Re: Bukuria e nje vdekje- Milan Kundera
It was the fragrance of the grayish pines, encircled from the smoke of the Deus Ex cigarettes that I was smoking, what reminded me of her. I haven't seen her for a deserted time, and ... still, she doesn't wait too long, but appears in front of the unclosed sight of my imagination, whenever she feels like. She emerges akin to a small dot, a tiny-winy one, and ... broadens up into a milky way-kind of imaginative galaxy, right in front of my miserable eyes. My eyes really get wretched in these occasions. And ..., her smile decorated by false emotions, bordering on to an out of age army coat filled with dusty medals - such a vomiting sensation. The falsehood of the technique how she opens her mouth, how she shifts her slim rusty lips - always at such moments, I feel lucky I can't hear her nonsense lexis. But..., trust me, this kind of silence kills me more than the loud pronunciation of her words. It's their connotation that creates unfiltered extracts from the secret caves inside my shattered cerebellum, as if it was an immense amount of smashed potatoes.
All the contemporary novelists appear so out of world right now. Kundera?! Who is he?! ... A bridge-man between “The Farwell Party” and “Immortality”, a hybridized ex-Bohemian, a man made of two halves – jack of clubs – one Czech and the other French. Wasn’t Nietzsche right when he stated “An artist has no home in Europe except in Paris.”?! And ..., what does he do?! Simply, the opposite of what I’m doing; he bombards you with rhetoric questions amidst scenes of dark sex.
I bet she was saying, she was dating a physician. I didn’t really get his specialization, but it seemed as she was talking about a gynecologist or urologist. I guess she wanted to emphasize the fact that his profession dealt with what she used to consider the most sacred organs of the human body. Her eyes filled with a bunch of challenging glances, when she mentioned in a foxy way, she was having sex every day. The exchange of inner liquids was magnificent and safe. She was consuming some kind of violet birth control pills, regularly, every morning exactly at 10 am. My ears were rattling from the ex-screams of her past ecstasies.
Wasn’t I who never used to trust women?! Yeah, it was I.
... I stood up, walked toward her slowly, with my right hand sunk in an inquiring manner deep inside my pocket. When the flesh of my face could feel her poppy breath, I elongated my right hand toward her breasts, placing a bunch of 5000 dinar bills, at the place where the upper silky edges of her pink brassiere used to hang.
From sometime now, pink is considered an out-of-fashion color. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t carry any more brassieres around her breasts; her instant lust keeps them pear-like, ... tighter, ... straighter.
P.S.: vjedhur pa lejen e autorit nga F.Sh.
