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Spring Flowers, Spring Frost
From behind the closed door, the man shouts, 'Be on your way - you have no business here!'
'Open up, I am the messenger of Death'.
As spring arrives in the Albanian mountain town of B, some strange things are emerging in the thaw. Bank robbers strike the National Bank. Old terrors are dredged up from the shipwreck of history. And ultra-explosive state secrets are threatening to flood the entire nation. Mark, an artist, finds the peaceful rhythms of his life turned upside down by ancient love and modern barbarism and by the particular brutality of a country surprised and divided by its new freedom.
'Open up, I am the messenger of Death'.
As spring arrives in the Albanian mountain town of B, some strange things are emerging in the thaw. Bank robbers strike the National Bank. Old terrors are dredged up from the shipwreck of history. And ultra-explosive state secrets are threatening to flood the entire nation. Mark, an artist, finds the peaceful rhythms of his life turned upside down by ancient love and modern barbarism and by the particular brutality of a country surprised and divided by its new freedom.
192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2000
77 people are currently reading
2456 people want to read
About the author
Ismail Kadare
273 books1,717 followersIsmail Kadare (also spelled Kadaré) was an Albanian novelist and poet. He has been a leading literary figure in Albania since the 1960s. He focused on short stories until the publication of his first novel, The General of the Dead Army. In 1996 he became a lifetime member of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences of France. In 1992, he was awarded the Prix mondial Cino Del Duca; in 2005, he won the inaugural Man Booker International Prize, in 2009 the Prince of Asturias Award of Arts, and in 2015 the Jerusalem Prize. He has divided his time between Albania and France since 1990. Kadare has been mentioned as a possible recipient for the Nobel Prize in Literature several times. His works have been published in about 30 languages.
Ismail Kadare was born in 1936 in Gjirokastër, in the south of Albania. His education included studies at the University of Tirana and then the Gorky Institute for World Literature in Moscow, a training school for writers and critics.
In 1960 Kadare returned to Albania after the country broke ties with the Soviet Union, and he became a journalist and published his first poems.
His first novel, The General of the Dead Army, sprang from a short story, and its success established his name in Albania and enabled Kadare to become a full-time writer.
Kadare's novels draw on Balkan history and legends. They are obliquely ironic as a result of trying to withstand political scrutiny. Among his best known books are Chronicle in Stone (1977), Broken April (1978), and The Concert (1988), considered the best novel of the year 1991 by the French literary magazine Lire.
In 1990, Kadare claimed political asylum in France, issuing statements in favour of democratisation. During the ordeal, he stated that "dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible. The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship."
Ismail Kadare was born in 1936 in Gjirokastër, in the south of Albania. His education included studies at the University of Tirana and then the Gorky Institute for World Literature in Moscow, a training school for writers and critics.
In 1960 Kadare returned to Albania after the country broke ties with the Soviet Union, and he became a journalist and published his first poems.
His first novel, The General of the Dead Army, sprang from a short story, and its success established his name in Albania and enabled Kadare to become a full-time writer.
Kadare's novels draw on Balkan history and legends. They are obliquely ironic as a result of trying to withstand political scrutiny. Among his best known books are Chronicle in Stone (1977), Broken April (1978), and The Concert (1988), considered the best novel of the year 1991 by the French literary magazine Lire.
In 1990, Kadare claimed political asylum in France, issuing statements in favour of democratisation. During the ordeal, he stated that "dictatorship and authentic literature are incompatible. The writer is the natural enemy of dictatorship."
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 147 reviews
November 30, 2018
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost is a flat story and it is written badly… It is a series of non sequiturs becoming in the end a heap of trash.
Those are the thoughts of the main character suffering from a fever but I’ve got an impression that Ismail Kadare was the one being febrile when he was writing this book.
And the idea that every tyrant is a criminal isn’t a revelation.
The fact that the huge ship Titanic, with its deck lights and searchlights, with its roaring boilers and its cabin fires, with its freight of smiles, music, and champagne, with its women’s unshaven love nests, should have smashed into the guardian of the glacial realm now seemed to Mark to be the most natural thing in the world.
Those are the thoughts of the main character suffering from a fever but I’ve got an impression that Ismail Kadare was the one being febrile when he was writing this book.
And the idea that every tyrant is a criminal isn’t a revelation.
February 27, 2009
So, first of all I'm happy to report that Romanians have a very good translation of the book, thanks to Marius Dobrescu. I understand the situation is not so good for the English version, which is translated from French, which is translated from Albanian. huh!
People say that in order to like this book you need a bit of patience. Actually I was hooked. Not from the first chapter, that's true, but from the second, which is actually a story that combines magical realism with folklore. The book was likable but it ended too soon, I had the feeling I.K. could have gone into depth with the story, the characters, the kanun.
I was absolutely fascinated (and started googling right away) about kanun, the customary set of laws Albanians had for hundred of years and which was revived after the fall of the communist regime. As I read, Kadare often discusses this subject in his books, so I'm tempted to try something else really soon.
For those interested, here's a link to the Romanian translator's postface, which also explains a bit the kanun and gjakmarrja (blood feud): http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol.ph...
People say that in order to like this book you need a bit of patience. Actually I was hooked. Not from the first chapter, that's true, but from the second, which is actually a story that combines magical realism with folklore. The book was likable but it ended too soon, I had the feeling I.K. could have gone into depth with the story, the characters, the kanun.
I was absolutely fascinated (and started googling right away) about kanun, the customary set of laws Albanians had for hundred of years and which was revived after the fall of the communist regime. As I read, Kadare often discusses this subject in his books, so I'm tempted to try something else really soon.
For those interested, here's a link to the Romanian translator's postface, which also explains a bit the kanun and gjakmarrja (blood feud): http://atelier.liternet.ro/articol.ph...
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January 20, 2022On how Albanian history is kind of like a naked woman.
There are chapters and counter-chapters here. A snake makes an appearance in the first chapter, but it's really just two youths maliciously playing with it. In the first counter-chapter, the snake takes on a more prominent role. A young woman is forced by her father to marry a snake, a punishment for some unspecified violation of custom. But at night - only at night - the snake sheds his skin and becomes a handsome husband with winning sexual skill. Of course, of course, that's never enough for the new bride.
If engaged (and I was engaged), the reader will try and figure out the meaning of the snake marriage. The author appeared to offer clues: see, the man who shares his self with a snake is like the Titanic hitting the iceberg; or maybe he's like the protagonist's girlfriend's brother who becomes an assassin; or maybe her Uncle who believes in blood feuds; or maybe it's like the Kanun, which is like the pre-Constitutional body of rules. Or maybe, he posits, it's like the invisible part of a woman's sex which is like the unseen part of the iceberg.
This all happens in the time in Albania after the tyrant. And you know what they say about the more things change.
There is also a place in the mountains: the deep storage depot of the National Archives. It's well-hidden, like the visible part of a woman's sex, the author tells us. And we don't know what is in there. But whatever is there was important enough for the newly appointed head of state to rush there immediately after his appointment. He stayed inside for hours, and left shaken.
Like all of Kadare's novels, the English translation is of the French translation of the original Albanian. One wonders what if anything got lost in the transfer, what didn't make it to the bag carousel. This is also on the list of the 1001 books you have to read before you die. I'm curious what other book was kicked off the list when this one was published (around 2000).
Which is not to say I didn't like it.
There are chapters and counter-chapters here. A snake makes an appearance in the first chapter, but it's really just two youths maliciously playing with it. In the first counter-chapter, the snake takes on a more prominent role. A young woman is forced by her father to marry a snake, a punishment for some unspecified violation of custom. But at night - only at night - the snake sheds his skin and becomes a handsome husband with winning sexual skill. Of course, of course, that's never enough for the new bride.
If engaged (and I was engaged), the reader will try and figure out the meaning of the snake marriage. The author appeared to offer clues: see, the man who shares his self with a snake is like the Titanic hitting the iceberg; or maybe he's like the protagonist's girlfriend's brother who becomes an assassin; or maybe her Uncle who believes in blood feuds; or maybe it's like the Kanun, which is like the pre-Constitutional body of rules. Or maybe, he posits, it's like the invisible part of a woman's sex which is like the unseen part of the iceberg.
This all happens in the time in Albania after the tyrant. And you know what they say about the more things change.
There is also a place in the mountains: the deep storage depot of the National Archives. It's well-hidden, like the visible part of a woman's sex, the author tells us. And we don't know what is in there. But whatever is there was important enough for the newly appointed head of state to rush there immediately after his appointment. He stayed inside for hours, and left shaken.
Like all of Kadare's novels, the English translation is of the French translation of the original Albanian. One wonders what if anything got lost in the transfer, what didn't make it to the bag carousel. This is also on the list of the 1001 books you have to read before you die. I'm curious what other book was kicked off the list when this one was published (around 2000).
Which is not to say I didn't like it.
December 30, 2019
Please scroll down for the English version.
Kadarétól elsőként Az álmok palotáját olvastam. Azzal a művészien megírt nyomasztással eddig egyetlen más (általam ismert) könyve sem versenghetett. Azért ez most közel jár.
Pedig az elején semmi nem mutatja, hogy a regény bármiért megérdemelné a helyét az 1001 könyv listáján. Hát, Istenem, van ilyen. Az elején legfeljebb az számíthat érdekesnek, ahogyan a 90-es évek Albániája és a népmesék, mítoszok világa folyamatosan egymásba játszik. (Vannak fejezetek és vannak ellen-fejezetek. A fejezetek tere a hétköznapi világ, ideje a történelem, az ellen-fejezetek mitikus, időtlen világban játszódnak.) Aztán ahogy a kettő elkezd egymásba átfolyni, egyre szorosabban összefonódni, úgy válik izgalmasabbá (meg egyre nyomasztóbbá) a történet. A végére aztán eljutunk odáig, hogy a mitikus-időtlen logika termeli ki magából a racionális, a maga keserű-szomorú módján felszabadító és emberbaráti tervet, míg a hétköznapi, megfogható, konkrét térben és időben létező Albánia irracionálisan gonosz, embertelen hellyé válik.
A csillaglevonás a kiadásnak szól. Először is a fordítás: előbb albánról franciára, aztán franciáról angolra. Haggyá má. Nem igaz, hogy egy Kadarénak a kétezres évek elején nem találtak olyan fordítót, aki albánul is, angolul is tud. Szép a szöveg persze, de csak a regény utolsó harmadában esett le nekem, hogy ez végig át volna itatva az albán nyelvhez kötődő metaforákkal. Mennyi metaforát vesztettem el odáig?! Legalább valami lábjegyzetet raktak volna bele arról, melyik szónak mi a jelentősége az albán kultúrában... mármint ha a fordítónak lett volna róla tudomása. És látni valóan nem volt. Mondjuk, ez már a kiadó felelőssége is, ezért rovom fel a kiadásnak ezt a hibát.*
Így éppen csak sejthető - és elég lassan körvonalazható - az a mintázat, amelyet a konkrétnak és a jelképesnek a folyamatos érintkezése és egymástól való távolodása ad. Ideális terep ehhez a kilencvenes évek Albániája, amely több évtizedes diktatúra után elkezd magához térni (ahogy mi), új alapokat keres az élet megújításához (ahogy mi), ennek érdekében visszanyúl a saját ősi(nek tekintett) hagyományaihoz (ahogy mi), és azok között sajnos megtalálja azt a bizonyos kivételesen embertelen albán vérbosszút, amelyről a másik 1001-listás Kadare-regény, a Kettétört április is szól (hála Istennek nálunk speciel ez nincs, van helyette pont elég más). És pontosan az ellenkezőjét éri el annak, amit szeretne, meg amire szüksége volna. Mert itt mindenkinek van oka rejtegetni valamit a múltjából, valami egyszerre banálisat és szégyellni valót, és mindenki elszántan keresi a más titkát, miközben szorongva őrzi a sajátját, Közben pedig sorra előbújnak belőlük a kíváncsiságuk által meghatározott (és bajba vitt), halhatatlanságra vágyó, titokfejtő mesei-mítoszi alakok.
Nem tudom, jut-e még valaki eszébe ennyi gyilkosság közben az a szó, hogy "pazarlás". Nekem elég régen ez az első, ami ilyenkor eszembe jut. Milyen jogon dönti el egyik ember a másikról, hogy fölösleges, hogy távoznia kell az élők közül, mindegy, mit művelt vagy nem művelt korábban? És - ha már a becsületgyilkosságoknál tartunk - milyen jogon dobja el ezzel együtt a saját életét? Mi minden nem történik meg a jövőben csak azért, mert egy fonál erőszakosan megszakad, és kiesik az időből?
* Eredetileg franciául akartam olvasni, csak sajnos annyi más idegen nyelvű olvasmány mellett egyszerűen nem maradt volna rá időm. Aki teheti, tegye, hozzáférhet az Országos Idegennyelvű Könyvtárban.
------------
Nothing compares to The Palace of Dreams, my first book by Kadare. This one does come close, though. I only resent the quality of the English-language edition.
In the beginning, I was only interested in the interplay between chapters and counter-chapters: the everyday, down-to-earth Albania of the nineties and the world of folk tales and myths. Later, as the two worlds began to melt into each other, the story began to be more and more exciting (as well as depressing). In the end, it's the timeless logic of the mytic that produces a rational solution, even liberating and humane in its own way - and it's nice everyday and down-to-earth Albania that becomes irrationally evil and inhuman.
I'm really disappointed by the way it was published in English. First, it's the translation: from Albanian into French, then from French into English. How come they could find no one in the year 2000 who would have been able to work both in Albanian and English? I can't believe that. I have no problem with the style or anything like that, but it wasn't until the last third of the book that I realised this text was full of metaphors connected to the Albanian language. How many have been lost? Why were there no references to them at least in footnotes? That is, if the translator knew about them. But that's also the responsibility of the publisher, of course. You'd better read it in French if you can. Unfortunately, I didn't have that much time. (I read in French much more slowly than in English.)
Thus, I could only begin to discern the pattern of the concrete and the symbolic touching and leaving each other all the time. The Albania of the nineties is an ideal space and time to show how it works. After decades of dictatorship, they begin to come round (like we did in Hungary). They search for new foundations for renewing life (like we did). In order to do that, they reach back to the old days (like we did). Unfortunately, what they find includes that certain inhuman tradition of vendetta (thank God we don't have it; we've plenty of other problems to cope with). And they do just the opposite of what they want to, and of what they need. Here, everyone has the reason to hide something both banal and shameful from their past. Everyone is trying to find out about the secrets others are hiding, and is anxious to hide their own. In the meantime, they turn into mythical creatures defined (cursed) by their desire to know, to learn, to become immortal.
The first word that comes to my mind, when thinking of these murders is "waste." How could anyone have the right to decide that another human being is unnecessary and has to go, whatever they did or didn't do before? And (as we're talking of a chain of vendettas going on) how could anyone throw away their own life at the same time? What is it that will never happen in the future just because someone's yarn has been violently cut and dropped out?
Kadarétól elsőként Az álmok palotáját olvastam. Azzal a művészien megírt nyomasztással eddig egyetlen más (általam ismert) könyve sem versenghetett. Azért ez most közel jár.
Pedig az elején semmi nem mutatja, hogy a regény bármiért megérdemelné a helyét az 1001 könyv listáján. Hát, Istenem, van ilyen. Az elején legfeljebb az számíthat érdekesnek, ahogyan a 90-es évek Albániája és a népmesék, mítoszok világa folyamatosan egymásba játszik. (Vannak fejezetek és vannak ellen-fejezetek. A fejezetek tere a hétköznapi világ, ideje a történelem, az ellen-fejezetek mitikus, időtlen világban játszódnak.) Aztán ahogy a kettő elkezd egymásba átfolyni, egyre szorosabban összefonódni, úgy válik izgalmasabbá (meg egyre nyomasztóbbá) a történet. A végére aztán eljutunk odáig, hogy a mitikus-időtlen logika termeli ki magából a racionális, a maga keserű-szomorú módján felszabadító és emberbaráti tervet, míg a hétköznapi, megfogható, konkrét térben és időben létező Albánia irracionálisan gonosz, embertelen hellyé válik.
A csillaglevonás a kiadásnak szól. Először is a fordítás: előbb albánról franciára, aztán franciáról angolra. Haggyá má. Nem igaz, hogy egy Kadarénak a kétezres évek elején nem találtak olyan fordítót, aki albánul is, angolul is tud. Szép a szöveg persze, de csak a regény utolsó harmadában esett le nekem, hogy ez végig át volna itatva az albán nyelvhez kötődő metaforákkal. Mennyi metaforát vesztettem el odáig?! Legalább valami lábjegyzetet raktak volna bele arról, melyik szónak mi a jelentősége az albán kultúrában... mármint ha a fordítónak lett volna róla tudomása. És látni valóan nem volt. Mondjuk, ez már a kiadó felelőssége is, ezért rovom fel a kiadásnak ezt a hibát.*
Így éppen csak sejthető - és elég lassan körvonalazható - az a mintázat, amelyet a konkrétnak és a jelképesnek a folyamatos érintkezése és egymástól való távolodása ad. Ideális terep ehhez a kilencvenes évek Albániája, amely több évtizedes diktatúra után elkezd magához térni (ahogy mi), új alapokat keres az élet megújításához (ahogy mi), ennek érdekében visszanyúl a saját ősi(nek tekintett) hagyományaihoz (ahogy mi), és azok között sajnos megtalálja azt a bizonyos kivételesen embertelen albán vérbosszút, amelyről a másik 1001-listás Kadare-regény, a Kettétört április is szól (hála Istennek nálunk speciel ez nincs, van helyette pont elég más). És pontosan az ellenkezőjét éri el annak, amit szeretne, meg amire szüksége volna. Mert itt mindenkinek van oka rejtegetni valamit a múltjából, valami egyszerre banálisat és szégyellni valót, és mindenki elszántan keresi a más titkát, miközben szorongva őrzi a sajátját, Közben pedig sorra előbújnak belőlük a kíváncsiságuk által meghatározott (és bajba vitt), halhatatlanságra vágyó, titokfejtő mesei-mítoszi alakok.
Nem tudom, jut-e még valaki eszébe ennyi gyilkosság közben az a szó, hogy "pazarlás". Nekem elég régen ez az első, ami ilyenkor eszembe jut. Milyen jogon dönti el egyik ember a másikról, hogy fölösleges, hogy távoznia kell az élők közül, mindegy, mit művelt vagy nem művelt korábban? És - ha már a becsületgyilkosságoknál tartunk - milyen jogon dobja el ezzel együtt a saját életét? Mi minden nem történik meg a jövőben csak azért, mert egy fonál erőszakosan megszakad, és kiesik az időből?
* Eredetileg franciául akartam olvasni, csak sajnos annyi más idegen nyelvű olvasmány mellett egyszerűen nem maradt volna rá időm. Aki teheti, tegye, hozzáférhet az Országos Idegennyelvű Könyvtárban.
------------
Nothing compares to The Palace of Dreams, my first book by Kadare. This one does come close, though. I only resent the quality of the English-language edition.
In the beginning, I was only interested in the interplay between chapters and counter-chapters: the everyday, down-to-earth Albania of the nineties and the world of folk tales and myths. Later, as the two worlds began to melt into each other, the story began to be more and more exciting (as well as depressing). In the end, it's the timeless logic of the mytic that produces a rational solution, even liberating and humane in its own way - and it's nice everyday and down-to-earth Albania that becomes irrationally evil and inhuman.
I'm really disappointed by the way it was published in English. First, it's the translation: from Albanian into French, then from French into English. How come they could find no one in the year 2000 who would have been able to work both in Albanian and English? I can't believe that. I have no problem with the style or anything like that, but it wasn't until the last third of the book that I realised this text was full of metaphors connected to the Albanian language. How many have been lost? Why were there no references to them at least in footnotes? That is, if the translator knew about them. But that's also the responsibility of the publisher, of course. You'd better read it in French if you can. Unfortunately, I didn't have that much time. (I read in French much more slowly than in English.)
Thus, I could only begin to discern the pattern of the concrete and the symbolic touching and leaving each other all the time. The Albania of the nineties is an ideal space and time to show how it works. After decades of dictatorship, they begin to come round (like we did in Hungary). They search for new foundations for renewing life (like we did). In order to do that, they reach back to the old days (like we did). Unfortunately, what they find includes that certain inhuman tradition of vendetta (thank God we don't have it; we've plenty of other problems to cope with). And they do just the opposite of what they want to, and of what they need. Here, everyone has the reason to hide something both banal and shameful from their past. Everyone is trying to find out about the secrets others are hiding, and is anxious to hide their own. In the meantime, they turn into mythical creatures defined (cursed) by their desire to know, to learn, to become immortal.
The first word that comes to my mind, when thinking of these murders is "waste." How could anyone have the right to decide that another human being is unnecessary and has to go, whatever they did or didn't do before? And (as we're talking of a chain of vendettas going on) how could anyone throw away their own life at the same time? What is it that will never happen in the future just because someone's yarn has been violently cut and dropped out?
May 10, 2018
Story by the (at the time) surprise winner of the first International Booker prize.
Kadare is an Albanian – whose books were semi-tolerated by the Hoxha regime (as they were born in the same city) but who eventually went into exile in Paris (although after the Berlin wall fell and not long before the Albanian regime fell).
This book is translated from what is itself a French translation.
The book is a mix of narrative about Mark – an artist, interleaved with “Counter Chapters” – stories and legends Mark thinks about (although with strange dream sequences in the main narrative as well).
The book is set post the fall of the Hoxha regime and Mark is a confused observer of the scene as Albania struggles into the free world – bank robbers raid the national bank, there are rumours about what is contained in secret national archives and the medieval Albanian tradition of tribal blood vendettas seems to be coming back.
The book is easy to read but can prove a difficult narrative to follow – with little sense. I found the story unsatisfying.
At times Kundera-esque (both in imagery and in older artist who attracts a younger woman), but without Kundera’s more accessible themes.
Kadare is an Albanian – whose books were semi-tolerated by the Hoxha regime (as they were born in the same city) but who eventually went into exile in Paris (although after the Berlin wall fell and not long before the Albanian regime fell).
This book is translated from what is itself a French translation.
The book is a mix of narrative about Mark – an artist, interleaved with “Counter Chapters” – stories and legends Mark thinks about (although with strange dream sequences in the main narrative as well).
The book is set post the fall of the Hoxha regime and Mark is a confused observer of the scene as Albania struggles into the free world – bank robbers raid the national bank, there are rumours about what is contained in secret national archives and the medieval Albanian tradition of tribal blood vendettas seems to be coming back.
The book is easy to read but can prove a difficult narrative to follow – with little sense. I found the story unsatisfying.
At times Kundera-esque (both in imagery and in older artist who attracts a younger woman), but without Kundera’s more accessible themes.
April 4, 2021
‘ব্রোকেন এপ্রিল’ উপন্যাসে কাদারে জানিয়েছিলেন আলবেনিয়ার উত্তরাঞ্চলের পাহাড়শ্রেণি গোষ্ঠীভুক্ত জীবনে প্রচলিত কানুন নামের এক প্রথার কথা। কাউকে যদি হত্যা করে অন্য কেউ, তবে স্বজন হারানো পরিবারটিকে অবশ্যই হত্যা করতে হবে খুনীকে। প্রজন্ম থেকে প্রজন্মান্তরে চলবে এই রক্তের বদলা। পঞ্চদশ শতকে চালু হওয়া প্রথাটা এখনো বিদ্যমান আলবেনিয়ায়, এনভার হোজ্জার কম্যুনিস্ট শাসনামলে অবশ্য সেটা বল প্রয়োগ করে দমানো হয় সাময়িকভাবে।
‘স্প্রিং ফ্লাওয়ারস, স্প্রিং ফ্রস্ট’ উপন্যাসে কাদারে আমাদের শোনাচ্ছেন এমন আলবেনিয়ার গল্প, যখন এনভার হোজ্জা যুগের শেষ। চারপাশে আসছে একের পর এক পরিবর্তন। কম্যুনিস্ট শাসনামলে যা অকল্পনীয় ছিলো; ব্যাংক ডাকাতি কিংবা সমকামীদের অধিকার; এমন সব নতুন শব্দ শোনা যাচ্ছে জোরেশোরে। সাপের সাথে বিয়ে হচ্ছে তরুণীর, কানুন ফিরে আসছে বিকৃত হয়ে।
কাদারে, বরাবরের মতোই, প্রতীক আর পুরাণকে নিয়ে খেলেছেন অদ্ভুত উপায়ে।
‘স্প্রিং ফ্লাওয়ারস, স্প্রিং ফ্রস্ট’ উপন্যাসে কাদারে আমাদের শোনাচ্ছেন এমন আলবেনিয়ার গল্প, যখন এনভার হোজ্জা যুগের শেষ। চারপাশে আসছে একের পর এক পরিবর্তন। কম্যুনিস্ট শাসনামলে যা অকল্পনীয় ছিলো; ব্যাংক ডাকাতি কিংবা সমকামীদের অধিকার; এমন সব নতুন শব্দ শোনা যাচ্ছে জোরেশোরে। সাপের সাথে বিয়ে হচ্ছে তরুণীর, কানুন ফিরে আসছে বিকৃত হয়ে।
কাদারে, বরাবরের মতোই, প্রতীক আর পুরাণকে নিয়ে খেলেছেন অদ্ভুত উপায়ে।
February 19, 2022
În vreme ce traversa intersecţia, lui Marku Gurabardhi îi atrase atenţia un grup de oameni care se tot îmbulzeau pe trotuarul din dreapta. Poate că şi-ar fi continuat drumul, dacă nu ar fi auzit cu-vântul,şarpe”, pronunţat mai mult cu uimire, decât cu teamă.
Şarpe, pe vremea asta? se întrebă el şi se întoarse să vadă ce se în-tâmplă. Aceeaşi întrebare şi-o puseseră, probabil, şi ceilalţi trecători curioşi. Şarpe, într-adevăr, spuneau ei, după care se retrăgeau pen-tru a face loc şi altora să vadă. Ceea ce nu se ştia era dacă jivina e vie sau moartă.
Încă din primul moment, Marku a înţeles că şarpele nu era nici viu şi nici mort, ci doar îngheţat.
Cei doi copii, care cine ştie cum scoseseră jivina din pământ, priveau mândri spre grupul de curioşi din stradă parcă pentru a le ară-ta că şarpele era al lor, atingându-l apoi din când în când cu băţul. După fiecare atingere, oamenii făceau un pas înapoi, deşi unul din-tre ei repeta întruna: nu vă fie frică, şarpele îngheţat nu poate să muşte şi, chiar dacă ar putea, nu-i nici un pericol, are veninul subţire ca apa.
Un bărbat cu pălărie căuta din priviri pe cineva, pentru a-şi vărsa năduful. Merităm să ni se întâmple aşa ceva, spunea el. Mentalitate mai înapoiată ca a noastră n-ai să găseşti la nimeni. Vine unul şi, în loc să facă o treabă serioasă, se pune şi răscoleşte pământul dis-de-dimineaţă, ca să scoată de acolo, ce? Un şarpe. Ce fel de creier au ăş-tia, oameni buni? Să fi fost vorba despre vreo vază sau vreun vas din ăla vechi de bronz, aşa cum se întâmplă peste tot în lume, n-ar fi mişcat un deget, dar pentru scârboşenii ca asta nu ne întrece nimeni.
Alţi doi inşi se întrebau ce ar fi trebuit făcut cu şarpele. Să-l bage din nou în gaura de unde fusese scos, să apuce şi el primăvara, aşa cum lăsase Dumnezeu, sau să-l pună lângă sobă să se dezgheţe, dar, atenţie, cu cea mai mare grijă.
Mă, voi sunteţi întregi la minte sau nu? interveni un al treilea. Am îngheţat de frig toată iarna şi nu i-a păsat nimănui, iar acum ne stoarcem creierii cum să încălzim un şarpe?
Şarpe, pe vremea asta? se întrebă el şi se întoarse să vadă ce se în-tâmplă. Aceeaşi întrebare şi-o puseseră, probabil, şi ceilalţi trecători curioşi. Şarpe, într-adevăr, spuneau ei, după care se retrăgeau pen-tru a face loc şi altora să vadă. Ceea ce nu se ştia era dacă jivina e vie sau moartă.
Încă din primul moment, Marku a înţeles că şarpele nu era nici viu şi nici mort, ci doar îngheţat.
Cei doi copii, care cine ştie cum scoseseră jivina din pământ, priveau mândri spre grupul de curioşi din stradă parcă pentru a le ară-ta că şarpele era al lor, atingându-l apoi din când în când cu băţul. După fiecare atingere, oamenii făceau un pas înapoi, deşi unul din-tre ei repeta întruna: nu vă fie frică, şarpele îngheţat nu poate să muşte şi, chiar dacă ar putea, nu-i nici un pericol, are veninul subţire ca apa.
Un bărbat cu pălărie căuta din priviri pe cineva, pentru a-şi vărsa năduful. Merităm să ni se întâmple aşa ceva, spunea el. Mentalitate mai înapoiată ca a noastră n-ai să găseşti la nimeni. Vine unul şi, în loc să facă o treabă serioasă, se pune şi răscoleşte pământul dis-de-dimineaţă, ca să scoată de acolo, ce? Un şarpe. Ce fel de creier au ăş-tia, oameni buni? Să fi fost vorba despre vreo vază sau vreun vas din ăla vechi de bronz, aşa cum se întâmplă peste tot în lume, n-ar fi mişcat un deget, dar pentru scârboşenii ca asta nu ne întrece nimeni.
Alţi doi inşi se întrebau ce ar fi trebuit făcut cu şarpele. Să-l bage din nou în gaura de unde fusese scos, să apuce şi el primăvara, aşa cum lăsase Dumnezeu, sau să-l pună lângă sobă să se dezgheţe, dar, atenţie, cu cea mai mare grijă.
Mă, voi sunteţi întregi la minte sau nu? interveni un al treilea. Am îngheţat de frig toată iarna şi nu i-a păsat nimănui, iar acum ne stoarcem creierii cum să încălzim un şarpe?
April 24, 2015
This may be the first book I've read by an Albanian writer. In some ways, it reminds me of Milan Kundera, but I like it more than I do Kundera's books. There isn't that pervasive detachment, the insistence that people cannot make connections under a fascist state. The setting, although not the specific country, is familiar, a state where surveillance could be anywhere, and people can disappear without warning.
Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.
In the meantime, you can read the entire review at Smorgasbook
Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here.
In the meantime, you can read the entire review at Smorgasbook
August 11, 2023
Read Around the World: Albania
W T H did I just listen to? There was one part at the beginning of the book that was lovely and then it was not. Some of the problem is that the original Albanian was translated into French, which was then translated into English [and the narrator was not what I was expecting either] and much of this I fear, was lost in all that translation. I really [unfortunately] did not enjoy this one much and am grateful it was short.
W T H did I just listen to? There was one part at the beginning of the book that was lovely and then it was not. Some of the problem is that the original Albanian was translated into French, which was then translated into English [and the narrator was not what I was expecting either] and much of this I fear, was lost in all that translation. I really [unfortunately] did not enjoy this one much and am grateful it was short.
June 12, 2022
O nuvela despre Albania post comunistă cu toate evenimentele confuze pe care le-am trăit si noi. În centrul povestirii este reluara unui ritual vechi numit kanun interzis de comuniști, dar reluat după 1990 , acesta este un străvechi cod cutumiar care implică razbunarea sangelui și care este un real pericol în Albania.
July 26, 2009
Not my favorite Kadare; this struck me as less Kafkaesque than simply confusing & a little bit tired. But Kadare as a whole is so fascinating, & even my least favorite of his books was definitely worth reading. I'm always stunned by the way he can be so complex & so readable at the same time. It's like Marion Zimmer Bradley had a one-night stand with Kafka & then gave the baby to Calasso to raise.
July 31, 2024
The library had a display of Ismail Kadare's books as he sadly died a month ago. I borrowed this unfamiliar title at random. Everything I've read by him has been beautifully written and Spring Flowers, Spring Frost was no exception. It weaves together myth, art, and mundane reality to illustrate the disorientation of Albania just after communism ended:
The narrative is carefully oblique and mysterious. Is the protagonist deeply implicated in the crimes of the fallen regime, or is he just an artist? Does the collapse of communism herald a return to past traditions, rapid modernisation, or both? Are the secrets of the past lost forever? There are no simple answers in this brief novel.
In chains, with eyes swollen from beatings, the prisoner is dragged right to the top of Olympus. Rubberneckers congregate to get a look, and all around they exclaim, "So it was Tantalus who did this monstrous thing!"
[...]
When it wakes up again, Olympus seems all sleepy-eyed. After its indeterminate absence, dawn doesn't quite know how to come upon the world, having lost its old habits. Here and there you can see a few puddles of night lying around, with rubbish collectors trying to shovel it up as if it were night soil. The whole place is buzzing with rumours about immortality. Some people think of it as an infinite number of particles spread around the body; others imagine it as a device that can be redirected towards the impossible; but most people see it as a key to some secret door. But these ramblings do not last long. By noontime, the stories have become utterly muddled... In the taverns, people say that Tantalus was less greedy for immortality than he was for food and drink. The crimes he committed - which still cannot be named - should be put down to his insatiable appetite. They even say he's going to be sent down to hell for voracity.
The narrative is carefully oblique and mysterious. Is the protagonist deeply implicated in the crimes of the fallen regime, or is he just an artist? Does the collapse of communism herald a return to past traditions, rapid modernisation, or both? Are the secrets of the past lost forever? There are no simple answers in this brief novel.
November 20, 2024
Mark is a moderately successful artist living in a small mountain town near Tirana. The story takes place just after Albania’s transition from Communism to a more open form of government. Mark notices an uptick in violence and the resurgence of old feuds. The narrative alternates between Mark's contemporary story of his love for the beautiful Diana (whose family practices a traditional code of honor) and tales from Albanian folklore.
Kadare explores Albania’s struggles to reconcile its traditional customs with attempts at modernization. It is not a straightforward novel by any stretch. It employs magical realist elements and (intentionally) lacks continuity of flow. My favorites mythic stories include one about a woman who married a snake and another about a sentient iceberg.
This is a somewhat specialized literary work of a well-known Albanian author. One point I took away is that Albania's past cannot be simply forgotten but must be integrated into any vision of the future. There is a great deal of symbolism embedded within the novel, and I’m sure I didn’t catch all of it. It would benefit from re-reading so perhaps I will return to it after doing a bit of research about Albanian history.
Kadare explores Albania’s struggles to reconcile its traditional customs with attempts at modernization. It is not a straightforward novel by any stretch. It employs magical realist elements and (intentionally) lacks continuity of flow. My favorites mythic stories include one about a woman who married a snake and another about a sentient iceberg.
This is a somewhat specialized literary work of a well-known Albanian author. One point I took away is that Albania's past cannot be simply forgotten but must be integrated into any vision of the future. There is a great deal of symbolism embedded within the novel, and I’m sure I didn’t catch all of it. It would benefit from re-reading so perhaps I will return to it after doing a bit of research about Albanian history.
January 14, 2022
Vērtējumu gribētos likt virs viduvējā trijnieka, bet subjektīvi līdz 4 zvaigznēm neizvilka, jo neizpratu / nesajutu darba kopējo ideju vai, teiksim tā, autora vēstījumu.
Iespējams, ja es nebūtu burtiski pirms tam izlasījusi Kadares ''Mirušo armijas ģenerāli'' un uzbūrusi sev prātā un sajūtās Albānijas ainu (vizuālo, kultūras, tradīciju un vēstures ainu), tad no ''Ziedoņa puķes, ziedoņa sals'' saprastu vēl mazāk.
Kas saistīja manu interesi - Albānijas mazpilsētiņa pēc diktatūras beigām, pieskaršanās mitoloģijai un leģendām; kanuna / asinatriebības, khmm, atgriešanās, faktiski, atgriešanās pie senajām tradīcijām, un vai tas vispār ir iespējams pirmatnējā veidolā.
Tiešām nedaudz sirreāls darbs, kurā atsevišķas epizodes ir pat izbaudāmas, bet, diemžēl, kopā es to nemācēju salikt.
Un, iespējams, kaut kas ir pazudis tulkojumā, kas ir no franču nevis albāņu valodas.
Iespējams, ja es nebūtu burtiski pirms tam izlasījusi Kadares ''Mirušo armijas ģenerāli'' un uzbūrusi sev prātā un sajūtās Albānijas ainu (vizuālo, kultūras, tradīciju un vēstures ainu), tad no ''Ziedoņa puķes, ziedoņa sals'' saprastu vēl mazāk.
Kas saistīja manu interesi - Albānijas mazpilsētiņa pēc diktatūras beigām, pieskaršanās mitoloģijai un leģendām; kanuna / asinatriebības, khmm, atgriešanās, faktiski, atgriešanās pie senajām tradīcijām, un vai tas vispār ir iespējams pirmatnējā veidolā.
Tiešām nedaudz sirreāls darbs, kurā atsevišķas epizodes ir pat izbaudāmas, bet, diemžēl, kopā es to nemācēju salikt.
Un, iespējams, kaut kas ir pazudis tulkojumā, kas ir no franču nevis albāņu valodas.
October 25, 2023
What did I just read?! I have to think about this. Perhaps I’ll have more to say a little later.
March 12, 2012
I really enjoyed Spring Flowers, Spring Frost, until the final chapter. Until then it was a great combination of a day to day love story, ancient mythology, and a brand new society trying to find it's way after the end of an oppressive regime. The action takes place in a small town in Albania, unnamed in the old initialled style. Communism has departed, and the town must decide whether to globalise or revert to old traditions, which include the rather binding practice of blood feuds.
Until the last chapter everything remains quirky, despite the fact there's some quite dark feuding going on. There's a couple of small twists and it's a really great read. And then it all goes a bit philosophical in the last round and leaves a very unsatisfying ending. Still worth a go though.
Until the last chapter everything remains quirky, despite the fact there's some quite dark feuding going on. There's a couple of small twists and it's a really great read. And then it all goes a bit philosophical in the last round and leaves a very unsatisfying ending. Still worth a go though.
February 25, 2017
3.5 stars really. This is the third book I have read by Kadare, and although this isn't my favorite by him, I did enjoy it.
Communism has left Albania and the Albanians are trying to figure out how to live their lives. Old state secrets, Albanian legends and a clandestine love affair are all apart of this novel. I especially enjoyed the legends, and kind of wished that the book had centered around legends.
Communism has left Albania and the Albanians are trying to figure out how to live their lives. Old state secrets, Albanian legends and a clandestine love affair are all apart of this novel. I especially enjoyed the legends, and kind of wished that the book had centered around legends.
May 30, 2020
Mbase jo romani më i mirë nga Kadare, ky libër mbetet gjithsesi një roman i thurur jo në mënyrë të zakonshme cka e bën konfuz kuptimin e tij dhe jo lehtë të qartë idenë qendrore. Cka jo doemos nënkuptohet si një krijim i dobët dhe për shumë lexues mund të përkthehet në një knaqësi të vërtetë.
Romani gjithsesi merr një përfundim shumë më interesant se sa lexuesi mund ta vlerësoj gjatë gjithë leximit.
Romani gjithsesi merr një përfundim shumë më interesant se sa lexuesi mund ta vlerësoj gjatë gjithë leximit.
March 12, 2018
"...toate aceste ciudatenii ii aminteau de povestea fetei maritate cu un sarpe. Chipurile acestea, care azi ti se infatiseaza sub o masca, iar maine sub o alta, ca si cand ar fi actori pe scena, nu prevestesc nimic bun"...
December 9, 2016
I read an English translation. I am sure that this is a good book... but I think there is a lot lost in translation which kind of ruins it.
January 12, 2018
Frías flores de marzo es un texto difícil, al lector le cuesta ir entrando en él. Algunos críticos lo han relacionado, tal vez por su complejidad, con ciertas fases de Spiritus, pero esta novela se aleja en algunos aspectos de aquello, y aporta otros recursos no exentos de riesgo y, en algunos casos, quizás un riesgo que no ha resultado. De ahí, que sea una de las obras que menos me transmite de su autor, y que resulta difícil desentrañarla, con una lectura como atascada en la que Kadaré no termina de fluir como es habitual en otras novelas.
Dentro de un texto que en muchas ocasiones parece descentrado y con problemas de manantío, sin embargo, se plantean algunas cuestiones que, aunque apuntadas en las anteriores obras de su autor, no se habían abordado de una forma tan directa como para resultar el meollo de una novela: el comunismo ha caído y una nueva Albania se presenta al mundo. Esta quiebra del régimen de Hoxha permite la ocasión de modernizarse, pero con la libertad reaparecen anteriores tradiciones, acogotadas por el comunismo, que son todo lo contrario al sinónimo de la modernidad.
Y si algo ha estado sojuzgado por el régimen, eso ha sido el derecho albanés secular, su codigo de sangre conocido como kanun. La deuda y la venganza de sangre son instituciones retrogradas pero, prohibidas durante decenas de años, aparecen tras la quiebra comunista como un signo de modernización, de liberación. Lo viejo, así, momentáneamente se hace nuevo, en una paradoja histórica, y el país anteriormente oprimido y ahora libre, entra en conflicto, sin llegar a entender que señales proporcionan la modernidad y cuales significan el gran atraso.
De esa manera, en Frías flores de marzo se refieren diferentes comportamientos que arrastran de la mano la idea de modernidad para el albanés desencadenado. Una de ellas, que se repite asiduamente e impregna el texto con reflexiones recurrentes, es el atraco a un banco, un suceso impensable de haber sido cometido durante todo el periodo comunista, pero un hecho común y a diario en el mundo occidental, en el mundo libre. En Albania ya se atracan los bancos… al estilo de las películas; Albania ha entrado con los atracos (y con la inseguridad ciudadana) en la modernidad de Occidente y del capitalismo.
La inseguridad ciudadana, o el deseo de mayor seguridad, es otro síntoma bien curioso. La supuesta inviolabilidad de domicilio, desde luego, no estaba muy garantizada durante el reinado de la Sigurimi. Sin embargo, el temor a que irrumpieran los servicios policiales en la casa y en mitad de la noche para efectuar una detención era el miedo tipo del albanés. Ahora, con la caída del sistema y la desaparición tutelar del Estado, las viviendas están seguras ante la patada en la puerta de la represión policial y política, pero expuestas a los robos y a los criminales comunes.
El protagonista de la novela, el pintor Mark Gurabardhi, pronto instala nuevas cerraduras y puertas anti-atraco en su estudio. Abraza, así, un pedacito de occidentalización que viene de la mano del pánico, de la angustia para salvaguardar la propiedad privada, de la toma de conciencia de poseer pertenencias potencialmente arrebatables por delincuentes comunes y no en nombre del socialismo, del Estado o del bien común.
Una occidentalización que también llega a las costumbres sexuales. En ese sentido será la amante de Mark quién entienda de diferentes formas de modernizar los comportamientos en la cama (el pubis depilado, determinadas prácticas europeizantes). Son tiempos modernos, que entran en tensión con las costumbres desarrolladas por el anterior régimen comunista y colisionan con la recuperación de las tradiciones milenarias y arraigadas que resurgen con fuerza.
En mitad de este batido de modernidad, Kadaré elige una estructura y un texto que también parece presentar idénticas tensiones entre clasicismo e innovación. A los capítulos corrientes se les oponen lo que denomina contracapítulos, que vienen a ser fabulaciones o reflexiones míticas ancladas en historias clásicas, y que sacan al lector de la narración de la historia principal, que es el devenir de Mark Gurabardhi.
Estos contracapítulos son interludios oníricos que recurren a la mitología griega y latina, una tradición que resulta un elemento siempre tan significativo en la novelística de Kadaré, presentando así un contrapunto a la perspectiva que de la historia y de Albania, y de los momentos actuales en los que se desarrolla la acción, posee Mark.
De esta forma, el primer contracapítulo, amalgama varias cuestiones en diferentes planos literarios. Por un lado hay cierto eco del Kafka de La transformación y de El proceso, por otro late una corriente que recuerda a Las metamorfosis de Ovidio, y por último convoca a los mitos y las leyendas fantásticas del romanticismo alemán, como la Ondina de Fouqué, por ejemplo. El contracapítulo primero narra la boda y la noche de bodas de una mujer que, castigada sin saber muy bien qué delito ha cometido (al estilo de Josef K.) y con la permisividad de la familia, se enlaza con una serpiente.
El contracapítulo segundo se centra en el denominado “funcionario de la muerte” y en la historia de Tántalo, que ha robado la inmortalidad y, también, sobre Prometeo y el hurto del fuego… interpretado como una enorme conjura política en donde Zeus aparece como el Gran Tirano –algo que Kadaré ya había manifestado en su ensayo sobre Esquilo-, recurriendo el autor al motivo denominado como Gran Estratagema, pilar fundamental de sus novelas “políticas”.
El resto de los contracapítulos continúan con su función onírica, casi surrealista, de ofrecer un contrapunto a la historia narrada. La toma de declaración al iceberg que hundió el Titanic como si fuera un criminal político, el descenso a unos infiernos circulares (Dante siempre presente en la novelística de Kadaré) a la búsqueda de unos expedientes secretos que llevan, incluso, a los dirigentes socialistas y al sucesor del Gran Líder a adentrarse en cavernas en pos de un misterioso archivo secreto que contiene documentos comprometedores…
Estos capítulos a contrapelo de la narración van iluminando la trama, a medida que el lector se va haciendo con un texto incómodo, en una lucha que Kadaré plantea, en este libro, con sus receptores que son, quizás, descifradores de todos esos mensajes ocultos que se concatenan mediante la imaginería habitual kadariana, tal vez retorcida o algo mas desquiciada que de costumbre, hasta acariciar unas gotas de surrealismo.
En ese sentido, Kadaré apunta sin llegar a cristalizar, una innovación bien moderna en Frías flores de marzo, y es la de articular la novela en diferentes planos paralelos, con realidades diferentes que cohabitan, acercándose a lo que se conoce como novela quántica. El protagonista, Mark, arrastra la culpa de haber decepcionado a su padre, que siempre quiso que fuera oficial de policía en lugar de pintor.
De esa manera, en varias ocasiones la trama se desvía a un plano en el que Mark es policía y se fija en sus actuaciones, para después retomar la “otra” línea narrativa de la presunta “realidad” del pintor. Se nos presentan dos mundos en los que suceden acciones distintas, salpicadas por interludios oníricos que albergan saltos en el tiempo, quiebras y aceleraciones, como si la novela se hubiera desintegrado en partículas, y los trocitos los hubiera vuelto a montar el autor, desdeñando la linealidad, la coherencia temporal y la pura lógica narrativa.
La tensión entre lo antiguo y lo moderno, con la estructura narrativa elegida por Kadaré, también refleja esa tensión que vehiculiza la novela y, como ocurre en el texto, queda sin resolver, principal cuestión que presenta Frías flores de marzo, la del avance dificultoso hacia la nada, hacia la irresolución, hacia el complejo edípico y de culpa que lo obstaculiza todo.
El crimen de Estado, la degradación moral que ha impuesto durante décadas el régimen comunista de Hoxha, horadó tan hondo la conciencia de las gentes que obstaculiza cualquier avance. El pánico ante la nueva situación se resuelve con un salto al pasado, al momento anterior a Hoxha, con la recuperación de las tradiciones míticas, bárbaras, que proporcionan seguridad.
Así, se realiza un descubrimiento; Mark Gurabardhi, el pintor, realiza ese descubrimiento, casi tan epifánico como devastador: las tradiciones bárbaras siempre han permanecido, el régimen de Hoxha era un régimen medieval y sanguinario, y los nuevos aires de la Europa occidental y su sociedad de libre consumo, no dejan de ser lo mismo.
El avance, el progreso, la modernización, no es más que una mentira. Un imposible. Y Mark no puede más que sentir deseos de romper a llorar al término de la novela.
Dentro de un texto que en muchas ocasiones parece descentrado y con problemas de manantío, sin embargo, se plantean algunas cuestiones que, aunque apuntadas en las anteriores obras de su autor, no se habían abordado de una forma tan directa como para resultar el meollo de una novela: el comunismo ha caído y una nueva Albania se presenta al mundo. Esta quiebra del régimen de Hoxha permite la ocasión de modernizarse, pero con la libertad reaparecen anteriores tradiciones, acogotadas por el comunismo, que son todo lo contrario al sinónimo de la modernidad.
Y si algo ha estado sojuzgado por el régimen, eso ha sido el derecho albanés secular, su codigo de sangre conocido como kanun. La deuda y la venganza de sangre son instituciones retrogradas pero, prohibidas durante decenas de años, aparecen tras la quiebra comunista como un signo de modernización, de liberación. Lo viejo, así, momentáneamente se hace nuevo, en una paradoja histórica, y el país anteriormente oprimido y ahora libre, entra en conflicto, sin llegar a entender que señales proporcionan la modernidad y cuales significan el gran atraso.
De esa manera, en Frías flores de marzo se refieren diferentes comportamientos que arrastran de la mano la idea de modernidad para el albanés desencadenado. Una de ellas, que se repite asiduamente e impregna el texto con reflexiones recurrentes, es el atraco a un banco, un suceso impensable de haber sido cometido durante todo el periodo comunista, pero un hecho común y a diario en el mundo occidental, en el mundo libre. En Albania ya se atracan los bancos… al estilo de las películas; Albania ha entrado con los atracos (y con la inseguridad ciudadana) en la modernidad de Occidente y del capitalismo.
La inseguridad ciudadana, o el deseo de mayor seguridad, es otro síntoma bien curioso. La supuesta inviolabilidad de domicilio, desde luego, no estaba muy garantizada durante el reinado de la Sigurimi. Sin embargo, el temor a que irrumpieran los servicios policiales en la casa y en mitad de la noche para efectuar una detención era el miedo tipo del albanés. Ahora, con la caída del sistema y la desaparición tutelar del Estado, las viviendas están seguras ante la patada en la puerta de la represión policial y política, pero expuestas a los robos y a los criminales comunes.
El protagonista de la novela, el pintor Mark Gurabardhi, pronto instala nuevas cerraduras y puertas anti-atraco en su estudio. Abraza, así, un pedacito de occidentalización que viene de la mano del pánico, de la angustia para salvaguardar la propiedad privada, de la toma de conciencia de poseer pertenencias potencialmente arrebatables por delincuentes comunes y no en nombre del socialismo, del Estado o del bien común.
Una occidentalización que también llega a las costumbres sexuales. En ese sentido será la amante de Mark quién entienda de diferentes formas de modernizar los comportamientos en la cama (el pubis depilado, determinadas prácticas europeizantes). Son tiempos modernos, que entran en tensión con las costumbres desarrolladas por el anterior régimen comunista y colisionan con la recuperación de las tradiciones milenarias y arraigadas que resurgen con fuerza.
En mitad de este batido de modernidad, Kadaré elige una estructura y un texto que también parece presentar idénticas tensiones entre clasicismo e innovación. A los capítulos corrientes se les oponen lo que denomina contracapítulos, que vienen a ser fabulaciones o reflexiones míticas ancladas en historias clásicas, y que sacan al lector de la narración de la historia principal, que es el devenir de Mark Gurabardhi.
Estos contracapítulos son interludios oníricos que recurren a la mitología griega y latina, una tradición que resulta un elemento siempre tan significativo en la novelística de Kadaré, presentando así un contrapunto a la perspectiva que de la historia y de Albania, y de los momentos actuales en los que se desarrolla la acción, posee Mark.
De esta forma, el primer contracapítulo, amalgama varias cuestiones en diferentes planos literarios. Por un lado hay cierto eco del Kafka de La transformación y de El proceso, por otro late una corriente que recuerda a Las metamorfosis de Ovidio, y por último convoca a los mitos y las leyendas fantásticas del romanticismo alemán, como la Ondina de Fouqué, por ejemplo. El contracapítulo primero narra la boda y la noche de bodas de una mujer que, castigada sin saber muy bien qué delito ha cometido (al estilo de Josef K.) y con la permisividad de la familia, se enlaza con una serpiente.
El contracapítulo segundo se centra en el denominado “funcionario de la muerte” y en la historia de Tántalo, que ha robado la inmortalidad y, también, sobre Prometeo y el hurto del fuego… interpretado como una enorme conjura política en donde Zeus aparece como el Gran Tirano –algo que Kadaré ya había manifestado en su ensayo sobre Esquilo-, recurriendo el autor al motivo denominado como Gran Estratagema, pilar fundamental de sus novelas “políticas”.
El resto de los contracapítulos continúan con su función onírica, casi surrealista, de ofrecer un contrapunto a la historia narrada. La toma de declaración al iceberg que hundió el Titanic como si fuera un criminal político, el descenso a unos infiernos circulares (Dante siempre presente en la novelística de Kadaré) a la búsqueda de unos expedientes secretos que llevan, incluso, a los dirigentes socialistas y al sucesor del Gran Líder a adentrarse en cavernas en pos de un misterioso archivo secreto que contiene documentos comprometedores…
Estos capítulos a contrapelo de la narración van iluminando la trama, a medida que el lector se va haciendo con un texto incómodo, en una lucha que Kadaré plantea, en este libro, con sus receptores que son, quizás, descifradores de todos esos mensajes ocultos que se concatenan mediante la imaginería habitual kadariana, tal vez retorcida o algo mas desquiciada que de costumbre, hasta acariciar unas gotas de surrealismo.
En ese sentido, Kadaré apunta sin llegar a cristalizar, una innovación bien moderna en Frías flores de marzo, y es la de articular la novela en diferentes planos paralelos, con realidades diferentes que cohabitan, acercándose a lo que se conoce como novela quántica. El protagonista, Mark, arrastra la culpa de haber decepcionado a su padre, que siempre quiso que fuera oficial de policía en lugar de pintor.
De esa manera, en varias ocasiones la trama se desvía a un plano en el que Mark es policía y se fija en sus actuaciones, para después retomar la “otra” línea narrativa de la presunta “realidad” del pintor. Se nos presentan dos mundos en los que suceden acciones distintas, salpicadas por interludios oníricos que albergan saltos en el tiempo, quiebras y aceleraciones, como si la novela se hubiera desintegrado en partículas, y los trocitos los hubiera vuelto a montar el autor, desdeñando la linealidad, la coherencia temporal y la pura lógica narrativa.
La tensión entre lo antiguo y lo moderno, con la estructura narrativa elegida por Kadaré, también refleja esa tensión que vehiculiza la novela y, como ocurre en el texto, queda sin resolver, principal cuestión que presenta Frías flores de marzo, la del avance dificultoso hacia la nada, hacia la irresolución, hacia el complejo edípico y de culpa que lo obstaculiza todo.
El crimen de Estado, la degradación moral que ha impuesto durante décadas el régimen comunista de Hoxha, horadó tan hondo la conciencia de las gentes que obstaculiza cualquier avance. El pánico ante la nueva situación se resuelve con un salto al pasado, al momento anterior a Hoxha, con la recuperación de las tradiciones míticas, bárbaras, que proporcionan seguridad.
Así, se realiza un descubrimiento; Mark Gurabardhi, el pintor, realiza ese descubrimiento, casi tan epifánico como devastador: las tradiciones bárbaras siempre han permanecido, el régimen de Hoxha era un régimen medieval y sanguinario, y los nuevos aires de la Europa occidental y su sociedad de libre consumo, no dejan de ser lo mismo.
El avance, el progreso, la modernización, no es más que una mentira. Un imposible. Y Mark no puede más que sentir deseos de romper a llorar al término de la novela.
April 19, 2022
4,5.
Esta novela es una extraña mezcla de realismo mágico y de parábola kafkiana, al igual que El Palacio de los Sueños, aunque esta mezcla ya es en sí algo mestiza porque Kafka era precedente del realismo mágico... Este relato es una sombra, una luz tenebrosa o una sombra alumbrada a lo bajo. Es una crítica a largo plazo de Albania que conecta el pasado comunista con el pasado más antiguo, el presente y el futuro. El inicio con las palabras del hombre: el mito cainita albanés tan meditarráneo, solamente se le ocurriría a un albanés quitar a la serpiente de su lugar de aletargamiento... No puede morder, pero dejarla morir es un crimen europeo: es decir, la injusticia está empantanada por los intereses de fuera.
Esta extraña novela que me cuesta analizar profundamente porque no entiendo la historia albanesa, ni pretérita ni más reciente, tiene un ritmo lento y a la vez muy fácil de llevar. El tiempo es una cuestión importante en el relato en donde el presente se mezcla con un tiempo ahistórico, donde lo mítico y lo real se entrelazan. Incluso es muy alegórico el tema del artista y musa, cuyo hermano representa al ejecutor de la tradición asesina y él hace de policia secreta. El autor, parece ser, el cronista de la propia función de los artistas como él, es el que acomete el papel de vigilante de una injusticia criminal y no obtiene justicia ni para realizar el final de la matanza. Parece tener que ver con la guerra civil albaneza, pero no conozco mucho. Obviamente hay una clara referencia a Cronos/Saturno cuando relaciona la llegada de los rusos (soviéticos) y los alemanes y aparece un anciano con cayado: el largo pasado directo es la mota de una serie de graves problemas. El pasado lejano está metido en el iceberg del comunismo, y esa relación de tempos se ve en la estructura de capítulo-contracapítulo. Hay un tiempo del hoy y de un Siempre que se mezclan.
Aunque al final de la narración la interpretación del relato es más difícil todo parece un cuestionamiento del sistema político, social y económico que se crea en Albania tras el soviético. Todo es un gran robo, como el que inicia el principio del relato, acompañado por el comentario de un habitante que afirma el reparto del estado socialista: quienes reparten, mejor parte se quedan, te queda oírte. Es una realidad muy similar a todo el Este. A pesar de esta crítica, también lo es hacia la tradición que traen los que van contra el pasado socialista: qué sentido tiene volver a un pasado idealizado, que no va a volver y ni se quiere... Estas son las contradicciones del mundo albanés y, creo, del propio autor. Ésta es la pelea que tiene toda la Europa del Este: entre la Europa unida y una decadente herencia criminal socialista.
La narración, sobre todo los primeros capítulos, es implecable y es maravillosa; es cierto que los últimos se vuelven más rápidos, o mejor dicho, más esclarecedores y dejan un sabor más oscuro, lo que hace menos disfrutable a priori. Eso no significan que no tengan sentido ni tengan profundidad, porque aclaran el sentido de la novela, sino que se hace de una forma menos redonda que la anterior. El misterio se va dejando menos oscuros, como si se levantarán las faldas para dejar unas turbias sombras que dejan entrever, no del todo, la faz clarioscura del sexo de la amante que es retrada por el pintor. El contracapítulo 2 es de los más interesantes y más bellos. La calidad narrativa y la estructura van de la mano; mientras es más sólida la primera parte, la segunda (tras cien páginas más o menos) se vuelve más diluida
Esta novela es una extraña mezcla de realismo mágico y de parábola kafkiana, al igual que El Palacio de los Sueños, aunque esta mezcla ya es en sí algo mestiza porque Kafka era precedente del realismo mágico... Este relato es una sombra, una luz tenebrosa o una sombra alumbrada a lo bajo. Es una crítica a largo plazo de Albania que conecta el pasado comunista con el pasado más antiguo, el presente y el futuro. El inicio con las palabras del hombre: el mito cainita albanés tan meditarráneo, solamente se le ocurriría a un albanés quitar a la serpiente de su lugar de aletargamiento... No puede morder, pero dejarla morir es un crimen europeo: es decir, la injusticia está empantanada por los intereses de fuera.
Esta extraña novela que me cuesta analizar profundamente porque no entiendo la historia albanesa, ni pretérita ni más reciente, tiene un ritmo lento y a la vez muy fácil de llevar. El tiempo es una cuestión importante en el relato en donde el presente se mezcla con un tiempo ahistórico, donde lo mítico y lo real se entrelazan. Incluso es muy alegórico el tema del artista y musa, cuyo hermano representa al ejecutor de la tradición asesina y él hace de policia secreta. El autor, parece ser, el cronista de la propia función de los artistas como él, es el que acomete el papel de vigilante de una injusticia criminal y no obtiene justicia ni para realizar el final de la matanza. Parece tener que ver con la guerra civil albaneza, pero no conozco mucho. Obviamente hay una clara referencia a Cronos/Saturno cuando relaciona la llegada de los rusos (soviéticos) y los alemanes y aparece un anciano con cayado: el largo pasado directo es la mota de una serie de graves problemas. El pasado lejano está metido en el iceberg del comunismo, y esa relación de tempos se ve en la estructura de capítulo-contracapítulo. Hay un tiempo del hoy y de un Siempre que se mezclan.
Aunque al final de la narración la interpretación del relato es más difícil todo parece un cuestionamiento del sistema político, social y económico que se crea en Albania tras el soviético. Todo es un gran robo, como el que inicia el principio del relato, acompañado por el comentario de un habitante que afirma el reparto del estado socialista: quienes reparten, mejor parte se quedan, te queda oírte. Es una realidad muy similar a todo el Este. A pesar de esta crítica, también lo es hacia la tradición que traen los que van contra el pasado socialista: qué sentido tiene volver a un pasado idealizado, que no va a volver y ni se quiere... Estas son las contradicciones del mundo albanés y, creo, del propio autor. Ésta es la pelea que tiene toda la Europa del Este: entre la Europa unida y una decadente herencia criminal socialista.
La narración, sobre todo los primeros capítulos, es implecable y es maravillosa; es cierto que los últimos se vuelven más rápidos, o mejor dicho, más esclarecedores y dejan un sabor más oscuro, lo que hace menos disfrutable a priori. Eso no significan que no tengan sentido ni tengan profundidad, porque aclaran el sentido de la novela, sino que se hace de una forma menos redonda que la anterior. El misterio se va dejando menos oscuros, como si se levantarán las faldas para dejar unas turbias sombras que dejan entrever, no del todo, la faz clarioscura del sexo de la amante que es retrada por el pintor. El contracapítulo 2 es de los más interesantes y más bellos. La calidad narrativa y la estructura van de la mano; mientras es más sólida la primera parte, la segunda (tras cien páginas más o menos) se vuelve más diluida
January 17, 2023
Ο Ισμαήλ Κανταρέ είναι ένας από τους σημαντικότερους σύγχρονους συγγραφείς αλβανικής καταγωγής. Πρόκειται για έναν συγγραφέα που κατάφερε να εισάγει τη χώρα του στον χάρτη της παγκόσμιας λογοτεχνίας, σπάζοντας το φράγμα της βαλκανικής χερσονήσου.
Το μυθιστόρημα του «Κρύα λουλούδια τον Μάρτη» αποτελεί την πρώτη μου επαφή με το έργο του. Κυκλοφόρησε το 2002 σε μετάφραση του κύριου Γιώργου Παναγιώτου από τις Εκδόσεις του Εικοστού Πρώτου.
Με φόντο τη χώρα του, την Αλβανία, μία χώρα μικρή και απομονωμένη, σφηνωμένη στη μία πλευρά της βαλκανικής χερσονήσου, χώρα δυσπρόσιτη όχι λόγω των γεωφυσικών της χαρακτηριστικών, αλλά κυρίως λόγω του κομμουνιστικού καθεστώτος που επέβαλε ο Ενβέρ Χότζα για περισσότερα από 40 χρόνια, ο Ισμαήλ Κ��νταρέ συνθέτει ένα συμπυκνωμένο μυθιστόρημα, κοινωνικό-ιστορικού περιεχομένου ό όγκος του οποίου δεν ξεπερνά τις 200 σελίδες.
Κεντρικός χαρακτήρας του Κανταρέ είναι ο Μαρκ Γκουραμπάρδι. Ένας ζωγράφος που γεννήθηκε και ζει στην Αλβανία, όπου εργάζεται σε ένα κυβερνητικό Κέντρο Τέχνης. Βασικός άξονας της μυθιστορηματικής πλοκής είναι η εκρηκτική ερωτική σχέση που αναπτύσσεται ανάμεσα στον ζωγράφο και το μοντέλο του, μία γυναίκα το γυμνό πορτραίτο της οποίας, πασχίζει να ολοκληρώσει εδώ και καιρό. Μέσα από την ιστορία των δύο εραστών, η οποία αποτελεί το θεμέλιο της μυθιστορηματικής πλοκής, ο Κανταρέ βρίσκει πάτημα και αναπτύσσει ένα πλήθος επιμέρους ιστοριών, όπως ο θρύλος με τη γυναίκα που παντρεύτηκε ένα φίδι, η αλλαγή των κλειδαριών στο ατελιέ του ζωγράφου, καθώς και η εξιστόρηση του χρονικού μίας τραπεζικής ληστείας, ιστορίες που συμπληρώνουν την κεντρική πλοκή και λειτουργούν με αμιγώς συμβολικό χαρακτήρα, διατρέχοντας σποραδικά όλο το μήκος του μυθιστορήματος.
Πρόκειται για ένα μυθιστόρημα που ακροβατεί ανάμεσα στο όνειρο και την πραγματικότητα, με τα όρια μεταξύ τους πολλές φορές να είναι κάτι παραπάνω από δυσδιάκριτα. Παρόλα αυτά, ο Ισμαήλ Κανταρέ καταφέρνει να φωτίσει μέσα από το έργο του τη ρευστότητα και την ασάφεια που επικρατούσαν στους κόλπους της χώρας του, μετά την πτώση του κομμουνιστικού καθεστώτος του Ενβέρ Χότζα και του εφήμερου διαδόχου του, καθώς και να αναδείξει τις αποτυχημένες ίσως προσπάθειες δημιουργίας μίας νέας κοινωνικής πραγματικότητας στα πρότυπα των δυτικών κοινωνιών, μίας πραγματικότητας ωστόσο που διέπεται από έντονη αξιακή διαφθορά και εμφανίζει μία δικαιολογημένη τάση υλιστικής προσκόλλησης. Παράλληλα, επανεμφανίζεται ο θεσμός της βεντέτας και η έννοια της εκδίκησής, η οποία δύναται να ολοκληρωθεί μόνο διαμέσου της αιματοχυσίας, καταδεικνύοντας πόσο βαθιά ριζωμένες στο κοινωνικό ασυνείδητο ενός λάου είναι πολλές φορές κάποιες αντιλήψεις, που σήμερα ίσως να φαντάζουν ιδιαίτερα απαρχαιωμένες και αναχρονιστικές.
Μέσα από το σύντομο αυτό μυθιστορηματικό του έργο, ο Ισμαήλ Κανταρέ φέρνει στην επιφάνεια το σκληρό πρόσωπο της κομμουνιστικής Αλβανίας, όπου οι κάτοικοι της χώρας καλούνταν να επιβιώσουν μέσα σε έναν κόσμο σκοτεινό και απάνθρωπο, έναν κόσμο άδικο και παράλογο, όπου ο φόβος υπήρξε τελικά ο μεγαλύτερος δυνάστης του αλβανικού λαού, αλλά ταυτόχρονα και η αχίλλειος πτέρνα του!
Το μυθιστόρημα του «Κρύα λουλούδια τον Μάρτη» αποτελεί την πρώτη μου επαφή με το έργο του. Κυκλοφόρησε το 2002 σε μετάφραση του κύριου Γιώργου Παναγιώτου από τις Εκδόσεις του Εικοστού Πρώτου.
Με φόντο τη χώρα του, την Αλβανία, μία χώρα μικρή και απομονωμένη, σφηνωμένη στη μία πλευρά της βαλκανικής χερσονήσου, χώρα δυσπρόσιτη όχι λόγω των γεωφυσικών της χαρακτηριστικών, αλλά κυρίως λόγω του κομμουνιστικού καθεστώτος που επέβαλε ο Ενβέρ Χότζα για περισσότερα από 40 χρόνια, ο Ισμαήλ Κ��νταρέ συνθέτει ένα συμπυκνωμένο μυθιστόρημα, κοινωνικό-ιστορικού περιεχομένου ό όγκος του οποίου δεν ξεπερνά τις 200 σελίδες.
Κεντρικός χαρακτήρας του Κανταρέ είναι ο Μαρκ Γκουραμπάρδι. Ένας ζωγράφος που γεννήθηκε και ζει στην Αλβανία, όπου εργάζεται σε ένα κυβερνητικό Κέντρο Τέχνης. Βασικός άξονας της μυθιστορηματικής πλοκής είναι η εκρηκτική ερωτική σχέση που αναπτύσσεται ανάμεσα στον ζωγράφο και το μοντέλο του, μία γυναίκα το γυμνό πορτραίτο της οποίας, πασχίζει να ολοκληρώσει εδώ και καιρό. Μέσα από την ιστορία των δύο εραστών, η οποία αποτελεί το θεμέλιο της μυθιστορηματικής πλοκής, ο Κανταρέ βρίσκει πάτημα και αναπτύσσει ένα πλήθος επιμέρους ιστοριών, όπως ο θρύλος με τη γυναίκα που παντρεύτηκε ένα φίδι, η αλλαγή των κλειδαριών στο ατελιέ του ζωγράφου, καθώς και η εξιστόρηση του χρονικού μίας τραπεζικής ληστείας, ιστορίες που συμπληρώνουν την κεντρική πλοκή και λειτουργούν με αμιγώς συμβολικό χαρακτήρα, διατρέχοντας σποραδικά όλο το μήκος του μυθιστορήματος.
Πρόκειται για ένα μυθιστόρημα που ακροβατεί ανάμεσα στο όνειρο και την πραγματικότητα, με τα όρια μεταξύ τους πολλές φορές να είναι κάτι παραπάνω από δυσδιάκριτα. Παρόλα αυτά, ο Ισμαήλ Κανταρέ καταφέρνει να φωτίσει μέσα από το έργο του τη ρευστότητα και την ασάφεια που επικρατούσαν στους κόλπους της χώρας του, μετά την πτώση του κομμουνιστικού καθεστώτος του Ενβέρ Χότζα και του εφήμερου διαδόχου του, καθώς και να αναδείξει τις αποτυχημένες ίσως προσπάθειες δημιουργίας μίας νέας κοινωνικής πραγματικότητας στα πρότυπα των δυτικών κοινωνιών, μίας πραγματικότητας ωστόσο που διέπεται από έντονη αξιακή διαφθορά και εμφανίζει μία δικαιολογημένη τάση υλιστικής προσκόλλησης. Παράλληλα, επανεμφανίζεται ο θεσμός της βεντέτας και η έννοια της εκδίκησής, η οποία δύναται να ολοκληρωθεί μόνο διαμέσου της αιματοχυσίας, καταδεικνύοντας πόσο βαθιά ριζωμένες στο κοινωνικό ασυνείδητο ενός λάου είναι πολλές φορές κάποιες αντιλήψεις, που σήμερα ίσως να φαντάζουν ιδιαίτερα απαρχαιωμένες και αναχρονιστικές.
Μέσα από το σύντομο αυτό μυθιστορηματικό του έργο, ο Ισμαήλ Κανταρέ φέρνει στην επιφάνεια το σκληρό πρόσωπο της κομμουνιστικής Αλβανίας, όπου οι κάτοικοι της χώρας καλούνταν να επιβιώσουν μέσα σε έναν κόσμο σκοτεινό και απάνθρωπο, έναν κόσμο άδικο και παράλογο, όπου ο φόβος υπήρξε τελικά ο μεγαλύτερος δυνάστης του αλβανικού λαού, αλλά ταυτόχρονα και η αχίλλειος πτέρνα του!
October 20, 2023
Whereas 'The Concert' by Albanian author Ismail Kadare is a highly political, very black comedy about the political shenanigans and external influences that Albania has experienced during the 20th century, 'Spring Flowers, Spring Frost' at first seems much lighter, more playful and a little confusing.
I think it pays to understand something of Albanian history to come to grips with what Kadare was playing with here.
Situated on the Adriatic Sea, Albanian history has been very messy and unstable like that of many European countries, particularly those around the Balkans. Under Italian and then German Fascist influence before and during WWII, Albania emerged post-war as a fiercely Communist, isolationist country under Prime Minister Hoxha. It has always been a poor country.
As Communist influence waned globally in the 1990s, Albania underwent another period of unrest and transition as the forces of democracy emerged as 'spring flowers' and the country became more connected globally. But this transition was not without a bitter struggle, as Communist influence was not easily discarded.
What Kadare has written about in Spring Flowers, Spring Frost (2000) seems to be an allegorical lament about this transition, and how the population was uncertain and confused, finding difficult to adjust to democratic and capitalist transformation.
After a long period of totalitarian control under the Communists, which at least meant certainty despite a lack of freedom, it seemed to at least some of the population that the new order brought with it some undesirable behaviours, some of the pre-Communist traditions (such as Kanun, an ancient form of blood revenge) and new crimes such as bank robberies and other elements of capitalism that were unfamiliar.
Kadare reveals his tale through the person of Mark Gurabardhi, an artist who specialises in nude paintings of his girlfriend (when he is not screwing her).
Mark's tale, and his confusion about the changes to his life, is interspersed with historical tales and traditional fables, such as the tale of the young girl who married a snake.
I really quite enjoyed this somewhat playful and whimsical short novel, with its changes in style and perspective. It is really quite clever in its construction and execution. What seems to be relatively light and superficial is deceptive - there is an underlying dark and disturbing political tale, if you know a little of Albania.
I think it pays to understand something of Albanian history to come to grips with what Kadare was playing with here.
Situated on the Adriatic Sea, Albanian history has been very messy and unstable like that of many European countries, particularly those around the Balkans. Under Italian and then German Fascist influence before and during WWII, Albania emerged post-war as a fiercely Communist, isolationist country under Prime Minister Hoxha. It has always been a poor country.
As Communist influence waned globally in the 1990s, Albania underwent another period of unrest and transition as the forces of democracy emerged as 'spring flowers' and the country became more connected globally. But this transition was not without a bitter struggle, as Communist influence was not easily discarded.
What Kadare has written about in Spring Flowers, Spring Frost (2000) seems to be an allegorical lament about this transition, and how the population was uncertain and confused, finding difficult to adjust to democratic and capitalist transformation.
After a long period of totalitarian control under the Communists, which at least meant certainty despite a lack of freedom, it seemed to at least some of the population that the new order brought with it some undesirable behaviours, some of the pre-Communist traditions (such as Kanun, an ancient form of blood revenge) and new crimes such as bank robberies and other elements of capitalism that were unfamiliar.
Kadare reveals his tale through the person of Mark Gurabardhi, an artist who specialises in nude paintings of his girlfriend (when he is not screwing her).
Mark's tale, and his confusion about the changes to his life, is interspersed with historical tales and traditional fables, such as the tale of the young girl who married a snake.
I really quite enjoyed this somewhat playful and whimsical short novel, with its changes in style and perspective. It is really quite clever in its construction and execution. What seems to be relatively light and superficial is deceptive - there is an underlying dark and disturbing political tale, if you know a little of Albania.
February 6, 2025
Mark is a painter in a small town in Northern Albania. He is struggling with his art and struggling to come to terms with the situation in post-Hoxha Albania - stuck between looking towards a capitalist future and closer links with Europe or turning to the medieval rules of honour and blood of the Kanun.
I enjoyed the myths and stories that Mark muses on, especially visions of Death, the legend of Tantalus, and the marriage of a young girl with a bewitched snake, and I found the glimpses of the changing political situation fascinating.
I was less engaged by Mark’s relationship and artistic difficulties, they were too internalised and drawn too sketchily to really grab the readers attention. I also found the language slightly flat and off kilter - I read that the book was translated to English from a French translation from the original Albanian so it is difficult to tell if the author or the translator has made it sound so stilted.
I find Kadare an interesting writer but I thought this was weaker than Broken April.
I enjoyed the myths and stories that Mark muses on, especially visions of Death, the legend of Tantalus, and the marriage of a young girl with a bewitched snake, and I found the glimpses of the changing political situation fascinating.
I was less engaged by Mark’s relationship and artistic difficulties, they were too internalised and drawn too sketchily to really grab the readers attention. I also found the language slightly flat and off kilter - I read that the book was translated to English from a French translation from the original Albanian so it is difficult to tell if the author or the translator has made it sound so stilted.
I find Kadare an interesting writer but I thought this was weaker than Broken April.
June 10, 2023
A very strange and confusing tale that lacked cohesion. It followed, mostly, Mark who is an artist and his girlfriend, about ten years after the fall of the communist regime in Albania. The story went into a few different directions with side stories about a bank robbery and a woman who married a snake, none of which seemed to have anything to do with the rest of the book. The whole point of the book was to tell about the return of Kanun, a bizarre tradition of revenge by murder which was a tradition that obligated revenge by murder that in turn then created another obligation for revenge by murder and so on, after the fall of communism. This tradition of blood for blood was the subject of one of Kadare's other books, Broken April. Everything I've read by Kadare up to this point has been brilliant but this book fell far short.
February 17, 2020
This is a bad place to start with Kadare, who has written much better. The disjointed Spring Flowers, Spring Frost has a lot of things going on, but they never coalesce into anything approaching a cohesive novel.
In an Albanian town after the fall of communism, main character Mark deals with the cooling of his relationship with his girlfriend, who also serves as a model for his paintings. He also struggles with having become an artist instead of a police officer as his father wished. Since communism’s fall, the old myths are reemerging from hibernation, like the Albanian folktale of the woman who married a snake (a tale that has echoes of the myth of Cupid and Psyche), or the local myth of a bunker full of state secrets hidden in the hills. Other events bring to Mark’s mind reimagined versions of the ancient myths of Tantalus, Oedipus, and Odysseus, and inspire in him dreams of a flood that is more than a bit biblically tinged. Perhaps the most troubling resurrection is that of the Kanun, the book regulating blood feuds and recording blood debts from Albania’s past. Its system of vengeance reappears in bastardized form as people try to fill the void left by communism’s fall, and Mark is drawn into one such incident.
Kadare could have intertwined all of these ideas, having Mark play amateur detective amongst the crimes and myths, perhaps at the expense of his painting career and his relationship, but instead Kadare has these ideas touch but never truly interconnect. We’re left with a book that feels like a bunch of pieces that never come together into a story, with some pieces more developed than others (while certain pieces, like Mark’s missing friend Zef, aren’t developed at all). The non-conclusion doesn’t help with this feeling that Spring Flowers, Spring Frost is incomplete.
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost is the 14th book of Kadare’s I’ve read, and I’d rank it in my bottom two of those 14 (along with Twilight of the Eastern Gods). I can’t think of a single thing that Spring Flowers, Spring Frost does that Kadare hasn’t done better in one of his other books. For a better work covering blood feuds in Albania, read Kadare’s Broken April. For a better work covering Albanian mythology in a quasi-detective story, read Kadare’s Doruntine. For a better work by Kadare covering mythology generally, read The File on H. I give Spring Flowers, Spring Frost a 2.5/5, rounding up.
In an Albanian town after the fall of communism, main character Mark deals with the cooling of his relationship with his girlfriend, who also serves as a model for his paintings. He also struggles with having become an artist instead of a police officer as his father wished. Since communism’s fall, the old myths are reemerging from hibernation, like the Albanian folktale of the woman who married a snake (a tale that has echoes of the myth of Cupid and Psyche), or the local myth of a bunker full of state secrets hidden in the hills. Other events bring to Mark’s mind reimagined versions of the ancient myths of Tantalus, Oedipus, and Odysseus, and inspire in him dreams of a flood that is more than a bit biblically tinged. Perhaps the most troubling resurrection is that of the Kanun, the book regulating blood feuds and recording blood debts from Albania’s past. Its system of vengeance reappears in bastardized form as people try to fill the void left by communism’s fall, and Mark is drawn into one such incident.
Kadare could have intertwined all of these ideas, having Mark play amateur detective amongst the crimes and myths, perhaps at the expense of his painting career and his relationship, but instead Kadare has these ideas touch but never truly interconnect. We’re left with a book that feels like a bunch of pieces that never come together into a story, with some pieces more developed than others (while certain pieces, like Mark’s missing friend Zef, aren’t developed at all). The non-conclusion doesn’t help with this feeling that Spring Flowers, Spring Frost is incomplete.
Spring Flowers, Spring Frost is the 14th book of Kadare’s I’ve read, and I’d rank it in my bottom two of those 14 (along with Twilight of the Eastern Gods). I can’t think of a single thing that Spring Flowers, Spring Frost does that Kadare hasn’t done better in one of his other books. For a better work covering blood feuds in Albania, read Kadare’s Broken April. For a better work covering Albanian mythology in a quasi-detective story, read Kadare’s Doruntine. For a better work by Kadare covering mythology generally, read The File on H. I give Spring Flowers, Spring Frost a 2.5/5, rounding up.
May 18, 2021
3.5 stars. A unique, original, interesting novel about artist Mark Gurabardhi and his life in modern Albania. I particularly enjoyed the first chapter and counter chapter one, about Mark and his relationship with his young girlfriend, and the woman who marries a snake that turns into a man only during the evening. It is ten years after the fall of the Communist regime in Albania. Mark notices the general unrest in the community. Mark’s girlfriend comes with her brother to ask Mark to speak to the police on the brother’s behalf. Old traditions are re-emerging, like the blood for blood law.
This book as first published in 2000. The author won the Man Booker International prize in 2005.
This book as first published in 2000. The author won the Man Booker International prize in 2005.
May 11, 2018
This is a book about a passive character (Mark) in a society torn by present reality and past traditions. It feels extremely atmospheric - the character is the lens through which we see Tirana. And what we see is an endless circle of repercussions and suspicions (represented by the discussion of the kanun coming back and the Book of the Blood possibly being found again), and a society full of tension because of that.
I also liked how truth is seemingly mutable:
And so the mutability of truth swims throughout this novel. The counterchapters take a story about a bride marrying a snake; from that story, it posits several possible truths. Mark ostensibly leads leads a life as an artist, however, he has hallucinatory dreams of being a policeman.
At the same time, I have to say Kadare's obsession with sex gets quite off-putting. Perhaps there's a deeper meaning to that, but I don't care to explore it.
I also liked how truth is seemingly mutable:
In the early days of the new era, people no longer gave a penny for official opinion, as they became free, from one day to the next, to adopt the opposite point of view. But to their great surprise, no significant change occurred. As in the past, once they got home from work, they would hear about events in such a mangled way that the stories were often completely distorted. Gradually, it became clear that, as for many other things, such distortions of the truth had nothing to do with politics. Apparently, for reasons still not understood, rumor, vivified over the weekend by the smells of good food and Grandmas burps, had a hard time when it encountered the atmosphere of the office, the clacking of typewriters, the secretaries' lipstick, and, last but not least, the stern gaze of the boss.
Even if you could never say that the office had won out completely (as soon people got home, they had to negotiate the mule-like persistence of grandmas, often reinforced by children just back from school), even if, in this constant ebb and flow of home and office, office and home, rumor was never quite exempt from further shaping before it settled down into its definitive form, the first major impact on it, what might be called "the Monday spin," was always the principal determining factor.
And so the mutability of truth swims throughout this novel. The counterchapters take a story about a bride marrying a snake; from that story, it posits several possible truths. Mark ostensibly leads leads a life as an artist, however, he has hallucinatory dreams of being a policeman.
At the same time, I have to say Kadare's obsession with sex gets quite off-putting. Perhaps there's a deeper meaning to that, but I don't care to explore it.
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