In Memory of Ismail Kadare (28 January 1936 – 1 July 2024)

Ismail Kadare, the best-known contemporary Albanian writer and intellectual, one of the most remarkable European authors of his generation, died on 1 July 2024 at the age of 88.

Ismail Kadare (Image from Wikimedia Commons)

By coincidence, the news about Kadare’s death came when I was reading his novel Broken April (1978) about the moral responsibilities of intellectuals: “Your books, your art, they all smell of murder [...] you look here for beauty so as to deed your art. You don’t see that this is beauty that kills [...]”.

Cover of Ismail Kadare's Broken April (London, 1990) Nov.1990/1482

Kadare’s body of work consists of over 80 titles translated into 45 languages. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature 15 times and received numerous awards. However, my personal encounter with the author happened quite late in my life. I learned about him first in 2016 from the blog post by Christina Pribichevich Zorić, the former Chief of Conference and Language Services at the UN International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. But it was not until I got stuck for over six hours at Tirana International Airport, waiting for my flight to London and having plenty of time to read, that I finally had a chance to savour the mastery of his literary genres, narratives, themes and literary devices. The range of his works available in all major European languages at a small airport bookshop was impressive, and I ended up buying several of his books.

All of Kadare’s novels create imaginary worlds out of a wide variety of myths, legends (The Three Arched Bridge), and stories of the distant past (The Castle). He worked with political parables and satire (The Concert), antitotalitarian dystopias (The Palace of Dreams), offering commentary on the recent history (The General of the Dead Army, Broken April) and openly criticising Hoxha’s dictatorship and the regime that immediately succeeded it (Agamemnon's Daughter, The Successor). Having studied in the Soviet Union just before Albania's breaking of political and economic ties with the USSR, Kadare wrote a book of memoirs about his time in Moscow in the late 1950s in the style of political satire (Twilight of the Eastern Gods). His last novel, The Doll (2015, English translation – 2020), is also a semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story. Whenever he wrote, he would always write about his beloved Albania. As he put it in one of his poems: “Me ka marre malli per Shqiperine tone” (“I was filled with longing for Albania”, translated by Robert Elsie).

Kadare, like the Albanian dictator Enver Hoxha 28 years before him, was born in the museum-like town of Gjirokastër. Looking at the photo below, it is strange to think how Good and Evil could come from one place.

The city of Gjirokastër in Albania (Photograph by Katya Rogatchevskaia)

The earliest book by Kadare that I found in the British Library collections was his poem The Princess Argjiro, published first in Tirana in 1958 and later in 1967.

Cover of Princesha Argjiro. (Tirana, 1967). Shelfmark X.950/15359

Page from Princesha Argjiro by Ismail Kadare

Based on a 15th-century local legend, the poem tells the story of a young princess who jumped with her child off the walls of the Gjirokastër Castle to avoid captivity by the Ottomans. As the spirit and message of the poem were not in line with the conventions of socialist realism and the Communist Party of Albania’s interpretation of the country’s history, the work was denounced, and Kadare was criticised for not following socialist literary principles.

The Gjirokastër Castle (Photograph by Katya Rogatchevskaia)

But this was only the beginning of Kadare’s opposition to the political and aesthetic tenets of the Albanian dictatorship. Influenced by Kafka, Gogol, Sartre, Camus, Orwell and other writers and thinkers, he kept writing books that were banned, criticised and censored, while the author himself was once nearly shot. His international fame saved him many times, but even after Hoxha’s death, he had to flee from Albania and seek refuge in France in 1990 after criticising the new government. He later returned to Tirana and continued writing. Like Vaclav Havel, Kadare was invited by his people to become president, but unlike Havel, he declined.

The search on Kadare as an ‘author’ yields 257 entries in the British Library catalogue – we hold his books in Albanian, English, French, German, Bulgarian, Polish, Dutch, Romanian, Serbian, Croatian, Slovenian and even Arabic.

Whether you are a devoted admirer of Kadare’s work or you are just at the beginning of your journey into his wonderful but challenging world, I would like to leave you with the author's reading of his 1961 poem Edhe Kur Kujtesa (And when my memory).

Ndarja erdhi,
Po iki larg prej teje.
Asgjë e jashtëzakonshme,
Veç ndonjë natë
Gishtat e dikujt do pleksen në flokët e tu
Me të largëtit gishtat e mi, me kilometra të gjatë.

The division came
I'm leaving you ...
Nothing extraordinary,
Except for one night
Someone's fingers will curl into your hair
With my fingers far, miles long ...

C'est l'heure de se séparer.
Je vais m'en aller loin de toi.
Rien là qui puisse étonner.
Pourtant, une autre nuit, les doigts
d'un autre dans tes cheveux viendront
s'entrelacer aux miens, mes doigts
de milliers de kilomètres de long.

Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, edited and translated by Robert Elsie (London: Forest Books, 1996)

Katya Rogatchevskaia, Lead Curator, East European Collections

European studies blog

In Memory of Ismail Kadare (28 January 1936 – 1 July 2024)