If someone were to describe their role in this turmoil of the latest drama that perhaps Shakespeare might call "The Majesty and Fall of a Nation," I would be a more optimistic person. And perhaps happier than those whom the history of this country once taught us were called "liberators of the homeland." I am speaking of the liberators of the peasants. A history that touches me not a little. But in fact, I feel pessimistic. Because I cannot promise freedom. And this sounds as ironic as it is laughable, in today's homeland. Like an old Ottoman chronicle (I would say.) Because it reminds me that the more was written back then about equality and the peasants were freed even by changing God; the more the pace of difficulty increases for what makes me take on my shoulders all this action, over the Albania of yesteryear and the Albania of this time. The weight of a decision is like the life of an adult, while it predicted quite differently the response to what it saw 30 years ago: Is this growing up? Therefore, I refuse today the generosity of the answer as to the child I have lost and to the nation we no longer are. Misfortune or success; you decide for yourselves, o brothers who sign "the new trade privileges of expulsion." What does this mean? That the more we are expelled, o my brothers, the more coldly we will learn to speak. But you do not know this. Although there are also those others who do not speak at all, and, more than ears, I notice they do not even listen when they want to do this last thing for the good of Albania.
Of course, woe to us who did not know the times and woe to me who goes here and there with Noli's books scattered, losing besides them, all the bundle of newspapers I carried with me and along with them; a handful of good regrets that no one saw. Because Albanians, more than Samaritans, beat the donkey. And this brings to mind only this phrase: "I want a teacher, to teach me to tell lies."
Do you know when this happened? After Noli goes to a bar in Boston and asks the waiter if there is something burning, and after he brings him beer and whiskey; the latter returns it: – Don't you have something that burns and confuses the mind?
So it is with the teacher. After I uttered the words of Poor Fool, in Shakespeare's play King Lear; I might be a more optimistic person, because if I find a role in all this turmoil of what could be everything; except never a work, I could even title it "The Majesty and Fall of a Nation." Of course, everyone would want to know only about the king. And he always has the ear to leave the nation orphaned. But this is another story and perhaps this is the last misfortune I write about what could be a success for Albania.