Homework 5/4

We would find small gardens ........we would remain there. Their unleashed vulgarity was

now almost purified by the fall; the raw meat and the smoke from the grills seemed less

brutal in/on that evening, when the sun was setting with a strange tingly melancholy. And

then/ besides that, there were a ton of fruits, a waste of grapes and plums and the smell of the

... and of wine just made. All of these still kept the strengths/vivacity /vigour of the

countryside, they came loaded with a lot of scents and a lot of bitter strong juices. Sometimes

we yearned for fruits on streets with overheaded barrels on the pavements/sidewalk, with the

baskets and boxes filled up with fruits. Ileana had a strange inclination towards all of these

corners filled up with the magic of the fall. Otherwise, we got on really well, as we both

loved the secrets of the town, we even loved that Labour/Market, where the dust smelt so

much like Baragan. We loved Dambovita with its green shores streaked with only yellow

flowers. And when we would get near the Lemaitre Factories, the barrier would deceive us

both with the smell of burned garbage, through which, however, the one could feel the breeze

of the uncleared/virgin field/land...

In mid-October, I was filled up again with anxiety. A few days of rain and fog, the

showcases with new books, the literary journals which started to be printed again, all of these

brought me back to my old life and awoke in me nostalgia and numb ambitions. Except for

the short interval from the beginning of the spring, I hadn’t written much for a very long

time. Until then, I was accustomed to working 4 months per ear and during the rest of the

year I would read, take notes, frequent different social circles, meet a new girlfriend or break

up with another. But Ileana had taken me, even from the begging, to another world and if I

had given up so many customs and relationships, alomst without realizing, I felt, after the

first days of the rainy fall, the delusive lust for writing. I knew beforehand how terrible this

work was for me. I knew that I would stay locked in my house for days, wasting my youth,

struggling and ettenelly unsatisfied with what I was writing. I was not at my first book
anymore, and I knew ( too well) all the stages of creation; because after the preliminary

restlessness, after the almost total isolation from everything around me, would follow a

frenetical lust for writing, which unfortunately died out/diminished/quenched after the first

days. By the end of the book, the work would become exhausting. I could n’t find any

pleasure/enjoyment in front of the manuscript and the moment of sitting at the desk depressed

me. But at the same time, the spell could no longer be broken. I was the slave of my own

phantasy and with all the strength of my

existence-which fought this ingloriously exhaustion- I (would )submit (ed)in in the end.

During those times I would remain, as much as I could, bent over the papers; I (would)

stay(ed) until my last fatigue. Because my last hope was to finish as soon as possible the

book, so that I could get rid of that obsession, to be gain free, young and healthy.

Aurora mai avea atât de puțin și-i mulțumea lui Abraham pentru cecurile lui constante și
infinite, pentru orașul de aur pe care reușise să-l clădească din averea familiei ei, care deși
păreau bani vechi plini de rafinament, nu erau altceva decât un sătuc, o vilă sau un mic orășel
de provincie spre deosebire de metropola averii lor curente. Aurora era conștientă că luxul în
care trăia necesita întreținere deoarece era legată de Abie prin propriile nevoi. Uneori îi venea
să admită lucrul ăsta, chiar dacă îngrijorările la adresa cheltuielilor ei exagerate sau gura ei
spartă ar putea băga ceartă în casă. Fiind fană poveștilor de adormit macabre, obișnuia să-mi
povestească fabula cu scorpionul și broasca, în care scorpionul, deși promisese că în schimbul
unei călătorii de-a lungul unui pârâiaș nu-i va face sprijinului său, și-a încălcat promisiunea și
i-a aplicat broaștei o înțepătură puternică și fatală. În timp ce broasca și scorpionul se înecau,
ucigașui își cere iertare victimei.

- Nu m-am putut abține, spune scorpionul. Așa sunt eu./Așa am fost construit./Așa mi-e
firea.