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Edison Ypi. Chukov had nothing Albanian. Neither from Vermoshi nor from Konispoli. Neither from Devolli nor from Divjake. Neither from Gramsh nor from Ndroqi. Chukov was like coming from Asia, from the steppes, troikas, taiga, tundra. Chukov was so Sovietized that, when you heard him, it seemed as if you were talking to Stalin's son or a relative of Lenin.
For Chukov, books, movies, industry, technology, the military, economics, science, art, sports, and everything else on earth and underground, above and below, were nowhere but the Urals in Kamchatka, in the Soviet Union. While the Soviet Union had abandoned the whore, Chukov kept Sovietism alive. Chukov had correct social behavior, did not impose himself, did not shout, did not brag, did not claim supremacy. But Chukov moved smoothly and silently like a snail.
He spoke as if whispering. He laughed, without moving a nerve. Chukov's catastrophic misunderstanding of the world and life caused me a disgusting but not hateful disgust. I had hatred in retail. I could not abuse the hatred for Chukov. Chukov did not deserve my hatred. I could hardly keep the internal gas from the name of that street and that far 'museum.
During that visit, Chukov solemnly told us that in the basements of that museum that had once been the Questura, the fascists had imprisoned his father. Chukov hated Kadare. Chukov had Kadare blood on his shirt. While Chukov openly cursed Kadare of world masterpieces as an agent of the bourgeoisie and a sworn enemy of the working class, Chukov could not say a word about the Agolli of poetry.
