SESSION 6

Cearta se înăspri aşa de rău încât Titu fu nevoit să renunţe la munca poetică şi să asculte discuţia din
ce în ce mai aprinsă. Bătrânii dovedeau fetelor că Aurel Ungureanu e o puşlama care-şi pierde
vremea făcând curte Laurei, fără să-i treacă măcar prin minte s-o ia de nevastă; şi chiar de ar fi om
de treabă şi ar avea gânduri serioase, tot nu le-ar putea înfăptui decât peste vreo cinci ani, când va
termina studiile, dacă le va termina, şi încă şi atunci va pretinde ceva zestre, iar de nu-i vor putea da
nimic, îi va intoarce spatele repede-repede. Pintea însă era om chibzuit, cu cariera deschisă, fără
pretenţii, sincer si cinstit, dispus s-o ia chiar fără cămaşă, fiindcă o iubeşte aievea. Dacă Laura se va
codi şi va scăpa ocazia norocoasă, va îmbătrâni fata mare ca şi domnişoarele Bocu din Armadia,
care au împlinit cincizeci de ani şi tot mai aşteaptă vreun nebun să le peţească, deşi ele au la spate
miişoare multe. De altfel Laura are vârsta cea mai frumoasă. Fata, după ce trece de douăzeci de ani,
începe a se veşteji şi a se urâţi. Învăţătura şi frumuseţea nu-ţi folosesc nimic, dacă n-ai minte să
prinzi norocul când îţi pica... Laura, sprijinită viguros de Ghighi, descria în culorile cele mai negre
pe Pintea, blestema minutul în care l-a cunoscut, plângea şi iar declara că ar trebui sa fie smintită să-
şi îngroape tinereţile alături de o stârpitură de om pe care-l urăşte tocmai fiindcă a avut obrăznicia s-
o ceară în căsătorie. Se închina şi se jura că mai bine moartea decât Pintea. De măritat mai are
destulă vreme, căci azi fetele nu se mai mărită ca altă dată, înainte de a fi deschis bine ochii în lume.
Ea însă nu vrea să se mărite niciodataă are oroare de bărbaţi şi nici pentru Aurel nu simte, la urma
urmelor, decât o simpatie nevinovată şi nici prin gând nu-i trece să fie vreodată soţia lui...
(Rebreanu – Ion)

Unchiul se străduia să înţeleagă : făcuse el bine că venise la ei? Se potrivea gândul cu care venise el
cu ceea ce găsise ? Erau măcar ei curioşi să afle că tatăl lor avea in inima lui un gând pentru ei?
Aveau măcar bănuiala, sau nu cumva îşi închipuiau că venise cu vechile lui pretenţii, să-i
constrângă, să le poruncească, să-i biciuie cu cuvintele lui usturătoare ? Eu, care mersesem alături
de el peste douăsprezece ore în căruţă, ştiam că da, avea un gând pentru ei, la care ţinea cu tărie,
deşi îndoieli rele îl asaltau ... Si acum uite, să vorbeşti cuiva despre un lucru pe care dacă l-ai spune,
îţi dai seama dinainte că celălalt nu te-ar crede în ciuda dovezilor pe care i le-ai înşira pe dinaintea
ochilor ? Fiindcă numai doritori să afle nu erau copiii lui ... Ce să facă? Degeaba pusese hamurile pe
cai şi venise până aici? Si începu să clatine din cap. Clătina din cap a reproş, lucru care pe cei trei îi
infurie : iar a venit să ... Fără să-şi dea seama el chiar aşa şi făcu, începând cu o constatare, ca şi
când ar fi vorbit aşa în general, nu copiilor lui : "A fi portar într-un bloc e bine un timp, dar dacă la
un moment dat te dă afară, ce-i faci? Ai tu casa şi munca ta sigură care să te ajute sa te însori şi să-
ţi faci familia ta ? Unde ? Nu zice nimeni că a fi sudor nu înseamnă să ai leafa asigurată, dar unde
stai? Se compară o odăiţă de-asta cu o curte mare în care ai caii tăi şi îti munceşti pamântul, între
oameni?" Şi tăcu posomorât şi dispreţuitor.
(M. Preda – Moromeţii)

But a gentleman who is upright and admirable is not found stabbed to death on Epsom Racecourse
as George was three weeks ago. A man as virtuous as some of his acquaintances believed him to be
does not leave on his death a contented widow and a joyful daughter. The truth is that, shocked as I
was when the news of his murder was brought to me, I was also relieved. These twenty years gone
by have sometimes been almost intolerable – though what course is there for a woman but to
tolerate? – and George’s death, horrible though the circumstances of it were, lifted the load from my
shoulders in the twinkling of an eye.
His grave is in our village churchyard. Living in London, I missed the countryside and
longed to go back. The brewery and all the property of course became George’s on our marriage. I
only deceive myself if I deny that it was to possess them that George married me but I am glad he
kept Satis House, in spite of disliking it so thoroughly. (...)
Arthur was so envious because our father left the greater part of his property to me, his elder
child. Perhaps I should have reminded him more often that his riotous and undutiful behaviour
almost secured his disinheritance. It was only on his death bed that Papa relented and left him a
share in the brewery. But that and the income which came with it was insufficient for Arthur, as I
soon understood, though it was not until just before my marriage that I knew of the conspiracy got
up between him and George.

(Ruth Rendell – Expectations)

From her agreeable corner where she lounged with her Browning or her Ibsen, Mildred watched the
woman do this every day. Yet when the clumsy farmhands all came tramping up the steps and
crossed the porch in going to their meal that was served within, she never looked at them. Why
should she? Farmhands are not so very nice to look at, and she was nothing of an anthropologist.
But once when the half dozen men came along, a paper which she had laid carelessly upon the
railing was blown across their path. One of them picked it up, and when he had mounted the steps
restored it to her. He was young, and brown, of course, as the sun had made him. He had nice blue
eyes. His fair hair was dishevelled. His shoulders were broad and square and his limbs strong and
clean. A not unpicturesque figure in the rough attire that bared his throat to view and gave perfect
freedom to his every motion.
Mildred did not make these several observations in the half second that she looked at him in
courteous acknowledgment. It took her as many days to note them all. For she signaled him out
each time that he passed her, meaning to give him a condescending little smile, as she knew how.
But he never looked at her. To be sure, clever young women of twenty, who are handsome, besides,
who have refused their half dozen offers and are settling down to the conviction that life is a tedious
affair, are not going to care a straw whether farmhands look at them or not. And Mildred did not
care, and the thing would not have occupied her a moment if Satan had not intervened, in offering
the employment which natural conditions had failed to supply. It was summer time; she was idle;
she was piqued, and that was the beginning of the shameful affair.

(Kate Chopin - A Shameful Affair)

Thirty should be when you think -- these are my golden years, these are my salad
days the best is yet to come and all that old crap.
You are still young enough to stay up all night, but you are old enough to have a credit card. All the
uncertainties and poverty of your teens and twenties are finally over -- and good riddance to the lot
of them -- but the sap is still rising.
Thirty should be a good birthday. One of the best.

But how to celebrate reaching the big three-oh? With a collection of laughing single friends in some
intimate bar or restaurant? Or surrounded by a loving wife and adoring small children in the bosom
of the family home? There has to be a good way of turning thirty. Perhaps they are all good ways.

All my images of this particular birthday seemed derived from some glossy American sitcom.
When I thought of turning thirty, I thought of attractive thirty-nothing marrieds fooling around like
teens in heat while in the background a gurgling baby crawls across some polished parquet floor, or
I saw a circle of good-looking, wisecracking friends drinking latte and showing off their impressive
knitwear while wryly bemoaning the dating game. That was my problem. When I thought of turning
thirty, I thought of somebody else’s life.

But that's what thirty should be -- grown-up without being disappointed, settled without being
complacent, worldly wise but not so worldly wise that you feel like chucking
yourself under a train. The time of your life.
By thirty you have finally realized that you are not going to live forever, of course. But surely that
should only make the laughing, latte-drinking present taste even sweeter? You shouldn't let your
inevitable death put a damper on things. Don't let the long, slow slide to the grave get in the way of
a good time.

Whether you are enjoying the last few years of unmarried freedom or you have recently moved on
to a more adult, more committed way of life with someone you love, it's difficult to imagine a truly
awful way of turning thirty.

(Tony Parsons – Man and Boy)