On totalitarianism
The hell of communism, like every other hell, was smothering in the worst sense of the term. But literature transformed that into a life force, a force which helped you survive and hold your head up and win out over dictatorship.
In a country of that kind, the first thing for a writer is the most important one, the most substantial one, it is: do not take the regime seriously. You are a writer, you are going to have a much richer life than they have, you are in some sense or another eternal by comparison with those kinds of people, and in the last analysis you don’t need to bother about them very much.
On Enver Hoxha, Albanian ruler from 1944 until his death in 1985
When Hoxha broke with the Soviet Union in 1962, he was ready to turn to Europe, but he was rejected, so he made an absurd short-lived alliance with China. When that went wrong he built thousands of anti-nuclear pillboxes, which he knew were useless, but he wanted to create a fear-psychosis. Albania suffered longer than any other eastern European country.
Hoxha fancied himself an intellectual and poet who had been to the Sorbonne, and he didn’t want to be seen as an enemy of writers. Of course, he could have killed me in a ‘car crash’, or by ‘suicide’, as he did many others.
On being described as a political writer
I am of the opinion that I am not a political writer, and, moreover, that as far as true literature is concerned, there actually are no political writers. I think that my writing is no more political than ancient Greek theatre. I would have become the writer I am in any political regime.
I have never claimed to be a ‘dissident’ in the proper meaning of the term. Open opposition to Hoxha’s regime, like open opposition to Stalin during Stalin’s reign in Russia, was simply impossible. Dissidence was a position no one could occupy, even for a few days, without facing the firing squad. On the other hand, my books themselves constitute a very obvious form of resistance to the regime.
On international success
On the one hand it secured protection for me in relation to the regime, on the other hand I was constantly under observation. What excited suspicion was ‘why does the western bourgeoisie hold a writer from a Stalinist country in high esteem?’
On the Albanian language
For me as a writer, Albanian is simply an extraordinary means of expression – rich, malleable, adaptable.
On books
I hated the Soviet books, full of sunshine, working in the fields, the joyous spring, the summer full of hope. The first time I heard the words ‘hope’ and ‘hard work’, they made me yawn.
The founding father of Albanian literature is the 19th-century writer Naim Frashëri. Without having the greatness of Dante or Shakespeare, he is nonetheless the founder, the emblematic character. He wrote long epic poems, as well as lyrical poetry, to awaken the national consciousness of Albania. After him came Gjergj Fishta. We can say that these two are the giants of Albanian literature, the ones that children study at school. Later came other poets and writers who produced perhaps better works than those two, but they don’t occupy the same place in the nation’s memory.
On censorship
In the early 60s, life in Albania was pleasant and well organised. A writer would not have known he should not write about the falsification of history.
For a writer, personal freedom is not so important. It is not individual freedom that guarantees the greatness of literature, otherwise writers in democratic countries would be superior to all others. Some of the greatest writers wrote under dictatorship – Shakespeare, Cervantes. The great universal literature has always had a tragic relation with freedom. The Greeks renounced absolute freedom and imposed order on chaotic mythology, like a tyrant. In the west, the problem is not freedom. There are other servitudes – lack of talent, thousands of mediocre books published every year.
I have created a body of literary work during the time of two diametrically opposed political systems: a tyranny that lasted for 35 years (1955-1990), and 20 years of liberty. In both cases, the thing that could destroy literature is the same: self-censorship.
On contemporary literature
They say that contemporary literature is very dynamic because it is influenced by the cinema, the television, the speed of communication. But the opposite is true! If you compare the texts of the Greek antiquity with today’s literature, you’ll notice that the classics operated in a far larger terrain, painted on a much broader canvas, and had an infinitely greater dimension.
All this noise about innovations, new genres, is idle. There is real literature and then there is the rest.
On being a writer
I don’t work for more than two hours a day.
Writing is neither a happy nor an unhappy occupation – it is something in-between. It is almost a second life.
I am so grateful for literature, because it gives me the chance to overcome the impossible.
