘Apokrif iratok. Mágikus realista regényekről’, Kossuth, Debrecen,
1997.
Dánél Mónika, ‘Kihordó természet, kultúra, nők – belső gyarmatok’ = ‘Áttetsző
keretek. Az olvasaás intimitása’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-Napoca, 2013.
Dánél Mónika, ‘Kultúraköziség mint az irodalomtörténet provokációja’ = ‘Áttetsző
keretek. Az olvasás intimitása’, KOMP-PRESS, Cluj-Napoca, 2013.
Daniel Cristea-Enache, ‘Control Perfect’, ‘Cultura’, April 2010. =
http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol/9280/Daniel-Cristea-Enache/Control-perfect-I-Degete-
mici-de-Filip-Florian.html
Daniel Cristea-Enache, ‘Control Perfect’, ‘Cultura’, April 2010. =
http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol/9280/Daniel-Cristea-Enache/Control-perfect-I-
Degete-mici-de-Filip-Florian.htm
Eugen Cadaru, ‘Realismul magic în proza lui Mihai Eminescu’, ‘Nautilus’, November
2014. = http://revistanautilus.ro/articole/realismul-magic-in-proza-lui-mihai-
eminescu
Florian, Filip, Degete mici, Polirom, Bucharest, 2005.
Papp Ágnes Klára, ‘A csirkepaprikás-elmélettől a töltöttkáposzta-modellig.
Kisebbségi irodalom újraértelmezési lehetőségei a posztkoloniális kritika tükrében’,
’Bárka’, 2010/3.
Papp Ágnes Klára, Mágikus realista történelem. Kortárs magyar kisebbségi
irodalmak, Egyetemi Műhely Kiadó, Cluj-Napoca, 2013.
Selyem Zsuzsa, ‘Glissando. Láng Zsolt bestiáriumairól’, ‘Jelenkor’ 2004/7-8.
Stuart Hall, ‘A kulturális identitásról’ = ‘Multikulturalizmus’, edit. Feischmidt
Margit, Osiris, Bp., 1997.
Tudorel Urian, Tonurile minore ale istoriei, in România Literară, 2005/31 =
http://www.romlit.ro/tonurile_minore_ale_istoriei
Zamora, Lois Parkinson, Faris, Wendy B. Faris, Magical Realism: Theory, History,
Community, Duke University Press, 1995.

155
156
CULINARY
DISCOURSES
& PRIVATE SPACE

DISCURSURI ALE
ARTEI CULINARE
& SPAȚIUL PRIVAT

157
158
 “VOT IS CUM’D TO MEIN KRAUT?”
OR
FOOD AND DRINKS IN POE’S SHORT
STORIES

DELIA MARIA RADU

dradu@uoradea.ro
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 550-166

Abstract: Our paper focuses on some of Edgar Allan Poe's short

stories with their Gothic touch, terror and bizarre mental states, and
strange locations, commenting on the author’s use of food and drinks in
order to create or enhance the atmosphere he wished to create.
Key words: Poe, short stories, food, drinks, atmosphere

Drinks and drinking scenes

Around 1831, Edgar Allan Poe, unhappy at the Academy of Westpoint,

where he had been sent by John Allan, started to seek refuge from his
unhappiness in alcohol. With a brother dying of tuberculosis and
alcoholism, Poe was, according to J. R. Hammond, “one of those
unfortunate people upon whom alcohol, even in the smallest quantities,
has a debilitating effect. The consumption of a glass or two of wine or
brandy was sufficient to produce in his symptoms of drunkenness, even
of temporary oblivion.” (Hammond, 1981:15) By 1847, after his wife’s
death, he became an unstable figure, turning more and more to alcohol
in order to forget about his difficulties. This might account for the
recurrence of drinks and drinking scenes in his short stories.
The Assignation is an Arabesque tale written in 1833 or 1834 (both
years have been mentioned by critical writings) and set in Venice. In the
story, the narrator meets a young man, the saviour of a baby dropped in
the water by his mother, the Marchesa Afrodite Mentoni, and is asked to
pay him a visit. He is given a tour of the young man’s Palazzo, in the
vicinity of the Rialto bridge, and wonders at its “princely magnificence”
and collection of art works destined only for the eyes of their owner.
While showing him his paintings and wonderful tapestry, the young man
seems to be alert and waiting for something. The last thing he shows the

159
narrator is a full-length portrait of the Marchesa, an indication of their
affair.
Then the young man invites the narrator to drink to the sun, and
“swallowed in rapid succession several goblets” (Poe, 1966:21) of
Johannisberger wine, a fine white wine, throwing himself, afterwards,
upon an ottoman. When the news arrives that the Marchesa has been
poisoned (no doubt by her jealous husband), the narrator wants to awake
the apparently sleeping young man, only to discover that he, too, is dead.
As the young man has drunk far more than the narrator, who staggers
while moving, we can understand that the two men have been drinking
poisoned wine as well.
Drinking is also present in King Pest the First, published in 1835,
where two seamen, a tall and elder one called “Legs”, and his younger
and shorter companion, Hugs Tarpaulin, “intoxicated beyond moral
sense” (Poe, 1966:369) and having no money to pay for their drinks at the
Jolly Tar ale-house, take to their heels and find themselves in the shop of
an undertaker. An open trap-door reveals below
“a long range of wine-cellars, whose depths the occasional sound of
bursting bottles proclaimed to be well-stored with their appropriate contents. In
the middle of the room stood a table – in the cenre of which again arose a huge
tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various wines and cordials,
together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every shape and quality, were
scattered profusely upon the board.” (Poe, 1966:370)
Around the table are gathered King Pest and his relatives, in
various stages of decay. King Pest has “an expression of ghastly affability,
and his eyes, as indeed the eyes of all at the table, were glazed over with
the fumes of intoxication” (ibidem). The lady opposite him possesses a
figure which “resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon of October
beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by her side, in a corner
of the chamber” (ibidem). A little puffy old man has “cheeks reposed
upon the shoulders of their owner like two huge bladders of Oporto
wine” (idem). A gentleman in long white hose, with a “peculiarly sottish
and wine-bibbing cast of his visage”, is prevented from “helping himself
too freely to the liquors upon the table” by his arms being fastened at the
wrists. Before each of them lays a portion of a skull, used as a drinking
cup.
They have all gathered there “to examine, analyze, and
thoroughly determine the inefable spirit – the incomprehensible
qualities and nature – of those inestimable treasures of the palate, the
wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goody metropolis” (Poe, 1966:373).
As he refuses to acknowledge King Pest’s status, stating that he is
nobody else than Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player, Tarpaulin stirs chaos.
He is thrown into the barrel of beer and “Legs”, trying to rescue his
companion, knocks over the barrel and floods the place:

160
 “out burst a deluge of liquor so fierce – so impetuous – so
overwhelming – that the room was flooded from wall to wall […] piles of death-
furniture floundered about. Jugs, pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously
in the melee, and wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk”
(Poe, 1966:375).
In Ligeia (1838), the narrator’s second wife, Lady Rowena, falls ill
during the second month of their marriage. One night, when her
condition worsens, the narrator brings her a cup of white wine. “Wild
with excitement of an immoderate dose of opium” (Poe, 1966:393), he
sees or imagines three or four drops of “a briliant and ruby colored fluid”
fall within Rowena’s goblet of wine, as she prepares to drink it
(apparently poisoned by his late first wife, Ligeia) and she dies a few days
later.
In Angel of the Odd: An Extravaganza (written in 1843 and
published in 1844), the narrator has just finished an unusual hearty
dinner and is getting ready for dessert accompanied by bottles of wine,
spirit and liqueur, reading a newspaper. Refusing to believe in the odd
accidents he is reading about in the paper, he gets a visit from The Angel
of the Odd, who speaks a broken English with a strong German accent:
“His body was a wine-pipe, or a rum-puncheon […] For arms
there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably long
bottles, with the necks outwards for hands.” (Poe, 1966:548) His head is a
Hessian canteen, through which the creature seems to talk to him,
“emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he evidently
intended for intelligible talk”. (ibid.)
The few glasses of Lafitte previously drunk by the narrator make
him react in an impudent way, so the Angel hits him and, seeing him
tearing, comments:
“Mein Gott! […] te man is eder ferry dronck or ferry sorry. You mos not
trink it so strong ‒ you mos put de water in te wine. Here, trink dis, like a good
veller” (Poe, 1966:549), while pouring “Kirschenwasser” over the Port in his
goblet.
In The Cask of Amontillado, published in 1846, the narrator,
whose last name seems to be Montresor, offended (we ignore in what
way) by a man called Fortunato [both characters are fine connaisseurs of
wines], swears to get his revenge and devises a plan of how to lure him
into a crypt and wall him up there. According to Dawn B. Sova, the story
is a fictional response to the articles which criticized Poe’s drinking and
criticized his physical appearance. (see Sova, 2007:41)
The bait for the victim is the narrator’s need of someone
knowledgeable enough to tell him whether what he has bought at a
bargain is indeed Amontillado, a Spanish wine, or just sherry. Already

161
intoxicated when they meet1, Fortunato also drinks the two bottles of
wine the narrator offers him along the way, Médoc, believed to protect
one’s health and defend from the damps, the second one is De Grave (a
pun meaning both something serious, a grave danger for instance, and a
hint to Graves, a wine region in the Bordeaux area).
According to Frank (1997:65), Fortunato insists upon walking or
staggering into his own tomb, “his foolishness savored in stages by
Montresor like a fine wine sipped on the fiftieth anniversary of his
ennemy’s premature burial”.
But a story written three years previously, in 1843, The Black Cat,
describes the effects of alcoholism on a person’s life and disposition,
effects which Poe undoubtedly experienced himself during his life. The
narrator, initially a very nice, pet-loving man, gradually changes under
the effects of his vice: “I grew, day by day, more moody, more irritable,
more regardless of the feelings of others” (Poe, 1966:577). He starts using
foul language with his wife and even becomes violent to her, while
neglecting and even mistreating his pets. Alcohol leads to such a
degradation of his personality that, attempting to hurt a black cat, he
wounds and eventually kills his wife.

Food
Food, alone, appears less frequently in Poe’s stories than the
drinks. In The Duc De L’Omelette (a short story written in 1832), the
duke (who is also the Prince of Foie-Gras!) dies of utter disgust after
being served an incorrectly prepared dish, an ortolan imported from
Peru stripped of its feathers and “servi sans papier”, that is “without the
socially requisite paper cuffs on its legs” (Sova, 2007:60). Curiously
scented, he finds himself three days later in front of Baal-Zebub, wins a
game of cards and thus the devil looses his claim on the duke’s soul. The
issue of selling one’s soul to the devil seems to have been of interest to
Poe, as there are several short stories about it.
The narrator of The Pit and the Pendulum (1843), a victim of the
Spanish Inquisition, describes the ordeal he is subjected to in a dungeon
in Toledo. When he realizes where he is, he wonders whether he has
been left there to perish of starvation. But when he wakes up, he finds
twice beside him a loaf and a pitcher with water. Too exhausted to
wonder how and why, he “ate and drank with avidity”, as he writes the
first time (Poe, 1966:901).
The second time he finds them, he realizes that something is
wrong with the water:
1
Which, as shown by Cecil L. Moffit (1972:41), is a disqualifying condition for any serious wine
tasting and would have made worthless his testimony on the quality of the wine.

162
 “A burning thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at a draught.
It must have been drugged; for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly
drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me – a sleep like that of death.” (Poe, 1966:902)
The he finds himself upon his back, bound to a framework of
wood, able to move only to “supply myself with food from an earthen
dish which lay by my side to the floor” (Poe, 1966:903). The food has
changed, and there is no water. “I was consumed with intolerable thirst.
That thirst it appeared to be the design of my persecutors to stimulate:
for the food in the dish was meat pungently seasoned.” (idem) The scent
of the meat lures ‘troops’ of enormous rats, waiting to feast both on his
meal and on him: “they were wild, bold, ravenous; their red eyes glaring
upon me as if they waited but for motionlessness on my part to make me
their prey. “To what food,” I thought, “have they been accustomed in the
well?” (Poe, 1966:905)

Food and drinks

Also in 1832, Poe wrote another story entitled The Bargain Lost, placed in
Venice, in which a metaphysician named Pedro Garcia, a descendant of a
noble Florentine family, is visited by the devil, but fails to make a deal
with it. Again, Poe plays here with the literary motif of the pact with the
devil, giving it an unexpected turn, as the devil, who feeds on sould,
refuses Garcia’s who more than willingly offers it for a bargain.
In the second version of the tale, written in 1835, Bon-Bon, the
Venetian Pedro Garcia becomes Pierre Bon-Bon, a restaurateur and
philosopher living in Rouen. References to food start from the very
beginning, as this story has a motto about wine:
“Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac/ Je suis plus savant que
Balzac-/ Plus sage que Pibrac; / Mon brass seul faisant l'attaque / De la nation
Coseaque, / La mettroit au sac; / De Charon je passerois le lac / En dormant dans
son bac, / J'irois au fier Eac, / Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac, / Premmer du
tabac.” (Poe, 1966:51)
The philosopher owns a little Café, situated in the Cul-de-Sac Le
Febvre, and which bears as its sign a “vast folio” volume of Bon-Bon’s
works, inscribed with a bottle on one side, a paté1 on the other, which
“shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor”. (Poe,
1966:54) The café is, at the same time, a restaurant and his home in
which he ponders upon his writings:
“In a corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. […] In
the corner diagonally opposite, appeared, in direct and friendly communion, the
properties of a kitchen and the bibliothèque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully
upon a dresser. Here lay an oven-full of the latest ethics – there a kettle of

1
Which is a little pie or pastry.

163
duodecimo mélanges. Volumes of German morality were hand in glove with the
gridiron.” (ibidem)
Writing and cooking are equally important in his life, and he is
very skilled in both: “his pâtés à la fois [pâtés, at the time,] were beyond
doubt immaculate; but what pen can do justice to his essays sur la
Nature – his thoughts sur l’Ame [on the Soul] – his observations sur
l’Esprit [on the Mind]?” (Poe, 1966:51) He takes equal pride in both
professions, believing that “the powers of the intellect held intimate
connection with the capabilities of the stomach” (Poe, 1966:52). “An
inclination for the bottle” and the inability to let slip an opportunity of
making a bargain are two of the restaurateur-philosopher’s weaknesses.
A fine connaisseur of wines, he enjoys them in different
occasions:
“with him Sauterne was to Médoc what Catullus was to Homer. He
would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Péray, but unravel an argument over
Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. In his
seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne has its alloted hour, and there were appropriate
moments for the Côtes du Rhone.” (Poe, 1983:112)
He has an impressive collection of wines, ranging from
Mousseux and Chambertin to Bordeaux, Médoc, Sauterne and others.
After a troublesome day, when nothing went on as planned so he
was in a particularly bad temper
“Many circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day,
to disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting Des Oeufs à la Princesse1 he
had unfortunately perpetrated an Omelette à la Reine2 - the discovery of a principle
in Ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew.” (Poe, 1983:114)
at midnight, during a harsh winter, while trying to work on a
voluminous manuscript supposed to be delivered the next day
As Bon-Bon wonders what is the soul, the devil describes the
flavour of the great intellects he has tasted (see Frank, 1997:47), roasted,
fricasséed, parboiled, sautéed and souffléed down in hell’s kitchens. As
they drink together, Bon-Bon ends by offering his soul to the devil for a
bargain, but the devil refuses and vanishes.
Richard P. Benton (in Carlson, 1996:117) suggests that Poe took
the idea that the Devil is an Epicure who feeds on men’s souls from
Francis de Quevedo’s El Sueño del infierno, 1608 (The Vision of Hell).
The Devil in the Belfry, published in 1839, is described by J. R.
Hammond as a farcical satire on the credulity of the mob, set in the
Dutch borough of Vondervotteimittiss (see Hammond, 1981:42) which
explains the broken English spoken by the inhabitants. The narrator
1
Oeufs princesse, eggs arranged on fried croutons, covered with Supreme sauce, garnished with
asparagus tips and shreds of chicken breast with a sliver of trufle on each egg.
2
Possibly oeufs à la reine, eggs arranged in tartlets filled with chicken purée and covered with
Supreme Sauce (of chicken stock reduced with heavy cream/crème fraîche, and then strained
through a fine sieve, with a light squeeze of lemon juice).

164
links the name of the borough to “Krautaplenttey”, which means “a lot of
cabbage”, a hint to the German dish of sauerkraut, and the description of
the settlement revolves around the form and use of cabbages.
The village is set in a perfectly circular valley, the garden of every
house has twenty-four cabbages in it, the carvings on the woodwork are
time-pieces and cabbages. Cabbages are also sculpted on the mantelpiece
of every house, “with a flower-pot containing a cabbage standing on each
extremity by way of outrider” (Poe, 1966:617) Every woman of the house
is busy attending the huge pots over the fires, full of sauerkraut and pork.
When the devil hops in the belfry and messes with the clock, all hell
breaks loose, with children screaming that they have been hungry for an
hour, while the women worry about their dish: “Wot is com’d to mein
kraut?” screamed all the vrows, “It has been done to rags for this hour!”
According to the notes of Levine & Levine, “the frequent
allusions to cabbages tipped off contemporary readers to the object of
Poe’s satire. Whig slogans urged Van Buren1, who was Dutch and from
Kinderhook, to return there and raise cabbages”. (1990:431)
In Lionizing (1850), the self-obsessed narrator, Robert Jones, born
in the city of Fum-Fudge, is invited to dinner by the Prince of Wales,
where various people debate on their field of interest. Among those
present, two deal with food and drinks. There is a “Fricassee from the
Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Muriton of Red tongue; cauliflowers
with veloute sauce; veal a la St. Menehoult; marinade a la St. Florentin;
and orange jellies en mosaïques” and Bibulus o’Bumper, who “touched
upon Latour and Markbrunnen; upon Mosseux and Chambertin; upon
Richbourg and St. George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon
Barac and Preignac; upon Grave, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon
St. Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told with his eyes
shut the difference between Sherry and Amontillado.” (Poe, 1966:399)
Poe was known for rewriting his stories into versions completely
different from the original, so it is no surprise that, according to L.
Moffitt Cecil, in the original version of the story, it was a bon vivant,
Fricassee from Rocher de Cancale, who talked about both wines and
food. (L. Moffit, 1972:41)
Talking about the differences between The Bargain Lost and
Bon-Bon, Alexander Hammond writes that when Poe transforms his
author-philosopher from an isolated Venetian aristocrat into a burgeois
French chef, he evokes the historical changes that moved the art of elite
French cooking from the pre-Revolutionary court and homes of the
1
Martin Van Buren was the eighth President of the United States (1837-41), the first President not
born a British subject, or even of British ancestry. His inability to deal with the economic crisis of
1837, combined with the growing political strength of the opposition Whig Party led to his defeat in
the 1840 presidential election.

165
aristocracy into the arena of market capitalism in restaurants in Paris,
London, and, by the 1830s, even in New York and Philadelphia.
In his All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and
France from the Middle Age to the Present, Stephen Mennell discussed
this change:
“The age of the great French restaurants is usually reckoned to date from
the Revolution, and their reemergence proved an immense stimulus to still more
rapid development of elaborate, refined, and luxurious food. In the hands of the
famous cooks of the Napoleonic and Restoration periods, among whom the most
celebrated of all is the name of Careme, there developed something which in
retrospect has become known not merely as haute, but grande cuisine. The gap
between professional and domestic cookery widened, as did the related gap in
prestige between male and female cooks. Parallel to the emergency of a cookery
profession catering for a dining public, there also emerged the bourgeois
gastronome – not himself a cook, but an expert in the art of eating and leader of the
public opinion in matters of taste.” (in Hammond A., 2006:41)
The post-Revolutionary spread of French hegemony in the arts
of fine cooking and dining made taste in food and wines signifiers of
class difference. Poe’s use of the discourse functions in this way in tales
such as The Duc de L’Omelette (mentioned above), in which an
aristocrat dies in horror at a poorly prepared meal and then must do
battle with a rather less gentlemanly devil, or in The Cask of
Amontillado, in which the revenge plot involves an aristocrat who
exploits rival claims to expertise between bourgeois wine connaisseurs.
Hammond identifies the devil in both The Bargain Lost and Bon-
Bon as a gastronome, which in the early 19th century designated a person
who not only cultivates his own refined taste for the pleasures of the
table, but also by writing about it, helps to cultivate other people’s, too.
“The gastronome is more than a gourmet – he is also a theorist and
propagandist about culinary taste” (see Hammond, 2006:41), and when
Poe’s devil critiques the philosopher’s manuscript and simultaneously
discusses the quality and tastes of meals made from the souls of other
philosophers, he demonstrates in practice the equivalency of gastronome
and literary critic, informing the discourses of gastronomy itself.
“I have tasted – that is to say I have known some very bad souls, and some
too – pretty good ones.” Here he smacked his lips […] “there was the sould of
Cratinus – passable: Aristophanes – racy: - Plato – exquisite: - not your Plato, but
Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus –
faugh! […] Then there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus
– dear Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I
toasted him in pure good humor on a fork. But they want flavor these Romans.
One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep, which cannot be
said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne”. (Poe, 1966:60)
For Hammond, when the gastronome functions as a theoretician
of the art of cooking and eating, he is playing the role in the commerce
of food equivalent to that Poe would assume once he began reviewing

166
books for the literary magazines of his era. Poe’s early fondness for the
discourse of gastronomy is one ground for his 1842 insistence that a
literary work, like a good meal, cannot be judged as an artistic whole if it
cannot be consumed in one sitting. (Hammond, 42).
Nina Baym notes that in the 1850s, drinking and eating were the
activities most often compared to novel reading by American reviewers.
(in Hammond, 2006:38) In 1847, the Literary World damns French novels
as “highly-spiced and unhealthy… dishes”, but suggests in 1849 that
fiction can provide the “higher faculties” which “nutriment denied them
in real life”.
As for the drinks and drinking in Poe’s stories, at the end of his
article entitled Poe’s Wine List, in which he discusses different brands of
wines which are present in Poe’s stories, Cecil L. Moffit concludes that
Poe
“was not an expert in the matter of wines […] there is no indication in
his writings that he was interested in the details of viniculture, the history of
particular wines, the bouquet and characteristic taste of individual wines, good
and poor vintage years, or the traditional manner and order of serving wines. […]
he almost always wrote in his satiric mode. He ridiculed those among his
characters who were reputed to e connoisseurs, representing them usually as
witless or drunk. […] Wine served Poe as a metaphor – a medium through which
he could scoff at man for his preenses and upbraid him for his failings.” (1972:42)

REFERENCES

A Companion to Poe Studies, edited by Eric W. Carlson. 1996. Greenwood

Publishing Group.
Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. 1966. Doubleday, N.Y.
Frank, Frederick S., Tony Magistrale. 1997. The Poe Encyclopedia, Westport CT,
Greenwood.
Hammond, Alexander. Literary Commerce and the Discourses of Gastronomy in
Poe’s “Bon-Bon”, in Poe Studies/Dark Romanticism, January/December 2006,
Volume 39-40, Issue 1-2, pp. 38-45.
Hammond, J. R. 1981. An Edgar Allan Poe Companion. A Guide to the Short Stories,
Romances and Essays, The Macmillan Press Ltd., London and Basingstoke.
Hirsch, David H. 1977. ‘The Duc de L’Omelette’ as Anti-Visionary Tale’, in Poe
Studies, December, Vol. X, No. 2, 10:36-39.
L. Moffitt, Cecil. 1972. ‘Poe’s Wine List’, in Poe Studies, December, Vol. V, No. 2, 5:41-
42.
Mossman, Tam [editor]. 1983. The Unabridged Edgar Allan Poe, illustrated by
Suzanne Clee, Running Press Book Publishers, Philadelphia.
Sova, Dawn B. 2007. Critical Companion to Edgar Allan Poe. A Literary Reference to
His Life and Work, Facts on File, New York.
The Short Fiction of Edgar Allan Poe. An Annotated Edition, Edited by Stuart Levine
and Susan Levine. 1990. University of Illinois Press, Urbana and Chicago

167
 PARADIGMS (RE)-VISITED IN MARIUS
CRISTIAN'S "LEGENDS ON THE PLATE"

ANEMONA ALB
aalb@uoradea.ro
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 551- 167

Abstract: What I am looking at in this paper is the myriad

configurations that the intermingling of fact and spin can take as regards
food and cooking in the history of the western world. Indeed, it is Marius
Cristian's endeavour (Cristian 2016) to delve into the intricacies of food
and cuisine in several western civilizations, ranging from ancient Rome
to the New World. Only once does he 'stray' from the geographically-
prescriptive path - and he goes away to remote China to identify there
yet another trail and origin of gastronomic relevance.
Key words: fact or spin; cuisine; cosmopolitan gastronomy;
modernity; ingredients and functional mechanism, capillarity

Cosmopolitan cuisine is modern. Or is it?

Issues pertaining to the framework of modernity, or more specifically to

plus/minus modernity crop up here; in other words, the question arises
as to what extent is the cosmopolitan, non-monolithic nature of cooking
modern? Is there mere isolation and non-capillarity at work, as it were,
in pre-modern times? Or do contiguous - but also at other times remote
- civilizations interact and intermingle in times of yore? Cristian seems
to believe so, and he indeed substantiates his claim. He mentions, inter
alia, that the use of mayonnaise - as a tribute to modernity, he claims - is
only associated with yoghurt, in the sense that that association is only
possible in modern times, when the preservation of yoghurt is possible,
hence the combo is a modern one. Indeed tributes to modernity and the
eclecticism thereof pervade the text under scrutiny here. In the same
chapter, Cristian refers to some of the staples of modern / postmodern
culture, i.e. pop culture, namely he refers to Mickey Mouse and Cole
Porter, both iconic figures of American culture, albeit the former a
figment of Walt Disney's imagination, the latter a real person. He
associates elements of high culture in a famous cookbook (The Cook
Book by Oscar of the Waldorf, published in 1896) with these pop icons:

168
 "Ce știm sigur e că rețeta a văzut pentru prima oară lumina tiparului în 1896, an
în care a apărut The Cook Book by Oscar of the Waldorf. Și a ajuns repede foarte
populară, devenind, în plus, un simbol al calității pentru americani, dovadă că și Cole
Porter a inclus-o în cântecul său You're the Top, alături de, printre altele, Muzeul
Luvru, sonetele lui Shakespeare, Fred Astaire, Colloseum, Camembert, coniacul
Napoleon, Mahatma Gandhi turnul înclinat din Pisa, Mickey Mouse etc. (Cristian
2016: 94)
"What we do know for sure is that the recipe was first published in 1896, when
the The Cook Book by Oscar of the Waldorf appeared. And it quickly got to be
bestseller, all the more becoming the quintessence of quality to the Americans; the
fact that Cole Porter himself included it in his song You're the Top, among, inter
alia, The Louvre, Shakespeare's sonnets, Fred Astaire, the Collosseum, Camembert,
Napoleon brandy, Mahatma Gandhi, the reclining tower of Pisa, Mickey Mouse
etc."(Cristian 2016:94; translation mine-Anemona Alb)
Incidentally, it is one of critics' current preoccupations to revisit
the concept of 'modernism.' More specifically, critics such as Antoine
Compagnon (2016) tackle the issue of Modernism in its antinomy, i.e
'anti-modernisme'. In his seminal book Les antimodernes. de Joseph de
Maistre a Roland Barthes (2016), Compagnon lays out various
instantiations of what he terms the 'entropy' of all things ideological -
and indeed the resistance to change of Modernism itself. Indeed,
Compagnon argues, modernism is riddled with paradox (see de Maistre's
paradoxical praise, l'eloge paradoxal, as Compagnin puts it, quoting
Cioran (l'eloge qui tue). To quote Compagnon (2016),
"Le style croit en intensite avec le paradoxe: de Maistre n'est jamais aussi a
l'aise que dans l'eloge paradoxal, 'l'eloge qui tue', comme disait Cioran dans la
preface de sa judicieuse anthologie des ecrits de de Maistre, dont cette phrase avait
marquee Barthes: 'Toute apologie devrait etre un assassinat par enthousiasme." Ce
gout particulier du paradoxe et de la provocation - cette maniere de raisonner que
Baudelaire herita de lui - explique l'abondance des antitheses, des oxymorons et des
alliances de termes." (Compagnon 2016: 176-177)
"Style accrues in intensity along with paradox: de Maistre has never been to
such an extent at ease than when engaging in paradox, 'the praise that kills', to quote
Cioran in the Preface to his thorough anthology of de Maistre's writings, wherefrom
the following sentence impressed Barthes: 'All praise should be murder by
enthusiasm'. This particular taste for paradox and provocation - this manner of
thinking that Baudelaire would later inherit from him – is what accounts for the
abundance of antitheses, oxymoron and alliances of terms '(Compagnon 2016: 176-
177; translation mine-Anemona Alb)
Note how aspects of high culture (the Louvre, Shakespeare's
sonnets etc.) get intertwined with elements of pop or low culture (Fred
Astaire, Mickey Mouse) and all this frame is neatly placed within another
frame, that of the Cook Book that itself lies on the boundary between
high and low culture. Indeed, a mise-en-abime of sorts. The capillarity
thereof is part and parcel of postmodern paradigms, whereby high and
low culture insignia get juxtaposed in all ideological eclecticism.
The juxtaposition of cultures that I mentioned above, the
porousness thereof is tackled in the ensuing paragraph, where Cristian

169
identifies how this American creation, this famous cookbook has rippled
out into the Old World, more specifically in - lo and behold! -
communist Romania (1982), when, he claims, the Waldorf salad hit
Romania:
"Din punctul meu de vedere, primul contact cu salata Waldorf a avut loc
în 1982, când a apărut Albumul Literar Gastronimic scos de revista „Viața
românească”."
"As far as I'm concerned, the first contact with the Waldorf salad was in
1982, when The Literary-Gastronomic Album was published, issued by Viata
Romaneasca magazine." (Cristian 2016: 94; translation mine-Anemona Alb)
The question emerges: is it really so late into the 20th century
that this recipe hit Romania? Or, alternatively, is it just Cristian's first
encounter with the famous recipe that is the case here? Cristian's
reference is oblique - and perhaps deliberately so - namely to suggest
that access to such sophisticated, decadent western pursuits of hedonism
was out of the question under communism and that bibliographical
sources were scarce and hard to come by at the time. It is, one might
argue, a covert critique of communist censorship and hence
anachronism that Cristian, in my view, aims at here; and indeed succeeds
in perpetuating this putative sense of confusion, blurred reference and
obliteration, ultimately. As such, access to such sources originating in the
West was so hard to come by, that self-inflicted (narrative) amnesia can
be said to be name of the game. Indeed, one of the subtleties of Cristian's
writing. And there are some.
It is precisely this subversive quality of discourse – in point of
political evasiveness - that also informs Cristian's rendering of the more
or less occult aspects of the history of gastronomy.

Elusive Definitions

Yet another epistemological preoccupation that Cristian seems to engage

in is that of defining, or aiming to, various items in several national
cuisines. In so doing, he also provides the socio-cultural and historical
context thereof. Hence some palimpsestic definitions emerge, whereby
layer after layer of cultural re-defining can arguably be noticed:
"Cât despre titulatura French Toast, ea e rezervată aproape exclusiv
americanilor și canadienilor vorbitori de engleză (dar în Louisiana, de pildă, s-a
păstrat numele 'pain perdu'). Iar o legendă teribil de simpatică ne informează că
rețeta ar fi fost inventată, în 1724 fix, de un hangiu din Albany, N.Y., pe numele său
Joseph French. Care hangiu, fiind el varză la gramatică, n-a știut că ar fi trebuit să-și
prezinte invenția drept French's Toast și a scris în meniu French Toast! Aproape la
fel de amuzantă e și legenda patriotică, din care putem afla că în SUA, dar și-n
Anglia, rețeta asta ar fi fost cunoscută, până-n 1914, sub numele de German Toast (în
paranteză fie spus, da, numele ăsta a circulat și mai circulă încă, dar asta n-are nicio
legătură). Însă, după izbucnirea Primului Razboi Mondial, o indignare generală la
adresa oricărei aluzii referitoare la germani a determinat schimbarea denumirii în

170
'French Toast', ca un omagiu adus principalului aliat din razboi! Și, dacă tot am ajuns
aici, parcă-i păcat să nu părăsim un pic teritoriul legendelor, cât să vă reamintesc
faptul că, în 2003, în semn de protest față de refuzul Franței de a participa la
invadarea Irakului, destui patrioți americani au rebotezat French Toast și French
Fries, care au devenit astfel Freedom Toast și Freedom Fries! Nu te pui cu sfânta
indignare patriotică ...". (Cristian 2016: 49-50)
"As for the misnomer French Toast, this is reserved almost exclusively to
the Americans and English-speaking Canadians (but in Louisianna, for instance, it
has preserved the name of pain perdu). And a terribly nice legend goes that the
recipe allegedly was invented in 1724 by an inn-keeper in Albany, N.Y., called Joseph
French. An inn-keeper, who, being inept at grammar, ignored the fact that he should
have introduced his invention as French's Toast and wrote down French Toast on
the menu! Almost equally amusing is the patriotic legend whereby we find out that
in the USA, but also in England, this recipe was well-known, until 1914, under the
name of German Toast (by the way, indeed, this moniker used to circulate and still
does so, but this has nothing to do with our issue at hand). However, after World
War One broke out, a general sense of indignation as regards any alluding to the
Germans triggered the change of name to French Toast, as a tribute to the main
war ally! And, since we have reached this point in our story, it would be a shame to
depart from the realm of legends and to fail reminding you that, in 2003, as a protest
against France refusing to participate in invading Irak, several American patriots re-
baptized French Toast and French Fries, which thus became Freedom Toast and
Freedom Fries! One does not mess with patriotic fury ..."(Cristian 2016: 49-50;
translation mine-Anemona Alb)
Or, the way the apparently innocuous onion soup takes France
by storm in all its pre-revolutionary social strata, luring aristocracy and
peasantry alike, cross-sectionally so, is also laid out here in an attempt
at definition. What is, Cristian ponders, the Garbure-Cooper recipe all
about? Says he,
"Dar, dacă e clar că supa de ceapă cucerește Franța secolelor XVII - XVIII, e
cumva ciudat faptul că, nepăsător la preferințele regilor, aristocrației și
academicienilor, marele Escoffier nu dă nicio rețetă explicită de supă de ceapă. Doar
o pomenește drept materie primă pentru altele. Recomandă totuși o rețetă destul de
apropiată de versiunea contemporană, dar fără făină, fără vin, cât despre coniac nici
vorbă! pe care însă o botează, din motive care-mi scapă, Garbure-Cooper. Acuma, ce-
nseamnă Garbure putem afla din Larousse Gastronomique: cic-ar fi un potaj bearnez
gros de legume, cu varză și untură de gâscă (!). Deci, fără nicio legatură cu supa de
ceapă. Cât despre cine-o fi misteriosul Cooper, mă tem că e cam greu de aflat.
Oricum, bizara alăturare (cu cratima!) dintre regionalismul Garbure și numele anglo-
saxon Cooper, lipită pe o rețetă atât de tipic și general franțuzească (cum e
considerată azi), ramâne una care ar merita, poate, studiată." (Cristian 2016: 111-112)
"But, although it is quite clear that the onion soup takes XVIIth-XVIIIth France
by storm, it is quite odd that, dismissive of the preferences of kings, academics and
the aristocracy, the great Escoffier gives no explicit recipe for onion soup. He merely
mentions it as raw material for other kinds of courses. Yet, he does recommend a
recipe close enough to the contemporary version, but containing no flour, no wine,
as for brandy, no way! That he calls, for reasons that elude me, Garbure-Cooper.
Now, what this means exactly we can find out by browsing Larousee
Gastronomique; apparently it is a Bearnois thick vegetable broth, with cabbage and
goose larder(!) Hence, no connection to the onion soup whatsoever. As for who the

171
mysterious Mr Cooper is, I'm afraid that is rather difficult to find out. Anyway, the
bizarre contiguity (a hyphenated one!) of the regional term Garbure and the Anglo-
Saxon name Cooper, all stuck on a typically general French label (as it is nowadays
considered), remains something worth studying. (Cristian 2016: 111-112; translation
mine - Anemona Alb)
Other, equally intriguing definitions are engendered by
autocracy, hegemony, dominance and job taxonomies. Indeed taxonomy
begets power, be it political or culinary. In discerning the generative
mechanisms of the Chateaubriand beefsteak, Cristian juggles various
taxonomies in a risqué play upon power. The following excerpt is a case
in point:
„Dar, în fine, să trecem peste amintirile din Epoca de Aur și să revenim la
fripturile noastre. În cazul de față, nu există (aproape) niciun dubiu: mușchiul de vită
Chateaubriand este indisolubil legat de mai sus pomenitul și celebrul Francois-Rene
de Chateaubriand. În ce mod? Ei, de aici încolo putem începe să dăm drumul la
variante. Prima dintre ele, și cea mai răspândită, zice că responsabil pentru
inventarea acestui enorm grătar ar fi bucătarul său personal, un anume Montmireil,
care ar fi inventat rețeta asta pe când Chateaubriand era ambasador al Franței în
Imperiul britanic (unii avansează anul 1822). Este versiunea susținută inclusiv de
Larousse gastronomique. O a doua versiune, sensibil mai subțire documentar, spune
că, după apariția lucrării L'itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem (1811), un restaurant din
Champeux ar fi introdus în meniu această friptură, botezând-o cu numele lui
Chateaubriand. Motivul? Nu se știe. De ce i-ar fi apucat pe respectivii cetățeni
dragostea de Chateaubriand fix după apariția acestei lucrări și nu după vreo alta ...
Mai curând i-aș crede pe englezi, care susțin că, de fapt, e vorba doar de un beefsteak
britanic la scară mai mare. Doar nu degeaba ar fi inventat Montmireil friptura taman
când Chateaubriand era la post în Anglia (a botezat-o cu numele stăpânului? Asta era
moda, nu se pune...). Și doar marii meșteri ai grătarului de vită sunt englezii, nu
francezii, deci mușchiul e British, nicidecum French." (Cristian 2016: 144)
"Well, let' s get over this - i.e. the Golden Age - and resume discussing our
steaks at hand. Here there is no doubt whatsoever: Chateaubriand beef is
indissolubly linked to the aforementioned Francois-Rene de Cahteaubriand. In what
way? Well, hereafter we can start speculating on versions thereof. The first of these
versions, and indeed the most widespread one, goes that the one responsible for the
invention of this enormous barbecue is his personal chef, a certain Montmireil, who
had allegedly invented this recipe when Chateaubriand was Ambassador to the
British Empire (some put forward the year 1822). This is the version supported by the
Larousse Gastronomique itself. A second version, visibly less substantiated in point
of documentation, asserts that, as a result of the publication of L'Itineraire de Paris a
Jerusalem (1811), a restaurant in Champeux apparently introduced this steak on the
menu, naming it after Chateubriand. And the reason for that? We cannot tell. Why
on earth would the people involved come up with this sudden affection for
Chateaubriand precisely after the publication of this work and none other ... I would
rather believe the English who maintain that, in fact, this is about a British beefsteak
on a grander scale. As Montmireil would not just have invented the steak for no
reason, precisely when Chateaubriand was Ambassador to the British Empire (did
the former name it after his master? That was very much in vogue at the time, hence
it does not count). Furthermore, the grand masters of beef barbecuing are the Brits,
not the French, hence the recipe is definitely British, not French at all." (Cristian
2016: 144; translation mine-Anemona Alb)

172
Ingredients with a difference and functional generative mechanisms

In other equally intriguing, albeit well-documented speculations upon

the origins of certain recipes (see the Stroganoff recipe), Cristian locates,
say, physiological rather than cultural reasons for a certain recipe to have
been moulded as it is known today:
"Varianta cel mai des invocată este aceea că ar fi vorba despre Contele Pavel
Stroganof (1772-1817), poate și pentru faptul că a fost un personaj ceva mai vizibil
decât alții, fiind consilier personal (și prieten din copilarie) al Țarului Alexandru I,
dar și general în războaiele napoleoniene (s-a distins în mod special în Bătălia de la
Leipzig). Iar partea colorată (și cam stupidă) a versiunilor care-l au drept personaj
principal ar fi aceea că bucătarul său ar fi inventat acest fraged fel de mâncare
deoarece contele avea mari probleme cu dinții." (Cristian 2016: 147)
"The generally invoked variant is that of the involvement of Count Pavel
Stroganoff (1772-1817) in all this, perhaps moreover due to the fact that he was a
rather more visible character than others, as he was a private counsel to Tzar
Alexander I (to say nothing of a childhood friend of his), but also a General in the
Napoleonic Wars (known for his valor in the Battle of Leipzig). And as for the juicy
(and rather silly) part, of versions circulating that have him as a main character, that
goes as follows: his chef had allegedly invented this tenderloin dish as the Count had
serious tooth issues." (Cristian 2016: 157; translation mine-Anemona Alb)

Conclusion

Socio-cultural and historical underpinnings, as shown above abound in

Marius Cristian's study of the mythological, legendary nature of recipes.
Not only is his book redolent of a certain sophisticated hauteur, but it
also constitutes food for thought for the consummate anthropologist on
a research quest for all things culinary.

REFERENCES

Barthes, Roland, 1981, Le Neutre, Paris: Gallimard.

Cioran, Emil, 1980, Preface a Maistre, Textes Choisis, Paris: Gallimard.
Compagnon, Antoine, 2016, Les antimodernes. de Joseph Maistre a Roland Barthes,
Paris: Gallimard.
Cristian, Marius, 2016, Legendele din farfurie. Rețete celebre cu garnitură de povești,
salată de mituri și tacâmuri istorice, Oradea: Ratio et Revelatio (Colectia De Re
Culinaria).

173
 KITCHEN AND THE HEART(H)LAND OF A
SPIRITUAL JOURNEY IN ”THE FORTY RULES
OF LOVE” BY ELIF SHAFAK

DANA SALA
dsf_dana@yahoo.com
Associate Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 552-168

Abstract: The first reader of the novel on Rumi happens to be

Ella Rubinstein, who has just accepted a part-time job for the literary
agency based in Boston. Kitchen is Ella’s most trusted place. She is not at
ease in her own house as there is an older wound from her childhood,
carefully buried. Twenty years into her marriage, kitchen has also
become the place where her needs are neglected on a daily basis.
Actually, kitchen symbolizes Ella’s quest for spiritual nourishment. In the
kitchen Ella becomes aware of her necessity of a spiritual master, whom
she finds in Aziz. Here the process of reading and of dwelling in
imagination is paralleled with her search for a channel through love, a
channel which she finds in cooking. Apart from reading, it is in the
kitchen that Ella discovers her greatest gift: the risk to love.
Key words: kitchen, nourishment, spiritual journey, Rumi, quest

Motto:
You see, as remarkable and successful as he no doubt is, Rumi himself has several times confided in
me that he feels inwardly dissatisfied. There is something missing in his life—an emptiness that
neither his family nor his disciples can fill. Once I told him, though he was anything but raw, he
wasn’t burned either. His cup was full to the brim, and yet he needed to have the door to his soul
opened so that the waters of love could flow in and out.

The whole city was a Tower of Babel. Everything was constantly shifting, splitting, coming to light,
transpiring, thriving, dissolving, decomposing, and dying. Amid this chaos I stood in a place of
unperturbed silence and serenity, utterly indifferent to the world and yet at the same time feeling a
burning love for all the people struggling and suffering in it. As I watched the people around me, I
recalled another golden rule: It’s easy to love a perfect God, unblemished and infallible that He is.
What is far more difficult is to love fellow human beings with all their imperfections and defects.
Remember, one can only know what one is capable of loving. There is no wisdom without love.
Unless we learn to love God’s creation, we can neither truly love nor truly know God.

A parallelism between the 13th century and the 21st century generates
the intertextual canvas of Elif Shafak’s novel, The Forty Rules of Love.
The narrative voices step back and forth linking Rumi’s century with the
contemporary year 2008. In the novel-within-the novel, a thirty-seven-

174
year-old Rumi, the famous Persian poet, who lived between 1207 and
1273, enters a new phase of his existence with the arrival of Shams of
Tabriz. Shams challenged everything Rumi had known about love and
life. Rumi ‒aware in his theoretical preaching that the beliefs of false self
prevent any man from being and living full heartily in the love of God‒
had been living in a selfish indulgence himself. A former widower, a
father of two boys, a husband with a devoted loving wife, Rumi was,
nevertheless, unable to rock the boat, unable to disturb the balance of his
life and of his faith. He was spoiled by fate, he was surrounded by the
love of the people who travelled a long way to hear his sermons.
Shams, in turn, was a wandering dervish who obeyed no social
rules. He had developed his own system of 40 spiritual rules. He needed
a mirror for his soul. Shams was able to live in words and through words.
Many a time words used to be his only means of survival. He was not in
favor of being a beggar-dervish, he disliked that, but, as he had no
possessions, he could not pay his meals. However, he had words and he
paid his meals with words. Shams was also a dream interpreter. As a
child, he had a vision, he saw angels. He got estranged from his family
when they wanted for him the pleasant, dull life of a carpenter. There is
another strange dream in which Shams finds himself thrown into a
fountain by his killer, while an unknown man desperately calls him and
remains in deep sorrow after Shams does not answer.
Each chapter bears the name of o a narrator and thus the voices
alternate. There are common grounds for this glissando between
centuries: the religious clashes, the intolerance, the search of a spiritual
response in times of crises. But the most important parallelism happens
not in the background, but in the lives of the protagonists. Ella reads a
novel and goes through the same transformation as Rumi. She was not
able to rock the boat of her marriage. She needs a mentor to find love
within her.
In the contemporary novel, a city means an anonymous crowd of
people, it does not bear the mark of a destiny, of a master or of an
initiation journey as in the 13th century. Instead of the city, the kitchen
becomes a special topos for the contemporary heroine.
Ella Rubinstein, a contemporary housewife, does not have the
courage to be vulnerable with her own husband and children. Thus she
has come to keep them at a distance, without having the impression and
overcompensating her lack of openness with the extra-effort and chores
she does for her family. She deludes herself and she prefers accepting her
husband’s everyday lies to taking a radical decision.
After being sent to a literary agency based in Boston, a novel,
entitled 'Sweet Blasphemy', will completely change the life of its first
reader: a woman unlikely to give up her housewife routine, a ‘Deeply
Settled, Earthy Housewife’. The novel is a fictitious account of Rumi's

175
discovery of the Sufi path of love. The first reader of the novel on Rumi
happens to be Ella Rubinstein, who has just accepted a part-time job for
the literary agency based in Boston. Little is known about the author of
the manuscript waiting to be reviewed. He is neither an aspiring writer
nor a consecrated one. The amateur writer, Aziz Zahara, an eccentric
man, devoted to good causes, based in Amsterdam in the year 2008 but
also travelling to exotic places, has invented a story about the famous
Persian poet using on his own account the documentation and the
experience in the discovery of a spiritual path in life. Unconsciously, the
author has projected himself into the novel by creating his alter-ego
character. Shams of Tabriz, the man who triggered the deepest change in
Rumi, giving him the legacy of the 40 rules of love, is the very character
corresponding to Aziz Zahara. Therefore, Aziz portrays himself as Shams.
When the novel reaches its first reader it has the effect of a stone
thrown into a lake:
”Throw a stone into a lake. The effect will be not only visible but also
far more lasting. The stone will disrupt the still waters. A circle will form where
the stone hit the water, and in a flash that circle will
multiply into another, then another. Before long the ripples caused by one plop
will expand until they can be felt everywhere along the mirrored surface of the
water. Only when the circles reach the shore will they stop and die out. (…) For
forty years Ella Rubinstein’s life had consisted of still waters—a predictable
sequence of habits, needs, and preferences. Though it was monotonous and
ordinary in many ways, she had not found it tiresome. During the last twenty
years, every wish she had, every person she befriended, and every decision she
made was filtered through her marriage.”

Ella’s kitchen- a dwelling for reading

Ella is a mother of three children. Content with the fact that she does
not have to be the bread-winner in the family, she devotes all her time to
her off springs. Kitchen is her kingdom. She takes minute care of all the
meals in the family, she cooks as a way to express her love, she runs
errands and sometimes she fulfills her patience as an avid reader who,
after all, has a degree in literature. Her time of reading is spent in the
kitchen, not in the bedroom or in her living-room.
Kitchen is Ella’s most trusted place. She is not at ease in her own
house as there is an older wound from her childhood, carefully buried.
The reader finds out that in childhood Ella discovered her father after he
had committed suicide.
More than twenty years into her marriage, kitchen has also
become the place where her needs are neglected on a daily basis. It is
easier to cook as an act of giving, as an act of love, and she does it to add
more stability. Kitchen is also the place of small disruptions, of
contradictory arguments. Her husband’s adultery is not something that

176
happened once or used to happen. Her husband’s affairs have turned
into a routine. The routine is prolonged by small rituals. The ritual of
husband thanking after dinner and the ritual of forgiveness. There is an
older feeling of guilt. It is lingering and it has more to do with the suicide
of Ella’s father.
Unconsciously, her family exploits that ancient guilt, Ella’s
readiness for being guilty without having a definite cause. All members
of the family exploit Ella indirectly through their demands. They have
developed the habit of making their mother even more neglectful of her
own wishes and or her own needs. Ella has taken the path of denying all
her wishes in favor of the others. This path is reinforced by many
everyday patterns which apparently ensure the stability of the family.
Ella Rubinstein takes the part-time job for the literary agency in
an attempt to redefine herself. Her first challenge is to read the novel on
Rumi. She loves her three children but she goes through a crisis with no
obvious symptoms when she does not feel needed any longer by them, as
they are in highschool, irrespectively college. Ella's marriage to David has
turned into a loveless companionship. She does not dare to rock the boat
and confront her husband about his affairs. She keeps numbing an older
pain, by blocking herself to share love full-heartily. Her younger
daughter suffers from bulimia, her son has turned into a cynical teenager
and her elder daughter is not met with the support she needs when she
announces her marriage intention.

The emotional journey from the kitchen. The spiritual path

Kitchen is the most trusted place in the house for Ella. She is at ease in
the kitchen, she can rule things from here and she does obtain, like in a
small-scale alchemy, some transformation of the destiny. In a way,
kitchen is place from where she also rules the others.
”When they finally hung up, Ella headed to the kitchen and did what
she always did at times of emotional unrest: She cooked. When she sat at the
table with her twins, Ella’s guilt gave way to melancholy. She resisted Avi’s pleas
to order pizza and Orly’s attempts not to eat anything, forcing them to munch
on wild rice with green peas and roast beef with mustard glaze. And although on
the surface she was the same hands-on, concerned mother, she felt a surge of
despair rise in her, a sharp taste in her mouth, sour like bile. When dinner was
over, Ella sat at the kitchen table on her own, finding the stillness around her
heavy and unsettling. Suddenly the food she had cooked, the outcome of hours
of hard work, seemed not only dull and boring but easily replaceable. She felt
sorry for herself. It was a pity that, at almost forty, she hadn’t been able to make
more of her life. She had so much love to give and yet no one demanding it. As
any subservient, over-giving person, she thinks her role is to sacrifice herself”.
Kitchen is the epitome of stability. As long as her husband comes
home to take his seat at the dinner table, she can pretend that their

177
marriage has no problems. She is reassured in her need of stability.
Kitchen reinforces stability. The only place where Ella feels comfortable
is the kitchen. It is also the only place in the house where she could feel
her pain, a necessary state for a healing process.
”It was then and there, while sitting alone at the kitchen table with only
a faint glimmer of light from the oven, that Ella realized that despite her high-
flying words denying it, and despite her ability to keep a stiff upper lip, deep
inside she longed for love. Less than an hour later, both her husband and the
kids had left, and Ella was in the kitchen alone. Life
seemed to have resumed its regular course. She opened her favorite cookbook,
Culinary Artistry Made Plain and Easy, and after considering several options
chose a fairly demanding menu that would keep her busy all afternoon: Clam
Chowder with Saffron, Coconut, and Oranges Pasta Baked with Mushrooms,
Fresh Herbs, and Five Cheeses
Rosemary-Infused Veal Spareribs with Vinegar and Roasted Garlic
Lime-Bathed Green Bean and Cauliflower Salad
Then she decided on a dessert: Warm Chocolate Soufflé.
There were many reasons that Ella liked cooking. Creating a delicious meal out
of ordinary ingredients was not only gratifying and fulfilling but also strangely
sensual. But more than that, she enjoyed cooking
because it was something she was really good at. Besides, it quieted her mind.
The kitchen was the one place in her life where she could avoid the outside
world altogether and stop the flow of time within herself. (…). Working the
entire afternoon, Ella set an exquisite table with matching napkins, scented
candles, and a bouquet of yellow and orange flowers so bright and striking they
looked almost artificial. For the final touch, she added sparkly napkin rings.
When she was done, the dining table resembled those found in stylish home
magazines”.
As the realm of alchemical transformation, kitchen is the topos
where time can be suspended. It will be the onset of her journey through
the act of reading. Through the food she makes, she expresses her love,
yet she craves spiritual nourishment.
As a person more comfortable with stability, she is the opposite
of an adventurer. She is the person least likely to look for love in
unexpected places, yet she has made a rule of being content with what
she has. She is unaware of the unity of the world. She rejects the fact that
she could look for something other than stability. In this moment, she
discovers that she does not know much about love.
Here kitchen reflects her well. Tasty, over-giving, yet not
managing to make everybody feel loved through her dishes. She is
bruised by everybody in the family trampling upon her. It is a role of an
invisible person she has chosen for her life.
Cooking is an everyday practice which acts as a soothing
experience for Ella. It is through kitchen that she tries to keep the unity
of her family. She develops and refines this art because it gives her a

178
purpose. On one hand, it keeps her grounded in the stability, in the earth
element she must keep.
On the other hand, it allows her to travel. Her voyage is a
spiritual one and a voyage of the imagination. By talking in person to
Aziz, by starting from friendship, she turns into a disciple and turns him
into her master.

Cities- the spiritual journey and nourishment

The narrative voices of the 13th century unfold in the first person
singular. There is a connection between the voice, the location and the
development of the plot, along with the initiation process.
The cities of the thirteen centuries were threatened by religious
clashes. There is an event that shall happen in the aftermath of the days
of the novel, namely the presence of the Mongols and the destruction
brought by them. The cities were abandoned, ruined.
There is a discussion at an inn about Baghdad. The cities carry
the faces of the inhabitants. There is an individualization of the city
through its community.
Shams of Tabriz analyses Rumi’s Konya through its sordid part.
He will go where the lepers are, he will choose a few faces from the mass
of anonymity. On the account of these faces he will judge the master. It
is not to demonstrate superiority but to illustrate Oneness. There is a
path that Rumi has not seen before, the path of the leper, of the
prostitute and of the drunkard.
The city is quite a mixture of all nations and of all professions. It
is quite a tower of Babel. But the medieval cities of the Orient had some
features: one could become aware of one’s destiny through such a
pilgrimage. One could gain a greater spirituality. Cities had a life of their
own. The cities told their stories, the travelers through the cities were
also the receivers of the stories. For convicts, for those who committed a
crime, the cities could be a hiding place, but this hiding place did not
prove to be enough, as for the Jackal Head. The cities seemed to contain
the reality of initiation.
In the mixture of the city, in the Babylon, however there was a
path and that path was a clear path. It is the new self that could develop
in the city.
It was like the city was a cradle for a new self.
The city was protected by the saints of the city, showing the
ambivalence. The city was connected to death, because that is the
ambivalence in the case of Shams of Tabriz.
After leaving Rumi, Tabriz goes to other Asian cities, to
Damascus. But he comes back to Konya to fulfill a destiny. He comes
towards his own death. The foreigner was in the city.

179
Conclusion:

In the contemporary novel, Ella feels at ease only in her kitchen. Not her
bedroom is the place of evasion, but the kitchen. It is here that she
becomes the possessor of a secret alchemy. Actually, kitchen symbolizes
Ella’s quest for spiritual nourishment. In the kitchen Ella becomes aware
of her necessity of a spiritual master, whom she finds in Aziz. Here the
process of reading and of dwelling in imagination is paralleled with her
search for a channel through love, a channel which she finds in cooking.
Ella is genuine when she cooks, she finds a sense of belonging in
cooking. But cooking is also her form of sacrifice, her feeling that she is
not enough, her need that she must win the others in the family with her
perfect meals.
Through the imaginary story of Rumi, with whom she identifies,
Ella starts to open herself to love, to be a vessel of love. The seed of
unhappiness, buried somewhere in her house, has produced some
poisonous results that keep bothering her. One of her daughters suffers
from bulimia.
It is the spiritual nourishment what Ella needed, what she was
looking for. Her new self is born and this happens in parallel with Rumi’s
change. Rumi had been the revered master of words, but he was also far
from being a poet and far from the intention of letting the words flow
through him in poetical incantations. Only after that Rumi could define
himself as: I am not of the East, nor of the West. My place is placeless, a
trace of the traceless:
If kitchen used to be a place from where she could dismiss the
outer world, it is in the kitchen that Ella discovers her greatest gift: the
risk to love.

WORKS CITED

Elif Shafak, The Forty Rules of Love, Viking, New York, 2010;

180
 IMAGES OF WOMEN IN ROMANIAN FILMS
DURING COMMUNISM

ADINA PRUTEANU
adina_pruteanu@yahoo.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universității Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 553-169

Abstract: The present paper focuses on the ways in which some of

the Romanian films released during the ’70s-’80s displayed the images of
the ‘new woman’. It aims at illustrating the roles a woman had both in
private and public spaces, in the context of a totalitarian regime.
Key words: ‘new woman’, film, communism, ideology,
emancipation

Many of the successful Romanian films of ’70s and ’80s were of

great interest not only due to their relaxing, entertaining effect, but also
because a large part of the audience could find themselves represented
by the characters, typologies and situations which seemed to have their
perfect correspondent in life. The political context of the ’80s was not a
happy one, the Communist party tightly monitored and controlled the
cultural and artistic life, as well as all the other domains of life. It was the
time when films ‘had to’ promote the image of the ‘new man’, devoted to
the party’s ideology; they had to comply with the principles of a
totalitarian ruler who viewed every man as the obedient contributor to
the building and development of the socialist society.
Films were seen as depictions of life, of society and as efficient
means of spreading and subtly imposing the official authoritarian points
of view. Thus, the “constant reference of the cinema to the present time,
its forming and empowering ability determine the pressure of
propaganda to distort the story, to use it as an ideological tool”. (Ilieșu,
2013:7) The films of the last decade of Communism in Romania were
mainly dominated by the obsession with the daily, ordinary life, the
feminine characters being illustrated as individuals comprising a lot of
strong features agreed by the Communist ideological line, according to
which a woman had to be a good and loving mother, a careful wife, a
restless housekeeper, a loyal, dilligent and competent worker whose
contribution to the development of the nation was enormous.

181
 Although the politics aim was to shape and promote the
idealized image of a happy woman, the challenges a woman had to take
daily were not the easiest ones, as she had to experience the ‘double
burden’, having to fulfill her duties at work, as well as at home. Thus, in
the public life, at her jobs, a woman had to be equal to men, while at
home, she turned into a protective mother and wife concerned with her
own family’s well-being. She had to be what the regime called ‘a new
human being’, characterized by
“a combination of tenacity, obedience, collectivism, the sense of
unconditional duty towards the state and the party, self-sacrifice, an ethic of
care which was not doubled by an ethics of rights”. (Miroiu, 2004:204-205, my
translation)
Many of these characteristics of the ‘new woman’ are
encountered in the films of the ’70s-’80s, of which I selected the comedy
series Toamna bobocilor (The Freshmen’s Autumn), Iarna bobocilor (The
Freshmen’s Winter) and Primăvara bobocilor (The Freshmen’s Spring), as
well as the dramas Destine romantice (Romantic Destinies) and Angela
merge mai departe (Angela Goes On). They belong to different stylistic
visions, being more or less altered by the propagandistic elements.
The successful series comprising three comedies: Toamna
bobocilor (The Freshmen’s Autumn, 1975), Iarna bobocilor (The
Freshmen’s Winter, 1977), and Primăvara bobocilor (The Freshmen’s
Spring, 1985), is an instance of the way in which the insipidness of a
propagandistic message can be ingeniously disguised under the veils of
humour, irony and satire. The story unfolds in Viișoara, an ‘inexistent’
village that may be identified with any other village in the country. The
series is meant to emphasize the ‘bright’ side of living and working in a
far-away place, in the real social context in which young people were
officially sent to work in the countryside right after graduating faculties.
The arrival of the three young graduates: Mariela Tudor, the
teacher of French language, Ovidiu Ghiculescu, the doctor and Geo
Severus, the agricultural engineer, change, to different extents, the lives
of the villagers. The three intellectuals’ desire is to immediately leave the
village, as they are coldly received by the village officials, especially
Toderaș, the president of the Agricultural Production Cooperative, who
prepares their papers of negation – at that time, young graduates could
ask the officials for papers of negations which would have saved them
from staying and confronting the ‘dullness’ of places where they had
been distributed. Varvara, Toderaș’ wife, is the one who makes all the
efforts to support and persuade the three newcomers to stay in their
village, which finally happens. Varvara, the central feminine character,
stands for the ‘model’ socialist fieldworker. Authoritarian, persuasive,
courageous, she always seems to know what to do. As a president of the
party’s local women organization, she has the power to interfere in her

182
husband’s problems and does her best to convince him she is right in
most of the situations.
The instauration of Communism brought about the
emancipation of women not only by education but also by
collectivization, a very painful process for many people. Women were
then given the ‘chance’ to run agricultural brigades and impose their
ideas to others in order to make them work better. Thus, they could
liberate themselves financially, they could create and develop their own
network of social relations which could help them manage during
difficult times. Varvara embodies one of them, and in the second film of
the series she even becomes the president of the Agricultural Production
Cooperative in her own village, a highly demanding position during that
period.
The relationship she has with her husband in the public space
does not differ too much from that she has with him in their private
space. Their way of communication may be regarded as a comic
reproduction, at a small scale, of the ideological war between men and
women. Even when her husband tries to keep her away from voting
against his decisions, Varvara proves very creative in showing him that
she cannot be excluded. For instance, when, in the first film of the series,
she is in maternity leave and cannot take part in one of the meeting led
by her husband, Varvara turns on the wall speaker to hear the discussions
and flies a white flag out of the window when her vote is positive, and a
black one when her vote is negative. When Toderaș reproaches her of
being against him, making him feel embarrassed in front of other people,
she comforts him asserting that it is her love for him which makes her
interfere in his business. Despite her firmness when coming about work
and fulfilment of duty, Varvara proves to be a sensitive person when it is
about family, the place where she feels safe. She becomes nostalgic when
she recollects the beginnings of their love, the force that has unified
them.
The changes that occur in society – collectivization,
industrialization, education, the building of a modern country with all
the implications of this process – are reflected in the family, marriage
and private lives. For instance, people move to new places to work or to
study, as they have to contribute to the development of the country,
leaving their families for a short while or even for a lifetime.
Nevertheless, in Communism, the institution of marriage “preserved and
even consolidated several traditional functions of a family: that of
support, of financial and moral aid, that of haven – the more so as, in the
totalitarian systems, man is permanently threatened by the public space”.
(see Dumănescu, in Hurubeanu, 2015:121, my translation)

183
 Women are generally considered to identify better with the
interior space – the domestic one, while men with the exterior space –
the public space. But,

“women’s experiences of working alongside men and earning a living

wage […] emboldened some women to challenge the patriarchal behaviors and
attitudes of their male colleagues and spouses. In this sense, Socialism was
emancipating for some women, empowering them to appeal to their husbands
for help with domestic duties. It also illustrates that women did have agency:
they played an active role in shaping their own lives. (Penn, 2009: 30)
Varvara does not encounter any problem in feeling herself ‘at
home’ in both spaces. She would like her husband to be more involved in
the exterior space, but she would not dislike more help from him in the
domestic one. She always knows what she wants and how to get things.
She seems to challenge her husband constantly in her wish to make
things move in the right direction. In the second film of the series, they
reverse their roles: while Varvara goes to work, Toderaș stays at home
‘because he has a medical certificate’, taking care of their little child and
doing the housework, that is ‘chopping onions, carrots, peeling potatoes’,
as he angrily confesses. The real reason for which Toderaș stays at home
is not that Varvara has voluntarily wanted this, but because he refuses to
hold a job inferior to that he previously had. He was the president of the
Agricultural Production Cooperative, a position now held by his wife. He
feels humiliated by the fact that his wife and ‘her women planted him at
home’. The scene in which the two argues over his refusal to go to work
on inferior position reveals his frustration of having been deprived of his
power, his fury that the villagers may consider that he has been a poor
president as now they compare him to his wife. It also reveals Varvara’s
fear that the men from the village will not work for the village’s welfare
because the leader of the significant agricultural cooperative is a woman
whose husband stays at home.
The film opens with the question “Where are our men?”, asked
by Varvara at a meeting where most of the participants were women. The
question poses two facts, the first being that of the men’s absence from
the village because they went to work in factories – a subtle opportunity
to glorify the country’s industrialization – and the second one
illustrating women’s ironical attitude towards their men’s idleness when
they have to work the land. Varvara, the ingenious woman who has in
mind to build greenhouses in their village (in fact, this is an idea Toderaș
has had long before and Varvara wants to accomplish it) where all could
grow vegetables, finally manages to persuade the men from the village to
come back home and work for the newly-created jobs there.
In the last film of the series, she still holds the position of the
president of agricultural cooperative while Toderaș becomes a cow

184
caretaker. It seems that their son, a student at the Faculty of Agronomy,
will carry on his mother’s enthusiastic work.
The gallery of female characters is rich in various types of
personalities. Mariela, the young teacher of French represents the urban
intellectual who has, at the beginning, difficulties in adapting to rural
life, then learns how to find beauty in everything around her. Paulina,
Varvara’s niece, is the simple, naïve girl, whose main concerns are related
to the way in which she could make Pompei, the secretary of the local
youth organization, love her. She feels threatened by any woman around
Pompei, and she tries, with the help of Varvara (who advises her how to
dress), to change her fashion style in order to impress him. Praxiteea, a
beautiful lady who introduces herself as being a teacher of Greek, in fact
a journalist who realizes a documentary about the local people, is seen as
a rival by Silvia, the primary school teacher. Silvia, a symbol of morality
and honesty, and also a good cooker, has been waiting for ten years for
an intellectual to marry her. She finally marries Geo, the engineer.
In accordance with the political demands of that time, the series
underlines the importance work has in one’s life. Everyone should do
their best to help the development of the village that has to become more
competitive in a society in which industrialization has flourished.
The focus moves on the building site in Destine romantice
(Romantic Destinies), 1981, a film that explores the feminine versus
masculine in a context dictated by the Communist propaganda. Mihai
Mândrican, a chief engineer, meets his former wife, now married to
another man, and their little daughter who, unfortunately, will have a
tragic end.
Paulina, a waitress, makes all her efforts, but in vain, to win
Mihai’s heart. She has the ambition to learn welding from Haidaru, ‘the
best welder in the country’ who will become her lover for a short period
of time. She does not accept her condition as a worker and strives to go
to high school evening classes to become an ‘intellectual’. She arduously
wants to have a family. Thus, she does not refuse when Haidaru
proposes to teach her welding if she marries him. She soon realizes that
Haidaru is not the proper man for her, as he starts to impose himself and
even tries to resort to physical violence, and keeps on with her desire to
attract Mihai. She feels humiliated when, nicely dressed, in the middle of
the building site, surrounded by men working, she admires herself in a
mirror she holds in her hand and Mihai ignores her. She understands
that between Mihai and her there is a distance which she can reduce if
she does not give up education. While Paulina’s ambitions to work on a
building site and to study are motivated by her wish to be around the
man she likes, Elvira, the manager’s secretary, wants to be employed,
being driven by her strong wish to contribute to the development of the
country. She is going to accept whatever job is possible, for her it is

185
enough to do anything for the benefit of the country. In the end, Paulina
declares herself ‘happy’ because she has made Mihai fall in love with her
(this is what she believes) although he does not make any effort to notice
her in this respect.
The film contains many propagandistic elements. It promotes
the idea of equality between women and men. The principle of gender
equality was more a theoretical notion than a real one. It was highly
glorified through all the official tools, but in fact, gender inequalities
were still experienced by most of the women. In spite of the fact that
Paulina works as hard as men do, she feels disregarded by them because
of their misconception that her place would be at home.
A film with a slight touch of feminism is Angela merge mai
departe (Angela Goes On) (1981). Angela is a 40-year-old taxi driver
whose personality reveals with each drive she does. She comes into
contact with an entire world, her job being that of ‘looking, seeing and
understanding’, as she melancholically confesses. She is alone, as it is the
‘tradition’ in her family: her mother and grandmother were widows and
she is divorced. She does not believe in the second chance of a marriage,
as it is not ‘like a dress that can be tailored and retailored at one’s
pleasure’. A well- known TV woman, passenger in Angela’s car, hearing
Angela’s story tries to convince her that she deserves to give herself the
right to happiness. Angela tells her that, unfortunately, her ex-husband
beat her when she was 4 months pregnant. She is the victim of domestic
violence and her unhappy marriage, as well as the loss of the child have
left deep traces in her soul. She has resigned, in a way, aware that she
cannot change things. The TV woman journalist is on the way to her
own mother who, coincidentally, lives on the same street as Angela’s
mother. The journalist wants to meet Angela’s mother, so they go to the
latter’s home. The scene is dominated by Angela’s mother, a conservative
woman who turns herself into an interviewer, asking the unexpected
guest if she is married, if she has children and whose daughter she is. She
symbolizes the wisdom of old people and strongly believes that the best
thing in life is to have a family.
Her firm distrustfulness in love and marriage seems to weaken
when she meets Gyuri, an expert in drilling, a divorced man, with whom
she has a love affair. He is in Bucharest for a training course, but he is to
go to India to work there for three years. Things between them get
complicated when she lets him know that she has been pregnant
carrying his child but has made an abortion, the best solution, in her
opinion, as she has considered that he will not be eager to assume
responsibility. She projects all her past sufference over her present, thus
losing the chance to change her life. Her fear is that she might not be
sufficiently courageous to face the future. The news makes him act

186
madly and slaps her but in the end they go home together and have a
reconciliatory discussion.
An interesting scene, towards the end of the film, is that in which
Gyuri, wearing an apron, is chopping vegetables as he is making a soup,
while in the background there can be heard a recorded voice teaching
English lessons. Angela arrives home and within a few moments her
whole ‘domestic’ peacefulness is disrupted by the arrival of Gyuri’s wife
who is looking for him. The moment in which the three people stand
waiting in the living room, in great astonishment, is accompanied by the
recorded voice repeating, suggestively for the situation, the introductory
formula, as well as the gender of the noun: “I’m very happy to meet you.
We are all students. Are you all men? No, we are not. Some of the
students are men, some are women…” Angela does not need any
explanation from Gyuri, it has been enough for her hearing the woman
saying that ‘she has been looking for her husband.’ He feels disappointed
to see that Angela does not believe that he is divorced and that his ex-
wife keeps on naming him her ‘husband’ but without any affective
inference.
Finally, they decide to continue their life together. When he
proposes her to go with him in India, she seems to accept. However, after
a discussion with her mother, she realizes that she cannot leave her as
the old lady will not probably manage to live by herself. With tears in her
eyes, she sees him off and lets him go, promising to wait for him,
returning to her life and habits. She decides to go on with her work and
her evenings of watching films on TV, comfortably sitting on the sofa
while drinking a cup of tea spiced with rum.
Although lacking the annoying propagandistic elements, it
alludes to the idea that man can achieve happiness only through hard
work. Angela is the model of the honest worker who builds her life
around her job with which she identifies. The multiple experiences
accumulated during her work time by observing behaviours, dealing with
different types of personalities have made her become more mature and
learn how to ignore insignificant things as well as misconceptions. She
does not feel offended when a passenger – who works, to her
amusement, as a cook, a job considered to be, at that time, specific
mostly to women – tells her that being a taxi driver is not a job for a
woman. However, she feels offended when the same man, after
regretfully pondering on the ‘rare’ situations in which they both are –
divorced while people of their age are married, have children and even
expect to become grandparents – invites her to a party but he
recommends her to dress elegantly, put on some makeup before, being
sure that by doing this she will “look like a lady”. When later in the film
Gyuri invites her out, she thinks she will impress him by dressing
elegantly and wearing a wig. But she feels embarrassed to ‘look like a

187
lady’, she feels like losing her own identity if she tries to ‘disguise’ in an
elegant woman so she goes home, the space where she is ‘secure’. She can
identify with work outfit more than with fashionable dresses.
It has been stated that, in Communism,

“women’s participation in the labor force did dramatically alter

women’s roles, self-identities, and relations with men. While some women
found work exhausting, time-consuming, and unfulfilling, others, […] found it
empowering, intellectually stimulating, and personally validating.” (Penn, 2009:
14)
Surely, Varvara, Paulina and Angela find work fulfilling. Varvara
devotes her energy and time mainly for the benefit of the whole village,
Paulina considers that work is the means by which she can get out of
anonymity and change her personal life, while, for Angela, indulging in
work is a way to cope with her inner feelings. They stand for whole
generations of women who found work liberating and who strove hard
to create a fair balance between their private and public spaces.

REFERENCES

Colecția Filmele Adevărul, Mari comedii românești, TVR Media.

Dumănescu, Luminița, “Regimul matrimonial în comunism” in Hurubeanu, Alina
(ed.). (2015) Statutul femeii în România comunistă. Politici publice și viață privată,
Editura Institutul European, Iași.
Ilieșu, Marilena. (2013) Povestea filmului românesc, 1912-2012, Editura Polirom, Iași.
Miroiu, Mihaela. (2004) Drumul către autonomie. Teorii politice feministe, Editura
Polirom, Iași.
Penn, Shana, Massino, Jill (ed.). (2009), Gender Politics and Everyday Life in State
Socialist East and Central Europe, Palgrave Macmillan, New York.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjzyOvBHQLc, accessed on June 15th, 2017.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjzyOvBHQLc, accessed on June 20th, 2017.

188
BOOK REVIEWS

RECENZII

189
190
MARIUS MIHEŢ
mariusmihet@gmail.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
/„Comenius” University, Bratislava
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 553-169R52

Critica de export. Teorii, contexte, ideologii

by Andrei Terian
București, Editura Muzeul Literaturii Române, 2013
(Criticism for Export. Theories, Context and Ideologies
by Andrei Terian
The Museum of Romanian Literature Publishing House, 2013)


Romanian Literature as World Literature

Abstract: Terian’s book, Critica de export. Teorii, contexte,

ideologii (Criticism for Export. Theories, context and ideologies), answers
a fundamental question that has not been included in a system for nearly 30
years after the fall of communism. The question is: what can Romanian
literary criticism and Romanian literary history offer to a foreign specialist?
What can Romanian culture offer to be valid as exportation, what models
and openings can be proffered as to bring relevance internationally? The
volume contains a series of incentive studies about how Romanian culture
can escape the complex of periphery.
Key words: criticism, cultural export, Romanian Literature as East-
European literature, World literature, postcolonialism

Andrei Terian launches academic world in its most

one of the most interesting
volumes of autochthonous
criticism after 1989. The book
contains studies and articles
aiming the most present day
themes. These themes are still
adherent to the debates of the
different parts.
With regards to
Romanian literature, the critic
pardons nothing. Andrei Terian
criticizes the lack of essential
translations, and at the same
time, he does not pardon the

191
fact that not so worthy books
were placed as the first on the
shelves, as there is a certain
inertia in examining their role in
the bibliographies.
Andrei Terian is prone to
comparative literature. He has a
large scope in assessing the most
recent bibliography from abroad,
with which he is very familiar. He
knows the concepts of criticism
in other countries and he uses
these new concepts with
accuracy. At the same time, he is
familiar with the literature in the
countries with a more stable
tradition in criticism and culture.
He is not afraid to express his
opinion even when in
contradiction with what other
critics suggest. So is the case of a
polemical answer to David
Damrosch. He questions the
efficiency of such concepts and
he wonders how they could be
applied in more directions,
concepts-definitions like: What is
World Literature, 2003, and How
to Read World Literature, 2009.
Andrei Terian raises the
alarm about the ex officio
exclusion, from the big canon of
world literature, of all second-
world literatures. Romanian
literature would be included in
this category, already excluded
from the canon. More exactly,
what happens if the big canon
subdues, assimilates as well the
postcolonial canon. What is left
for small countries ‒ if the
occidental hypercanon absorbs
as well the exoticism and
192
marginality of literatures, like
the Romanian literature.
The Romanian
researcher opinionates that we,
within Romanian literature, must
find those very critical values
that could open our access
beyond local, regional or
national context. He is positive
that Romanian criticism and
Romanian culture in particular
have something worth offering
to the world, something worth
proffering as international
relevance.
The problem is, in the
critic’s opinion, we were not able
to export literature, how are we
going to be able to export
literary criticism?
According to Andrei
Terian, the difficulty comes from
the fact that, in translation,
criticism in particular gains more
or loses more. Romanian
literature cannot appear
accessible to an outside
researcher due to the fact that
Romanian literature has no
contexts. One of the possible
paths is the premise that, in the
East of Europe, Romanian
literature is indeed the most
important Romance literature
actively present. For many
decades the branch of
comparative literature in
Romania has been dependent on
French literature. With a
diminishing number of
Francophiles in the world, the
situation of Romanian literature
is also aggravated from this
point of view.
 Another solution within
comparative literature would be
that of a parallelism seen in its
evolution, a parallelism with the
countries of Latin America. Or an
integration in the structures of
East of Europe and in the Center
of Europe, meaning
transnational exportation of
literature. But for this we should
define a method which we do
not quite possess.
The criticism in the
columns of literary gazettes, the
criticism meeting a new text, has
developed that kind of discourse
that does not take into account
other academic concepts in
circulation. Therefore, a clear-
cut distinction should be done
between an academic research
article and a literary
review(chronicle). The latter is
efficient at the level of praxis and
sociocultural survival. But,
through its impressionist
193
method, it may have little
relevance to a foreign reader.
This makes the critic as a literary
reviewer a prisoner of an inside
circuit. To write criticism for
exportation means, for Andrei
Terian, accepting that there are
more types of literatures. He
suggests the reform of the
Romanian studies so as to find
an exit from this closed circuit,
from these semi-peripheral
contexts in which Romanian
research of literature is.
Intellectually brilliant,
the studies of Andrei Terian
represent a frontier, something
that could not be eluded in the
future, within the humanistic
studies of Romanian literature.
A fundamental book,
troubling the waters of those
positions too akin to dogmatism,
Andrei Terian’s volume opens up
a real dialogue with researchers
of literature from other cultures.
IOANA ALEXANDRESCU
ioana.alexandrescu@uab.cat
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
/Autonomous University of Barcelona
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 554-170 R53

Instrumental. Memorias de música, medicina y locura.

by James Rhodes
Traducción: Ismael Attrache. Barcelona, Blackie Books, 2015
(Instrumental. Salvation through Music)
by James Rhodes

James Rhodes: la salvación por la música

James Rhodes: the redeeming power of music

Abstract: James Rhodes´ autobiography, Instrumental, constructs

the interplay between darkness and light, evil and good by accompanying
the exposure of extremely traumatic events with the redeeming power of
music.
Key words: autobiography, traumatic, music, salvation, motiation

Instrumental, la precisamente a su hijo, vio la luz

autobiografía de James Rhodes
(Londres, 1975), conocido
pianista británico, se ha visto
envuelta en el aire del escándalo
desde antes de su aparición. La
ex-esposa del autor intentó
impedir su publicación
aduciendo que esto pudiera
resultar traumático para el hijo
de ambos. El Tribunal Supremo
del Reino Unido autorizó
finalmente la publicación y este
libro, que el autor dedica
editorial en 2015.
Instrumental es, en
efecto, un libro de sensaciones
fuertes, pero, sobre todo, es un
libro desgarrador. La vida
contada por Rhodes podría ser
considerada una biografía de la
herida: desde la herida central, la
violación por parte de su
profesor de boxeo a la que fue
sometido repetidamente el autor
desde los seis hasta los diez
años, hasta las heridas
autoinfligidas a través del abuso

194
de alcohol y drogas, las adoración que le profesa le darán
autolesiones y las cinco a la música un peso esencial en la
tentativas de suicidio, pasando construcción del libro,
por un despliegue de las desplazando el foco del centro
consecuencias del trauma traumático, o, mejor dicho,
central en múltiples envolviéndolo en las redes
perturbaciones, manifestaciones musicales comprensivas y
de estrés postraumático, tics, reparadoras.
trastorno disociativo de La original construcción
personalidad (le diagnosticaron de Instrumental forma un
trece identidades), etc. Este espacio heteróclito, una suerte
deseo de aniquilación de sí de mix de estilos, con una carta,
mismo por el peso de la culpa una pequeña escenificación al
que acompaña a la herida viene estilo teatral a través de la cual el
reforzado por una autor quiere ilustrar el
autopresentación discursiva sin funcionamiento de su mente, a
complacencia ya desde las la que llama “el enemigo” (11),
primeras páginas, donde se un apéndice escrito en otro
describe como “un imbécil tamaño de letra y, sobre todo,
vanidoso, egocéntrico, con veinte capítulos, llamados
superficial, narcisista, temas, que llevan el nombre de
manipulador, degenerado, piezas musicales y unos
pelota, quejica, lleno de fragmentos introductivos que
carencias, con tendencia al comentan esta piezas. La
exceso, agresivo y construcción textual parece
autodestructivo.” (10) apegarse a la vital, en tanto que
El invasivo deseo de procede a poner por delante / en
autoaniquilación se entrelaza en frente / sobre lo demás contado,
el texto con las brechas a través en este lugar privilegiado del
de las cuales surge la inicio, a la música. También se
oportunidad y llega la luz al trata de crear un espacio
infierno: la mano tendida por un sinestésico, ya que el autor
amigo, la posibilidad del amor y, indica dónde se pueden escuchar
sobre todo, el milagro de la gratuitamente estas piezas y
música, la salvación a través de cuál es la interpretación
esta. “Se trata de una de las recomendada, poniéndole, como
pocas cosas (que no sea de él dice, una banda sonora al
índole química) que puede llegar libro: “De igual modo que los
a los últimos recovecos de restaurantes elegantes proponen
nuestro corazón y nuestra mente vinos con que acompañar cada
y tener un efecto plato, habrá composiciones
verdaderamente positivo” (20), musicales para acompañar cada
reflexiona el autor sobre la capítulo.” (16) El hecho de que la
música. Este efecto positivo y la primera parte del libro se llame

195
“Preludio” y de que la primera
frase sea “La música clásica me
la pone dura” (7) marida
amargamente lo corporal
traumatizado con la música, al
igual que las opiniones sobre la
industria musical, “manipuladora
y tramposa” (9), impositiva,
privadora de libertad, que
permiten transferencias al
cuerpo sometido. Al inicio y al
final del libro, el aria de las
Variaciones Goldberg de Bach,
tema 1 y 20, cerrando el ciclo y
colocando a Bach en lugares
textuales clave que manifiestan
su importancia vital, mientras
que en el capítulo (tema) 4, este
compositor abandona el
fragmento introductivo que le
correspondería para verter los
detalles de su propia vida en el
espacio autobiográfico de
Rhodes, en una mezcla de los
196
dos sujetos que resalta el
impacto fundamental de la
Chacona de Bach, con el arreglo
para piano de Bussini, en la
trayectoria vital del autor.
La música le ofrece a
Rhodes la motivación, la
posibilidad de concentrarse, el
acceso a un mundo de una triste
hermosura al cual puede llegar
sin desprenderse del cuerpo,
como hacía mentalmente
durante las violaciones y como
intentaría hacer en sus tentativas
de suicidio, sino a través del
cuerpo, apoyando sus manos en
las teclas del piano, agarrándose
en vez de desprenderse. Y, en
este libro, a diferencia de la vida,
la música acompaña al niño
desde el inicio, envolviendo su
inocencia en una crisálida de
notas.
DANA SALA
dsf_dana@yahoo.com
Associate Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 555-171R54

Înscrierea pe orbită
by Vasile Spiridon
Editura Timpul, Iași, 2008
(Self-Writing on an Orbit,
Timpul Publishing House, 2008)

The Seal of Criticism

Abstract: For the critic Vasile Spiridon, literature inhabits naturally a

mythical frame unaltered by history. Life and literature form together a
palimpsest. Once explored, it gives the same satisfaction of deciphering as
the access to a form of superior knowledge. The critic sees the mythos as the
seal of a world. He also captures the disruptions brought by the anomalies of
history in this mythical order.
Key words: words: criticism, contemporary Romanian literature,
prose, nostalgia, critical interpretation, ethos

For Vasile Spiridon, genesis of that work, as inferred

literature inhabits naturally a
mythical frame unaltered by
history. The purpose of literature
is to enlarge existence. Life and
literature form together a
palimpsest. Once explored, it
gives the same satisfaction of
deciphering as the access to a
form of superior knowledge.
That is why the critic Vasile
Spiridon is sometimes attracted
by the interpretation of a literary
work at the same pace with the
from other sources (see the
studies dedicated to Mihail
Sadoveanu, Gellu Naum, Mircea
Cărtărescu, Marin Mincu).
Sadoveanu is seen as
living between theatre and
temple, as a patriarchal
personality with a nostalgic
ideal, an explorer of collective
memory and, at the same time, a
man with the vocation of rituals,
ready to translated into his life a
way of living as the one preached

197
by the doctrine of
”sămănătorism”. It is strange
how Sadoveanu remained one of
the least influenceable writers of
Romanian literature. Sadoveanu
was not influenced by the books
he used to read, as the critic
points out, the writer was not
influenced by ages, he was in
search of a sacred meaning for
his life and so he could render
new meanings to old rituals and
recreate the language of
mythical stories and of archaic
visions, sometimes resorting to a
symbolic thesaurus of folk
sapiential wisdom.
Vasile Spiridon knows
how to capture exactly the
mythos as the seal of a world. He
also captures the disruptions
brought by the anomalies of
history in this mythical order.
The chapters referring to such
disruptions are dedicated to:
Radu Mareș, Gellu Dorian,
Gabriel Chifu, Mircea Tomuș,
Lucian Alecsa, Gheorghe
Crăciun.
His essays are not
burdened with interpretation;
they are organically linked to the
work of the analyzed writer. If
mythos is the natural part for the
critic, the side he would like to
explore as his other side is that
of dream.
Dream is a favorite
theme for Vasile Spiridon, he
sees it in the universe of Gellu
Naum, of Mircea Cărtărescu, of
George Bălăiţă, of Valeriu
Stancu, of Dumitru Ţepeneag.
Exploring this theme means for
198
Vasile Spiridon the freedom to
explore other territories, such as
the fantastic and the strata of
human psyche.
An excellent essay is the
one focused on Gellu Naum:
Despre poheticitatea romanului
Zenobia. The divorce between
Naum and the normal paths of
making literature is underlined.
Zenobia is analyzed also in the
key of containing its own
metanovel. Naum’s fear of words
is present here also, the fear that
his own words might turn into
clichés some days or some years
later. The impalpability of Gellu
Naum’s imagery is persistent.
Even the objects in a room
receive a certain touch of
unreality after reading from
Gellu Naum. The literary act and
the critic’s act are, after all, a re-
creation of a personal world.
Vasile Spiridon seems to
be caught by an oscillation
between the inherent
fragmentarism of a literary
review as a form of criticism, on
one hand, and synthesis on the
other hand. What happens when
a fragmentary text is eclipsed by
a bigger one, a synthesis on a
canonical author, for instance?
Does the first text become
useless? The critic asks himself in
a reflexive tone. What if both
texts of criticism, the fragment
and the synthesis, belong to the
same critic, how can a
competition be possible
between the texts themselves?
Does it mean that one is useless,
the other useful, or that the big
text can engulf the small text?
Even if the studies in this
book refer to a variety of
authors, they have some themes
in common. One of the present
themes is that of
metamorphosis. Vasile Spiridon
retains the idea of
metamorphosis not only as a
literary motif, but also as a
complex transformation of a
character and of a society from
an epoch to another. Such is the
case of the metamorphoses
brought by history.
Another theme present
in this volume is that of
sensualness, of erotization. The
analyses have pertinence and
they are correlated to the
ensemble.
Another category among
themes is that of character as a
prisoner of a historical time. We
can see that in the chapter
Carcasa poporului (People’s
carcass).
There is a generous
readiness of the author to follow
the characters of the writer also
in other media, or before their
birth. Their literary genesis is
also considered, all aspects that
could lead to a more profound
interpretation are taken into
account.
Vasile Spiridon has a
certain tendency in literary
criticism to see the world of the
199
critic as a theatrical world. This
happens in the following essays,
where the perspective is that of
bird’s eye view: Taumaturgia
textului, Pietonul aerului,
mișcarea noastrp teatrală, Șapte
zile, șapte harţe.
Polemical remarks are
rather timid. They are carried
more as an act of chivalry rather
than per se. Some titles of
chapters reflect Vasile Spiridon’s
availability for puns. for witty
games, for playing with words,
sometimes containing the name
of the analyzed author hidden in
such games.
Vasile Spiridon’s book is
the carrier of a certain nostalgia,
something that any critic should
be honest to confess. It is hard to
bring to the ultimate update the
texts of literary criticism but at
the same time it is hard not to
admit that a critic should have
the right to be a nostalgic being.
RODICA BOGDAN
bogdan_r_30@yahoo.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 556-172R55

Caragiale după Caragiale. Arcanele interpretării, exagerări, deformări,

excese
by Angelo Mitchievici
(București, Editura Cartea Românească, 2014
Caragiale after Caragiale. Interpretation’s arcanes, exaggerations,
deformations, excesses.
(Cartea Românească Publishing-House, Bucharest, 2014)

Caragiale and the Identity Complex

Abstract: The putting under scrutiny of Caragiale’s universe, as

Angelo Mitchievici undertakes it, is dynamic and related to other texts from
the literature of the world, as well as with other cultural spheres. The book
recommends itself through its capacity to synthesize the features of the
”worldly-world” of Caragiale (as defined by V. Fanache), features containing:
the carnival, the excessive, the whim, the noise, the cliché, the indistinct
mixture of tragic and comic, the deformity, the monstrous. Caragiale’s
actuality emerges as axiomatic, due to a continuity in type, not in time. An
identity complex of the Romanians in connection to Caragiale is discussed.
Key words: identity complex, Caragiale, carnival, values, mask,
whim, hybris

In his book, Caragiale As a man of letters,

după Caragiale. Arcanele Mitchievici approaches the
interpretării, exagerări, deformări, critical act in an open manner.
excese, Angelo Mitchievici offers Thus, we remark numerous
us a synthesis of major invariants intertextual references (from
in the works of a classical writer, literature, essay writing, literary
but also a perspective on history and literary criticism)
Caragiale’s impact on these are accompanied by
contemporaneity. observations on distinct

200
domains: journalism, theatre,
cinema, theology and
philosophy). The very reader of
Caragiale, the reader nowadays
familiarized with the works of
Caragiale is brought, by the
author of this study, into the
position of interrogating the
nowadays echoes of Caragiale’s
writing.
It is the emblem taken
from one of Caragiale’s short
stories, from Grand Hôtel
”Victoria Română”, that the
articulation of the major lines of
the whole work of Caragiale can
be deduced: ”Simţ enorm și văz
monstrous” (”I feel enormously
and see monstrously”).
The monstrous must be
revealed, it must be brought up
to surface, it must be
denounced. „Caragiale ne
deschide ochii până la refuz, ne
relevă ceea ce este în noi”
(2014:10), namely ”It is Caragiale
who has opened our eyes to the
evidence, he has revealed what
there is within us.” (translation
mine). Caragiale’s writing is of
actuality through this exposure
of a human type indulged in the
excess, the one who easily
disguises himself and gets into
the vortex of the carnivalesque,
of masks. For this kind of
character, the whim is a modus
vivendi. Caragiale’s type of
character does not perceive
delineation between the tragic
and the comic. He adores the
noise, the jamming, he is happier
with pseudo-discourses rather
than with the truth. In this
201
regard, the newspaper language
in Caragiale’s time and the
breaking news are harnessed
with utmost expressivity. An
interminable chain of series of
clichés is published, to account
for Caragiale’s typology.
(2014:104). It is the cliché that
substitutes natural language and
replaces the actions with
significance.
From the very beginning,
Angelo Mitchievici launches the
question: Caragiale - our
contemporary? The researcher
answers through a series of
assertions, discovering that the
writing of Caragiale synthesizes
a complex human typology,
which escapes exact
determinations. Mitchievici
follows the ways in which other
critics answered to the question
of Caragiale’s actuality: Lucian
Boia, Horia-Roman Patapievici,
Sanda Cordoș, Alexandru
Dragomir. An identity complex
of the Romanians in connection
to Caragiale is discussed
(2014:22).
The critic highlights the
continuity pertaining to a certain
type (identification) and not the
continuity through time
(presentification). Thus, a new
horizon of significance is
opened, an ontological horizon.
The historical epoch of Caragiale
can be extended, fusing together
the shadows of his time and of
our own time (2014:28).
In Caragiale’s world,
marginality is given a word,
marginality is invited in the
centre with a microphone. Thus,
the person is a superior
hierarchic position is ridiculed by
the writer because of his
tendency to excess and because
of his abnormal behavior.
Once the hierarchical
order is reverted, the installation
of the carnival, with its upside
down worlds and hierarchies,
functions as an ontological
opening. The movement with
double sense between center
and periphery allows the
narrator to be equidistant, but
detachment is possible through
irony. (2014:52)
Hybris is emergent, it
can be seen in a glimpse only
through this kaleidoscope of
faces and human types, which
generate an interdependence
between the protagonists
(2014:107). The very characters
of Caragiale are interchangeable.
Such characters are: Nae
Caţavencu, Tipătescu, Miţa
Baston, Mitică, Lache, Mache,
Zoiţica, Farfuridi,
Brânzovenescu, Leonida, Lefter
Popescu.
The extremes are
approaching each other, almost
overlapping. This is possible due
to the sea of clichés where they
are floating. In the general tone
of mediocrity, the valuable and
the derisory, the hazard and the
determination, the significant
and the insignificant are
impossible to be distinct from
each other.
People suffer from
violent impulses, which
202
extinguish themselves either at
the level of libido or in the
generalized carnival (2014:100).
Everybody is against everybody,
there is an imminence of
revolution, even if it can be
confused with a popular feast.
The heroes get to lose their
distinctive features. Thus they
become homogenous, as a mass,
a political body consisting of ”the
needy” and ”the excluded”
(2014:149), a mass that could be
named ”boborul” (a word coined
by Caragiale to imitate the
mispronunciation of one of his
characters, a word derived from
”the people”- poporul, therefore
used ironically). This human type
presented by Caragiale can act
disjunctively. Thus, Nae
manifests himself as disphoric,
between his friends, whilst he is
euphoric within the political
environment, in a different
company of people. But in both
contexts he manifests the same
obsession for delivering a speech
(2014:95).
There is no surprise that
such a world governed by
mediocrity can be disrupted by
the most trivial incidents, such as
the loss of a love note. At the
same time, a person like the
drunkard. A marginal man, gets
to conduct, unwillingly, the
threads of the action,
reorganizing the whole existence
of the people around them
(2014:138).
The putting under
scrutiny of Caragiale’s universe,
as Angelo Mitchievici undertakes
it, is dynamic and related to
other texts from the literature of
the world, as well as with other
cultural spheres. The waiting of
the tipsy citizen, who merely
wants to vote, is paralleled to
Waiting for Godot by Samuel
Beckett (2014:139). The popular
feast coinciding with a revolution
reminds Mitchievici of James
Ensor’s painting Christ’s Entry
into Brussels in 1889. The
interrogation of spatial
movement, of displacement
between Center and Periphery
reminds the critic of the book
belonging to a Romanian
philosopher, Alexandru
Dragomir, Crase banalităţi
metafizice.
The book recommends
itself through its capacity to
203
synthesize the features of the
”worldly-world” of Caragiale (as
defined by V. Fanache), features
containing: the carnival, the
excessive, the whim, the noise,
the cliché, the indistinct mixture
of tragic and comic, the
deformity, the monstrous.
At the same time, the
book offers interdisciplinary
perspectives to the lecturer
familiarized with the topic. Even
if some of the critic’s expressions
are redundant, precisely because
of the theme, Caragiale’s
actuality emerges as axiomatic,
due to a continuity in type, not in
time. Caragiale’s characters are
unique, yet interchangeable, as it
happens in actuality, too.
FLORIN CIOBAN
florin.cioban@btk.elte.hu
Professor Habil., PhD., University of Oradea
/ELTE University, Budapest
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 557-173R56

Basme şi poveşti româneşti

By Vasile Gurzău & Maria Gurzău Czeledi
Ediţia a doua, adăugită, ediţie îngrijită de Maria Gurzău Czegledi, Editura
Eurostampa, Timișoara, 2015
(Romanian Tales and Stories of Vasile Gurzău adapted by Maria Gurzău
Czegledi
Second edition, Eurostampa Publishing House, Timișoara, 2015)

Preserving the Art of Storytelling

Abstract: Vasile Gurzau, born in 1898, was a gifted storyteller who

mastered this (almost extinct) art of storytelling despite the fact that he
barely learned to read and write. He was born in Micherechi, Hungary, in a
small Romanian community. His themes come both from Romanian folklore
and Hungarian folklore. His stories are gathered now in a book.
Key words: Romanian folklore, folklore study in Romanian
customs, Romanian community in Hungary, Romanian Tales, storytelling

From the Romanian narrator Phd. graduate in literary folklore.

Vasile Gurzău (born in As the third revised and added
Micherechi, Hungary) we have edition, the collection of stories
over 40 unique fairytales and brings back to the readers on
stories. Over half of them are both sides of the border the
presented and adapted in this sweetness of the Romanian
volume by Maria Gurzău archaic language and the
Czegledi - a prominent teacher everlasting charm of the popular
of Romanian language and stories.
literature in Hungary, but also a

204
 Vasile Gurzău was one of
the most famous men in his
village, a small Romanian
comunity in the geographyical
borders of Hungary, today. His
stories are well known in the
village, but outside Micherechi.
Vasile Gurzău's storytelling
repertoire sees both themes in
the stories of the Hungarian and
Romanian folk specific popular
texts. Narration was the most
authentic of treating and saving
tradition stories in the village,
because it was a very rich
fantasy.
Vasile Gurzău was born
on March 16, 1898 in Micherechi.
In 1916 he joined the army.
During First World War, he went
to Italy and Galatia. All this time
he was a soldier, he had the
opportunity to create a unique
style, a style characteristic only
to him. In the army he was the
one who entertained Romanian,
Hungarian and Serbian soldiers,
telling stories in Romanian and
Hungarian. After the First World
War, he returned home, and as
the acquaintances of all
storytellers in the village died, he
remained the most famous.
After the war he returned to the
village and together with his four
brothers worked his father's
lands. In 1920 married the
poorest girl from the village.
They had three children, two
boys and a girl. These were
raised in the village, but they
didn't inherit their father's gift of
storytelling, but loved his stories
and, whenever they had the
205
opportunity, they listened
lovingly. His cultural level being
quite low, Vasile Gurzău barely
learned to read and write. He did
not read books or magazines; he
did not know any Romanian
writers. Whenever the storyteller
was asked if he would read
somewhere the content of his
stories, he answered honestly
that he could not read well, and
recalled the deplorable condition
of the school at the time of his
studies, even making an analogy
between the picture of small
schools and abandoned in the
past with the present school,
which appeared as a palace.
Since school, he realized that
stories attracted attention and
he remembered that his mother
had heard some stories that he
liked very much. He began to
Iove the world of fairy tales,
because there he did not find a
hard and tough world around
him. He learned from the elders
of the village a lot of stories and
songs from women there. He
had good mentors, as the village
had resources those times, many
people-loving folk tales. Villagers
always called him at meetings
and Vasile Gurzău was so happy
that he could expand his
knowledge and experience in the
stories. He said that while he told
the story, he often remembered
other stories and sometimes he
was even helped by the villagers
who stopped during the story
and reminded him of stories and
other episodes. Vasile Gurzău
also inserted in his tales the
village life, agriculture and his
home village surroundings. He
believed that there is middle of
the world and said that it is
Micherechi - his native village,
explaining that statement with
the belief that man would go
anywhere to return here.
Vasile Gurzău was
primarily a gifted teller of epic
stories. This gift fortunately
coupled with a dramatic style;
we very often find dialogues in
his stories, a better dialogue that
contains nothing significant. His
storytelling art has a close
206
relationship with the listeners,
the stories that result in
Romanian using the third
person, who passed in first
person, especially in parts of the
dialogue. In Vasile Gurzau's
stories we often find the same
styles as known in Romanian
stories. We may note that the
story was always very significant
in content and changed just few
of the most important elements
which were preserved as in all
the other parts of Romania.
MARIUS MIHEŢ
mariusmihet@gmail.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
/ „Comenius” University, Bratislava
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 558- 174R57

Un secol al memoriei. Literatură

și conștiinţă comunitară în epoca
romantică
By Doris Mironescu
Iași, Editura Universităţii „Alexandru Ioan Cuza”, 2016
(A Century of Memory. Literature and Collective Conscience in Romanticism, by
Doris Mironescu, Iași, ”Alexandru Ioan Cuza” University Press, 2016;)

Post-canon memory. What can survive in it?

Abstract: The volume Un secol al memoriei. Literatură și conștiinţă

comunitară în epoca romantică (A Century of Memory. Literature and
Collective Conscience in Romanticism) follows the way in which different
poetics are the outcome of different epochs. Doris Mironescu analyses the
openings of literature in its questionings of the society. He insists on those
mechanisms that transmit the feeling of a power of literature. This power
can overcome the un-literary problems of an epoch. In the 20th century, the
problems of literature announce the failure of their contemporary ideologies,
whilst the Romantic ideas, reinvented, put the post-canonical memory at an
advantage.
Key words: literary canon, postcanon memory, Romanticism,
cultural memory, rereading;

As a critic whose main rigor, he knows how to self-

natural advantage is evenness, correct when necessary, in a
Doris Mironescu is convincing. graceful language. His readings
His critical verdicts are not at are sophisticated, that is why he
random. He is applied, full of insists on literary poetics of

207
different ages with the passion
of a collector of rare things. His
new volume, entitled Un secol al
memoriei. Literatură și conștiinţă
comunitară în epoca romantică (A
Century of Memory. Literature
and Collective Conscience in
Romanticism) makes appeal to
rereading, in the vein suggested
by the university professor Matei
Călinescu, born in Romania.
The past must be re-read
to be interpreted in a new key.
Doris Mironescu has learnt his
lesson. He writes with the
certitude of someone sure on his
notes of reading, or someone
with deep reading habits,
someone who cannot be
betrayed by his readings.
First of all, Doris
Mironescu is fascinated by
dismantling mechanisms that
cause very keen self-corrections
within the literary canon. As
every epoch produces a different
poetics, he tries to distinguish
between these dissimilar senses.
Of course, the critic notices in
other epochs the prevalence of
literature. He is interested to find
out how literature could raise
such interrogations that would
guide the whole society. By
convincing the whole society of
the importance of literature, it is
literature that earned a magnetism, that of different
primordial position; it had a key-
role in modeling the society after
its image. This is the destiny of
literature, after all. Doris
Mironescu deals with issues
outside literature with
applications on canonical texts.
208
All these problems are
differentiated at the level of
identity.
Since the 19th century is
a century of memory and search
for identity, there is no surprise
that the researcher emphasizes a
feature of collective memory,
namely its fancied institutional
character. Collective memory is
constituted as the permanent
actualization of a founding past
(after J. Assmann’s idea).
Literature contributes to the
anchorages of some myths. At
the same time, it questions
identity.
During the 18th century,
the Romanian writers are
attracted to collective memory
due to a nationalist credo. The
writer wants and addresses
himself to others as a conscience
for his fellows. The theme of
community and memory is to be
found at Eminescu, Creangă,
Caragiale, Slavici, Delavrancea
and Macedonski. And others, of
course. In conclusion, the
dialogue with the reading public
is important for the very
constituency of this literary
century. As for the 20th century,
the author of this study is
interested in different things. A
special questioning brings in its
temporalities coexistent within
the same epoch. For instance,
Mironescu questions the
mechanism of irony and how it is
not influenced by ideological
touches, from I. L. Caragiale to
Radu Cosașu. What is of a
surprise for the author is the
survival of certain themes from a
romantic topos. Such a surviving
theme is that of the ruins. The
reinstallation of collective
symbols belonging to an epoch
of classicism show that they are
inexhaustible. Even within the
epoch of postcanon memory.
The studies are applied
on the following writers (apart
from the above mentioned ones)
Alecu Russo, Grigore
Alexandrescu, Păstorel
Teodoreanu, Titu Maiorescu, G.
Ibrăileanu, V. Alecsandri, up to
the young prose writers of the
new millennium.
The analyses are
thought-provoking and, many a
time, polemical.
Doris Mironescu is in an
offensive combat position when
he writes literary criticism and
literary history. The critic knows
how to chose exactly between
the rhetoric of appearance,
between canonical construction
and postcanonical re-writing. He
is even more in favor of
deciphering a paradoxical
solidarity with the past,
presented by modernity, and
with the critical function of
literary memory. When the
cultural memory is at stake, the
disappearance of naivety
emerges.
The simulacra of identity
put into motion by autoreflexive
209
lucidity guides a new direction.
The critic notices novels
rewriting historical mythologies
and constructing new typologies
from the historical memory,
based on that. In this category
we find the novel Zilele Regelui
(The King’s Days) by Filip Florian
and novels by Liviu Radu, Răzvan
Rădulescu, Florina Ilis. In the
novels published by Simona Sora
and Ioana Pârvulescu he notices
a novel of nostalgia, of
recognizing the impossible
return.
The book is a volume in
which the reader is taken with
arguments into a passage of
cultural memory through an
imaginary museum. In this
museum of literature, the main
artifact is the cultural memory.
The guide, Doris Mironescu, is a
documented researcher, who
knows how to construct for
every piece of this museum an
imaginary history. A history of
re-interpretation, always
attractive, with unbeatable
arguments.
Doris Mironescu is an
excellent Romanian researcher
of literature, one who can place
the accents where we did not
think it was possible. This is a
pillow book for Romanian
philologists and a must have for
foreign researchers of literature.
IOANA ALEXANDRESCU
ioana.alexandrescu@uab.cat
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
Autonomous University of Barcelona
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 559-175 R58

Correspondencias. Corespondente. Korrespondentziak

By Mircea Cărtărescu & Luisa Etxenique
San Sebastián, Erein, 2016

Encuentro en el camino intermedio

Encounter on the Middle Way

Abstract: Emerged from the project San Sebastián-

European Capital of Culture 2016, Correspondencias offers an
epistolary dialogue between Luisa Etxenique and Mircea Cărtărescu.
Key words: Mircea Cărtărescu, Luisa Etxenique, epistolary,
dialogue, contemporary literature

El proyecto Chéjov vs sobre la vertiente conflictiva de

Shakespeare fue impulsado por
Donostia / San Sebastián-Capital
Europea de la Cultura 2016 y
consistió en el encuentro
epistolario de dieciséis escritores,
de los cuales ocho vascos y ocho
internacionales (siete europeos y
un colombiano). A estos
escritores se les propuso
reflexionar, en un intercambio
epistolar por parejas, sobre la
relación entre la literatura y la
realidad social, más precisamente
esta. Una de las ocho parejas
participantes fue la formada por
la escritora vasca Luisa Etxenique
y el rumano Mircea Cărtărescu, y
su correspondencia fue publicada
en 2016 por la editorial
donostiarra Erein.
El libro reúne las diez
cartas de esta correspondencia,
en una edición trilingüe
(castellano, rumano, euskera)
que ha contado con un equipo de
cinco traductores para su

210
realización, entre los cuales
Marian Ochoa de Eribe, que es, se
podría decir, la traductora en titre
de Cărtărescu al español.
Inaugurando este
espacio, las primeras páginas
comprenden un prólogo que
emula el juego epistolar al ser
concebido como otro espacio de
intercambio entre un
representante vasco y uno
internacional, esta vez bajo la
forma de una entrevista. En el
prólogo, Xavier Paya, director de
programas de Donostia / San
Sebastián-Capital Europea de la
Cultura 2016 entra en diálogo con
el escritor israelí Amos Oz,
desarrollando la metáfora central
que dio el nombre a este
proyecto a partir de la
contraposición ideada por Oz
entre una política del acuerdo
(Chéjov) y la postura
shakespeariana de los extremos:
“al finalizar una tragedia de
Shakespeare el escenario está
cubierto de cadáveres y quizás-
solo quizás-se haya impuesto la
justicia. Al término de una
comedia de Chéjov, todos y cada
uno de los protagonistas se halla
decepcionado, afligido,
derrotado o desencantado, pero
vivo” (12), afirma el escritor. La
propuesta de Oz es el encuentro
con el otro “en algún lugar a
mitad de camino”, el acuerdo,
mientras que “lo opuesto a
acuerdo es fanatismo y muerte.”
(13)
Las cinco cartas de Luisa
Etxenique están fechadas y
especifican el lugar de redacción,
211
mientras que solo dos de
Cărtărescu llevan fecha y lugar,
de las cuales una (la de 28 de
octubre) afirma como lugar de
redacción a Bucarest, aunque el
escritor declara encontrarse en su
retiro berlinés. La construcción
del diálogo epistolar inicia y
termina con una carta de
Etxenique y hace sucederse dos
de Cărtărescu, eludiendo así la
tradicional progresión carta-
respuesta. Las cinco cartas de
Cărtărescu se publicaron
posteriormente también en
Rumanía, como parte del libro
Peisaj după isterie (Humanitas,
2017) y su colocación en medio de
este libro hizo que se hablara de
ellas como de un corazón, lo cual
entra en resonancia con la
cubierta de Correspondencias,
ostentando un corazón, y con la
forma del País Vasco según el
autor rumano: “tu pequeño y
heroico país en forma de
corazón.” (27)
La correspondencia
concede una parte importante al
contexto social que cada uno de
los escritores describe desde su
particular posición: un País Vasco
traumado por la violencia etarra
para Etxenique, una Rumanía con
el lastre comunista a sus espaldas
para Cărtărescu. Dos pasados
disímiles, pero ambos heridos,
que cada escritor transmuta en su
obra según su particular visión.
Se observa que Etxenique
privilegia la visión de la literatura
como un poner “voz y ojos a lo
que sucede” (24), en la tensión
entre “decir” o “silenciar”, “mirar”
o “hacerse el ciego”, mientras
que Cărtărescu, al que los
lectores tienen la oportunidad de
conocer en esta faceta insólita de
autor de cartas, privilegia la
responsabilidad estética del la
literatura: “El escritor, en tanto
que intelectual, puede implicarse
política, social y moralmente en
la vida de su comunidad, puede
ser (y tiene que ser) un portavoz
del bien y de la verdad […] pero
como artista, su misión es crear
belleza a partir de todo ello.” (16-
27) Se forma así un dialogo que a
veces adquiere matices de
debate, a veces de campos
resonantes, desgranado
múltiples áreas de significación
bajo forma de binomios—arte vs.
sociedad, bien vs. mal, Kafka vs.
Solzhenitsin, solitario vs.
solidario, etc. La palabra
compartir es tal vez la que mejor
esencialice este intercambio
epistolar, en la combinación
entre puntos compartidos, a los
que se adhiere por igual, y puntos
disímiles que se comparten al ser
ofrecidos al otro, y recibidos por
él.

212
DANA SALA
dsf_dana@yahoo.com
Associate Professor PhD, University of Oradea
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 560-176R59

Fericirea în contextul social al tranzitiei postcomuniste din România

by Sergiu Bălţătescu
Editura Eikon, Cluj-Napoca, 2014;
(Happiness in Postcommunist Transition in Romania,
by Sergiu Bălţescu
Cluj Napoca, Eikon Publishing House, 2014)

Happiness as a Social Construct

Abstract: In a huge enterprise that has undertaken visible

metamorphoses from one stage to another, Sergiu Bălţătescu has elaborated
a necessary instrument able to restore as in a mirror the image of Romanian
society in its post-communism transition. This mirror is contained by people’s
own assessment of their degree of happiness. Equipped with the methodology
of a sociologist, with the patience of a lover of philosophy and with the
readings of a man dedicated to culture, Sergiu Bălţătescu has written an
extensive monograph on happiness and its perception in Romanian post-
totalitarian society. His book combines empirical data, statistic analysis, with
the perception of happiness in philosophy, in politics, in sociology and
psychology, reaching surprising results.
Key words: happiness, wellness, culture, society, paradigm

Fascinated by the between happiness and

relationship between society.
sociology and culture, Sergiu In a huge enterprise
Bălţătescu has resorted to a that has undertaken visible
new challenge of combining metamorphoses from one
the two domains. This time, stage to another, Sergiu
the researcher’s purpose is to Bălţătescu has elaborated a
explore and to reflect the necessary instrument able to
significant correlations restore as in a mirror the

213
image of Romanian society in
its post-communism
transition. This mirror is
contained by people’s own
assessment of their degree of
happiness. Equipped with the
methodology of a sociologist,
with the patience of a lover of
philosophy and with the
readings of a man dedicated to
culture, Sergiu Bălţătescu has
written an extensive
monograph on happiness and
its perception in Romanian
post-totalitarian society. His
book combines empirical data,
statistic analysis, with the
perception of happiness in
philosophy, in politics, in
sociology and psychology,
reaching surprising results.
A country’s BIP and its
declared happiness do or do
not correlate, but they do not
necessarily mean a direct
influence. The richest
countries cannot always boast
with the highest rate of
happiness among their
population. However, the
years of economic crisis are
reflected in the answer about
the population’s degree of
happiness, in the sense that
there is a general trend of
dissatisfaction on individual
level.
Man is surrounded by
images, generally speaking. As
Sergiu Bălţătescu states, the
214
collective wellness is a
construct. To measure this
construct, one includes here
along with wellness, other
criteria like: the quality of life,
the psychological wellness, the
prosperity.
Is happiness also a
reflection of the momentary
states and therefore difficult
to analyze, or susceptible to
influence the measurements in
an non objective way?
Actually, apart from
several mismatches
conceptions, the theme of the
overall book is the relationship
between the society and
happiness, more than the
relationship between the
individual and its state of
welfare.
The changes of the
society after the fall of
communism do reflect the
perception regarding the
category of happiness. In
contemporary society,
happiness can be synonym
with the syntagm the quality
of life. The individual position
in the society, the social
relationships, the contexts and
the values of the individual do
form variables according to
which happiness can be
measured. Thus, in ancient
Greece, philosophy had
offered a pluralist
interpretation of happiness.
The emergence of stoicism has
meant a decline in the
perception on happiness.
These conditions were to be
kept also in the Middle ages.
The Enlightenment has
offered a new ethos for the
development of happiness on
social bases.
In postcommunist
Romania, the study show,
statistically, a decline of
subjective wellness from 1990
to 1999. There is a comeback
of this decline, in the year
2000. Ten years after, in 2010,
there is a peak again in the
discovery of the lowest values
at the category ”content with
one’s own happiness”. There is
a decline in the assessed
feeling of happiness.
215
The author of the study
says that, on a scale of one to
ten, contentment with one’s
own life drops each year with
two points. A positive trend is
emergent after the year 2003.
The happiest category is that
of people between 18 and 30,
the unhappiest that of people
over sixty, while in other
countries in the west of Europe
people after sixty declare
themselves happier.
Sergiu Bălţătescu’s
book is an extensive study
with an intense
problematization and with a
personalized view on the issue
of the correlation between
happiness and its social
environment and expression.
MARIUS MIHEŢ
mariusmihet@gmail.com
Senior Lecturer PhD, University of Oradea
/„Comenius” University, Bratislava
Universitatii Street no 1, Oradea, Romania
Article code 561- 177R60

Gabriela Adameșteanu. Monografie, antologie comentată, receptare

critică
By Șerban Axinte
București, Editura Tracus Arte, 2015
(Gabriela Adameșteanu, Monograph, commented anthology, critical reception by
Șerban Axinte, Tracus Arte Publishing House, Bucharest, 2015)

Gabriela Adameșteanu. The Monograph of Provisionality

Abstract: The monograph dedicated to the writer with the highest

aesthetic value among contemporary female writers follows as closely as
possible a literature in movement. The writer is very active, she continues to
publish, so her work can undertake any changes. Șerban Axinte takes an
enormous risk by publishing a monograph. But he establishes coordinates; he
synthesizes and refers to the positions within literature canon without being
intimidated by the fact that a future book of Adameșteanu might be different.
His method of research is iron-clad, is applied with care and his critical esprit is
always wakeful.
Key words: Gabriela Adameșteanu, contemporary Romanian novel,
femininity-feminism, provisionality, reactualisation of the past

Șerban Axinte knows in other languages. She is a

how to take winning risks at the
stakes of the Romanian literature
canon: among contemporary
female writers, Gabriela
Adameșteanu is indeed the writer
with the highest aesthetic value
of her oeuvre. She is translated
and enthusiastically received also
symbol of civil society. She
cannot be missing from any
serious study dedicated to
contemporary literature.
The contemporary
histories of Romanian literature,
all, take Gabriela Adameșteanu
as a pattern-creator. So do the

216
young critics of Romanian
literature. This happens despite
the fact that her literature
contains a specific, unique type of
imaginary, one inviting to re-
reading more than inviting a
reader to be immersed in action.
Șerban Axinte starts his
monograph on Gabriela
Adameșteanu from an
actualization of her literary past.
There is an interference of the
theme of monograph with the
central theme of the writer. The
theme of monograph is that of
provisionality, starting from one
of Gabriela Adameșteanu’s titles.
This overlapping renders the
book on Adameșteanu an
agreeable coherence.
Regardless the
generation into which we include
the writer, she does address
simultaneously more categories
of audience and more
generations of audience, which is
quite unusual. Therefore,
Gabriela Adameșteanu’s prose-
writing does not seem to fall into
category of writers who need
updating or writers who fail
updating.
Șerban Axinte, the
researcher on Gabriela
Adameșteanu’s works, notices in
them a modern vision on a
particular world, an all-
encompassing vision. Axinte sees
in her world how the past is
always more engulfing than the
future. Precisely because one
cannot infer how that past is
going to be read. It is the mobility
of realness that surprises the
217
critic, as well as the shifting
perspectives of a present without
development. This verdict on the
works of Gabriela Adameșteanu
is excellent. It synthesizes
perfectly the dominant feature of
her books. No present takes a
leap forward or a sign of
development, and the future is
feeble in front of the past.
There is a brought-to-
light coherence in everything that
the writer has published so far.
Numerous anticipations and
comebacks define the feature of
openness of Gabriela
Adameșteanu’s writing. That is
why the short stories announce
themselves as being part of a
novel or being connected to other
short stories. There is an idea of
authenticity oozed by all these
writings, with which the
researcher is fascinated.
He notices how the
characters are deformed by their
environment and how they live
under a multilayered time. There
is not a surprise, then, that many
of Gabriela Adameșteanu’s
characters stage their past and
their destinies, their existential
stakes (as in a role), but
particularly their projection onto
the social frame. For this
purpose, they shall resort to
introspection, autoscopy.
As a consequence, the
whole prose resides in such
characters; they dominate and
oblige the narrative instance to
organize the prose according to
them, to the characters. The
procedure fit for the analysis of
Gabriela Adameșteanu’s novels
and short stories is that of
”macro-scopy”, ”macrospection”,
according to Șerban Axinte. The
critic will resort to this method
and apply it to her books. He
does not intend to change the
perception in criticism towards
the novels of Adameșteanu, yet
he wants to figure out more
precisely the major power-lines
of her writing.
The centre of the world in
Gabriela Adameșteanu’s prose is
the psychology of a problematic
couple. The two in the couple
hunt each other. The result is
solitude in two with the illusion of
a series life. The protagonists live
more existences in one, related to
one another. Sometimes dreams
persist in reality until they make
reality it believable. For Șerban
Axinte, the short stories of the
writer are valuable through their
capacity of bringing everything to
the essential. The obsession of
mirroring and the state of
provisionality are typical for
Gabriela Adameșteanu’s novels.
The provisionality, as
Șerban Axinte sees it, is a state
that goes beyond the banality of
everyday things and at the same
time, contains them.
In other cases, things are
more complicated, as in
Dimineaţă pierdută (Lost morning)
where a narrative vortex is
identified. The opinion of the
218
researcher is that even in the
writer’s most recent novel,
Provizorat, one can speak
certainly of a modernization of
the novel and of its actualization.
The commented
anthology and the excerpts of
critical reception create a zone of
involvement for the reader, of
feeling included in Gabriela
Adameșteanu’s works also
through other more fragmentary
means of reading.
They are designed for the
nowadays hurried reader.
This is a friendly-reader
monograph, Șerban Axinte is a
critic full of tact, he knows how to
be modest and authoritative, and
his critical judgment comes with
spontaneity and feels natural.
Șerban Axinte has a
rakish analysis in all texts. He
tries to stay near the writer’s text,
not to digress from it and he does
not lose of his sight the system of
demonstration. His discourse
takes into account the other
critical opinions, he starts a
dialogue with the opinions of
other critics and he appreciates
or contests these opinions, in a
self evident way.
A useful monograph,
with excellent analyses applied
on texts by Gabriela
Adameșteanu, about a writer
around whom the contemporary
literary canon is being built.
219
 Annals of the University of Oradea, Romanian Language and Literature Fascicule is an academic,
openly peer-reviewed journal that appears once a year.
The 2017 ALLRO is issued before December 15, 2017.
The executive editors and the advisory board shall decide on any change about the frequency of the
journal.
Analele Universitatii din Oradea Fascicula Limba si Literatura Romana (acronym ALLRO) publishes
papers in the field of literature, literary criticism, literary and cultural theory, interdisciplinary study
of literature. ALLRO is focused on the promotion of Romanian language and literature among
congenerous Romance literatures and among literatures of the world. Our journal specializes in
bridging the world of academic literary criticism and theories with evaluations on everyday literary
phenomenon as reflected in the Romanian literary magazines and cultural events. ALLRO aims to
harmonize two approaches of criticism: the academic, research-oriented study of literary texts, on
one hand, with the critical valuations expressed by influential, value-oriented critics in the pages of
the numerous active Romanian literary magazines, on the other hand. A part of the book-review
section of the journal promotes young Romanian critics who dared to challenge long-established
patterns of Romanian criticism.
The general outlook of our journal is that the field of theory should be connected and not
disconnected from the most recent realities of contemporary books. ALLRO aims to restore to
literary criticism the value of creativeness once shared with the literary oeuvre, by not trying to
crush in theories the irreducible mystery of any book of literature.
Up to 70 % of the number of articles are in English. Other 30 % may be represented by researches
published either in Romanian or in a circulated language of the same Latin parentage: French,
Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.
CONFESSIONAL LITERATURE was the chosen theme of this issue.
For the next issue the theme is
MODERNISM AND NEOMODERNISM: VALUES AND TENDENCIES

The topics covered by our journal:

The dynamics of Romanian literature, trends.
The dialogue of Romanian literature with other cultures and literatures.
Identity, otherness, anthropology and literature, cultural studies.
Identity and its expressions in literature.
Time and literary theory.
Myths and Post- modern authors.
Language phenomena, Romance languages and literatures.
Comparative literature.
Eupropean Romance languages and literatures and their dialogues with other continents.

Foundation:
As a research journal, the beginnings of ALLRO can be traced back to the academic year 1966- 1967, when,
under the name Lucrari stiintifice, the section of academic research emerged at the University of Oradea.
See http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/archives.html
Submission:
The details about the submission of papers, instructions for the contributors and on the preparation of the
manuscript are published online.
Peer review:
Our reviewers know the names of the manuscript authors but no extra info on the identity of the authors.
The list of peer reviewers is online: http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/list_peer_reviewers.pdf
The peer-review form is here: http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/model_bun_pr.pdf and the peer review
policy here: http://analeromana.uoradea.ro/peerreview.pdf
Our journal advocates the open peer-review system because the reviewers can still focus entirely on
evaluating the quality of the article submitted, regardless the signature(s) on it. We consider that double
blind peer-review is the perfect tool for unbiased evaluation. Guided by the purpose of our journal, we
prefer transparency because the honesty of a writer-reader type of relationship keeps the balance between
research and literature.