Who Decides the “Best Writer” in Albania? By Flamur Buçpapaj

Who Decides the “Best Writer” in Albania?
By Flamur Buçpapaj
A few days ago, while reading an article by Agim Vinca, in which Ben Blushi was described as “the best contemporary Albanian writer,” I felt the need to react. I do not wish to diminish or dismiss Agim Vinca; I respect him as an intellectual and as a well-known figure in Albanian literature. But precisely for this reason, when such absolute rankings are made, there should be greater caution, stronger arguments, and less subjective enthusiasm.
The problem is not merely one name or one isolated statement. The problem lies in the very way Albanian culture functions and in the way literary hierarchies are constructed in Albania and Kosovo. Even today, more than three decades after the fall of communism, it seems as though we continue to live with the same cultural mentality: a few individuals decide who deserves to be called “the best,” who should be promoted, and who should remain silent.
The era of Socialist Realism has ended, yet its shadow still wanders through Albanian culture. Under dictatorship, literature was not free art; it was an ideological instrument. A writer was not measured by talent or artistic strength, but by closeness to power. Those who served the Party were elevated onto pedestals, published, decorated, and proclaimed “great.” Those who thought differently were excluded or erased.
This mentality left deep scars on Albanian cultural life. It created a system in which artistic value was often confused with political loyalty. Many authors were promoted not because readers elevated them, but because the system needed figures who served the propaganda of the time. Books were published according to ideological orders, critics wrote according to the political line, and art lost its natural freedom.
Even today, in indirect ways, parts of that mentality seem to have survived. We no longer have the classic censorship of the past, but we do have a cultural establishment. We have closed circles promoting one another, media outlets recycling the same names, and a climate in which praise often matters more than genuine analysis.
But literature does not function this way.
In serious countries, an author is not proclaimed “the greatest” by a newspaper article or by the personal opinion of a critic. A writer is tested through time. He passes through readers, the market, independent criticism, universities, and international translations. Only after many years can a stable and enduring evaluation emerge.
In France, Germany, England, or the United States, no one is placed on a pedestal simply because a group of intellectuals wishes it so. There exists a free competition of ideas and art. An author confronts the public, criticism, the market, and time itself. Only after surviving all these tests can he be considered a major literary figure.
Whereas in our region, often a small circle of friends, a few cultural media outlets, and some promotion are enough to construct literary myths.
In Albania, literary criticism has entered a deep crisis. Often we do not have independent criticism, but reciprocal praise. Writers promote critics who support them, critics promote authors close to them, while the reader remains outside this entire system. This creates an artificial culture detached from reality and from the public itself.
This is why many people today no longer trust Albanian literary criticism. Because in many cases it is seen not as objective analysis, but as part of a mechanism of cultural interests. When every author is proclaimed a “genius,” “the greatest,” or a “phenomenon,” then the words themselves lose their meaning.
The question that should be asked is very simple: on what basis is someone declared “the best”?
Do we have real sales statistics? Do we know how widely Albanian authors are read? Do we know which books are truly sought by the public? Do we know what influence they have outside Albania?
In most cases, we do not.
In Albania there is a lack of cultural transparency. We do not have a serious book market, accurate statistics, or independent critical institutions. In such unclear terrain, cultural propaganda becomes very easy.
An author may be endlessly promoted in the media, but that does not automatically mean he is the greatest writer. World literary history has shown many cases where the most advertised authors of their time were quickly forgotten, while silent and overlooked names survived and became classics.
This happens because time is the greatest filter of art.
Many figures who once seemed untouchable are barely remembered today. At one time propaganda presented them as “immortal voices,” but once the political system changed, so did their real significance. This proves that artificially constructed fame is never lasting.
Meanwhile, authors with genuine value survive even without propaganda. They continue to be read generation after generation because their art connects with human beings rather than with power.
If someone is to be called a “great writer,” then they must pass certain real tests. One must examine: how widely they are read; what influence they possess; how much they are translated; whether they enter international markets; whether they are studied abroad; whether they have received serious critical recognition; whether they are capable of communicating beyond the Albanian-speaking world.
One must also see whether their works survive beyond media noise. One must see whether that author can endure once propaganda fades, once the fashion of the moment disappears, and only the text remains before the reader.
Without these standards, every absolute proclamation remains merely a personal opinion.
Albania is a small country, with a weak book market, massive emigration, and a deep reading crisis. In such a reality, pompous declarations about “literary geniuses” often sound more like local propaganda than objective analysis.
Meanwhile, the greatest problem is that Albanian culture continues to close itself within its own borders. Instead of building bridges with European and world literature, we continue to behave as if certain local names are automatically universal figures. This is a form of cultural provincialism that harms Albanian literature itself.
A serious culture is not afraid of debate. On the contrary, it feeds upon it. Only through free debate are real standards created. Yet in Albania, criticism is often interpreted as a personal attack. This reveals the weakness of the cultural system.
In many cases, whoever dares to hold a different opinion is immediately labeled “hostile,” “jealous,” or “anti-cultural.” This is precisely the spirit that damages free thought. Literature does not grow in an atmosphere of servility. It grows through the clash of ideas and honest analysis.
No one has the right to declare himself — or to be declared by small media or ideological circles — the “king” of Albanian literature. Literary history is not written in cafés, television studios, or enthusiastic articles.
It is written by time.
And time is the most merciless judge. It destroys propaganda, destroys artificial myths, and leaves standing only works of genuine artistic value.
Many names that once seemed untouchable are now barely remembered. Meanwhile, authors who were ignored or silenced continue to be read passionately. This is the law of art.
Therefore, there must be greater intellectual humility and less ideological nostalgia when speaking about Albanian literature.
There must be more honesty in criticism, more professional standards, and greater respect for the reader. Albanian literature does not need artificial myths, but works capable of surviving time itself.
Because in the end, time strips away all illusions.
Literature is not determined by the Party.
Not by the cultural establishment.
Not by circles of friends.
Not by propaganda.
Literature is determined by time, the reader, and true artistic value.