The literary biography of the Albanian poet Visar Zhiti, in the European panorama among the greatest of our time, there is only one existential thing. In the beginning was the pain, source and form of a élan vital, pursued at all costs, despite everything, to become the inevitable search for meaning and absolute questioning.
"Literature, like all art,
it is the confession that life is not enough ". Fernando Pessoa
If the texts of the first collection in Italian, Meat cross (1997), part of which guarded by the memory of the hard prison in the gulags of Enver Hoxha, revealed to the Italian reader, a voice of unprecedented intensity, woven on the testimony of an individual and collective tragedy, those of Confessions without altars (2012) introduce to a vision of the world built on the light architectures of an imaginary that knows no canons, from Esenin to Cvetaeva to Achmatova, from Walt Whitman to Borges, from Montale to Federico Garcia Lorca, forms of a word that seeks passages of life in absolute freedom.
In The night is my homeland it is the poet who reads, in the darkness of the soul, as in a cosmic hand, the signs of "new dawns", fragments of stars that illuminate, suddenly, in the sign of a possible hope, the heart of darkness. The three "rooms" of this collection (Desire of stars, Where is life ?, All this day just to remember) are inhabited precisely by the question: cry, whisper, vertical and visionary staging of otherwise untold spaces.
The word takes on the value of a different universe, never however self-referential, rather embodied physically in the emotions of the praying poet:
I take this evening's mild hand
the caress, then I open it
to read your destiny.
This light line is the way
where we walk will take us
in the new dawns
where life is long, long
as the rivers
and the suns are born from the waters
like the golden dreams from the bed
(from I read the fate of the evening)
It is the sense of "that desire for stars" that entitles the first room and that, in the poignant and lucid prayer to the father-son, yes trans-duce in a song of pain, the pain of loss: "(...) the living icon of your face I preserve / with the halo of my soul around. // Give me your hand, bless me! My son! My father! "
And it is at the same time a song-rhapsody to beauty, not only as an antidote to pain but also as a form of that interrogation, which is absolutely absolute, which alone can reveal the grammar of life and with it the indications of a possible recognition.
In the extreme places of the soul inhabited by the word poetry of Zhiti, it is incorporated into a world, a universe.
The query (Where is life?) it is still the meter of the second room. Ten texts of a requiem, where the poet, in the desire for a meaning in the sea of pain of existence seeks words to say of a necessity of life, despite life:
Where is life?
Sometimes it seems to me
out of me and go on even without me!
But I can operate without life
how to get revenge on her?
An interrogation therefore dialoguing with the mister of the loss, with his non-sense, the same of Mary, mother of the Crucifix, the same mystery that evokes the Leopardi of Night singing ("Why or life I am serious about / how much man cannot stand (...) " and the words "mute" of the person praying Question book by Edmond Jabès.
The word then rises, to a new epiphany, in the rebirth of the child. Light of an irrepressible will to life ("I want to sculpt the light / even after death") With the strength of a desire that becomes marble and lustral water.
The third room (All this day just to remember) finally opens to the numinous song. To the reconciliation of the soul with one's own da-sein, in the voice that becomes one with the visionary architectures of a renewed world and where pain finds its comfort: The note arrives and my remaining destiny / sparkles like marble in the darkness ... "
Author: Ennio Grassi