Yigru Zeltil's Blog
June 11, 2020
Quarter-Life Crisis
13 years ago, I started reading and writing books. It seemed like a blessing: I started to find meaning in literature, develop a voice of my own -- even though that meant for me, say, exploring language, textures, colors, rather than being necessarily a confessional poet or anything like that...
(Alas, it turned out that is exactly what I should have pretended to be in order to gain acceptance on the local scene... I attempted to bypass the narrow tastes, and was only partially successful at it. As a result, I did not publish or even write many projects that would have been more interesting for me, but might suffer from even lesser impact.)
Now it feels like a curse. It feels like I have wasted time and energy. I have nearly lost all sense of belonging. I barely can stand anymore the casual or even outspoken conservatism of many Romanian writers I used to know. I cannot stand anymore the feeling of being so powerless. Everything I am and cherish in others is near constantly marginalized by people in power, and the necessity of justifying myself all the time has taken a toll on me.
I do not hold the privilege of having been born in a language/literature/culture/country that would be considerably progressive. Call me Bovaric or not, I wished my writing needn't be distorted by having to deal with this sour reality.
I am torn apart by this intense feeling of unsatisfied longing for a sense of community. I am pondering: should I keep writing in Romanian? Should I start writing more in English and try to attach myself to some sort of American or British small community? Should I relearn French better? Should I learn instead a Northern European country? Should I stop publishing altogether? Does it even all matter anyway as civilization is disintegrating into suicidal isolationisms?...
Yes, I am spoiled. Darn comparisons: the grass is greener on the other side, any other country seems to have more acceptance of something "avant-garde" than Romania. But maybe it is my foolish mistake (or, should I say, I am compelled, swayed by an irrepressible instinct at an age of encouraged individuation), that I want to be in the front guard (feel the military stench of the metaphor already?) of something that could go on and reproduce, instead of living with my inadequacy, lone wolf mode. Sour grapes: do I really need the attention and praise of people who have not so much in common with me?
At the end of the day, I still feel like sharing stuff that I like and there is little that changes, except I have increasingly alienated myself from a lot of "center", "mainstream" people, and can only theatrically pretend to keep a low, "apolitical", "normal" profile, like just sharing pictures of nature... Even though there would still be some space to carve, like I I can share fjords, caves, "barren" landscapes, or plants...
But then there's a scandal seemingly every other day and I can't help voicing opinions that go against the grain, when the grain means sharing the most questionable "anti-PC" nonsense, which is a norm in Romania.
So I'm constantly oscillating between barely attempting to reconcile myself with the world by the way of a neat indirect speech (where people don't mind my turning back to the world, since it's no longer challenging the world per se) and the impulse to burn bridges of so many connections that do not feel essential to me anymore (they were only because I was too much of a "careerist", but I never really stood a chance), between the simulacrum of some kind of peace and a purge felt as necessity...
Guess I should just lay low, yet unless another force intervenes, I'll just keep going this way in perhaps a lower-energy manner, but that's it. As for my latest poems, they are turning out highly charged, either when they express suspicion (of others) or when they represent an expression others would rightfully deem suspicious. For now, I am making (ab)use of the tactical advantage of aestheticization, not clearly declaring war on a false sense of "normality." The all-out assault still needs massive preparation... See what I did there?
(Alas, it turned out that is exactly what I should have pretended to be in order to gain acceptance on the local scene... I attempted to bypass the narrow tastes, and was only partially successful at it. As a result, I did not publish or even write many projects that would have been more interesting for me, but might suffer from even lesser impact.)
Now it feels like a curse. It feels like I have wasted time and energy. I have nearly lost all sense of belonging. I barely can stand anymore the casual or even outspoken conservatism of many Romanian writers I used to know. I cannot stand anymore the feeling of being so powerless. Everything I am and cherish in others is near constantly marginalized by people in power, and the necessity of justifying myself all the time has taken a toll on me.
I do not hold the privilege of having been born in a language/literature/culture/country that would be considerably progressive. Call me Bovaric or not, I wished my writing needn't be distorted by having to deal with this sour reality.
I am torn apart by this intense feeling of unsatisfied longing for a sense of community. I am pondering: should I keep writing in Romanian? Should I start writing more in English and try to attach myself to some sort of American or British small community? Should I relearn French better? Should I learn instead a Northern European country? Should I stop publishing altogether? Does it even all matter anyway as civilization is disintegrating into suicidal isolationisms?...
Yes, I am spoiled. Darn comparisons: the grass is greener on the other side, any other country seems to have more acceptance of something "avant-garde" than Romania. But maybe it is my foolish mistake (or, should I say, I am compelled, swayed by an irrepressible instinct at an age of encouraged individuation), that I want to be in the front guard (feel the military stench of the metaphor already?) of something that could go on and reproduce, instead of living with my inadequacy, lone wolf mode. Sour grapes: do I really need the attention and praise of people who have not so much in common with me?
At the end of the day, I still feel like sharing stuff that I like and there is little that changes, except I have increasingly alienated myself from a lot of "center", "mainstream" people, and can only theatrically pretend to keep a low, "apolitical", "normal" profile, like just sharing pictures of nature... Even though there would still be some space to carve, like I I can share fjords, caves, "barren" landscapes, or plants...
But then there's a scandal seemingly every other day and I can't help voicing opinions that go against the grain, when the grain means sharing the most questionable "anti-PC" nonsense, which is a norm in Romania.
So I'm constantly oscillating between barely attempting to reconcile myself with the world by the way of a neat indirect speech (where people don't mind my turning back to the world, since it's no longer challenging the world per se) and the impulse to burn bridges of so many connections that do not feel essential to me anymore (they were only because I was too much of a "careerist", but I never really stood a chance), between the simulacrum of some kind of peace and a purge felt as necessity...
Guess I should just lay low, yet unless another force intervenes, I'll just keep going this way in perhaps a lower-energy manner, but that's it. As for my latest poems, they are turning out highly charged, either when they express suspicion (of others) or when they represent an expression others would rightfully deem suspicious. For now, I am making (ab)use of the tactical advantage of aestheticization, not clearly declaring war on a false sense of "normality." The all-out assault still needs massive preparation... See what I did there?
