Gaudeamus. Mircea Eliade

should I love only at the command of the sky, the cherry blossoms, and the lilacs? Why be deceived? Why must I wait? Waiting for love and for spring humiliated me even more than all the desires stifling my breath and boiling my blood. To wait is a feminine attitude. I felt as passive and pensive as a sentimental virgin waiting, resigned, for her master to pick her. This defeat humiliated me deeply.

      Springs past, and springs future: I no longer fear them. And here I am, writing, unbeknownst to anyone, in a notebook that I conceal among boxes of research notes. Here I am, writing in the middle of autumn. And how no one will be able to know whether I am sad.

      And I am not sad, either about autumn or this account of my memories.

      SEVEN: WORKS AND DAYS