by the writer PIRRO LOLI
I may be one of the few admirers who has read practically all the works of the writer Pirro Loli. His pen, guided by a sound mind, has filled the fallow lands of literature with a bountiful harvest. The author has covered several varieties and genres, intertwined with quality: poetry, novels, and finally his book of ESSAYS, “DUUMVIRATI I NJË STINE QË SHKOI”.
Everywhere he goes, he feels like a master gardener. The fruits of his labor are the ones we know, and which we have spoken about on other occasions.
Pirro Loli is on the path of literature like a fully formed athlete; he belongs to that constellation of runners chasing the title. He has the strength, the talent, the desire, and the will. In this long war of thoughts, he holds in his hand the rifle (poetry) and the cannon (the no-
vel), but also the thing that holds them both at the proper height: criticism.
Yes, indeed, criticism. This is a weapon whose qualities, values, and weight in art he knows well (especially in our present day). If we do not want to admit that it has died, we must absolutely admit that it has lost consciousness and has been lying delirious in its bed for nearly twenty years.
Today, even the few critics who were around have hidden their pencils and live on past glory. A glory that has died along with them. The others who have taken up the pen to write and cultivate this genre have turned into ordinary house painters of their own interests, the authors’ interests, or both combined.
Let us leave theoretical thoughts aside and return to practice; this brings the truth to light, which, in the opinion of the article’s author, is painful.
I do not want to drag this out, so to prove it, I will return to the book in question.
“Duumvirati i një stine që shkoi” (which I think has not yet gone by), and this torments us all. The Duumvirate is a work so simple in appearance, yet so difficult in its core and weight. As easy as it is to read, it is just as difficult to understand and assimilate its meaning and purpose.
It is so harmonized that the tools of art and the facts make you pause from time to time to connect its musicality with the times, the facts and suffering with the art.
As simply as the book is written, its mine of thoughts is just as rich.
As I read the Duumvirate, I pose the question: “Has this duumvirate gone by?” I answer it myself: “No.” This has its reasons, and here they are:
The literature of the past fifty years has not undergone a deep analysis, an overturning plowing to see the quality of the soil in which we will plant the new seed. It contains caterpillars, worms, and salts that we must recognize and clear away so that the plants in the new plantings will be healthy in the future. Although so many years have passed, this is not happening. Why?
The generation that went by and cooked up this mess does not want analyses; they tear down the values of their work. They may have fallen from the podiums, but they still hold the works and the names in their hands. They encourage new blooms, putting a signature on their appraisal just to show they are alive.
Democracy indeed opened the doors, but it threw many unknown, eager new authors, with and without talent, onto the difficult path of creation. This created an influx, but also a dizziness for the reader, who does not know what to choose. This is a job that belongs to criticism and the publishing houses, which, just as they sprang up overnight, are now closing down one by one.
The years pass, twenty years are nearly up, the old generations are leaving and being replaced by the young. Criticism sleeps! The young do not have time to deal with the analysis of the past; they create in their time and for their time. The past is remaining a burden on the future.
Given the deep contradictions of the past with the future, and of the past within itself, we do not have a genuine national Anthology in poetry or prose, whether for the children growing up in the new era or for adults.
In whose interest is this? In the interest of those who created it. What must we do? What the writer and critic Pirro Loli does in his work, the Duumvirate.
The work in question is a deep analysis of the sick patient—the literature and art of the past fifty years. The doctor who has taken its health condition into his hands to determine the diagnosis and further treatment knows it well; he knows its strengths well.
The writer in question has published and brought forth from the power of his mind over 13 works. He is spiritually and morally prepared for this work, which, besides being an artistic creation, has a critical purpose.
If in his previous works he speaks and decides for himself, in the work in question he has also called upon collaborators. Who are they? They are his teachers... and ours...
Hegel, Nietzsche, Proust, Tsvetaeva, Brecht, Baudelaire, Dostoevsky, Schopenhauer, etc., etc. This is a titanic task that the reader does not see, but which has cost the author time, effort, and sacrifice. To make this book, he has utilized libraries, authors,
critics great and small. In the end, having prepared the ground, he set to work to perform the operation in question.
To be more precise in his work, more convincing in what he writes and says, the author takes our two best writers. The two central pillars that hold up the building of the Writers’ League. The two most renowned authors, whom we all know. It is worth mentioning that the author in question, from a young age, went in and out of the rooms of this building. Even back then, he asked for more space and light. As a reward, they clipped his wings so he would not fly through the expanses, mounted on the horse of inspiration.
Times changed, the spaces were left free. Flights filled the endless sky of art and the artist. Pirro Loli, now as an architect of the word, looks at the construction of this building from both sides. As an artist, he has his rightful place in its rooms, and as an architect too. The latter thanks to his experience and individual skills.
Knowing its builders well, the materials that were used, and the foundations on which it stands, the author, the architect, gives his opinion on this edifice which, in his opinion and mine, must be torn down to make way for a building of our time. (We are not talking about walls or bricks.) For it to be modern and contemporary, it must either be torn down and rebuilt from scratch, or it requires a massive reconstruction.
To do this, the writer believes that its weak points must be found, starting from the foundation and ending at the roof.
To make it simple for the reader as well, the critic has divided the edifice into pieces (into chapters). He takes them one by one and performs a meticulous autopsy on them, down to the smallest tissues and cells. All of these are seen from his sharp and realistic perspective. The twenty-three perspectives (chapters), all distinct in their variety, are 23 analyses that serve the gene-
ral, that which weighs us down and hinders us even today on the path of true art.
The writer speaks with determination, and his word is convincing. This building with a borrowed foundation (the author’s expression), with pillars that lack the strength to hold the weight it has today, not to mention the poor architecture. Its rooms are small, breathless, with windows that do not let in ample light, without ventilation, without breath, where the dampness has seeped into the marrow; it must be repaired urgently and carefully so as not to crush its builders beneath it, not to mention those it already crushed. The critic’s project is professional: the color of the thoughts it expressed, and which it often still expresses, must be changed.
The main thing is that the writer and critic gives his opinion, projecting the transition from the past to the future without much damage (non-material) and pain.
I do not think it is necessary to do a separate analysis for each chapter; he has done that himself, plus it would require a lot of work. Those of you who read it will understand perfectly well the purpose and the value the author has given them.
Drawing to a close, I believe there are three pillars upon which it rests, which give value to the writer and the book in question.
His courage, determination, and talent to analyze the fifty-year core of socialist realist literature. An initiative that, although twenty years have passed, no one else has taken.
His ability to make this analysis without politicizing the subject in question.
The chosen word, the gathered facts, the interweaving and elaboration without making leaps in the timeline.
Finally, I will close with the author’s words: “Powerful literature has the polyhistorical light of existence. This means you must know well the technique of the ellipse, the art of condensation. Like a miraculous scalpel, the poet’s fine pen often cleanses deep wounds and pushes you toward the essence of phenomena.”
Nothing remains but to congratulate the author and await further fruits from this genre, which suits his pen so well, and which others have forgotten or find too difficult to cultivate.
