Bucharest, 1937.
Dear Mr. Camil Petrescu,

While socially I may not have evolved beyond the age of lessons at my mother’s knee, I am no longer so young as to allow myself to flunk another one of my life’s dreams, nay, the most significant one. I trust you are not the man to mock it: the entire body of your work -- that I love, and that I had internalized to the extent to which I am forced to justify my obsession to some people, and you know how much that hurts – the body of your work feeds this dream, childish as it is, and validates it.

You are one of those beings who would never sneer at mind’s and fate’s childish pranks; similarly, it would never cross Don Quijote’s mind to scorn a comedian. Countless times have you been derided as a Don Quijote, and myself had to put up repeatedly with: “just stick to that Camil of yours” – that is, you see, I was coursed to linger in some kind of mentally underdeveloped stage. It happened too often, and now I won’t waste time in unwarranted detours, so here it is: since I was a kid, all I wanted was to tell the world how to play soccer. Now, I hear you started up a magazine named just that, Soccer, and subtitled, specifically: “A Weekly Magazine to Foster Fair Play in Sports, Arts, Letters and Social Life.” So, please be so kind, I mean, so perceptive, as to hire me as an (even unpaid) editor or proofreader.

I won’t fail my childish dream of having Camil Petrescu as the Chief Editor of a soccer magazine fallen under the spell of fair play the way others, like the characters in your own play, are enthralled by the fairy dance of pure ideas. And since there is the possibility, arisen not just from some blessed superstition inspiring all of us the Camilians, but also from lucid reflection, that you might be unhappy with my performance, you may then just throw me out with no further ado.

Too often was I let go from editorial departments whose chief editors had been happy with my work for me not to develop the resilience to bear firing by Camil Petrescu for purely professional reasons, for a change. I assure you that in that case I would get hitched to another fate – forest ranger on the Rucar Valley, a familiar place, too – and you won’t hear from me again. Meanwhile, faithfully yours…

Radu Cosaşu, Midfield and Sideline, Dilema Veche , nr.194 – October, 28, 2007

Bucureşti 1937. Dearest Mr. Camil Petrescu, although my education may only amount to the seven years of preschool, I am no longer at the age that will allow me to fail yet another of my life’s dreams, namely the most important one. I trust that you would not belittle it, especially as your entire oeuvre—which I adore and have assimilated in its entirety, so well in fact that I was forced to explain this pathetic hobby to some, and you must know how much that hurts—your oeuvre, then, feeds and justifies my dream in all its glorious childishness. You are one of those rare people who will never laugh at childish endeavors pertaining to either spirit or fate, just as Don Quixote will never dream of mocking a comedian. You were often ridiculed as a Don Quixote figure, and I was more than once forced to endure the curse “just stick to your Camil”—that is to remain, you see, in a stage of intellectual underdevelopment—to beat about the bush any longer; seeing as how, since I was a young child, I wanted nothing more but tell the whole world how football is played, and learning that you have started a magazine entitled “Foot-ball,” and especially with this subtitle: “Weekly magazine for learning fair play in sports, arts, literature, social life,” please bestow upon me the kindness—that is to say, the intelligence—to hire me as an editor or copyeditor, even if I have to do it for free. I cannot fail my childhood dream to have Camil Petrescu as chief-editor for a football magazine that is fascinated by fair play the same way others are entranced by the dance of the fairies. Given not only the sacred superstitions that animate all of us Camilians, but also my lucidity, I surmise the possibility that, if you are not satisfied with my work, you should fire me without ceremony. Too often was I fired from editorial staffs where the chief-editors had been happy with my work for me not to be able to find the strength to suffer being fired by Camil Petrescu, for purely professional reasons. If that should be the case, I assure you that I would gladly start a new career—ranger in our own Rucăr Valley!—and you’ll never hear from me again. Until then, however, I remain yours faithfully, ….