 Quarter of a century later, I will devour the slender gray and yellow novel, which by then has become worn from the many hands that have traveled across its pages. Albanians tend to pass Cadare's books down to their children as if they are family heirlooms. So there I am, sitting inside a concrete box in the 1990s, an era of turmoil and uncertainty, as I retreat into the past, just as my father had once done.