Hmmm....

Le te themi qe bera mire qe e lexova, te pakten per te thene qe e lexova edhe nje liber me shume. Padyshim qe une s’bej pjese tek ata qe ndajne cmimet Nobel, ndaj duke then qe libri nuk m’u duk kushedi se cfare, pranoj qe ne fillim qe “turpin e mbaj per vete”.

Nuk pashe ketu asgje nga simbolika antikomuniste, antinaziste apo edhe ndonje lloj nenkuptimi politik. Per mua ky eshte thjesht nje liber tipik ekzistencialist. Them se mbase Kamyja e ndjente qe nuk e kishte shprehur gjithshka tek “I huaji”, dhe u perpoq qe, ate qe atje ishte letersi, tek “Murtaja” ta bente filozofi. Vetem se alkimia nuk me duket se ka arritur perfeksionin.

Letersia ketu me duket qe eshte perdorur thjesht si ato dy shkopat e kryqezuar rreth te cilit ngrihet dordoleci. Gjuha letrare eshte e thate. Personazhet nuk kane drite hije. Tamam tamam nuk kane as fytyre apo tipare trupi, pasi nuk pershkruhen kurre. Ato nuk kane te kaluar, as te ardhme. Gjithshka sillet rreth se sotmes dhe puneve te dites. Keta njerez mua me ngjajne  me ca kavje laboratori, te cileve tregimtari u ka vene emra per t’i dalluar nga njeri-tjetri, dhe ku e vetmja gje qe I intereson eshte sjellja e tyre ne kushtet laboratorike. Ky laborator eshte Orani.

Orani me duket mua, eshte edhe personazhi kryesor i librit. Ai ka nje fytyre qe na pershkruhet me imtesi ne fillim te librit, ai ka nje karakter, ai jeton, ndryshon, semuret, sherohet… etj. Orani gjithashtu eshte i pafajshem, “I huaj” dhe po ashtu si Marseli, i denuar me vdekje nga nje fuqi madhore. Mesa duket edhe ketu pyetja e e mundonte Kamyne ishte “Pse-ja” e madhe e ekzistences njerezore dhe pafuqishmeria e njeriut perballe barrieres qe shfaqet papritur, ose pas nje pritjeje te gjate, por sidoqofte gjithmone ne menyre te pashmangshme: VDEKJES. Dhe idese se frikshme se cdo perpjekje qe njeriu ben per ta zgjatur jeten… behet vetem per ta zgjatur. Mund ta zgjasim sin je cope llastiku sa te mbuloje  40, 60, 80 apo 100 vjet, por ne fund te fundit ajo mbetet ajo qe eshte. Nje segment me dy pika te percaktuara mjaft qarte ne te dy ekstremet e tij: Lindja dhe Vdekja.

Per te tjerat, do te doja te sillja edhe njehere  ketu vargjet e Eklestiastes #3

Cdo gje ka kohen e vet

   Dhe nje stine ka per cdo pune nen kete qiell

Nje kohe per te lindur e nje kohe per te vdekur

   Nje kohe per te mbjelle e nje kohe per te shkulur

Nje kohe per te vrare e nje kohe per te sheruar

   Nje kohe per te shkaterruar e nje kohe per te ndertuar

Nje kohe per te qare e nje kohe per te qeshur

   Nje kohe per zi e nje kohe per te kercyer

Nje kohe per te kerkuar e nje kohe per te hequr dore

   Nje kohe per te mbajtur e nje kohe per te hedhur

Nje kohe per te grisur e nje kohe per te arrnuar

  Nje kohe per te folur e nje kohe per te pushuar

Nje kohe per te dashuruar e nje kohe per te urryer

   Nje kohe per lufte nje kohe per te paqtuar.

Nje kohe per te votuar ne dhomen e fshehte

  Nje kohe per t’i hapur kutite ne shesh te burrave*

 

*Kjo e funit ishte vetem per Xhibin smiley

 

33 Komente

me pelqeu ky komentimbi "Murtajen",mbi te gjitha, i sinqerte.))

 

Unë deri në fund të librit po prisja se mos do fillonte të më pëlqente po hiç. Madje, as kisha ndonjë emocion nga ata që ia hodhën topit në fund. S'më dukeshin si njerëz të vërtetë. Edhe për Oranin s'kisha ndonjë ndienjë. S'arrita të futem brenda në ngjarje. E kuptoj që ishte me metafora dhe filozofira, por përderisa do e bënte kaq thatë, më mirë t'i kishte thënë troç ato filozofira që kishte për të thënë, dhe ta kishte bërë për 30 faqe jo 300. Do lexoj edhe të Huajin pasi i bleva të dy bashkë, të paktën me ç'kam lexuar nga komentet ai duket se do jetë më interesant.

In the words of Homer Simpson at Grimes' funderal: Change the channel Marge!

Change the channel Marge!

Botnore kjo!!!

Me ben pershtypje se si PF thekson faktin qe K. nuk pershkruan personazhet dhe se kuptova nese kjo eshte e rendesishme per te.

Des, ajo qe desha te them eshte qe mua me ngjan se personazhi kryesor ketu eshte qyteti dhe jo njerezit, pra publikja dhe jo privatja. Gjithashtu duke bashkuar ketu edhe nderhyrjet dhe meditimet e shpeshta dhe te zgjatura te autorit, me ndjan se Kamy ka dashur me shume ketu te shkruaje nje traktat filozofik se sa nje histori te mirefillte letrare.

Ah dakord por prape me beri shume pershtypje ajo verejtja. Une si kuptoj romanet ku fillojne peshkrimi te detajuara te moshes vesheve flokeve te kaluares se protagonistit. E kujt i plasi?

 

Sa per K ka plotesisht te drejte ; mbaj mend qe kur e lexoja pyesja K " Mire me e mora vesh po he tani, ku do me dale? " po ai s'dilte qe s'dilte, vinte rreth e rrotull kot.

Varet. P.sh po te jete roman per Klaudia Shifer, te plas qe c'ke me te! smiley

Eklestiastes =Kohelet(hebraisht)

koha e lehte ju qoftesmiley

Më falni që po dal jashtë teme, por desha të shtoj që i Huaji ishte shumë më i lexueshëm, në fakt më ngjante me veten time (për sa i përket mosvendosmëris&eumlsmiley...e mbarova për një fluturim dhe një ndalesë në Memphis, TN. Rastësisht një burrë (i huaj!) më pa që po mbaroja librin dhe më dha librin që sapo kishte mbaruar ai "The Lincoln Lawyer" nga Michael Connelly...weird.

 Nuk pashe ketu asgje nga simbolika antikomuniste, antinaziste apo edhe ndonje lloj nenkuptimi politik.

ngaqe je ndoshta miop dhe ke nevoje per zyze. 

 Hajdar, mbase ti mund te ma shpjegosh me disa pasazhe te shkeputura nga libri, vendet ku ai i ben keto aludime politike.

Te lutem, ma kurse pergjigjen "kete e dine te gjithe" dhe lojen doktorrash.

@Dori, "I huaji" eshte nga ato libra qe meritojne ne fondin e arte te cdo biblioteke.

 perse ti e kerkoje nje simbolike te tille ?

ose kush te tha ty, akoma pa e lexuar, qe kamyja po flet per nazizmin ose fashizmin tek ky liber. 

ps: ne qoftese ti nuk do ta kishe shkruar ate rresht, as une nuk do ta kisha bere nderhyrjen time. sepse nga nje liber (ose çfaredo tjeter veper artistike) marrim ate çfare mundim.  

Fjalimi i Camus kur mori Nobelin:

In receiving the distinction with which your free Academy has so generously honoured me, my gratitude has been profound, particularly when I consider the extent to which this recompense has surpassed my personal merits. Every man, and for stronger reasons, every artist, wants to be recognized. So do I. But I have not been able to learn of your decision without comparing its repercussions to what I really am. A man almost young, rich only in his doubts and with his work still in progress, accustomed to living in the solitude of work or in the retreats of friendship: how would he not feel a kind of panic at hearing the decree that transports him all of a sudden, alone and reduced to himself, to the centre of a glaring light? And with what feelings could he accept this honour at a time when other writers in Europe, among them the very greatest, are condemned to silence, and even at a time when the country of his birth is going through unending misery?

I felt that shock and inner turmoil. In order to regain peace I have had, in short, to come to terms with a too generous fortune. And since I cannot live up to it by merely resting on my achievement, I have found nothing to support me but what has supported me through all my life, even in the most contrary circumstances: the idea that I have of my art and of the role of the writer. Let me only tell you, in a spirit of gratitude and friendship, as simply as I can, what this idea is.

For myself, I cannot live without my art. But I have never placed it above everything. If, on the other hand, I need it, it is because it cannot be separated from my fellow men, and it allows me to live, such as I am, on one level with them. It is a means of stirring the greatest number of people by offering them a privileged picture of common joys and sufferings. It obliges the artist not to keep himself apart; it subjects him to the most humble and the most universal truth. And often he who has chosen the fate of the artist because he felt himself to be different soon realizes that he can maintain neither his art nor his difference unless he admits that he is like the others. The artist forges himself to the others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community he cannot tear himself away from. That is why true artists scorn nothing: they are obliged to understand rather than to judge. And if they have to take sides in this world, they can perhaps side only with that society in which, according to Nietzsche's great words, not the judge but the creator will rule, whether he be a worker or an intellectual.

By the same token, the writer's role is not free from difficult duties. By definition he cannot put himself today in the service of those who make history; he is at the service of those who suffer it. Otherwise, he will be alone and deprived of his art. Not all the armies of tyranny with their millions of men will free him from his isolation, even and particularly if he falls into step with them. But the silence of an unknown prisoner, abandoned to humiliations at the other end of the world, is enough to draw the writer out of his exile, at least whenever, in the midst of the privileges of freedom, he manages not to forget that silence, and to transmit it in order to make it resound by means of his art.

None of us is great enough for such a task. But in all circumstances of life, in obscurity or temporary fame, cast in the irons of tyranny or for a time free to express himself, the writer can win the heart of a living community that will justify him, on the one condition that he will accept to the limit of his abilities the two tasks that constitute the greatness of his craft: the service of truth and the service of liberty. Because his task is to unite the greatest possible number of people, his art must not compromise with lies and servitude which, wherever they rule, breed solitude. Whatever our personal weaknesses may be, the nobility of our craft will always be rooted in two commitments, difficult to maintain: the refusal to lie about what one knows and the resistance to oppression.

For more than twenty years of an insane history, hopelessly lost like all the men of my generation in the convulsions of time, I have been supported by one thing: by the hidden feeling that to write today was an honour because this activity was a commitment - and a commitment not only to write. Specifically, in view of my powers and my state of being, it was a commitment to bear, together with all those who were living through the same history, the misery and the hope we shared. These men, who were born at the beginning of the First World War, who were twenty when Hitler came to power and the first revolutionary trials were beginning, who were then confronted as a completion of their education with the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War, the world of concentration camps, a Europe of torture and prisons - these men must today rear their sons and create their works in a world threatened by nuclear destruction. Nobody, I think, can ask them to be optimists. And I even think that we should understand - without ceasing to fight it - the error of those who in an excess of despair have asserted their right to dishonour and have rushed into the nihilism of the era. But the fact remains that most of us, in my country and in Europe, have refused this nihilism and have engaged upon a quest for legitimacy. They have had to forge for themselves an art of living in times of catastrophe in order to be born a second time and to fight openly against the instinct of death at work in our history.

Each generation doubtless feels called upon to reform the world. Mine knows that it will not reform it, but its task is perhaps even greater. It consists in preventing the world from destroying itself. Heir to a corrupt history, in which are mingled fallen revolutions, technology gone mad, dead gods, and worn-out ideologies, where mediocre powers can destroy all yet no longer know how to convince, where intelligence has debased itself to become the servant of hatred and oppression, this generation starting from its own negations has had to re-establish, both within and without, a little of that which constitutes the dignity of life and death. In a world threatened by disintegration, in which our grand inquisitors run the risk of establishing forever the kingdom of death, it knows that it should, in an insane race against the clock, restore among the nations a peace that is not servitude, reconcile anew labour and culture, and remake with all men the Ark of the Covenant. It is not certain that this generation will ever be able to accomplish this immense task, but already it is rising everywhere in the world to the double challenge of truth and liberty and, if necessary, knows how to die for it without hate. Wherever it is found, it deserves to be saluted and encouraged, particularly where it is sacrificing itself. In any event, certain of your complete approval, it is to this generation that I should like to pass on the honour that you have just given me.

At the same time, after having outlined the nobility of the writer's craft, I should have put him in his proper place. He has no other claims but those which he shares with his comrades in arms: vulnerable but obstinate, unjust but impassioned for justice, doing his work without shame or pride in view of everybody, not ceasing to be divided between sorrow and beauty, and devoted finally to drawing from his double existence the creations that he obstinately tries to erect in the destructive movement of history. Who after all this can expect from him complete solutions and high morals? Truth is mysterious, elusive, always to be conquered. Liberty is dangerous, as hard to live with as it is elating. We must march toward these two goals, painfully but resolutely, certain in advance of our failings on so long a road. What writer would from now on in good conscience dare set himself up as a preacher of virture? For myself, I must state once more that I am not of this kind. I have never been able to renounce the light, the pleasure of being, and the freedom in which I grew up. But although this nostalgia explains many of my errors and my faults, it has doubtless helped me toward a better understanding of my craft. It is helping me still to support unquestioningly all those silent men who sustain the life made for them in the world only through memory of the return of brief and free happiness.

Thus reduced to what I really am, to my limits and debts as well as to my difficult creed, I feel freer, in concluding, to comment upon the extent and the generosity of the honour you have just bestowed upon me, freer also to tell you that I would receive it as an homage rendered to all those who, sharing in the same fight, have not received any privilege, but have on the contrary known misery and persecution. It remains for me to thank you from the bottom of my heart and to make before you publicly, as a personal sign of my gratitude, the same and ancient promise of faithfulness which every true artist repeats to himself in silence every day.

 

Ndoshta hedh pak me shume drite mbi "filozofine" e Murtajes.

Murtaja eshte nje roman i fuqishem, por pak boring per hir te vertetes. Por mos ma vini re mua, se ndoshta kam shije te cudishtme dhe fakti qe nuk e kam lexuar dy here Murtajen, biles edhe qe mezi e kam mbaruar, do te thote qe nuk eshte shume terheqes si liber. Megjithate shije shije kjo dynja...

 Harrova te thosha qe kur kam lexuar murtajen, e kam lene ne mes, kam filluar dhe mbaruar Gabriel Marques ne anglisht (100 years of solitude) te cilin e rekomandoj si librin e ardhshem te diskutimit  ( sepse mendoj se eshte nje liber qe ja vlen te lexohet nga cdo njeri qe lexon) dhe pastaj i jam rikthyer murtajes dhe mezi e kam mbaruar, ndoshta ngaqe i mberthyer nga ethet e Marques i shtyta ato faqe te mbetura nen iluzionin se isha akoma duke lexuar Marques.

 And if they have to take sides in this world, they can perhaps side only with that society in which, according to Nietzsche's great words, not the judge but the creator will rule, whether he be a worker or an intellectual.

origjinali :

Et s'ils ont un parti à prendre en ce monde ce ne peut être que celui d'une société où, selon le grand mot de Nietzsche, ne règnera plus le juge, mais le créateur, qu'il soit travailleur ou intellectuel.

ketu, tek keto rreshta, duket pak edhe pse ai ishte kundra denimit me vdekje. 

gjithashtu mendoj se PF ka gabim kur mendon qe tek ky liber nuk gjenden aspak shenja, te pershkrimit te epokes naziste apo totalitariste, qe disa vezhgues qartesojne tek komentet e tyre. 

 Hajdar, une nuk gjej ketu me shume ngjyrime politike se sa tek perralla e  Kesule Kuqes e cila  perfaqeson levizjen komuniste qe mbeshtet njerezit pa perkrahje (gjyshen qe jeton ne pyll) dhe qe ben thirrje haptazi per revolucion  te armatosur (gjuetari me pushke) per te shpetuar nga kapitalisti (ujku) qe do te na perpije me gjithe lecka.

Megjithate ta thashe edhe me siper, nese ti me ofron pasazhe nga libri dhe mi interpreton kuptimet politike, mbase mund te ndryshoj mendje. Por deri tani...ncuq!

Penar-o, ça te lexojm tashi?

smiley

Une jam duke prit sugjerime. kesaj radhe s'marr me vendim unilateral... do e lej ne doren e verber te demokracise popullore. 

Kshuqe, bejini sugjerimet te hajrit, qe mos te na fusi poplli te lexojme librin e Pangos. 

Qe dy-lekshi im: smiley

1. Te jete autor i gjalle, jo i vdekur

2. Te jete autor qe pa Klubin e Peshkit, nuk kishim per te pas rast me e eksploru (Japonez, Mongol, Rus, dreq i bir)

3. A ka mundesi me lexu noi liber komik? E kam fjalen liber qe t'bo me qesh, jo liber me vizatime!

Thekju!

simbas afateve kushtetuese, m'doket po.

Lost-o. Megjithe historine time me krijuesen HM, bona sevap dhe u likujdova me $33.17 (e konvertume: nji jave duhan ose nji botilje Xhentëllmens viski). Bleva "kumllat jeshile" dhe "apojtmenti-n". E kom nis ke ky i dyti. Zotohem te ti rrefej impresionet "katror dhe pa hile"

smiley

he pra, dum recension prej zotnis tate.

Penar, mos ia len popllit se ne nuk dim demokracina e tërri-vërri. na thuj nji libër e krenohu me theokracinë e peshkut.

Shifni pra se ça me kane sugjeruar deri tani: 

1) Bashkim Shehu. S'me kane sugjeruar nje liber konkret, po nje liber qe eshte dhe ne anglisht eshte ky ketu: The Last Journey of Ago Ymeri. Me thone te drejten, subjektit ne fjale nuk ia kam shume qejfin. A ka ndonje liber tjeter ky autor qe ju pelqen? Nese po, bujrum. 

2) John Fante - "Pyesni pluhurin". Shkrimtar amerikan, libri eshte perkthyer dhe ne shqip dhe me sa me thone, eshte perkthim i mire. 

3) Teodor Keko - "Lajmetarja e Vdekjeve". Sugjeruar nga fh tek pyetja fillestare. Per ne qe jemi larg Tirones ama, s'e di si do ja benim per ta gjetur. 

4) Cormack McCarthy - The Road (kete s'ma ka sugjeruar njeri, po kam kohe qe mendoj ta lexoj.)

edhe une votoj per 2-shin.

 

Lexojme Nightwood, nga Djuna Barnes, protege` e T.S.Eliot-tititittt.

Lexim i shpejte, i kendshem e me te gjitha brenda (dhe jashte, sipas rastit).

s`e besoj qe eshte ne shqip. e drejte, u prish plani.

Romane te Bashkim Shehut>

Angelus Novus

Gjarperi dhe heronjt e tjere

Orfeu ne Zululanden e re

Rrethi

Hija e gurit

 

Nr.2 duket se po fiton, a mund të na thotë dikush se si është ky libri? Me ç'pashë ka të bëjë me Depresionin e viteve '30, dhe kam frikë se do jetë një tjetër Murtajë.

4 duket më interesant, po votoj për atë.

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