FLASH
Shkruar nga Pamfleti
Bujar Hudhri, Ismail Kadare's publisher for 30 years, has told the untold stories of the writer's life as well as his last moments.
Kadare passed away at the age of 88. Through a message on 'Facebook', Hudhri emphasized that Kadare had 'predicted' and told Helena, his wife, that he should run away first.
GARLIC'S MESSAGE
Many years ago, when I read the last paragraph of the manuscript of Helena's memoir "Insufficient Time", where it was written who would escort the other from this world, Kadareja had filled her mind that she should go first. I had to stay, Helena wrote, for a while behind him, just like after a happy dinner. I cannot forget the shock of that day. It was a hot July day then like today, and yet I felt sadness wash over me. The first time I read lines about Kadare's death so clearly that I almost believed it. I dialed Helena's phone number. With a haste that seems to have left him a little surprised, I begged Mr. Kadare to let me speak to him. Hey, Bujar, what do we have, I heard his voice. Here, I finished Helen's book and wanted to hear your voice. And I added: how nice, to read this paragraph and in the meantime we can talk together. I imagine him now, when he would have smiled, with his finger on his cheek, when he said about someone, this one is playful. He could not stand sentimentalisms.
But on the first morning of this July, unfortunately, while we were rushing to the hospital by ambulance, I really felt that something irreversible had already happened in his apartment, on "Ibrahim Rugova" street. The excruciating minutes at the emergency door, the staff walking in the room, around the bed, then the silence of the doctors. It's all over. An employee in white who approaches and asks me to help her fill out the death sheet: first name, last name, paternity, maternity, date of birth, address...
I had an image, since my childhood, that writers are not inhabitants of this land. Almost thirty years with Kadare, this impression has even been reinforced. While I was waiting for him in Rinas when he got off the plane and after a month I followed him, even with my eyes, as the plane turned like a black dot in the sky. Repeated so many times, in dozens of years, I really imagined him as a bird of the skies, as he said about Lasgush. Even now, this image does not leave my imagination and I have it forever fixed in my mind. Now more than ever, taking his place in the pantheon of world letters. As he himself said, for his brother Martin Camaj: "At the top table, where the pride of literature has taken place, small noises do not rise, nor do ordinary profiles come close." There is always understanding and harmony, so the celebration continues forever and the lighting of the candles never stops".
Farewell, master!
Lini një Përgjigje