Any literary reading above all remains a metaphorical reading. Each reading is a re-creation of primordial worlds, a transfer of authorship, a continuation of the unfinished text that aims to narrate itself. Every literary reading is an ontological movement, it is the expansion of the limits of our freedom and existence. Every literary reading is a recreation of a previous universe that comes through a constellation of inspirations of previous authors. Every literary reading is a continuous world-shaping text that is close to the vibrations and delirium of solitary subjects.
Author: Bardhyl Zaimi
I have long had in my head some stories of some authors. I have stored them in my memory as pictures of sadness and wonder at the same time. A compassionate whisper that twinkled in the monotonous sky of everyday life. For years, world-shaping narratives have flashed in my mind with a sublime beauty. In fact, they were like a kind of flying island, where I moved my tired being from the brutal excesses of reality. They were windows opened by the universe through which I grasped the most distant constellation of the human soul, the dimensions of a lonely fate and at the same time the misery that was preserved in universal narrative findings. And how can it be otherwise such stories that take you to the greatness of a moment of reading that takes you to the depths of human being, to those surreal and real hemispheres at the same time, to those extreme vibrations of life where the silence is so deep.
In this case, he was mentioning only two stories that I had left as two paintings in the gallery of my being, the story “Light of the other house” by Italo Calvono and the story “Boots” by Chekhov. Two fantastic stories that I kept deep in my memory. With readings, what we deeply enjoy, a real paradox often occurs to us. We often confuse the author and the title. This happens in a critical moment, because over time, the real author of these stories is already ourselves, it is our re-creation that can kill or brighten the authentic version of the storyteller.
After several years I have returned to these stories in the hope that I will find the same storytelling magic and the same universe of sadness and joy. But the opposite has happened. I am disappointed by the rereading. Maybe because of the context of the rereading, maybe because of a different ontological state or paradoxically maybe because of the accommodation of the characters in the original text. Maybe I don’t know how to say this death of that magical capture of the moment that can never be repeated again. Perhaps here is the mystery and the power of the narrative in recreating an unrepeatable beauty.
However, I will say that despite the initial wonder and steppe, despite the death of memory, those stories remain grand in their essence, for they have evoked thousands of memories and thousands of worlds within my being.
Any literary reading remains above all a metaphorical reading. Each reading is a re-creation of primordial worlds, a transfer of authorship, a continuation of the unfinished text that aims to narrate itself. Every literary reading is an ontological movement, it is the expansion of the limits of our freedom and existence. Every literary reading is a recreation of a previous universe that comes through a constellation of inspirations of previous authors. Every literary reading is a continuous world-shaping text that is close to the vibrations and delirium of solitary subjects.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that Roland Barthes portrayed the death of the autho