Ali PODRIMJA poetry

Take this stone

Take this stone and cast it

Wherever you wish

             If you wish

Beyond my thread and tribe

Beyond the nine wounds

             of Gjergj Elez Alia

Nail it if you wish

             wall it in

            Take this stone

Baptize it or leave it nameless

I have changed the time, the climate

Leave it without land, without sky

Take this stone and cast it

Wherever you wish

Its strength makes us immortal

[Merreni këtë guri, from the volume Credo, Prishtina: Rilindja 1976, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 69]

Song of freedom

Everything about you, your birth

And your step Lumi

My security in life

Listen to the ancient flute

An eerie beast is sniffing about

In Europe

Many a song is sung

But only one song never ends

The song of freedom

[Kënga e lirisë, from the volume Lum Lumi, Prishtina: Rilindja 1982, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 111]

Paris, native land

We'll go to Paris

There we shall lay our stone

Teuta, Genti will not be expecting us

The savage Roman hordes will not be expecting us

No one will be expecting us

To Paris we shall go

We shall hang our dreams on stork wings

At a fountain we shall wash our eyes, our wart-covered hands

We shall leave the Balkan nights behind us

             the dances, the songs, the ballads, the tales

The flute alone we shall take with us

To play whenever we are homesick

             when we get lost in the crowds of drunks

             in the shadows

             amongst the rats

Late at night in the streets of Paris in the frantic metro

We shall smell the fragrance of the quince from our native land

With our fingers we will talk of vile times

We shall not step on any ants

We shall not frighten any birds

We shall vent neither hellfire nor spleen

             upon the head of man

We shall not bow to a torpid Europe

             nor to any deranged gods

Promise me Lum Lumi

That we will not forget our native land

(Paris 1981)

[Parisi, vendlindja, from the volume Lum Lumi, Prishtina: Rilindja 1982, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 125]

And you dead

It was summer

Overhead the sun

Shadows, you around Europe

From that horrible journey

You returned one day with eyes wide open

You entered your father's poem without knocking

There you are in safety Lumi

I swear no harm

Will come to you

It was summer

The sun in the west

And you dead, earth

[E ti i vdekur, from the volume Lum Lumi, Prishtina: Rilindja 1982, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 135]

Agony

I don't know why I long for Skopje

Now that Lumi is no longer there

And Baci Bajram no longer descends the Kaçaniku Gorge

I don't know why

I plunge my hands deep into the waters of the Vardar

And black out

I don't know why I stumble and fall

With the rain battering down upon me

Until I lock myself in my room

I don't know why

I really don't know why

Skopje causes me such anguish

[Rektime, from the volume Fund i gezuar, Prishtina: Rilindja 1988, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 181]

It is the Albanian's fault

It is the Albanian's fault

That he breathes

And walks on two legs

That I take tranquillizers

And swat flies all day

In the Toilet

It is the Albanian's fault

That he besmirches your wife

And frightens my family

That my hand cannot reach the apple

On the highest branch

That he has filled the Well with dead words

It is the Albanian's fault

That not more of Turkey exists,

More of America of Norway

            That the Gulag is so far away

That they chose me and sent me

To sniff him out

Does death smell

It is all the more the Albanian's fault

That he does not eat

Or close his eyes and sleep

That our sewers are broken

And the Catacombs of the Balkans

Have fallen into ruins

It is the Albanian's fault

That he whiles away the time under the moon

And breaks windows and stirs up muddy water

That he speaks Albanian that he eats Albanian

             that he shits Albanian

It is the Albanian's fault

The Albanian is the one at fault

For all my undoings

Both for my broken tooth

And for my frozen smile

So therefore: BULLET

Ha ha ha

Ha ha

Ha

May God have mercy!

[Fajtor është shqiptari, from the volume Fund i gezuar, Prishtina: Rilindja 1988, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 193]

If

If a people

Have no poets

And no poetry of their own

For a National Anthology

Then treachery and barking

Will do the trick

[Nëse, from the volume Fund i gezuar, Prishtina: Rilindja 1988, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 197]

Who will slay the wolf

            for F. Altimari

And the gentleman said

Should you happen to come upon

An Albanian and a wolf

Slay the Albanian

When the Albanian heard the saying

He smiled

And rolled himself a cigarette

If you slay me

             my poor friend

Who will slay

The wolf

Poor herds

(Cosenza 1988)

[Kush do ta vrasë ujkin, from the volume Zari, Prishtina: Rilindja 1990, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 211]

When will you speak out, Ali Podrimja

The star goes out with a bang

You look us in the eye and gulp

Never do you turn your back on us, Ali Podrimja

You sit out there in the cold and remain silent for years

             you still believe

             in mankind

They counterfeit your name

             your family name signature date of birth

             mother's name father's name place of birth

                         of your ancestors

             childhood tales dances games

             heroes songs laments celebrations

They make fun

             of your ancient language your people

             and spew torrents of abuse

And you remain silent, Ali Podrimja

             you still believe

             in mankind

In sombre vaults in mediaeval cellars

             strange concoctions appellations ruins curses

             barking pursuits arrests

             the savage hunt

Candles and incense are lit are quenched the words the bodies

                         the reservations drop away

             the children take flight under the wings of fate

             a Woman weaves and tears up the fabric

             in a paper Tower

In the sky overhead loom shadows crows ravens

             you comb golden locks

             with a handful of earth in your lap

             you set off for distant lands

In the fashionable part of Europe you are an Albanais

In Italy an Arbëresh in Greece an Arvanitas

In Turkey elhamdulillah an Arnaut

In America canned meat

             and nothing else

             nothing else

Who knows how many languages your God speaks

And you remain silent Ali Podrimja

             you still believe

             in mankind

But but

When will you speak out good man

Or must you first be born

Why does the moss cover your roof

[Kur do të flasesh o Ali Podrimja, from the volume Zari, Prishtina: Rilindja 1990, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 229]

Or, or

Should you long

             to see Albanians

Go down to the train station in a big city

Worn-out shoes they wear

And white socks

Or or

On Marienplatz or at the Eiffel Tower

             just whistle a heroic tune

Into a circle you go

             there you have them all those rigid faces

But do not be frightened off

For solitude can make you sick

That awesome brutality of cement

(Munich, 18 April 1992)

[Ose,ose, from the volume Buzëqeshje në kafaz, Tirana, Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve 1993, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 243]

Wandering with wolves

Wandering with wolves is more than interesting

When you set off for the Forest

You discover your real face

The journey may take longer than you have years

             it can happen

             that you gallop right through it

He who has not made the journey with them

Knows not what freedom is

Or the shirt of the stars

You must be aware

Without losing an arm or an eye

You cannot open the door easily

Nothing

Falls

From heaven

(Feldafing, 6 June 1992)

[Udhëtimi me ujq, from the volume Buzëqeshje në kafaz, Tirana, Lidhja e Shkrimtarëve 1993, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, first published in English in Who will slay the wolf. Selected poetry by Ali Podrimja, New York, Gjonlekaj Publishing 2000, p. 255]

Vorea UJKO - Poetry

Arbëresh moment

I love the Byzantine bell tower,

Against the azure sky

That pierces straight into our souls

As evening turns to violet

And the girl of my dreams

Chats on the doorstep,

With lowered head.

In my solitary reverie

There appear before me

Scenes of my childhood

And the tragic face of Garantine.

From the distant shades

Comes Constantine's steed a-galloping

On its funereal course.

And an Arbëresh echo

Pierces the air and transfixes my heart,

Rising aloft like a mystery

On its weightless wings,

Seizing the ivy on the wall,

Seizing the silence,

Seizing my blood.

[Moment arbëresh, from the volume Këngë arbëreshe, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1982, p. 47, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 58]

Arbëresh song - x

A great dawn awaits you

And you will find the words

That you do not use now.

It will be a bright dawn

And everything will sing out in the sunshine -

The vineyards, the river, the house,

Your swelling heart

Will sing out in the sunshine.

You are a strong root

And your army has no foot soldiers

For they are all captains.

Greetings, my brother.

[Këngë arbëreshe X, from the volume Këngë arbereshe, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1982, p. 69, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 59]

You are beautiful

You are beautiful, girl,

But love between us

Is impossible

Because, just between the two of us,

I once loved your mother

Who was beautiful, like you.

[Ti je e bukur, from the volume Këngë arbereshe, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1982, p. 93, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 60]

Three maidens

Three fair maidens,

Three maidens, three sisters,

Three embroidered wedding dresses.

The youngest said

Love will come,

It will come with the dawn.

Suddenly death came

And took her away.

Two fair maidens,

Two maidens, two sisters,

Two embroidered wedding dresses.

The second said

Perhaps death will come

And only you will remain.

Soon love came

And took her away.

And now I wait alone.

[Tri vajza, from the volume Këngë arbereshe, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1982, p. 102, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 61]

Music

I listen to the music of the night

When waves fall,

All colours faded

And the moon descends

Behind the trees.

I am not at home here

Yet neither do I feel foreign.

I will kiss the brow

Of the girl who knocks at the door

And asks in my language

If I'd like some coffee.

Perhaps she thinks

I have learnt the language

To use it on my travels,

And does not know the secret

Of our blood ties.

[Muzikë, from the volume Burime, Tirana: Naim Frashëri 1985, p. 48, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in An elusive eagle soars, anthology of modern Albanian poetry, London: Forest Books 1993, p. 62]

The Albanian Kanun in Ismail Kadare’s Broken April - BY SEAN GUYNES

“…a land within sight of Italy and less well known than the interior of America.”

—Edward Gibbon (1737-1794), commenting on Albania ¹

“April is the cruelest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land.” —T.S. Eliot (1888-1965), The Waste land ²

Despite the globalization movement of recent decades there remain entire cultures and their literatures that go unnoticed in the great milieu that is the study of world literature. Even within smaller categories in academia, such as the realm of Slavic and Eastern European Studies, there are topics which go largely unexplored except by a select few at the doctoral level and beyond. Albanian literature is a vast and as yet untapped canon that deserves to be exposed and to be studied in undergraduate and graduate institutions, but which also needs to be made available to the general public. Albanian literature is so under exposed primarily because it was late to evolve. Of the Indo-European languages, Albanian is the latest separate language group to develop a literary culture, beginning as late as the seventeenth century (mostly among Catholic priests), and thereafter Albanian letters were suppressed by various non-Albanian polities. In the words of the foremost Albanologist, Robert Elsie, “The tender plant of Albanian literature grew in a rocky soil. Time and again it sprouted and blossomed, and, time and again, it was torn out of the earth by the brutal course of political history in the

¹ Elsie, Robert, Early Albania: A Reader of Historical Texts, 11^th-17^th Centuries (Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz KG, 2003), vii.

² Quote taken and citation from Beckwith, Christopher I., Empires of the Silk Road (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), 263.

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Balkans.” ³ However, today the widespread availability of books through internet venues such as Amazon.com has helped, in some regards, to popularize authors and literary realms that in other times would have passed into obscurity among Western readers, and this phenomenon has served to minimally promote Albanian literature. And yet, the only Albanian-language author to enjoy an international reputation is Ismail Kadare (b.1936), ⁴ who lives in self-imposed exile in France where his books are bestsellers (in French translation). In America and the United Kingdom, though, none of his books—even his praised Chronicle of Stone and The Siege— are bestsellers, ⁵ and he is only occasionally to be found in retail book stores or on the shelves of public libraries. But to any would-be reader, the availability of his works (or lack thereof, as the case may be) should not be a deterrent, since sometimes the best literature is that which has to be painstakingly sought out or discovered by chance. The purpose of this paper is to bring a sampling of Albanian literature to the general liberal arts audience by introducing and making a study of Kardare’s dark novel Broken April (Prilli i thyer, 1978) and the way in which the novel utilizes the code of Albanian traditional law, the Kanun.

As noted, the Kanun—properly, Kanuni i Lekë Dukagjinit or The Canon of Lekë Dukagjini— is at the center of Broken April, and while it cannot be said that the Kanun itself is a character of sorts, as the city St. Petersburg has been considered in the Russian realist novel of the same name by Andrei Biely, the Kanun is so prominent that hardly a moment of the plot is

³ Elsie, Robert, Albanian Literature: A Short History (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2005), v.

⁴ Elsie, Albanian Literature: A Short History, 167.

⁵ A survey of Amazon.com shows that Kadare’s highest ranking book, in terms of sales, is The Siege, which ranked 169, 598 out of all of Amazon.com sales, as of July, 2011. Chronicle in Stone and The Ghost Rider ranked below 500,000, and Broken April (discussed in this paper) ranked 275, 779.

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unconcerned with the intricate legal system. Thus, it is only natural to observe the history of the Kanun and its major features, before embarking on a discussion of its usage in Broken April.

To begin with, the Albanian people are divided into two self-distinguishing groups, determined in large part by the dialect they speak and by geographical preponderance. In the south of Albania are the Tosk, who constitute a minority of the ethnic Albanian population both in Albania and abroad, and to the north, including the Rrafsh, Kosova, and the diaspora communities in Macedonia and elsewhere, are the Geg. It is the northern Geg who have historically utilized the Kanun. ⁶ The Kanun as such was first written down and published (posthumously) by the Catholic Albanian priest and folklorist Shtjefën Gjeçov in 1933, ⁷ after his murder by Serb extremists. However, the origins of the Kanun are to be sought after in the fifteenth century, and folk history claims it as the work of Lek Dukagjin (1410-1481) ⁸—that the Kanun is the work of Lek Dukagjin is an assumption based on its relation to the Dukagjin family as a whole, perhaps on the basis that their lands were the region where this particular law code was enforced. ⁹ It is unknown whether the Kanun had been written in any form before Gjeçov’s version, but it is well attested that the law was passed on via the robust oral tradition that survives in Albania to this day. ¹⁰ The Kanun is startling in its thoroughness, governing all aspects of life, and is divisible into eleven sections ¹¹: church, family, marriage, household and

⁶ The Kanun is one of several such law codes, or constitutions, and it is by far the most prominent and well-known.

⁷ Mangalakova, Tanya, The Kanun in Present-Day Albania, Kosovo, and Montenegro (Sofia: International Centre for Minority Studies and Intercultural Relations, 2004), 2.

⁸ Mangalakova, The Kanun in Present-Day Albania, Kosovo, and Montenegro, 2.

⁹ Malcolm, Noel, Kosovo: A Short History (New York: New York University Press, 1999), 17.

¹⁰ Tarifa, Fatos, “Of Time, Honor, and Memory: Oral Law in Albania” in Oral Tradition, Vol. 23, No. 1 (2008), pgs 3-14, 3.

¹¹ There is a twelfth section not applicable to the above context: “Exemptions and Exceptions.” Mangalakova, The Kanun in Present-Day Albania, Kosovo, and Montenegro, 2.

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property, work, loans, pledge, honor, damages, protection, and judgment. ¹² Famed Victorian amateur anthropologist Edith Durham noted in the 1920s, “Whenever in the mountains [of Albania] I asked why anything was done…I was told, ‘Because Lek said so.’” ¹³

Kardare’s Broken April is an enchanting yet dark novel set in the Albanian Rrafsh ¹⁴ which narrates the stories of newlyweds Bessian and Diana Vorpsi, and the highland mountaineer Gjorg, ¹⁵ and how the lives of these three characters are drawn together—and upset—by the Kanun, particularly focusing on the destructiveness caused by the blood feud (gjakmarrje). At the heart of the plot is the blood feud in which Gjorg, and his family, are engaged: two generations ago Gjorg’s grandfather witnessed the murder of his guest, drawing the Berisha clan into a decades-long blood feud in which vengeance had to be meted out to the Kryeqyqe ¹⁶ clan for the killing of the guest, because “when the guest whom you [are hosting] is killed before your eyes, you are bound to avenge him.” ¹⁷ The blood feud lasts decades not because the Berisha clan fails to take revenge, but because the blood feud requires an endless chain of vengeance since Zef Kryeqyqe killed Gjorg’s brother and now Gjorg is bound to kill Zef, and thereafter a member of the Kryeqyqe must kill Gjorg, and so on. This unending cat-and-mouse competition between clans can, however, be appeased by the two families coming to terms and settling on a price for the last soul killed in the blood feud, much like the early medieval Germanic wergeld. ¹⁸ Gjorg’s

¹² Ibid., 2.

¹³ Malcolm, Kosovo: A Short History, 17-18. Durham goes on to explain that the Kanun gained more obedience than the religious statutes of Christianity and Islam.

¹⁴ The highland (malësi) plains of northern Albania, including parts of southwestern Kosovo and southern Montenegro.

¹⁵ Pronounced /ɟɔɾg/; all pronunciations herein will be cited according to the IPA. ¹⁶ /kɾy.ɛ.cy.cɛ/.

¹⁷ Kadare, Ismail, Broken April (Chicago: Ivan R. Dee, 1990), 32.

¹⁸ Drew, Katherine, trans., The Burgundian Code (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 1976), 23. This is one of many late antique/early medieval Germanic law codes or leges barbarorum; others include the Code of Euric (480), Dictum Rotaries (643), Lax Visigoth rum (654), et cetera. The so-

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murder of Zef opens the novel in mid-March, and he is granted a “long” bessa, ¹⁹ giving him until mid-April to live, hence Kadare’s cynically realist title: unlike the April of every other year, or the April enjoyed by any other person, Gjorg’s is broken in two, one half during which to live and the other, to die.

Meanwhile, Bessian and Diana honeymoon away from 1930s Zogian ²⁰ Tirana in the Rrafsh, moving from kulla to kulla ²¹ and taking advantage of the elaborate hospitality system that governs the Albanian highlands; Bessian observes that “to an Albanian a guest is a demi-god.” ²² By happenchance, Bessian and Diana glimpse Gjorg at an inn and this has an immediate psychological, even erotic, effect on Diana; he becomes for her the representation of the harsh reality of the Kanun and life in the Rrafsh. Throughout the story that unfolds—ending with Gjorg’s death at the hand of the Kryeqyqe appointed to murder him—the significance of the Kanun as a strict code of life for the Albanian mountaineers and, likewise, the semi-mythological status that the city-dwellers attach to their Kanun-dictated life, is explored, with the issue of the blood feud—ethically, as a traditional and romanticized custom, and even economically—at its center. This dichotomy, and its in-text interpretation by the Vorpsis, informs one of the central themes of the novel: the Kanun’s position between modernity and tradition. An examination of this role that the Kanun plays in Broken April is shown in the way that Kardare presents the Kanun’s governing body, the Princeship of Orosh, which allows the reader to explore the

called wergeld or “blood money” was an almost universal legal practice, but is characteristic of earlier Eurasian cultures.

¹⁹ Thirty-day truce in which the murderer (gawks) remains unharmed, but after which he is to be hunted down by the avenging family.

²⁰ It is obvious from repeated references to the Albanian monarchy that the story is set during this period, that of the reign of King Zog I (1928-1939), also known as Ahmet Zogolli or Zogu.

²¹ Kulla is a stone tower, used as a dwelling place in the Rrafsh.

²² Kadar, Broken April, 77.

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personal and confusing commentary that this premier Albanian-language author has presented to non-Albanians.

In the words of Bessian, the Prince is “not exactly a prince…and yet, in a way, he’s more than a prince…because of the way he rules over all the High Plateau.” ²³ In the homeland of the Kanun, where “neither police nor government had had any authority,” ²⁴ the power of the Prince was founded on the Kanun and the entire Rrafsh bounded by it, so that the Princeship acted “like a temple of the law, an institution halfway between oracles and repositories of legal tradition.” ²⁵ The Princeship of Orosh also operated on an economic basis, surviving in part on enfeoffment ²⁶ but also on blood-taxes paid after every honor killing as part of the blood feud, a financial undertaking so extensive that it required the office of Prince of the Blood. Chapter Four (of seven) is an homage to the Princeship of Orosh, and operates as a critical analysis of the Kanun and the blood feud as a socio-economic system subject to the ebb and flow of history. Kardare reaches the climax of his discussion of the Kanun by introducing the Prince of Orosh’s brother, Prince of the Blood Mark Ukacjerra, ²⁷ who makes his only appearance in this chapter, and who, more than any other character, is concerned with the upkeep of the Kanun. Kadare uses Mark’s unique position to pose the question of the Kanun’s place in a modern world and of the denigration of tradition in the face of modernity. While even the Prince of Orosh is modernizing, embracing Zogian visitors and world diplomats, and encouraging university

²³ Kadar, Broken April,118.

²⁴ Ibid., 119.

²⁵ Ibid., 119.

²⁶ “Enfeoffment,” i.e. a lord-vassal system, commonly known as “feudalism,” though this term is marked and under debate by many medievalists.

²⁷ The book itself uses two spelling—an editorial oversight—but this is the more correct according to Albanian orthography (the “Ukacierra” spelling was most likely meant for ease of reading for the English speaker).

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study, Mark is trapped in the “blood-feudology” ²⁸ of the Kanun. Here, Kadare uses fictionalized scholarly works to critique the state of the Kanun: “one time elements of sublimity and grandeur in Albanian life had become denatured in the course of time, changing gradually into an inhuman machine, to the point of being reduced…to a capitalist enterprise.” ²⁹ Kadare contradictorily provides readers with an image of the Kanun as both an outdated set of laws averse to modernism and a tradition as vital to the Albanians as the lifestyle of the highlanders and the national myth of the urbanites. This ambiguous portrayal of the Kanun, however, is necessary and is analogous to anthropological studies that consider the importance of tradition in defining identity, but weigh the moral consequences of destructive practices. Indeed, this theme is elaborated on by the most destructive aspect of the Kanun—the blood feud—and its repercussions in the broken April of Gjorg and the broken marriage of the Vorpsis, discussed above.

Ismail Kardare’s Broken April, like Durham’s High Albania of the 1920s paints the picture of a society living at the behest of the Kanun, and the few, privileged onlookers who become enamored by their own fantasies of the Rrafsh’s “fairies, mountain nymphs, bards, the last Homeric hymns in the world, and the Kanun, terrifying but so majestic.” ³⁰ The Kanun may be understood in the context of its role as a framework for life in the Albanian highlands as portrayed through the devastation caused by the blood feud and the institution of the Princeship of Orosh. At the heart of the Kanun is tradition, unbroken for hundreds of years; at the heart of that tradition is the Princeship of Orosh. But the tradition and its upholding

²⁸ Kadare, Broken April, 141.

²⁹ Ibid., 141.

³⁰ Ibid., 63.

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institution—the entire framework of Albanian highland or traditional life—are weighed down by a push toward modernity, from within (Prince of Orosh) and without (the Vorpsis and flashbacks to conversations with Tiranites). Thus, Ismail Kardare, a self-exiled Albanian, calls into question the relevance of tradition in the face of modernity, a theme which may be interpreted broadly as a comment on Westernization and globalization, ³¹ or as narrowly as a comment on the contemporary Albanian communist regime of Enver Hoxha ³² (d.1985). Kardare’s use of the Kanun in Broken April, though a piece of obscure Albanian folk law to the outside world, evokes an interpretation pregnant with universality while providing a unique teaching experience for the reader uninitiated into the world of Albanology. It is in the rich context of Ismail Kardare’s novels and the works of other modern and classical Albanian authors that Albanian literature and culture should be made known to the world, as there is perhaps no better way—aside from language—to access and assess a people than through their literary output.

   

³¹ Ironically, the modernization is here affecting a “Western” peoples

³² / hɔdʒa/

Valley Humanities Review Spring 2012