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http://www.tvklan.tv/uploads/HertaMuellerT.jpgShkrimtarja dhe poetja gjermane me origjine rumune, Herta Muller, është fituesja e Çmimit Nobel 2009 për letërsinë. Akademia suedeze, që prej vitit 1901 përzgjedh fituesit e Nobelit, ia atribuoi Çmimin e letërsisë zonjës Muller për “Përqendrimin e thellë poetik dhe sinqeritetin e prozës, me të cilat ajo pikturon peisazhin e të shpronësuarve”. Herta Muller, në vepren e saj letrare ka zbërthyer e zbuluar imtësisht brutalitetin e jetës në vendlindjen e saj, Rumani, nën diktaturën e Causheskut.
Autorja 56-vjeçare, emigroi për në Gjermani me bashkëshortin e saj, në vitin 1987, dy vjet para rrëzimit të Causheskut me dhunë dhe zgjerimit të kolapsit komunist në vendet e Europës Lindore. Deputimin e saj në letërsi Muller e pati në vitin 1982 me botimin në gjermanisht e anglisht të vëllimit me tregime “Ultësirat”, i censuruar nga qeveria komuniste.
Njërën nga veprat e saj, romanin “Vendi i kumbullave të gjelbërta” i botuar në vitin 1990, Herta Muller ia ka kushtuar pesë miqve të saj rumunë të vrarë nga regjimi i Causheskut.
Ndërsa shtypi kombëtar rumun ishte tejet kritik ndaj shkrimeve të saj, ai gjerman e priti krahëhapur veprën e Herta Muller, theksoi Akademia Suedeze për fituesen e Nobelit. Dhe vetëm për faktin se Muller, bëri publike kritikat e saj ndaj regjimit të Causheskut u ndalua të botohej në vendlindjen e saj.
Disa nga veprat e saj janë të shkruara pas vendosjes në Gjermani janë “Pasapaorta”, “Takimi”. Muller është e 12-ta grua që merr Çmimin Nobel për letërsinë, pas austrakes Elfride Jelinek ne 2004 dhe britanikes Doris Lesing në 2007. Ndër kandidatët për Nobelin 2009 në letërsi me një vlerë prej 1.4 milionë dollarësh, ishin edhe nobelisti Amos Oz, Milan Kundera, Antonio Kabuki dhe shkrimtari ynë Ismail Kadare.

TV Klan

S'me hapet kjo. smiley  Na thoni dicka se per cfare flet a cfare ka shkruar kjo shkrimtare.

Shpresoj qe dita kur Kadareja te fitoj kete cmim, te mos vij kurre. Kadareja duhet te distancohet nga kandidati per Nobel.

Ky cmim eshte pare te dhurohet ne skuta te erreta , per arsye politike etj. Eshte e turpshme qe Kadareja te konsiderohet si mbushes i rradhes dhe te kalojne para tij mendje te erreta dhe te demshme per njerezimin si Harold Pinter etj.

 

S'e kisha pare ket postin

10 yje!

 

permendja e emrit te kadarese vit per vit , si kandidat, mendoj se eshte publiciteti me i mire i mundshem per te

Nqs do e konsideerojme shkrimtarin me te mire shqiptar, atehere figura e ketij njeriu duhet te jete me e rendesishme se publiciteti per arsye perfitimi.

Nje cmim per Kadarene dihet shume mire qe do te ishte nje cmim per shqiptaret.

Prandaj duhet menduar mire per keto gjera.

Kjo shkrimtare paska jetuar nen diktature ashtu si Kadareja por ka pasur guximin ta kundershtoje diktaturen dhe te largohet nga Rumania pak vite para se diktatura te binte. Ndoshta dhe Kadareja duhet te kishte bere dicka te tille ne Shqiperi per te marre cmimin Nobel. Sa per vlerat letraro-artistike te shkrimtares nuk mund te gjykoj pasi une dhe (besoj) shume te tjere nuk e kane lexuar kete shkrimtare. Tek faqja zyrtare e Nobelit eshte hapur nje sondazh: Sa persona e kane lexuar kete shkrimtare? Pergjigjja JO eshte mbi 90%.

sic duket akademiket  e nobelit analizokan jetet e shkrimtareve me detaje, ME PERJASHTIM TE VERPAVE TE TYRE smiley

Sapo shtova ne facebook Herta Müller, dhe me doli nje plake 80 vjeçe nga New York. Oh te keqen nena. U ça duke me shkruar mesazhe çasti, e kam ne linje. Jam bere e famshme, me thote. Dhe e bukura eshte se ishte beqare dhe po kerkonte nje burre te ri. E pieta per nga banka, me tha qe eshte e kopsitur mire. Te shohme, ndoshta nje dashuri e re po lind ne horizont. Do t'i dergoj nje poezi nga Aragon, "Ndoshta kjo eshte dashuria..."

Shihemi me vone, ne koken tuaj tani.

na perkthe te pakten ndonje poezi te saj o njeri

 

Ja ç'thote akademia per te :

"Romanet e saj japin me hollesite e tyre te skalitura nje imazh te jetes se perditshme ne nje diktature te ngurte"

Tani me rregull treshi, nxirrni mesimet per xhajen tone.

po ndonje poezi koti e gjen dot te na e sjellesh

gjeta vete dicka nga ajo

 

Voluntary work: Values are Changing for the BetterHerta Müller's novel "Everything I Own I Carry With Me" - an excerpt

An excerpt:

Everything I have I carry with me.
Or: everything that's mine I carry on me.

I carried everything I had. It wasn't actually mine. It was either intended for a different purpose or somebody else's. The pigskin suitcase was a gramophone box. The dust coat was from my father. The town coat with the velvet neckband from my grandfather. The breeches from my Uncle Edwin. The leather puttees from our neighbour, Herr Carp. The green gloves from my Auntie Fini. Only the claret silk scarf and the toilet bag were mine, gifts from recent Christmases.

The war was still on in January 1945. Shocked that, in the depths of winter, I was to be taken who-knows-where by the Russians, everyone wanted to give me something that would be useful, maybe, even if it didn't help. Because nothing on earth could help. It was irrevocable: I was on the Russians' list, so everyone gave me something - and drew their own conclusions as they did. I took the things and, at the age of seventeen, drew my own conclusion: the timing was right for going away. I could have done without the list being the reason, but if things didn't turn out too badly, it would even be good for me. I wanted away from this thimble of a town, where all the stones had eyes. I wasn't so much afraid as secretly impatient. And I had a bad conscience because the list that caused my relatives such anguish was, for me, tolerable. They feared that in another country something might happen to me. I wanted to go to a place that did not know me.

Something had already happened to me. Something forbidden. It was strange, dirty, shameless, and beautiful. It happened in the park with all the alders, away at the back, beyond the short-grass hills. On the way home, I went to the centre of the park, into the round pavilion where, on public holidays, the orchestras would play. I remained seated for a while. The light pierced the finely-carved wood. I could see the fear of the empty circles, squares, and quadrilaterals - white tendrils with claws linking them. It was the pattern of my aberration, and the pattern of the horror in the face of my mother. In this pavilion I swore to myself: I'm never coming back to this park.

The more I tried to stop myself, the quicker I went back – after two days. To my rendezvous, as it was called in the park.
I went to my second rendezvous with the same first man. He was called THE SWAN. The second man was new, he was called THE FIR. The third was called THE EAR. After that came THE THREAD. Then THE ORIOLE and THE CAP. Later, THE HARE, THE CAT, THE SEAGULL. Then THE PEARL. Only we knew which name was whose. We played at wild animals, I let myself be passed along. And it was summer in the park, and the birches had a white skin, and the green wall of impenetrable foliage was growing among the jasmine and elder bushes.

Love has its seasons. Autumn put an end to the park. The wood became naked. The rendezvous moved with us to the Neptune. Next to the pool's iron gate was its oval sign with the swan. Each week, I met the one who was twice my age. He was Romanian. He was married. I am not saying what his name was, and not what my name was. We arrived separately: the woman at the cash desk, behind the leaded window of her booth, the shiny stone floor, the round central column, the wall tiles with the water-lily pattern, the carved wooden stairs – none of these must realise we'd arranged to meet. We went into the pool and swam with all the others. Only at the saunas did we finally meet.

Back then, shortly before the camp - and as would also be the case from my return until, in 1968, I left the country - any rendezvous would have meant a prison sentence. Five years, at least, if I'd been caught. Many were. After a brutal interrogation, they were taken straight from the park or the municipal baths to the jail. From there, to the prison camp next to the canal. I know now: no-one came back from the canal. Anyone who did was a walking corpse. Had aged, was ruined, was no longer fit for any kind of love.

As for in the camp – I'd have been dead, if caught in the camp.

After the five years in the camp, I strolled daily through the commotion of the streets, rehearsing in my head the best things to say, if arrested. CAUGHT RED-HANDED: against this guilty verdict I prepared a thousand excuses and alibis. I carry silent baggage. I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself in words. I just pack myself differently each time I speak.

In the last summer of the rendezvous, to extend my walk home from the park with all the alders, I happened to enter the Church of the Holy Trinity on the main ring road. This coincidence was fate. I saw the times that were coming. On a pillar, next to the side altar, stood the saint in the grey cloak, his collar was the sheep that he carried round his neck. This sheep round his neck is silence itself. There are things you don't speak about. But I know what I am speaking about when I say that silence round your neck is not the same as silence in your mouth. Before, during, and after my time in the camp – for twenty-five years I lived in fear, of the state and of my family. Of a double fall, that the state might lock me up as a criminal, and the family disown me in disgrace. In the crowded streets, the display cases, the windows in trams and houses, the fountains and puddles, for me, became mirrors. I looked at myself, disbelievingly, feared I might be transparent, after all.
My father was an art teacher. And I, with the Neptune in my head, winced as if I'd been kicked if he used the word WATERCOLOUR. The word knew how far I'd gone already. My mother said, at the table: Don't stab the potato with your fork, it will fall apart, use your spoon, you use your fork for the flesh. My temples were pounding. How come she's using the word flesh when it's potatoes and forks we're talking about? What kind of flesh does she mean? My rendezvous had reversed the meanings of flesh for me. I was my own thief, the words came up unexpectedly and caught me.

My mother and especially my father, like all Germans in the town, believed in the beauty of blond plaits and white knee-length socks. In the black rectangle that was Hitler's moustache, and in us Transylvanian Saxons being part of the Aryan race. My secret, viewed purely physically, was the worst abomination. The Romanian involved meant I'd had relations with a non-Aryan, too.

I wanted away from this family, even if it meant going to a camp. I just felt sorry for my mother who couldn't see how little she knew me. Who, when I was away, would think of me more often than I of her.
In the church, beside the saint with the sheep of silence round his neck, I had seen the white alcove with the inscription: HEAVENS SETS TIME IN MOTION. When I packed my case, I knew: the white alcove had worked. This was now time in motion. I was also happy I didn't have to go off into the war, into the snow at the front. With foolish courage, I obediently set about packing. There was nothing I refused to include. Leather puttees with laces, breeches, the coat with the velvet neckband – none of these things suited me. Time in motion was what it was all about, not clothes. Whether with these clothes or others, you become an adult anyway. The world isn't a fancy-dress ball, it's true, I thought, but no-one who, in the depths of winter, has to go to the Russians can possibly look ridiculous.
Two policemen – a Romanian and a Russian - took the list from house to house. That was the patrol. I don't know any more whether, in our house, they uttered the word CAMP. And if they didn't, which other word - apart from RUSSIA - they did utter. If they did, the word camp didn't frighten me. Despite the war, and the silence of my rendezvous round my neck, I was still – at seventeen – enjoying a bright foolish childhood. Words like watercolour and flesh got to me. My brain was deaf to the word CAMP.

That time at the table with the potatoes and the fork, when my mother caught me with the word flesh, I remembered playing as a child down in the courtyard, and my mother shouting from the veranda window: if you don't come up to eat right now, if I have to call you again, you can stay where you are. Because I stayed down another while, when I did come up, she said:
You can pack your satchel now and go out into the world and do what you like. As she said this, she dragged me into the room, took the small rucksack and stuffed my woolly cap and jacket into it. I asked: Where am I supposed to go, though? I'm your child, after all.

Many people think packing is a matter of practice, you learn it automatically, like singing or praying. We had no practice, and no suitcase, either. When my father had to go to the front, to join the Romanian army, there was nothing to pack. As a soldier you're given everything, it's part of the uniform. Apart from for travelling away, and against the cold, we didn't know what we were packing for. You don't have the right things, so you improvise. The wrong things become what's needed. What's needed is then the only thing that's right, but only because you have it.

My mother brought the gramophone from the living-room and put it on the kitchen table. Using the screwdriver, I made a suitcase from the gramophone box. The rotary mechanism and the turntable I removed first. Then I filled the hole where the crank handle had been with a cork. The velvet lining remained where it was, red as a fox. Nor did I remove the triangular plaque with the dog beside the horn and HIS MASTER'S VOICE. At the bottom of the case I placed four books: Faust, a cloth-bound edition, Zarathustra, the slim volume by Weinheber, and the eight-centuries-of-poetry anthology. No novels, because novels you read just once, then never again. My toilet bag went on top of the books. In it were: 1 flacon of toilet water, 1 flacon of TARR aftershave, 1 shaving soap, 1 hand razor, 1 shaving brush, 1 styptic pencil, 1 piece of hand-soap, 1 pair of nail-scissors. Beside the toilet bag I placed: 1 pair of woollen socks (brown, already darned), 1 pair of knee-length socks, 1 red-and-white checked flannel shirt, 2 pairs of ribbed underpants. At the very top, to prevent it being squashed, came my new silk scarf. It was self-coloured – claret - but checked, shiny here, dull there. With that, the case was full.

And then my bundle: 1 bedspread from the divan (woollen, a bright-blue and beige check, gigantic – but it didn't keep you warm). And rolled into it: 1 dust coat (a pepper-and-salt check, already very worn) and 1 pair of leather puttees (ancient, from the first World War, melon-yellow, and with straps).

Then my haversack with: 1 tin of ham, Scandia was the make, 4 slices of buttered bread, a few left-over cookies from Christmas, 1 canteen of water with a beaker.

My grandmother then put the gramophone suitcase, the bundle, and the haversack near the door. The two policemen had said they would come at midnight, that was when they'd fetch me. My luggage was ready by the door.

Next, I put on: 1 pair of long underpants, 1 flannel shirt (a beige-and-green, check), 1 waistcoat with knitted sleeves, 1 pair of woollen socks, and 1 pair of bocanci. The green gloves from Auntie Fini lay on the table, at the ready. I tied the laces on the bocanci and suddenly remembered that years ago, on holiday up on the Wench, my mother had worn a sailor suit she'd made. In the middle of a walk in the countryside, she'd let herself fall in the long grass and pretended to be dead. I was eight at the time. The fright of the sky falling down into the grass. I closed my eyes in order not to see it swallowing me. My mother jumped up, shook me, and said: Do you like me? As you see, I'm still alive.

The laces on the bocanci were tied now. I sat down at the table and waited for midnight. And midnight came, but the patrol was late. Three hours were to pass - which was almost intolerable. Then they were there. My mother held the coat with the velvet neckband up for me. I slipped my arms in. She was crying. I put on the green gloves. In the wooden passageway – right where the gas-meter is – my grandmother said: I KNOW YOU'LL RETURN.

I didn't mean to remember this sentence. I took it with me into the camp, without thinking. I had no idea it was accompanying me. But a sentence like that is independent. It worked in me, more than all the books I took with me. I KNOW YOU'LL RETURN became my heart-shaped shovel's accomplice, and the angel of hunger's adversary. Because I did return, I have the right to say: a sentence like that keeps you alive.

It was 3am in the night of 14-15 January 1945 when the patrol came to fetch me. It was getting colder, -15º C. We drove in a lorry with a tarpaulin hood through the empty town to the exhibition hall. It was the Saxons' festival hall. And now the collective camp. Almost 300 people were squeezed into the hall. On the floor were mattresses and straw palliasses. Cars arrived all through the night, from the surrounding villages too, unloading people who'd been rounded up. By morning, there were almost 500. Counting was a waste of time that night, no overview was possible. In the exhibition hall, the lights burned all night. People were running round, looking for people they knew. They told each other that joiners were being commandeered at the railway station, they were nailing plank beds, made of new wood, into livestock wagons. That other workmen were installing iron stoves in trains. And that others were sawing toilet holes out in the floor. Eyes were opened wide as people spoke, quietly and a lot; and closed as they cried, quietly and a lot. The air smelled of old wool, of the sweat of fear, of a fatty roast, vanilla biscuits and schnapps. A woman removed her scarf. She lived in a village, for sure: her hair was in a double bun at the back of her head, held in place at the centre by a semicircular comb. The teeth of the horn comb disappeared in her hair. Of its curved edge, two corners showed only, like tiny pointed ears. With these ears and the fat bun of hair, the back of the woman's head resembled a sitting cat. I sat like a spectator among upright legs and piles of luggage. For a few minutes, sleep numbed me and I dreamt:

My mother and I are in the cemetery, standing at a new grave. In the middle of it, a furry-leaved plant, half the height of me, is growing. On the stalk is a capsule with a leather handle, a small suitcase. The capsule is open, the breadth of a finger, is lined in fox-red velvet. We don't know who has died. My mother says: Take the chalk from your coat pocket. I don't have any, I say. When I reach into the pocket, there is a piece of tailor's chalk. My mother says: We have to write a short name on the case. Let's write RUTH, no-one we know is called that. I write RUHT, as in here lies.

It was clear to me in my dream that I had died, but I didn't want to tell my mother that yet. I started when an elderly man with an umbrella sat down on the palliasse beside me, came close to my ear and said: My brother-in-law wants to come too, but the hall is guarded on all sides. They're not letting him. We've not left town yet, and he can't come here and I can't go home. On each silver button on his jacket a bird was flying, a wild duck or, more likely, an albatross. I say that because the cross on the decoration on his chest, when I leaned further forward, became an anchor. The umbrella stood like a walking stick between me and him. I asked: Are you taking that with you? Sure it snows there even more than here, he said.

We were not told when, and how, we would have to go to the station from the hall. Would be allowed to go, as I saw it, because I wanted to leave – at long last – and even if it was in the livestock wagon, with a gramophone box and a velvet neckband, and to go to the Russians. I no longer know how we got to the station. The livestock wagons were high. I have forgotten the boarding procedure, too, as we spent such long days and nights travelling in that wagon, it was as if we'd always been in it. I no longer know, either, how long we travelled. I thought travelling for a long time meant getting far away. As long as we're travelling, nothing can happen to us. All is well, as long as we're travelling.

Men and women, young and old, with their luggage at the head of their plank. Speaking and not speaking, eating and sleeping. Bottles of schnapps were passed round. Here and there, once the travelling was something we were already used to, attempts at cuddling started. You looked with one eye, and, with the other, looked away.

Translation: Donal McLaughlin
Copyright Carl Hanser Verlag

 

Herta Mueller thote:

The breeches from my uncle Edwin

 

Rama e paska pas fajin

Ja nje e sapo lexuar :

Rjedh si burim uji / ndizet si zjarr /

o Rumania ime / pa Causheskun kryetar

O rrnofte Nobeli / rrnofte ne ameshim

e di qe do vi je dite / dhe do kem perfitim ..

Nje nga krijimet e saj me pasionante qe te cudit me thjeshtesine e largpamesine e saj , po te mendosh se jane vergje te viteve 70 , dmth "undergraund ". Me aq sa lexova "ka qene disidinte dhe e oreve te para "

 

 

 

Idris kur kjo shkrimtare shruante keto vargje, Kadarea shkruante Ku ti kerkoj rrenjet e tua parti, dhe vahdonte,qe te shkulin ty parti nga rrenjet,duhet te ngrene nga varri e te rivrasin te renet.

Do shume pune qe te fitohet cmimi nobel nuk fitohet vetem se di te shkruash vargje te bukura.

smiley

"My mother and especially my father, like all Germans in the town, believed in the beauty of blond plaits and white knee-length socks. In the black rectangle that was Hitler's moustache, and in us Transylvanian Saxons being part of the Aryan race. My secret, viewed purely physically, was the worst abomination. The Romanian involved meant I'd had relations with a non-Aryan, too."

sa po me pelqeka vendimi i Nobelit, eshte momenti te kuptojme se shijet e lexuesit te letersise nuk mund te vendosin se kush duhet ta marre nobeli: qe e ben shkrimtarin fatlum ne shitje...eshte nje fare kombesimi per pune qe ka bere ne vite.

nuk i kam lexuar gje Muller po tani do ta shoh si nje sfide per ta lexuar..

aresye-hetimet e cdonjerin nga ne pse nuk e fitoj Kadare jane te teperta sepse Kadare na ka mbushur shpirtin, mua personalisht me mjafton, kurse atyre qe thote me padurim se pse nuk e fitoi dua qe per hir te nje nacionalzmi narcizist te mbushet pamja e tyre ne liste te gjate  e te pafundme...

me shendet te gjithve

Krejt politike keto cmimet e Nobelit kohet e fundit. PO ingjan gjithnje e me teper Tabeles se Emulacionit Socialist, vecse ne kah te kundert. Tani i bie qe nese ke kundershtuar rregjimin e kohes para 90, pak rendesi ka se cfare niveli ke mund ta marresh ate te shkrete cmim.

me ca kam vu re, te pakten keto fituesit e 3, 4 viteve te fundit, rralle i afrohen Kadarese sone per nga fuqia e artit. Per ta kapercy as qe behet llaf

nejse, e gezofte cmimin kjo zonja...fytyren sia durokam dot, femrat me sy si mace i kam inot...smiley

 

Eshte e tmerrshme si u fshine gjithe ato postime, ku flitej per nje kandidat Nobeli. OK.

Qaramanet qe rrine duke u qurravitur per babushin e tyre shpirteror nuk kane as paturpesine me te vogel qe te thone dy fjale per kete zonjen ketu me lart qe i tha JO ! policise se shtetit, JO ! diktatures.

Ne dallim nga nje tip tjeter qe na ka baterdisur truret me budalliqe, me gorkizma dhe shollohovizma, me idiotesira realisto-socialiste.

Togfjaleshi me i shkerdhyer qe kam pare ndonjehere, ky eshte :

REALIZEM SOCIALIST.

Realizem, por jo ashtu siç eshte.

Realizem, por ashtu siç do te jete pas 3000 vjetesh.

Dhe nderkohe kockat e njerezve bluheshin nga kockatriçet e Kadarese, me votat e tij neper kuvende dhe me llomotitjet neper gazeta dhe libra shkolle.

NDERIM PER KETE ZONJEN !

As nuk e njihja fare, por ja qe Akademia Suedeze i njeh njerezit me mire. Ja qe ajo perzgjedh ata qe punojne ne hije, pa u ndjere, qe kane ditur te ruajne nje shtylle kurrizore.

Dhe pas kesaj, nese kam dashur vertete qe Kadare te nderohet me kete çmim (per hater te gjuhes shqipe qe do te permendej), tani e prapa, kurre mos e marrte. Sepse ska asnje kuptim qe ta marre edhe Herta Muller, edhe Ismail Kadare.

Tani rrini dhe ankohuni neper zyra drejtorish, ky fut pyka e ky flet keshtu. Tru-peshq, qe s'dini te mendoni as dy fjale me veten tuaj. 

Cmimi jepet per merita letrare dhe jo pse ka pasur kellqe te kundershtoje Causheskun.

Ou ? Qekur keshtu ?

Po mire, lexove ndopak nga kjo shoqja ? Lexove ndopak çfare temash kap kjo ? Apo ia kane dhene thjesht ngaqe di te zgjedhoje foljet mire ? Apo kundrinorin e drejte nuk e ben te zhdrejte ?

Zoteri,

Nese do te kapesh veprat dhe jo njeriun, atehere Suedezeve duhet t'iu kete pelqyer "Koncerti ne fund te dimrit". Partia dhe shoku Enver duke iu thyer hundet Kinezeve. Lin Biao, aksident avioni. Po dashnorja e Maos valle, pse eshte kaq revizioniste ? Per te gjitha keto pyetje, lexoni tullen tre kiloshe te Kadarese, vraponi, tirazh i kufizuar. Me kapake te trashe, lidhje te praruar.

hrubi, maje veten, mos u lengeshto..

I here thu ket zonjen se kam lexu; i here thu ket kadarene se kam lexu...prap se prap vazhdo me leshu receta.

Vallai te drejten, se fundi, ma ke bo koken BBC ose atlas rus me keto terma te leshume kshu si rrobat ne tel: suedezet, francezet, gjermanet, amerikanet po me shume ata qendroret. Te mos flasim per kuçedrat pastaj smiley

Si eshte puna, zoteri ?

A ke mundesi te m'i besh fjalite pak me te hijshme, me drejtshkrim e gjithçka, e keshtu mund te pretendosh nje Nobel ? S'po te bie ne qafe per permbajtjen, ate mbeshtillja si te duash. Kjo nuk ka rendesi per akademiket.

Ne fakt, çfare deshe te thuash ?

o mbrojtes i flakte i akademikeve... e ka fajin bota qe s'te kupton.

Ti nuk je bota, zoteri.

Nese s'te kuptoj ty, s'te kuptoj vetem ty. Bota ska lidhje ne kete pune.

Ti vete, pate ndonje shpjegim tjeter ?

___________

Monda, eshte e vertete qe plot te tjere kane qene te dyshimte. OK. Por nje gje nuk duhet harruar : qenia njerezore ecen perpara. Nese André Gide (nobel 1947) eshte tallur nga ca shkrimtare te tjere franceze, per shkak EDHE te homoseksualitetit te tij, sot kjo s'perben asnje lajm.

__________

Pedro, Kadare thote se ne fakt rrinte me Enverin per t'u mbrojtur nga regjimi i Enverit. Ec e merre vesh. Kjo do te thote ta marresh kalane nga brenda, ashtu siç ra keshtjella e tij e Skenderbeut. Problemi eshte se ne romanet e Kadarese nuk flitet gjekundi per njeriun. Ne romanet e tij njerezit nuk vdesin (a vdisej valle nen komunizem ? Kurren e kurres ! Perveç ne lufte kunder pushtuesit ose duke shpetuar nga zjarri hambaret e kooperatives).

Po njerezit, a semuren ne romanet e tij ? Semuren, por i shpeton mjeku socialist. Po mire, keta te semure, ne romanet e Kadarese, çfare mendojne per vdekjen ? Nuk mendojne asgje sepse jane dorezuar tani ne duart e Partise dhe ajo kujdeset per te gjitha.

Po mire, po sikur te vdese sidoqofte ndonjeri, si duhet te vdese ai ? Me nje lot ne sy ? Me nje "ofshame nene" ? Jo, duhet "nje te rroje Partia", ndryshe nuk quhet vdekja.

E plot te plot te tjera.

Frynte shume ere. Ky vend nuk pushtohej kurre. Gjenerali mendonte per Betin. Frynte shume ere. Nje fshatar ia mori kenges labe, ndersa i meshonte kazmes. Frynte shume ere. Ne kete vend frynte gjithmone ere.

 

Nese cmimi Nobel do jepej vetem per merita letraro-artistike atehere Kadare dhe shume te tjere do e kishin fituar tashme. Per fat te keq ky cmim jepet per motive politike. Kjo eshte arsyeja pse 95% e shkrimtareve qe e kane fituar ose jane harruar ose do harrohen. Ti, Hurbinek mesa shoh vazhdon ne traditen e Akademise Suedeze, sheh cfare ka thene apo nuk ka thene Kadareja per komunizmin nderkohe qe nuk merresh me vepren letrare.

Aha ! Falemnderit qe me lajmerove heret se po flas me nje mur.

 

 

Hurbinek, ti e di mire se cfare mendimi kam pasur une ne lidhje me Kadarene dhe cmimin Nobel, dhe qe ky mendim mbeshtetej tek ajo "pasje shtylle kurrizore" qe permend ti.

Nuk eshte e thene qe cmimin ta fitoje patjeter nje shkrimtar qe i kundervihet diktaturave, ka patur edhe te tjere qe kane shkruar per gjera te tjera.

Mirepo nese pretendon te marresh ate cmim si disident, atehere duhet te kalosh edhe ate instancen e fundit, qe eshte morali.

Nuk mund te jesh edhe disidenti edhe i perkedheluri i oborrit ne te njejten kohe.

Nuk eshte e thene qe cmimin ta fitoje patjeter nje shkrimtar qe i kundervihet diktaturave, ka patur edhe te tjere qe kane shkruar per gjera te tjera.

Nobeli eshte pak lomsh nga ajo ane.  Neruda dhe Sartre, i pari bile me ode per Stalinin, kane fituar te dy Nobelin per Letersi.  Kjo per sa i perket marredhenies Nobel-Diktature smiley.  

Per temen, nuk e kam lexuar shkrimtaren ne fjale.  Gjithesesi, urime.  Pertej polemikave, ka marr cmimin me prestigjioz ne Letersi.  Me c'lexova verdalle jo dhe aq e perkthyer ne anglisht.  Shpresoj qe te me bie ne dore.

Ka marre edhe kete premio, ku si çmim leterar vjen pas çmimit Nobel.

Dublin Literary Award.  2008.

Kurioziteti te shtyn te lexosh veprat e saj, jeta qe pershkruan Muller  nen diktaturen e Causheskut , duhet te jete e ngjashme me tonen.

Policia sekrete, sigurimi (shq), sicuritate.

 

 

 

O Huro, ti ke te forta kur shfaqesh i plote, rrethor e gjitheperfshires. E pastaj veterrokullisesh teposhte with the head up ur ass i thone keta amerikanet.  thua: 

Eshte e tmerrshme si u fshine gjithe ato postime,

 Tani, nese eshte e "tmerrshme" te fshihen postime, vaj halli ca cilesimi mund t'i japesh luftes ne Irak, Palestine, Afganistan etj. Mbase te tmerrshme mund te jene ato gjera qe te ndodhin vetem ty...  thua me tej: 

Qaramanet qe rrine duke u qurravitur per babushin e tyre shpirteror nuk kane as paturpesine me te vogel qe te thone dy fjale per kete zonjen ketu me lart qe i tha JO ! policise se shtetit, JO ! diktatures.

 

 ca kredibiliteti mund te kete opinioni yt kur me poshte shprehesh: 

As nuk e njihja fare, por ja qe Akademia Suedeze i njeh njerezit me mire.

 Se ca leshin mund te thuash per nje shkrimtare qe nuk e njeh njeri, kete pune vetem ti e di. Pastaj, cju ka zene juve "antikomunistave" me termin, letersine, autoret qe ankoheni se keni heq keq prej tyre. Si ka mundesi qe pikerisht kjo pjese ankohet per ndikimin e letersise se atehershme, kur nga ana tjeter pohon se NUK i ka lexuar. Ca te thuash... Po ne te tjeret, si nuk i ndjejme keto ndikime? Mbase jemi in denial ne, thone anglosaksonet.  Hajt se c'est la vie i thone dhe frenget, keta te fundit e vleresojne goxha Kadarene.  

Po mire more, kete nuk e kuptoj une :

Po pse dreqin nuk duhet te flasim ne kete teme per nje kandidat NOBELI ?!

C'djallin do te flasim ketu ? Sa femije ka kjo gruaja ? Ku i blen ushqimet ?

Ja qe kjo gruaja ka ca gjera qe na lidhin me te, dhe prandaj hyn Kadare ketu.

Te kishte fituar psh Haruki Murakami, kurrkush s'do te kishte folur per Kadarene. Atehere, pse nuk na lini rehat te flasim per Kadare dhe Muller, si dy qendrime te kunderta ne nje bote te njejte ?

Na lini rehat.

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J.,

Njehere tjeter per ty, sa te marresh pak fryme se je i sapoardhur. Pusho pak xhan, pusho.

 

Ja, po e zeme per nje çast qe Kadare e mori cmimin. Le t'a leme menjane edhe prokomunizmin e tij edhe interpublikimet pa fund, edhe raportet e reja politike qe po mundohet te krijoje me shqipetarine, edhe talentin e tij jo te mohueshem. Por, se pari ky cmim do te ishte nje fyerje per vete gjuhen artistike shqipe. Sepse Kadareja nuk ka sjelle asgje te re ne menyren e transmetimit te letersise tek lexuesi. Mos te themi qe kendveshtrimet e tij ne ndertimin e veprave jane krejt arkaike, evoluimi i gjuhes i mefshte, kauzat e personazheve te mjerueshme, vete qellimi i artit perçon politike edhe kur nuk flet per te, njeriu e sheh veten jo si personazh real por si nje qenie e zbuar larg te vertetave te perditshme, e te tjera. nderkohe qe tek nje pene ende e vleresuar sa duhet, KASEM TREBESHINA, vezhgon nje hiperdimensional qe nese do te ishte perkthyer me ndihmen e pushteteve si Kadareja, sot do te duartrokisnim per Nobelin e tij...

 

Robert Rakipllari :Edhe një pyetje të fundit:

Çmimin Nobel këtë vit e fitoi shkrimtarja gjermane Hertha Müller. Ç’mendoni për të? Në librin tuaj “Ra ky mort dhe u pamë”, para dhjetë vjetësh keni shkruar se e keni njohur këtë shkrimtare në Berlin në një forum ndërkombëtar për Kosovën. A mund të na thoni diçka më shumë për të dhe për incidentin e rëndë që ndodhi atje?

Ismail Kadare: Për të qenë i saktë po ju riprodhoj disa radhë nga libri: “Berlin, 4 korrik 1989. Shtëpia Henrich Böll ka organizuar një forum për Kosovën. Ka shkrimtarë, historianë dhe filozofë nga gjithë Europa... Midis të ftuarve Gunter Grass, Daniel Cohn Bendit, Jacques Rupnik, Andre Gluckmann, Vesna Pesiç, Georgy Konrad, Herta Müller. Forumi hapet me lexim teksti nga “Tri këngë zie për Kosovën”... Në Gjermani, ashtu sikurse në Francë, Kosova i ka ndarë intelektualët në dy kampe. Edhe në këtë forum ndihet nervozizmi kundërshqiptar. Në pushimin midis dy seancash ai shpërthen në një trajtë tejet vulgare: një serb e shan Hertha Müllerin me fjalën “kurvë”.”
Ky ka qenë incidenti. Para se të ndodhte dhe natyrisht para tij kam folur disa herë me Hertha Müllerin. E kishte mbrojtur çështjen e Kosovës në një mënyrë të admirueshme. Pas incidentit, sytë e saj të kthjellët u trishtuan shumë, por në sytë tonë ajo u bë edhe më e hijshme.
 

E plote KETU

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me i fjal: edhe po te mos na pelqeje si shkrimtare, e kemi ni fare detyrimi ta duam Herten.

Për të komentuar tek Peshku pa ujë, ju duhet të identifikoheni ose të regjistroheni (regjistrimi është falas).