Journal 1935–1944

by Mihail Sebastian

  Sunday, 14 June

  I feel down at heart. Rumors, prognostications, interpretations. Everyone is saying that new anti-Semitic laws will be introduced any day now. A nine-o’clock curfew. Yellow insignia. A ghetto here in Bucharest. A ghetto at the Berşad (?)4 barracks in Transnistria. You don’t want to believe it, you refuse to listen, but you are left with doubts deep inside you. The air-raid alert on Thursday to Friday night, and the rumors of bombing, frighten me less in themselves than because of the overheated, hysterical climate they might produce—as they did last year. I shudder when I remember.

  I keep thinking of Poldy. There the terror is mounting. How is he? How is he managing? He is so alone!

  The absurd unreality of our life. We still read books. We still have the strength to laugh. We hold celebrations. We go to the theatre. On Wednesday evening I went to the Baraşeum. And at eleven in the morning. . . .

  Sometimes it seems that our plight no longer has anything to do with the war. The war is somewhere on a different level, in a different order of events. You discuss it, you follow it on the map, you comment on it— but whatever happens there, everything remains grave and threatening for us.

  But we are alive. And we must not lose the will to live.

  Wednesday, 17 June

  Two years since the French armistice. And we are still breathing! It is true that we carry with us the weariness of these terrible two years—but we are alive. Until when? There is an appearance of calm, but so many horrors lurk beneath it. Rumors of another anti-Semitic outbreak mingle with reassuring denials, both equally vague and irresponsible. I don’t know where they come from, what worth and significance they have. And times passes slowly, so slowly. I count the days, the hours.

  Tired. In a bad physical condition. My eyes do not help me read. Headaches. Otherwise I would work—reluctantly perhaps, but I would still work.

  Monday, 22 June

  The 22nd of June. A year since the start of the war in Russia. When you look back, you realize that nothing could have been foreseen. This should cure us of our absurd game of predictions. And yet there does seem to be a certain rhythm to the war, with its almost regular sequences of fever and calm, of ebb and flow. If this keeps up, the second year of war might resemble the first. Personally, I don’t believe that something decisive is bound to happen in the short term. Autumn will not necessarily bring the denouement any more than it did last year.

  For the time being (apart from the offensive against Sebastopol), the Russian front is in abeyance. But the battle in Africa, after two weeks of wavering, has suddenly been propelled forward. Yesterday the British abandoned Tobruk. I wonder whether Rommel is not aiming at much more than that. It may be that preparations are being made to turn the Middle East into a huge wing of the war in Russia.

  Eugen Ionescu left Romania yesterday. A miraculous event.

  Tuesday, 23 June

  Tiring discussions, commentaries, suppositions, interpretations! You try to understand what will happen from now on. What may be the consequences of the fall of Tobruk? When will Sebastopol fall? Why is the German offensive being delayed? Is an Anglo-American landing possible? Will the war not shift for the time being toward Suez? What will Turkey do? So many questions that you raise and set aside. There are arguments for each hypothesis. I’d like to be able to drop the war for a while. I’d like to escape this obsession with it. I am tired. I’m afraid of neurasthenia. I wish I could have a little freedom, a little oblivion.

  Sunday, 28 June

  We still don’t know if the British disaster in Libya has bottomed out. The fighting is now in Egypt, beyond Sidi el-Barrani, at Mersa Matruh. If Rommel calls a halt, the whole operation will remain in the usual framework of the African war. But if he occupies Alexandria and gets as far as Cairo, the whole face of the war will be fundamentally altered. Sebastopol still has not fallen.

  Monday, 29 June

  I have tried for hours and days on end to write Act Three of “Alexander the Great,” but to no avail. On the one hand, the final act has brought the play to a standstill; on the other hand, I myself am in a period of total lack of inspiration. I am apathetic, lethargic, lacking in energy and spontaneity, opaque, inert, dislocated. Everything I put on paper is dull, wooden, pointless. Evidently the scenario for Act Three is not a happy one. I even have doubts about where it is set. (I originally placed it in the editorial office but then began it in Bucşan’s office, without knowing whether I would eventually return to the newspaper.) However good or bad, though, I’d like to finish the act, at least so that I can put it to one side. But I don’t manage to do this.

  The truth is that I don’t manage anything: not even to read a book in a disciplined way from beginning to end. I feel bitter, drowsy, disjointed, disgusted with myself. I am waiting for a little grace to appear from somewhere.

  Mersa Matruh has fallen. The road to Alexandria lies open. The whole British system in the Middle East seems to have crumbled.

  Wednesday, 1 July

  July-August. The difficult months of the war. Sixty days in the middle of hell. In Africa, Rommel is 190 kilometers from Alexandria. It seems that the British, who so far have beat a hasty retreat, are today trying to fight back. Will they be able to?

  Sebastopol has fallen.

  Saturday, 4 July

  The struggle for Alexandria goes on. I have been expecting its fall to be announced at any moment. But at present the front is still holding at El Alamein. Yesterday’s German communiqué reported that Rommel has taken the position and advanced beyond it, but today’s communiqué speaks of “strong fortifications” and “major strengthening” at the same point. Is it possible for the British to recover? What happens there is crucial. The whole aspect of the war could change in a flash. I can’t even be sure that, as I write these lines, the die has not already been cast.

  An almost overwhelming vision of a new play suddenly thrust itself forward amid a series of unfocused thoughts. It was feverishly intense, so simple and powerful that it has left me feeling a little dizzy. I wish I could write it down at once, automatically, with my eyes shut. But God knows what will come of this, as of so many other ideas.

  Monday, 6 July

  Yesterday I wrote the scenario for the play I visualized so giddily on Saturday evening. To be frank, my excitement yesterday at noon seemed naive after a night’s sleep. The spell had passed. I felt that it was all no longer so mysterious, and I was a little embarrassed by myself. But as I wrote the scenario I became animated again—not only because I succeeded in putting Saturday’s intense yet confused thoughts on paper, but also because I made them clearer, more extensive, more sharply defined. So here I am holding another scenario—the third, not counting “Alexander the Great.”

  Will I write them? When?

  Again I must deplore the slowness with which I write. I don’t think anyone has less vivacity, less freedom of movement, less spontaneous ease than I have. Certain things I lack completely. Sometimes, when I see ideas in a kind of dazzling light, I have the impression that everything could be done miraculously in a few hours, as if by a process of unconscious dictation. But when I pick up my pen, everything becomes opaque again—and then the absurd, flat, dull work of writing begins, which takes days, weeks, months, sometimes years.

  As far as “Alexander the Great” is concerned, the end now seems closer. Act Three, which I began reluctantly and have been writing without confidence, seems to be taking shape in an interesting way. Today I worked quite well. I still have to write two scenes in all—the last two— but the fate of the whole act depends upon them, because if they are not a success, everything I have done up to now will fail and the whole act will have to be written differently. It seems a question more of skill and tact than of dramatic material. The situation of my heroes is at the moment a little artificial, but a pirouette could save everything.

  In Egypt the main fighting is at El Alamein—seemingly at a lower intensity than before. The British resistance appears to
be growing firmer. In fact the German communiqués and dispatches all discreetly pass over the African front (which was such a grave issue last week) and stridently emphasize the Russian front, where the start of a major offensive has been officially announced. Fighting is taking place between Kursk and Kharkov, up to the region of the Don.

  Thursday, 9 July

  A long intricate dream last night, from which I remember only the setting and the broad framework. I was one of a three-man delegation to congratulate Mrs. Antonescu on the marriage of (I think) her son. We were received in a vast rectangular hall, with many flowers. After a while the hall was filled with guests, most of them in evening dress. In an adjoining hall, larger and more sumptuous than the first, an entertainer and then a girl sang some English songs. I remember that Leibovici Camil was one of the guests, among a group of (I think) girls known to me from Brăila, and that they made a sign for me to come closer. Meanwhile, however, without a change in the setting, we were no longer at Mrs. A.’s, but at Princess Bibescu’s, waiting for Valentin B. to return from an air raid or a competition, with a decoration or a trophy. And I did indeed see Valentin Bibescu, in evening dress with a male entourage, stride across the hall and on past me.

  Yesterday evening at Capşa, where I had gone to collect Rosetti, as arranged. At the next table were Ion Barbu and Onicescu, with the evening papers spread open in front of them. Barbu, following a map of the African front, was very disappointed by Rommel’s halt. Onicescu tried to cheer him up:

  “Any piston, however powerful, draws back after it has delivered a blow. That’s what is happening at El Alamein.”

  Barbu did not seem altogether recovered.

  “And then,” Onicescu continued, “can’t you see what has happened in the north? They’ve destroyed an American convoy of fifty ships.”

  “That’s more like it!” Barbu shouted, and his whole face lighted up.

  I found both of them most amusing. They were like two Jews engaged in café politics—with the same fears and enthusiasms—but on the opposite side of the barricades.

  In Russia, Voronezh has fallen and the Don has been crossed at several points. The German offensive seems colossal. Camil Petrescu assures me that they’ll be at the Volga in a week. I bet that it would be the first of August. In Africa, things remain halted at El Alamein.

  Saturday, 11 July

  Last night I read The Two Gentlemen of Verona. After Measure for Measurer, Love’s Labor’s Lost, and Twelfth Night, I have few of that kind of comedy left to read. Meanwhile I continue the royal plays with Benu, Lereanu, and Comşa: we have finished Henry the Fourth and read the first three acts of Henry the Fifth. The more I get into Shakespeare, the more enchanted I become. I have given some pleasant thought to the idea of writing a book about him. Maybe I’ll start right now to sort my reading notes into a series of files. Before writing such a book (but when? when?), it would be enjoyable—and also, I think, useful—to give some lectures on Shakespeare.

  Sleepless nights, as I have never had before. Sometimes I haven’t slept a wink until six, and felt exhausted when I got up in the morning. It is not only because of the dog days but above all because of all the exasperation that has accumulated for so long inside me—and is now taking its revenge. But I must get a grip on myself. I still need my nerves.

  In Russia the Germans are advancing toward and beyond the Don. The Russians are in retreat there but are counterattacking in other sectors. The war is in one of its most intense phases. The center of hell. Still waiting at El Alamein.

  Saturday, 18 July

  I have finished “Alexander the Great”—at last!—or, to be more precise, I have finished Act Three. The play still needs some touching up, but that should be easy to do when I copy it out. This does not mean that I am satisfied with the work I have done. In fact, if I think of my original intentions (a light play, written quickly for immediate performance to earn some money), I have failed. It has turned out quite differently: not good enough to count in my writer’s corpus; not common enough to be a big hit; not innocuous enough to pass as such into one of today’s repertoires. But I shouldn’t grouse—not today, at least. For better or worse, I have finished it and therefore become available for something else. I’ll have a go at the play for Leni. A possible title would be Insula.

  Sunday, 19 July

  I don’t know exactly what is happening at the fronts. The German communiqués are vague, even if the press dispatches are enthusiastic. The propaganda speaks of disasters and final decisions, but things do not seem as grave as all that. Fighting continues at Voronezh, where the Russians are resisting and counterattacking. To the south, the Germans have occupied Voroshilovgrad and now have Rostov under attack. Another offensive is aimed at Stalingrad. Just from reading the papers, I have the impression that, however boisterous the style, the situation is not really so acute.

  Yesterday I opened Montaigne by chance (I needed to trace some Latin verse), and I couldn’t put it down. What delights! Not for a very long time—perhaps never—has he seemed so lively, so enchanting, so direct and familiar. Yesterday I read “De l’inutile et de l’honnête,” and today I began “De l’éxperience.” Everything, almost every line, seemed subversive and liable to censorship in today’s world.

  Not a thought for the play I finished yesterday. No affection for it. I feel it as something alien, yet I shall have to concern myself a little with it.

  Monday, 20 July

  An air raid at ten this evening. Why? you ask yourself. From where? The Russians are at the Don, the British have their work cut out in Egypt—so who is still so keen to fly over these parts? The sirens caught me at Piaţa Natiunii, where it was impossible to find shelter nearby. I lay at full length in the grass, with everyone else who had got off the buses and streetcars. For the first time I witnessed operations in the open air. The firing was quite powerful. Tracer bullets, searchlights, exploding shells—the whole thing, beneath a moon slightly blurred by smoky white clouds—resembled a huge fireworks display. I didn’t see a single airplane. The alert lasted an hour—after which I went straight home and read the last two acts of The Tempest.

  I have learned with surprise, and with pleasure (from a commentary by Duval), that Shakespeare read Montaigne and was passionately fond of his Essays. I seem to like him all the more now, because I am reading both of them at once.

  Thursday, 23 July

  A letter from Antoine Bibescu, in reply to the letter I sent him a week ago to ask if he would receive me for a while at Corcova. “Vous êtes at-tendu avec joie et impatience.”5 It remains to be seen whether I can obtain the necessary permission; Rosetti has already offered to try. I think a few days in Corcova would do me a lot of good. I don’t feel well physically (the accumulation of sleepless nights, tiredness, a cold—all kinds of things), and my nerves are completely gone. I live with too many obsessions and idées fixes.

  Since yesterday evening I have a little quartet by Mozart for strings and oboe. It’s not one of his key works—a playful sketch, rather. But it is nice enough, and I think I could go on listening to it indefinitely. It’s like sonorous froth—a little insubstantial, but delicate and full of grace.

  I heard a while ago—but omitted to mention it in this journal (is it becoming so unimportant to me?)—that Mircea Eliade is in Bucharest. He did not try to get hold of me, of course, or show any sign of life. Once that would have seemed odious to me—even impossible, absurd. Now it seems natural. Like that, things are simpler and clearer. I really no longer have anything at all to say to him or ask him.

  The fall of Rostov seems imminent. The Germans report they have reached the outskirts of the city.

  Thursday, 30 July

  In Russia the situation on the southern front after the fall of Rostov seems to have become more and more serious. The Germans have crossed the lower Don at several points and are rapidly advancing over the wide plain now open to them. Even if they do not immediately attack the Caucasus (which cannot yet be known),
they will try to seal it off by drawing a line from the Azov to the Caspian.

  Mac Constantinescu,6 whom I met yesterday, told me that all of them (Vulcânescu and so on) gathered at Mircea Eliade’s and also “called me to mind.” The expression amused and irritated me at the same time. “What, were you having a seance?”—I regret not having asked him.

  On Sunday I read aloud for Benu the last two acts of my play. A wretched impression. It all seemed to be absurd, bungled, without any charm. How often I wanted to break it off halfway through! But three days have passed since then—and I think I am now seeing things more sensibly. To be sure, the play is no great shakes. It could not even be put on stage in its present form, though I don’t think it would require too many changes. I’ll leave it for the time being, shut it up in a drawer, and get down to something else (if my health allows it, because I again have problems with my eyes and with sleeping). But later, in a few months’ time, I’ll try to look over it again.

  I have read a Dreiser novel with great interest: The Financier. It is powerful, solid, and large. But he lacks a little poetry, the mysterious magnetism of a Balzac, to be a really first-rate writer. Anyway, it is enough to put me off any novel I have written or may ever want to write. Meanwhile I am getting on with my Shakespeare and Montaigne. Finished Richard II, begun The Comedy of Errors. Also read the last two acts of Hamlet, which I had left unfinished.