Astrit Lulushi: His versatile creative sensibility By Maria Teresa Liuzzo - founder and director of the international cultural magazine "Le Muse" (Italy)

[Maria Teresa Liuzzo]

[Astrit Lulushi]

Astri Lulushi's writing caught my interest because of the amount of quality work that only rare writers can afford. His signature, in my opinion, takes the first place among the chosen ones. The themes addressed are of a universal nature, they speak of love, history and erotic contemplation in its heavenly beauty: the result is a masterpiece of precious writing and elegant contemplation that contrasts in a modern scenario. The author seeks a solution to existential problems. His language, restrained and never shy, succumbs to the tension when it takes on dramatic tones, although covered by a touching sweetness that is music and prayer. His intimate biography goes through a formal progression of a family and sentimental nature, moving from the collective to the objective. Coherent writing that goes from fleeting joy to human frustrations and history that seems relentless in our eyes. In the sadness of his (the writer's) gaze, truth becomes a word that condemns History in its tragic, shocking cruelty. Her smile is absent or barely hinted at and becomes liquefied like that of undines, aquatic creatures with bodies that transcend the limit of the visible through the language of complicity that caresses the chosen souls and: 

''while the heart sighed 

the moon opened in your face. 

It was a beautiful dream''.

Its elegance is not for show or exhibitionism: Astrit Lulushi is measured in its silent simplicity. There is respect and common sense, there is "savoirfaire". Kail (Agostino Degas): ''Belonging is a superior connection that defies the limits of time and distance. The spirituality of souls meeting forever... and even death will not be able to separate''. His writing is always a constant, refined elegance where the idiom of consciousness remains unknown. Profound literary expression is hidden in the power of words, and it is up to us readers to find water in the desert like diviners. The author's life is similar to that of a child thrown into the fire, who, burning, joined him and learned to "love" him as a sacred text. From those flames come readings that last only a night, others forever, like black roses that bloom in winter in their overwhelming beauty, but you can't tell whether words of love or death come out of their glow. His mind is in the melody of the wind and the sound of the water. Regarding Faruk Myrtaj's well-known criticism of the incredible life of Astri Lulushi, it is incredible not only his way of life, but the whole life of this special writer. An existence lived between adventure and tragedy. Suffice it to say that he entered the water barefoot, crossing the sand like an anonymous bather until he came out to sea, just as St. Francis of Paola - the patron saint of Calabria - did when he crossed the sea in his cloak. It was a trauma for a boy, in his early twenties, to interrupt his studies to find himself catapulted into an unknown country, not knowing the language of the land he had landed in.

Perhaps, unwittingly, it reminds me of the life of "Richard the Lionheart", the pain that arose in his chest was overcome by the will to "keep dreaming", to overcome all weather to realize his dream without seeing back. In a short time he sacrificed himself, learned a foreign language and studied profitably. His message was positively received by the dispossessed, the marginalized, the lonely, the defeated, the exiles, the patriots who were his great audience. He became the "Voice of America." But in front of the writer lies the greatness of the true, just, faithful to his principles, cultured, generous man. A man of facts and not words. All of this could not but hit me like a sword in the chest as a person first and second as the director of an international culture magazine "Le Muse", published for 24 years and a talent scout, who has saw Creme and published on its pages the Central European and world community of poets, writers, researchers, Nobel Prize winners and candidates for the same prize.

I saw in AstritLulushi a crucified body, in him I recognized an undermined psyche - for only those who have experienced the pain and carry it within themselves can recognize that of others. His amazing creativity is set aside by the "jackals" of the moment, because those who are better than others always represent a danger to the "wretched" and the dishonest. But the truth is like love that no one can cage, as well as the powerful voice of the author not only in Albania but in the world. There is a saying that the grass is always greener on the other side. Cultured people are unpleasant because they do not allow themselves to be manipulated. So those cursed with envy even pretend to celebrate the dead to abuse the living: unbelievable but true. They penalize perfection to give credit to the most vulgar submission that falls on the carpet like a pilgrim at their feet. After all, wasn't Cain the one who killed Abel out of jealousy? And Joseph's brothers sold him as a slave to the merchants, taking the bloody garment to their father, saying that it had been torn to pieces by a wild animal? The primary interests of Astri Lulusi are peace, the protection of nature, the well-being of humanity. His elegance and reserve were greeted in retaliation, not with the honors he would have deserved. His writing is noble and sanguine and one can discern his DNA, consistency, authority, patience, research, memory, qualities that make him unique on the international stage. His encyclopedic masterpiece should be appreciated especially in the country of origin, i.e. in Albania. It should be praised, and protected as a precious asset, as is done with monuments - in our case "Human" - place of UNESCO World Heritage. . It reminds me of the great poet of 1900, Lorenzo Calogero - who committed suicide - whose value was recognized posthumously by his "rival" Eugenio Montale, who said that if this had happened (i.e. if Calogero would had received the Nobel) he would have "buried" them all. It is said that history repeats itself - and I am sure of it - perhaps because, like William Faulkner (1897-1962), in the bourgeois and modern era theory turned into drama. We find similar elements in Hemingway, Caldwell and Scott-Fitzgerald (such as the presence of tragedy). War writer, nuclear super tech writer, to space travel. Beyond the author's way of expression, there is an extraordinary compression that goes beyond the known saying, as it is separated from the concrete time of life (the unhealed pain of the loss of his beloved son) who died at the age of thirty. - two. 

Astrit Lulushi, like Aldo Palazzeschi, does not trust the tone and the upper classes, not being a professor, he does not like some institutions. "The way of the sea" was his great teacher. He wanted to see with his own eyes how to really live, he understood people who shared their faith by talking to them. He revealed the "hidden" part of people, the anomalies, all closely from many aspects and free from any rhetorical temptation. We know that the truth cleanses our souls of deceit and hatred, and writing is a good ally, a lifeline. In his verses we find a conscience that bleeds and a good one that appears with fear and slips into the gaze of the interlocutor like the sun when it sinks into the sea. His thoughts do not fear the lightning rod, his subconscious explodes and becomes magma in his heart and soul. His voice imposes itself and the word sinks into the verses with its achingly tragic loneliness, as the last star sets in a brush of the sky. It is like hanging clothes in the sun, while continuing to plant questions like millet. Gestures, cries, doubts appear where anxieties find an outlet in the various changes that make up and break down each of his writings, where even regret finds new life, having attributed to his language a classical dimension derived from his encounters with people. that you meet on the street, at the barber, at the baker. But above all from those who were poor in words and courage. Astri Lulushi's writing is not the language of power, today the art of the dominant classes, but it is the voice of the heart and reason that questions the conscience and mentality of those who still dress as wolves and cry: "Wolf" that, after the characters of the novels are reflected in the geographical reality and not of the Author, they will be the ones who will turn their backs and accuse him of the opposite. Why not? Therefore, the cry of truth is not revenge, but anger that is very skillfully rooted in a "shadowy place" where the wind will draw the rain and sweep away the blood and ashes, so that the genocide of history does not repeat itself where it does not yes, and the truth when you sacrifice everything for power.

For Astri Lulushi, writing is the voice of blood, it is the life that he loves and feels mutual, enlightened in its most authentic sense. His words teach us that selfish love is seeing the other as an object of one's property and not one where the soul manifests itself in a free and conscious choice. In the few passages we have read, his writing seems almost angelic, sometimes stubborn, other times his 'journey' becomes painful and difficult like that of a homeless traveler. Not everyone knows that the driving force of the world comes precisely from the word. The Author's life was very turbulent and when the tensions of the memory knock on his memory he feels the weight of the pain he experienced. When silence builds walls, he puts words to paper like stone upon stone. It is a bright time locked in the amphora of the past and some tears are barely contained, like the music of a dead. They are indescribable emotions like the angelic whisper of a spring that reminds us of Novalis' "Night Hymns". '. In them the elements mix and fragment despite their diversification, creating a ring of light even in horror. Lulushi sees that incessant movement where ants, cicadas, irrefutable calculations and theories are defined as "cases" because they are artfully manipulated. And now it is his conscience that speaks: 'I cannot raise the dead... free nature and death at the hands of the power that governs us with them... predict here and now another possible life and another death, it is only resurrection that we care about ” (Giorgio Agamben, Requiem for the West).

We are drenched in dystopian visions of certain elites emerging from the wretched environments of their rituals and feasts in every power. All this is negative and destructive for the new generations and toxic for today. Terrible tendencies create confusion, sadness, violence and depression. We live in a virtual world with zero feelings. We find elements that parade because they are convinced that appearance is the place of toys and the sum of the whole. They are not aware of anything and allow themselves to be humiliated and ridiculed as an object, in various possible ways. All this away from reason, beauty and sensuality. Creativity is in sharp decline, while mood disorders are in vogue. We are in the presence of "Carnival of Clowns" by Joan Mirò. A surrealist work where real elements are transformed into the unconscious. Astrit Lulushi knows the responsibility of life, he knows well when he had to improvise a boat and a helmsman and cross the sea of ​​infidelity, escape from the relentless violence of the homeland by fighting against the destructive force of "piranhas". '. He loves culture and owes it to him, because he knows that only culture makes us free and intrigue does not prevail over duty. Even in silence, his word is always pregnant. He knows that time stands in creation, that it is a scale and we are its fulcrum. As an authentic writer, he knows the magic of writing and the pain of its metamorphosis and does not allow his balance to be disturbed. Terrible visions unfold from the memories. He hears again the harvest of lamentations, the smell of gunpowder, the cry of children slaughtered like lambs, the shivers swallowed by the mud. He sees "cobras" plotting in living rooms, by the sea, and wolves selling concrete dreams. And I suggest using a phrase from Winston Churchill: "Never, never, never give up"