“… a thick layer of tradition, of folk wisdom, of the aphorisms of the age which seem to find their application in any circumstance, and which are stand-ins for the bemusing education offered by the Church. “

Creanga is a foundational writer of Romanian literature, and this work is a clear example why. It is memoir, of course, and covers only the author’s recollections of his younger years struggling for direction, dealing with various friendships, and maneuvering around the various adults in his life, from parents and boarders to clergy and soldiers. In these ways, the reading is earnest and straightforward.

What is powerful in the read, however, is what Creanga takes for granted in his telling of mid-1800s Romania. Nearly every encounter and moment of his memory, for instance, centers around his search for food (and later drink), even his moments with women. Amidst the mud and cold and goats, too, are expectations in family and friends which sound so genuinely like those of today, save for the consequences of meeting them or not–those who fail their parents may easily be conscripted, arrested, killed, or just as easily continue in the well-worn footsteps of generations of farmers and craftsmen before them.

This is a childhood seemingly arrested in time, and as I traveled the hills of the Carpathians while reading this, it was easy enough to imagine most of it. What Creanga brings most, though, to his memoir is a thick layer of tradition, of folk wisdom, of the aphorisms of the age which seem to find their application in any circumstance, and which are stand-ins for the bemusing education offered by the Church. This book is not today’s Romania of course; but its spirit still resonates in its people.