DEBORAH TREISMAN: The situation you describe in “The Albanian Writers’ Union as Mirrored by a Woman” is based on real events in Albania in the nineteen-sixties, and the last line of the story suggests that it is quite autobiographical. Is it?
ISMAIL KADARE: Yes, it is. The story is based on events that were well known among writers and also in wider circles in Tirana. Life there was pretty dull, just like it was in the capital cities of all the other Communist-bloc countries. So everyone thought that what was going on at the Writers’ Union was really interesting.
Was there a real Marguerite?
Yes, there was, but not the one described in this story. Let me explain. In Communist countries, women with liberal attitudes toward life—and, especially, toward love—were often treated as shameless hussies. But they included some of the most interesting people of all. The touch of “dissidence” in their opinions, if I can use the term here, made them altogether attractive—it made them sexy in all senses.
Were you “rotated” out of Tirana as a young writer? What was life like for you in those years?
Yes, I was indeed “rotated” in the way it happens in the story. That was in 1967-68, when Albania was aping China’s Cultural Revolution. I had to go and live in Berat, an ancient city about a hundred kilometers from Tirana. It was quite tough, actually. On the other hand, life under Communism was fraught with so many dangers and difficulties that banishment to a provincial town was hardly a tragedy.
The story treats Enver Hoxha’s suppression of literary freedom with quite a bit of humor. You capture the hubris of the young writer in a way that seems universal to me—as relevant for budding literary geniuses in New York today as it was for Albanians then. But I’m guessing that it was all much less funny for you at the time. Did you feel that your work in those years was censored or otherwise inhibited?
Life under Communism was principally a tragedy, but a tragedy with comic, not to say grotesque, interludes. Life over all could be described in those terms—as a tragicomedy.
When I look back at works written by my colleagues during that period, I can see that they all have an element of humor, satire, or mockery—which shows that the writers’ spirits were not entirely crushed by the brutal atmosphere we lived in. Writers from former Eastern-bloc countries—Milan Kundera, for example—have often asserted that laughter and mockery were ways of saying no to that world.
Certainly, what happened to us was no joke. On the other hand, you should not imagine writers and their circle as if they had been turned into zombies devoid of critical ability. Let me show you what I mean. In 1967, when the events of the story take place, I had published three works in prose (besides my poetry): the novels “The General of the Dead Army” and “The Monster” and the short story “Coffeehouse Days.” The last two had been banned for “decadence,” but they were widely known, because the ban had been imposed after they were published. Being “scandalous” and forbidden, they gave me a lot of trouble, of course—but, for the same reason, they gave me a certain weight in the eyes of my readers. It was one of the peculiar contradictions of life in those times. If you had problems with the state, you were looked on with a certain suspicion, but that very fact gave you greater prestige in certain circles. I think this is what creates the impression of hubris in the young writer.
What we wrote was censored, but what was far worse than censorship was self-censorship. That was the real death of art. Fortunately, I managed to avoid being infected by it.
Although you’ve lived in France for the past fifteen years, you write most often about Albania. Does the country where you came of age provide stronger literary material, or is it simply so imprinted on you that it would be difficult to write about anywhere else?
It’s not unusual for the work of a writer to remain tied to the country where he lived the largest part of his life, although it’s not unusual to be detached from it, either. I’m somewhere in between these two positions.
In fact, quite a large part of my work is not set in Albania, nor does it tell stories about it. “The Pyramid,” for example, which came out in the United States in 1996, is set in ancient Egypt, although its core is a universal idea about dictatorship, which naturally includes the Albanian variety. “The Palace of Dreams” takes place in Constantinople, and other novels and stories I’ve written take place in Moscow, in northern Greece, and in an unreal Troy that I imagined for myself.
I don’t make any special effort to stay inside Albania, nor do I take any pains to wander abroad in my writing.
Was it hard for you to leave Albania when you did, as the Communist regime was crumbling? Are you sorry not to have been living there to see the first years of the transition, or were those times even harder than the preceding period? Do you spend much time in Albania now?
Although I had had several opportunities to emigrate, I stayed in Albania throughout the darkest and most dangerous period. I never imagined that the fall of Communism would occur in my lifetime.
When I decided to leave, it wasn’t because I was in any danger. The tyrant was dead. The regime was no longer punishing people. In “Albanian Spring,” I explained my reasons for leaving and the circumstances of that event. I had been engaged in a bitter exchange of letters with the Communist President of the country. From that correspondence, I learned that, despite the liberal signals the regime was giving, the authorities had no real intention of relaxing their grip. Albania was on the verge of turning into another Cuba or North Korea. I couldn’t strip the mask of hypocrisy from the President or his regime without a channel of communication—a radio or a newspaper. There was no way I could have a platform of that kind inside Albania. So I sent a message to my French publisher, asking him to arrange a book promotion in Paris to justify a trip over there. It took me five months to get the exit visa. Voice of America’s Albanian Service then provided me with the microphone I needed, and through it I reached my goal. The speech I gave on the radio (which was reprinted in “Albanian Spring”) had the effect of a bombshell in Albania. The regime collapsed, and, eighteen months later, as I had promised in my speech, I went back to my country. I now spend more than half of my time in Albania.
What was it like to live in the West after spending more than fifty years in socialist Albania?
Adapting to life in the West hasn’t been hard. What made the first years difficult, and sometimes dramatic, sometimes happy, was the news from Albania. That’s what gave the basic rhythm to my life in the West.
Many of your works are either directly or allegorically political. Do you feel an obligation to acknowledge the political world in your writing?
I don’t think there’s any more politics in my work than there is in Greek drama. I’ve not been scared of including it, or of leaving it out.
No one ever forced me to write anything political, even during the most ruthless years of the dictatorship. The only obligation, the only “tax” that was due from me, applied to everyone. To have the right to work on universal subjects or on myths, you had to write one or two works about contemporary life. Does that seem crazy? Anyway, that’s how it was.
If you didn’t pay the tax, then you had to face the question in the press, in meetings, everywhere: “Comrade X, why don’t you write about our socialist life? Could it be that you do not like this kind of life? Or is there a deeper reason?” The “deeper reason” was understood to be political opposition, and that could send you straight to prison or to the firing squad.
What do you see happening in Albanian literature today?
Albanian literature is developing normally, like the literature of any other free country. However, the illusion of a miracle happening after the collapse of Communism (an illusion that afflicts all post-Communist countries) remains just that—an illusion.
Literature has its own internal rules of development. Just as it can be free in captivity, it can also be captive in freedom. The writers of the free world are well aware of this.
Your writing has been much celebrated in France, where your “Complete Works” are in the process of being published. Have you found it harder to reach English-speaking readers?
My first novel, “The General of the Dead Army,” came out in France in 1970 and in English in 1971. My second novel, “Chronicle in Stone,” was greeted by a very kind essay by John Updike, writing in The New Yorker. Since then, more than a dozen of my books have appeared in English. It is true that I enjoy a wider readership in France, but I think all European authors have a harder time achieving recognition in the English-speaking world.
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