From the first day I find in the entire cell a terrible thirst for poetry. Whoever knows many poems by heart is a made man in detention, his are the hours that pass imperceptibly and in dignity, his is the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, his is Café de Flore. His are the ice cream and lemonade served in St Mark’s Square. The abbot Faria knew what he was doing when he prepared for Montecristo Island by memorising all the books. And Nicolai Semenovici Leskov was so right advising us: “Read and try to get something out of it. You’ll be entertained in the grave.” In prison, being a kind of grave, the advice proves excellent: whoever likes to learn poetry will never be bored in prison – and he’ll never be alone.
In the cell there is also a young Lutheran pastor from Braşov, with the aspect of Gösta Berling; German is his mother tongue, and he is a poet himself. Passionate admirer of Rilke, from which he’s translated, he knows innumerable poems by the great poet, reciting them superbly with vigor and astonishing interpretation; he has the patience of steel and a good will that refracts tiredness. Everything in him oscillates between demi-god and saint.
Continue reading ‘From The Happiness Diary, by Nicolae Steinhardt’
