I have been tracking a Doe for several years now. Yes… yes, do not be surprised!
I track a Doe through the great forest of the written art. Many times I tried to catch her “wandering,” another time I thought to “shoot her” and cast her upon the flow of the verses from the spring of inspiration, of her body and mind. But I always came away disappointed. I would wait for her with my pen cocked at the spring of poetry, and she would appear to me in the meadows of the short story. She would wave the handkerchief of inspiration in the air, leaving me with only the beautiful image of a pleasant dream. Then I loaded my double-barreled shotgun, and the next day, I went out into the meadow of the short story to shoot the Doe there. The following day she would appear in the eyes of a child with a poem or a little fairy tale, leaving the taste of loss on my lips. Days later she appears to me in the deep well of thought, in the arms of poetry. Anxious, I track her, and it angers me that I cannot encounter the graces of her art somewhere, as they constantly change shape, color, and taste.
Then I throw down my weapon, my pen. Everywhere I hear springs flowing, meadows turning green, woodlands bursting into leaf. The rivers of inspiration roar through the gorges and abysses of art. What has happened? Are my ears deceiving me? No, it is real! Before me appears a Doe upon the harsh and craggy rock
of literature. It is the Doe… yes… yes… Drenusha Zajmi. She unloads a novel right in front of me.
I, the insatiable hunter of books, snatch it up and retreat into my cave of thought, to thirstily drink in the events, to meet the characters there, the ages, the loves,
the bitter cup of separation. Once I am sated with the flow of this spring, clear to the point of crystallization, I step outside. I call out to Drenusha, “Hey there! Where are you?” In my call, one can sense a little of the aroma and taste of inspiration and the spiritual pleasure that fine liquors leave behind. I call out again, “Hey!” But I get no answer from the opposite bank. The Doe has gone. She leaps over the rocks and vanishes into the dense foliage of the forest where the artists of Kosovo sing.
I am left alone, and I realize that I am not in a dream, but in reality. In my hands I hold the book, “Angels Die Differently” by the novelist Drenusha Zajmi. I gather the fragments of the dream and the truths, and I analyze the impressions its reading leaves behind.
Drenusha, whom I do not know personally, is a wanderer who grazes in poetry, short stories, verses, and fairy tales, and finally, steps into the pages of a novel. If you want to meet her, you will find her there in “Angels Die Differently.” Her pen has entered a family this time, to bring a social issue onto the daily stage. The story unfolds within a simple intellectual family. On her stage, Drenusha presents drama, comedy, and love.
Her pen and her thought, as is rare in literature, do not paint portraits from the outside.
The characters and their traits are forged by the very flow of events, by the conflicts, and by the weaknesses and virtues of each one.
The book makes an impression right from the choice of the characters’ names. Bujar,
the main character, is truly generous in his traits, an intellectual with a broad professional, spiritual, and humanitarian scope. Besa, his wife, is an exceedingly simple woman. She
sacrifices herself to build a family with a solid social foundation; true to her name, she is a woman of her word, a good mother, and a good citizen.
On the other hand, there is Shpëtim, a cultured neighbor, who was born to use his expansive soul to save others from the conflicts that are part of human life.
His wife, Natyra, is a beautiful invention for an unstable woman. The nature of all flowers, of all colors. A game with dozens of traps, which you are often unable to comprehend. When you come to your senses, everything seems like a dream that leaves dozens of questions in its wake.
The interplay of the characters is simple. The whims and behind-the-scenes machinations are constructed so simply and believably that it makes you realize the writer dissolves fiction and reality into a single entity. This happens naturally, without strain or a forced effort to achieve her goal. She does not try to dress her actors in stage costumes to make them stand out, or the way we are often used to seeing them. They are like me, like you. They live among us, they fall in love, they clash, they separate according to circumstances, without losing their humanity.
The author does not divide them into groups or individuals so that the reader can understand their game. She has thrown them into the marketplace of reading, and there the reader himself must make the distinctions and divisions.
The novel, in my opinion, has something novel in the way its events are structured, developed, and laid out. If we look closely, the author does not construct them deliberately, as usually happens. The story flows like a steady spring, without scattering into chapters and conflicts, into leaps where events often change direction and purpose. The flow shifts according to the conflicts of the moment, it bears the consequences, but without ever leaving the riverbed upon and for which she created it.
This is easily noticeable in the numerous dialogues. Drenusha does not prepare ready-made schemas,
or prearranged ones, upon which the dialogues will unfold, or dramas that precede the characters’ goals, to lead them down the path of events the writer has planned. They flow freely, clearly, and through them, the portrait of each one is created—the character, the resilience, the virtue they have inherited or acquired in life. The writer does not dress them in these traits like a costume to present to the readers; rather, through the dialogues, the reader sees them clothed in or stripped of the vices or values they carry.
To make the drama of the family or society as engaging and believable as possible,
she often brings them onto the stage in a surprising, intriguing, and captivating way. Every action or trait emerges at the right moment, drawing the reader in with curiosity about the story and the characters, since after every page a new event might appear that alters the course of the narrative river. Every change plunges the drama and the characters into other streams of thought and events, whether interpersonal or societal.
I can say with conviction that constructing a novel is truly difficult. The structure is what follows you throughout the entire work, but I see with pleasure that Drenusha possesses this facet of talent. Across all the pages of the novel, she walks a “mined” stylistic path of surprises that lend the whole a simplicity of thought, a clarity of expression, and an ease of understanding.
As far as I can tell, the author, by writing in several genres simultaneously, has enriched herself and gained experience in choosing the word as the raw material for constructing the written art of words. After gathering the fleece of her thoughts, she spins it with art, and then, with the knitting needles of talent, she beautifully knits the sweaters of her actors, both for their outward attire and for their spiritual world.
From the world and its construction, it seems she lives deeply within the conflicts and events, yet she never tries to resolve them. She neither gives nor takes opinions in prejudging the events. She skirts them tangentially, touching them just enough to awaken the reader's curiosity, and continues on her way toward achieving her final goal.
The details and the surrounding nature seem to be another pillar for the author where the events unfold. The descriptions are of familiar places. This is noticeable when houses, gardens, neighbors, and so on, are reflected artistically. She has built the flow of events right where she lives, where she hears the sound of her neighbor's footsteps, and the memories are alive in her mind and in those of her fellow citizens.
In the preparation and editing of this novel, the professional hand of the editor Dilaver Baxhaku is also felt. He took and edited the material right from the first manuscripts. The foreword is an invitation to eagerly read this simple and valuable creation.
Very well, someone will say!
To tell the truth, I share this opinion. Not that there can be no criticisms, but the book is enjoyable and engaging; the theme is well-chosen, and so is its elaboration.
Is there any thought or treatment that clashes with the crystalline flow of
the story, the plot, and the thought along the long road of conflicts? I think that here and there is a slight limp that does not stand out much, but when looked at carefully, a perhaps unnecessary elongation in the dialogues is noticed and catches the eye. This happens as a result of the goal the author sets for the further and deeper clarification of the characters' world, as with Besa and Jolanda. The dialogues become somewhat overextended, slowing the pace of the book and the reader's interest. The same goes for Bujar, the main character. His sublime sacrifice and the sale of the house feel somewhat contrived for the writer's interests and do not seem very believable, even from a legal standpoint.
Despite these minor criticisms, it must be said that this novel is a successful leap for the writer into this field, which is also considered the most difficult in literature. The novel in question paves the way for the author and confronts her with duties to herself and
the readers. Recently, other works have also been published by Diana Çuli, Vilheme Vranari, Flutura Açka, and others. I can say that new voices are being added to literature, and most importantly, they are women. I am confident that the book will find the support of readers and literary critics. We wish the writer success on the difficult but beautiful path of art.
The book has won the “Hivzi Sulejmani” prize awarded by the Writers’ League of Kosovo.
By Pilo Zyba
