the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt twelve)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

February 20 is an important date in Albania’s history, and Vlora’s citizens were keenly aware. Seven years before in Tirana, crowds had toppled Enver Hoxha’s monument in Skanderbeg Square, marking the symbolic end of the dictatorship. To commemorate the event in 1997, Vlora demonstrators raised three fingers in the air on February 17—two fingers and the thumb—as a sign that Berisha had three days left. The three-fingered salute, an evolution of the Democratic Party’s two-fingered victory sign for freedom and democracy, quickly spread through Albania as a symbol of anti-government rage.

For ethnic Albanians in Kosovo watching the revolt on television, the three fingers were a confusing and offensive shock. Kosovars knew the sign as a Serbian nationalist salute that police waved aggressively in their faces every day. “Is this Albania or Angola?” a stunned friend in Kosovo asked as we watched the Vlora protests on television. “Don’t they know what that means?”

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt eleven)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

By late 1995, the Bosnian war was coming to a close. The presidents of Bosnia, Croatia, and Yugoslavia signed the Dayton peace accords in December and the United Nations lifted sanctions on Yugoslavia. Overnight, Albania lost its lucrative oil market to the north. Albania had always maintained that its fuel imports only met domestic need, but with the sanctions busting gone, oil imports dropped.

One month later, the pyramid schemes began to shake. Without a steady income from smuggling, the schemes were forced to recruit an ever-growing number of investors. To attract new principal, they raised their monthly rates, setting in motion a downward spiral that ended in their dramatic crash.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt ten)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

The business began with Albanian companies importing oil and fuel from Italy and Greece to the ports at Vlora and Durres, former Albanian government officials and financial police told me. Albania’s domestic fuel use had jumped with the legalization of private cars in 1991, but imports soon far exceeded what Albania consumed. By one count, in 1994 Albania imported double the amount of oil that it used. Once in Albania, the importers sold the fuel to smugglers who transported it north. Tankers deposited the fuel in one of the many gas stations that had sprung up near the border. Day and night, trucks brought fuel from the stations to Lake Shkoder, where smugglers loaded it onto boats for transport to Montenegro on the other side.

At first men loaded barrels onto dinghies. Soon they pumped gasoline and diesel through rubber hoses onto small barges. Eventually smugglers installed underground pipes. Because the Yugoslavs purchased oil and fuel with German marks, a correlation developed between Albania’s oil imports and the Albanian lek’s exchange rate with the mark: as imports increased, the lek climbed.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt nine)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

The collapse of the Stability Government thrust Albania into a downward spiral of lawlessness that some have called the “time of dark forces.” The outgoing prime minister, Ylli Bufi, strangely announced that Albania had only one week of reserves for bread, causing frantic mobs to storm bakeries, warehouses, and shops. An estimated forty-five people died between December 1991 and February 1992 from riots and street violence. The all-powerful communist state had collapsed and nothing had taken its place.

Some villages organized the systematic dismantling of community centers and cooperatives, distributing the windows, roof tiles, wooden beams, and electric wires. But in many cases, thieves yanked up railway track, uprooted water pipes, and stole manhole covers. They ripped bars from Albania’s prisons. They felled the stately poplars that lined national roads and burned them for heat. “The trees are nice,” one man told a journalist. “But if we don’t cut them, the bandits from the next village will do it first.”

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt eight)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

The police action was a physical manifestation of Alia’s political strategy since 1989. Albanians’ desire for change had swelled like a wave, and no wall could withstand that force. Rather than build a useless defense, Alia channeled the flow into areas that could be managed and controlled.

Security forces waited in the square. Thousands of protesters milled about, some throwing rocks, thinking of Tiananmen Square, while looking at the thirty-foot-high bronze statue of Enver Hoxha, taller still atop his granite pedestal, standing like a lightning rod in a storm.

A crowd surged, was repelled by the police, and surged again, gaining confidence as its numbers grew. Proud and determined, Hoxha looked out over the square wearing a suit and long coat, with his left hand behind his back and right hand at his side. The crowd pushed. A boy climbed Hoxha’s coat and hooked a metal cable around the dictator’s thumb. Men pulled from the left, while others pushed from the right, and the Leader’s body began to tilt from side to side. Just after 2: 00 p.m., it separated from its base and came crashing down, predictably, to Hoxha’s left.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt seven)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

The moderate-radical paradigm did not always explain the behavior of those involved. While two basic camps emerged, the individuals in those camps shifted their positions depending on the circumstances. Perhaps more than anything, the driving factor was not ideology or strategy, but the power struggles within the group. The Democratic Party was not Solidarity in Poland or Charter 77 in Czechoslovakia, which had confronted communism on principle. The party founders were not dissidents who had challenged power at personal expense.

In retrospect, it is predictable that people like Berisha and Pashko rose to the top. These men spoke foreign languages and understood economics and international politics better than the others. They embodied the paradox throughout the former Soviet bloc that those equipped to govern in the new system were those who had benefited from the old.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt six)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

At 7:30 the next morning, the student Azem Hajdari and drama professor Arben Imami left Student City, stopped for a breakfast of kebabs, and arrived at Pashko’s home. Other men soon arrived, many of them meeting for the first time. Pashko’s brother-in-law Genc Ruli came, as did the philosophy professor Eduard Selami, the drama professor Edmond Budina, and Dr. Sali Berisha. An acquaintance of Pashko’s unknown to the others also joined, the mild-mannered archeologist Aleksandër Meksi, who would become Albania’s first post-communist prime minister. Around 10:30, Pashko called Reuters in Vienna to announce that a group of students, intellectuals, and workers would present Albania’s first opposition party later that day.

“I’m very happy that we are able to show to the world that we are able to move to a democratic system without violence,” Pashko told the journalist. He praised Ramiz Alia’s decision to allow pluralism as a victory over party conservatives. “We are for Alia,” he said.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt five)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

Six weeks later, the famous writer Ismail Kadare shocked the country by announcing that he and his family would not return from a trip in France. The request for asylum by the country’s cultural icon sparked fierce debate. Some Albanians felt betrayed that Kadare had abandoned ship. Others felt proud that he had stood against the regime. Many wondered if Kadare, long promoted by Hoxha, would still be studied in schools.

The defection hurt Alia, especially because Tirana was preparing to host a conference of Balkan foreign ministers in October, the first high-level international meeting ever in the country. “With this ugly act, which heavily offends the patriotic conscience of our people and citizens, [Kadare] abandons the people in the fatherland and puts himself in the service of the enemies of Albania,” declared Zëri i Popullit. Kadare defended his decision as a response to broken promises. “Because there is no possibility of legal opposition in Albania, I have chosen this course, which I never wished to take and which I will not recommend to others,” he wrote. Ten years later, back in his Tirana apartment, Kadare told me that his defection was intended to “stimulate the democratization of Albania.” He wanted to “unmask the hypocrisy of the regime’s reforms.”

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt four)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

Despite the threats, Alia reached out to the world. In New York two Albanian diplomats met secretly with U.S. officials at the United Nations to discuss reestablishing diplomatic ties. In May the government opened telephone lines to the West, allowing Albanians to speak directly with relatives abroad for the first time since World War Two. To Albanians’ surprise, the new telephone book included a list of international codes. That month parliament legalized private practice for lawyers and reopened the Ministry of Justice, which was closed in 1968. It removed internment and expulsion as punishments, and reduced the illegal crossing of Albania’s borders from a counter-revolutionary act to a criminal offense. Parliament also redefined the notorious Article 55 of the penal code—“Agitation and Propaganda against the State”—which the state had used for years to imprison and execute critics. An amendment abolished the death penalty for “anti-socialist agitation and propaganda” and narrowed the definition to acts aimed at “overthrowing the state and social order as defined in the constitution.” Criminalization of religious propaganda was removed.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt three)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

Alia’s first major project was to honor his teacher and guide. Hoxha statues rose in Tirana and other towns. In the center of the capital came the colossal white marble pyramid to house the Enver Hoxha Museum.

As statues rose, the economy sank. The government rationed meat, cheese, coffee, butter, and oil, and the quality of those goods got worse. Shoppers stood in lines from 5:00 a.m., and often went home empty-handed. The only vegetable readily available was leeks, and it became a symbol of Albania’s despair. Collectivized to the extreme, the economy had exhausted its possibilities, like a human body burning muscle and fat to survive.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt two)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

In 1967 Hoxha banned religion, as if he were jealous that someone had faith in a force higher than him. He ordered the destruction of mosques, churches, and cloisters and their conversion into sports halls or warehouses. The Catholic cathedral in Shkoder became a basketball arena with “Glory Marxism-Leninism” inscribed on the court in large red letters. Albania was never a religious country, but Hoxha officially declared it the world’s first atheist state. Albanians buried sacred relics or hid them in their homes, where they stayed until freedom of religion returned in 1990.

After the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, Hoxha withdrew from the Warsaw Pact, although Albania had not attended a meeting for years. The Ministry of Defense began a colossal project to build an estimated seven hundred thousand concrete, steel-reinforced bunkers. The military put the concrete mushrooms along the coast and borders, on mountain tops, farms, and even city streets. Arrow tips were mounted atop fence posts to thwart parachutists. Too expensive to remove, the bunkers dotted the country years after communism’s fall. Lovers visited them for trysts and poor families used them as homes. Farmers who got back nationalized property spoke of how many bunkers they had received.

the last book I ever read (Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe, excerpt one)

from Modern Albania: From Dictatorship to Democracy in Europe by Fred C. Abrahams:

Under Italian rule, Hoxha lost his teaching job. He moved to Tirana—at the time with less than twenty thousand people—and opened a tobacco shop, which became the secret meeting place of the budding communist movement. The Yugoslav communist leader Josip Broz Tito offered help, and under his tutelage the Albanian Communist Party was founded in November 1941. Enver Hoxha, then thirty-three years old, became secretary general. He held the position for the next forty-four years.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt seven)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

He desperately wants to believe that his son still exists—still exists in some actual sense, not just as a memory—and that what happened to him is somehow part of some larger plan or scheme, and not just a meaningless single event.

What these people believe seems to make that possible. He assumes that that’s what drew his mother here, or something like it. She has never shown any interest in this sort of thing until now. So he understands why she comes here and how it might help here.

He also understands, after a few weeks, that it won’t be able to help him.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt six)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

They talk for a few more minutes, and then they’re interrupted by the arrival of the main course, at which point the minister turns to the person on the other side of him and István finds himself having to engage with his own other neighbor, an elderly lady who wants something done about immigration.

She’s embarrassed when she understands, after a minute or two, that István is himself a foreigner.

“I don’t mean you, of course,” she says, putting a hand on his arm.

“No, of course nor,” István says.

“We need people like you.”

“Well,” he says. “It’s nice of you to say so.”

“You’re not the problem.”

“I hope not.”

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt five)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

He stands up and goes to one of the windows. A cloud has covered the sun. The water of the lake looks dark and still.

“Have you thought of that?”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that,” he says. Which is true, although it’s also true that he has more often avoided thinking about it.

There’s a long silence.

“You need to do something,” she says.

“I know,” he says.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt four)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

They walk away.

He watches them go and lights a cigarette.

The last patrons leave at around three thirty. He helps to throw them out. It smells of sweat down there and feels like a sauna after the damp freshness of the street. The lights are on, which makes the place look small. The main stage and the “private” ones at the sides look small and shabby. As he makes his way to Freddy’s office, he passes a few of the girls, leaving in tracksuits and raincoats, with earbuds in their ears and don’t-even-think-about-talking-to-me expressions on their faces.

He doesn’t talk to them.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt three)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

She asks him about it in detail.

He tells her in detail what happened. That they were taking water to the Ukrainians. That was the sort of thing they did, when they did anything, he tells her—take water to the Ukrainians. There were the white tankers of water, and also some armored personnel carriers to protect them. Riki was on the machine gun of the first armored personnel carrier, which was the lead vehicle of the convoy. István was on the second, with two or three water tankers between them. He tells her that they were nearing a place called Al-Suwaira, which was where the Ukrainians were, when the explosion happened. The road had been swept for explosive devices earlier in the morning but they must have missed that one. If you’re near it, he tells her, not near enough to get hit by the shrapnel but still near it, an explosion isn’t just sound. It’s pressure as well. It knocks you over, you feel like you’ve been physically hit. It fucks up your ears. “Sorry,” he says—the swear word just slipped out. The therapist nods, acknowledging his apology. He lights another cigarette. You can’t hear anything, he tells her. You don’t even hear the explosion really. You experience it as pressure, not as sound. And then there’s all this smoke everywhere. You can’t see anything either. The sense of confusion is hard to describe. The convoy stopped moving. You weren’t supposed to do that. You were supposed to keep moving but the lead vehicle had been hit and the road was blocked and there was all this smoke so that the drivers of the other vehicles couldn’t see where they were going. Some of the APCs started firing back, he tells her, in the general direction of the incoming fire, or where they thought that was. That was when he realized his ears were fucked—when he couldn’t really hear the machine guns, only see their muzzle flashes in the smoke. Anyway, he went through the smoke and helped Riki down from the turret of the lead vehicle and sat on the asphalt with him For a while Riki was still conscious. He told them that it was going to be okay, even though it probably wasn’t and he knew it probably wasn't. He also knew that after that he’d never believe anyone telling him it was going to be okay. Or maybe he would believe them. Maybe he’d want to believe them so much that he would, in the way that Riki may have believed him as they sat there on the asphalt. When Riki lost consciousness he wasn’t sure if he’d died or what.

“Had he died?” the therapist asks him.

“Yeah,” he says.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt two)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

He doesn’t ask any more questions, and István doesn’t ask him anything about what he’s doing. He’s obviously a doctor.

That’s what he’s done with the last decade or whatever—turned himself into a doctor.

Ten years ago he and this doctor were the same, István thinks.

They were the same.

And now the doctor’s a doctor and he’s . . . whatever he is.

the last book I ever read (Flesh: A Novel by David Szalay, excerpt one)

from Flesh: A Novel (2025 Booker Prize Winner) by David Szalay:

To the extent that he thinks about it at all, he thinks of the job at the winery as a very temporary thing, something he will do for a few months maybe, just until he finds something else.

Except that he isn’t actually trying to find anything else.

It’s like he’s waiting for something else to find him. Or not even that. He isn’t really thinking about the future at all.

the last book I ever read (Washington: The Indispensable Man by James Thomas Flexner, excerpt sixteen)

from Washington: The Indispensable Man by James Thomas Flexner:

Old men are naturally suspicious, see plots. And it would require almost more than the fortitude of a saint not to be affected by the type of attacks which were made on Washington and his administration. Not only had his behavior been condemned because of entirely unfounded distrust of his motives, but what he did had been distorted; and not only had his acts been distorted, but he had been assailed by lies which the perpetrators often knew were total likes. And the vilification appeared in newspapers of national circulation that were semi-official organs of the Republican party.

As long as he had been in office he had tried, although towards the end with sometimes stumbling feet, to walk the path he had charted for himself, the path of complete neutrality between factions at home and belligerents abroad. Once he was out of office and intended to remain so for the rest of his earthly career, moderation ceased to be a matter of state. He permitted himself to espouse extremes. He became at last what he had for so long been accused of being: devotedly pro-Federalist. Since he doubted the intentions of all others, he communicated exclusively with Federalists. He could no longer palliate the efforts of the French government to interfere in American politics; he had become angrily anti-French. In his denunciations of French attacks on American commerce, he no longer pointed out that Britain was also guilty. He came to believe that the leaders of the opposition, patriots who had been his coadjutors and friends, were eager to make the United States a vassal of France: might indeed cooperate with a French invasion.

A French invasion! In 1798, that seemed possible.