However, it is not my husband, but rather my son, whom I want to talk about now. The anniversary of my son’s death was yesterday. It is probably in vain to talk about the last days of his life, because people already know that part of the story. He was part of an incredible story, but unfortunately he was on the wrong side.

My son learned at an early age how to become a man like his father, one who was devoted to his work and driven by success. His father did not spend much of his time with his family, but on those occasions that he did, he spent most of the time talking about his successes and the growing influence of his business. It was easy to tell that my son was captivated by his father’s success. To him, his father was an angel who had descended from heaven to tell him stories of miracles and wonders.

Unlike his father’s business obsession, my son developed an interest in machines. He dissembled and re-assembled all sorts of machines from a very young age and was able to combine different objects to come up with his own primitive inventions. Before he went to elementary school, he invented an automated knife that would spread butter on his bread and a machine that would bring him the remote control when triggered by pulling down on a string. Often, I found myself worrying about my son’s future education and wondering what this kid could possibly learn at school.

Unfortunately, within the first week of school, my worries about his education came true when my son was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) and quickly became an outcast at school due to his hyperactivity. My divorce from his father during the same year only made things worse. I didn’t know what to do. Although it was not the best solution, I still thought it was best for my son to continue to study at a normal, public school.

In his second year, a fan club was formed to celebrate the superheroes that made this planet a better place to live. Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Frozone, Gazerbeam, Superman, etc., were all invitees of this club during their biweekly activities. My son, having grown up with the example of his successful father, soon developed an interest in this club. There, my son had found an excellent replacement for his father, whom he deeply missed since our divorce.

One day he returned from the club’s activities and was not the same person that usually returned from school. I hardly recognized him. The angry-looking, hyperactive outcast was gone, and in his place was a child who was destined to follow his dreams. During dinner, I asked how his day had been. He talked about a man that I “better marry,” because he wanted him as his father. Guess who it was: Mr. Incredible.

“I asked and he said he was single and he loved children,” my son insisted.

“But I’ve never met him!” I replied, smiling.

“I’m sure you’ll love him,” he said.

I was so happy that, after two years of misery and distress, we could have a dinner like mother and son.

The dream went on for a few months, until one night when he came home from a friend’s house, looking very distraught. I thought perhaps he had a fight with his friend, but it wasn’t that. He had tried to tag along with Mr. Incredible as his sidekick but had been kicked out of his car, because Mr. Incredible found him too young and didn’t want a sidekick. After all, Mr. Incredible always worked alone. Eventually, my son was able to accept the situation and he realized that what Mr. Incredible said was true, that he actually was too young. However, his awe of Mr. Incredible never faded. He always sought ways to get Mr. Incredible to accept and appreciate him.

By the time my son was in middle school, companies began to purchase his inventions. He was already well on his way to becoming as successful as his father had been. I frequently asked myself what this boy would accomplish in the future. He already had achieved what most people never would in an entire lifetime. Flying boots were his latest invention. He thought this would catch Mr. Incredible’s attention because flying would greatly improve Mr. Incredible’s ability to fight crime.

One night, he was brought home by the police. I literally freaked out. I thought he had done something horrible with one of his crazy inventions. Apparently, he had tried to help Mr. Incredible at the scene of a robbery, but everything had gone wrong and Mr. Incredible rejected him as a sidekick once more. Being an adolescent undergoing puberty he had difficulty in facing this latest rejection from his hero. He not only craved acceptance and appreciation but he needed them. From that day on, all the Mr. Incredible posters, stickers, and T-shirts were gone from our house. Instead, my son started putting up posters of villains and he started to idolize them.

I couldn’t tell anyone, but I was terrified when I found a paper in his room that said, “Revenge of the Bad Guys.” I hoped this was a sort of adolescent fury that would go away in time. And it did – at least I thought it did.

After he completed his university degree, my son started a company that focused on the research and development of defense systems. Because of his genius, he easily achieved immediate success and purchased two islands in the Pacific: one as his home to live with his fiancée and the other as his base of operations. I was a happy mother because after so many years of hard work and worries, I thought my son had finally overcome his difficulties and was moving on with his life.

My dream did not last long. After the government grounded all the superhero activities due to public unrest towards the superheroes, my son started popularizing his inventions that mimicked the abilities of these superheroes: flying boots, a machine that made any shape by freezing the humidity in the air, a never-ending rope that never broke, etc. I never thought that what he was doing was simply a disguise to hide his true goal: discovering Mr. Incredible’s secret identity and getting revenge for himself and for all those whose parents or spouses were hurt or killed by the superheroes. I found out about this from one of his journals that was later given to the police by his fiancée.

You know the rest of the story. My son was struck by a car that Mr. Incredible threw at him and was finally killed by the very jet engine he had invented and built. Mr. Incredible had once been my son’s hero and was now his murderer. What can I say? Congratulations, Mr. Incredible on another job well-done! I hope you can enjoy dinner with your family tonight as I’m writing these lines in sorrow …

People spoke of him mockingly. They said he behaved strangely, obeyed his wife to the letter. He didn’t hang out with other men after work in the coffee shop. He liked to read, a good-for-nothing sport. He didn’t speak the local accent although he had breathed the air of this town all his life. Presor Dyli didn’t curse or spit on the ground. He was unusually polite and mild, almost like-God forbid-a woman. He was weird, they said. People made fun of his wandering eyes, but that’s too cruel, and I am going to skip it.

I didn’t think of him as weird. He was different yes, but far from weird, if you know what I mean.

When Presor Dyli decided to start the first afterschool club ever in the history of our school, he ensured that he would become the laughingstock of the town for a hundred more years. Nobody knew what the club was about or even what an afterschool club was supposed to be.

Somehow he managed to secure a small room in the municipality building, five old typing machines, and a considerable supply of index cards and pencils.

Presor Dyli asked all his students to enroll in the club. Anything that could be an excuse to get out of the house, away from the never-ending chores, was welcome, so I was happy to oblige.

I remember the first meeting of the club quite clearly. My best friend, Lindita was sitting by my side, and she would giggle every time Presor Dyli looked at us, his wandering eye extremely lapsed in the wrong direction. I became annoyed with her since what Presor Dyli was saying kindled my curiosity. I turned to her sternly and scolded, “Oh, hush for a moment, won’t you?”

She looked at me like I had gone crazy. Little did I care if I had.

His soft voice spoke in unfamiliar words such as noble cause, great service, our language sweeter than honey. I felt like I was transported to a strange new planet.

“My dear children,” Presor Dyli said, “our mother tongue, Albanian, is an old and rich language. Unfortunately, many words used by older generations are about to vanish because they never saw the light of print on the pages of dictionaries. These old words are called archaisms; most of them originate from Ottoman language as a legacy of 500 years of Ottoman rule in Albania.”

“It is our mission to save these words from dying. While listening carefully to adults talking, if you catch a word you have never heard before, write it down on the index cards I will provide for you. At our club meetings we will compare notes, consult the dictionary, and type the words we don’t find in it. Okay? Later, we will mail those words with their meaning and usage to the National Committee for Albanian Language, so that they may be added to the dictionary. I know it sounds complicated but it is easy, you will see. Any questions?”

All twelve of us stood there dumbfounded. My brain felt fuzzy, like a TV which has lost its signal.

Nevertheless, Presor Dyli went on with a new subject–the methodology of our work. After explaining step-by-step the instructions on word hunting, he relaxed our overstretched minds with a story of a smart linguist on an archaism hunt.

“This linguist on an ancient-word hunt went to the farmer’s market. Immediately he spotted his prey-a toothless white-haired lady selling eggs, and he approached her. He asked her how much one egg cost.

She looked at this well-dressed, prospective buyer and smiled. “10 leke,” she said.

Then the linguist did the most unimaginable thing. In a frenzy, he snatched the egg basket and started throwing eggs to the ground, one by one. The old woman, cursing with contempt in her heavy mountainous dialect, fought back with this crazy man. To the surprise of everyone watching, the linguist, delighting in every curse as if receiving blessings from heaven, took out his notebook and excitedly recorded the lingual pearls.

The old woman, making no sense of what had happened, squatted over the broken eggs and cried over the ill fate that had befallen her. Right then, the linguist told her that he would pay for all the eggs he broke, 10 leke each. She did not believe him at first, but when he took out his purse and pulled out the money, she opened up like the sky after a storm. She thanked him effusively and upon hearing that he was willing to pay 15 leke for each, she let flow from her old mouth a string of benedictions. Again, the crazy linguist wrote down whatever she said, as if his own life depended on it.

“Well, children, this is the story of the linguist who dearly loved our language and did everything in hand to preserve it, even wasted eggs and paid for them” Presor Dyli smiled. “Don’t try this yourself though, all right?”

Later he dismissed us with the air of a commander sending his troops on an expedition.

I hugged the pack of index cards he had given me, and on my way home I made a mental list of suspects. I put my grandmother at the top. She was over eighty. She was bound to spill some ancient word from her mouth. Second, came our next-door neighbor, an old lady. “She loves to chat for hours. She gossips a lot too, but if breaking eggs is okay, then I will put up with that.” I decided.

I went to sleep that night, my chest filled with great aspirations for the remarkable service I would render to our mother tongue, which was sweeter than honey.

The next day I lay in ambush for my neighbor on her way to the farmer’s market. She started into her favorite sport-gossip-immediately.

“Did you see how the so and so’s wife was dressed in the so and so’s wedding?” she asked.

I shook my head, but that only invigorated her.

“Her outfit was for hakaret. How could she come in a dress that was so revealing? She should have…”

“Wait, wait a second,” I interrupted. A bulb started blinking in my brain.

“What is hakaret?” I asked, feeling for my pencil and the index card pack in my pocket.

She looked pretty annoyed to deal with words when greater scandals regarding the wife of so and so were involved. She answered anyway, maybe for fear of losing my interest.

“Hakaret means something discreditable, something that people will point their fingers at.

I started scribbling industriously on my index card as she spoke. My neighbor eyed me suspiciously.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking notes.”

“You aren’t going to tell the wife of so and so about what I said, are you?” She looked worried.

“Oh no, no. This is something related to my language club assignment.” I assured her.

Unconvinced, she decided to take no further risks and bade me good-bye, murmuring something about not wanting to miss the fresh eggs in the market.

As I watched her hurry away looking flabbergasted, I wondered if she would tell someone in the market about her neighbor’s so and so daughter doing strange things with a pencil and some what-you-call-them cards.

That evening I listened all ears, pencil in hand to my grandma complain to Mom about one of her grandchildren, my uncle’s only son among three daughters.

“The child is spoiled rotten and if something isn’t done to bring him to his senses, he will bring shame to all of us. It is as clear as that. As they say, you don’t need a kilavuz to the village for what you can see.”

“What is a kilavuz, Grandma?” I asked curiously.

Grandma froze, unprepared for this all-out assault. Soon enough she came to her senses and replied, “Kilavuz is someone who leads the way.”

“A guide?” I said, coming to her assistance.

“Yeah, something of the sort. Now why don’t you go and pick some grapes from the vine, wash them thoroughly, and bring us some to eat.”

I went out, sat on the front steps and wrote down with indescribable delight, kilavuz, my second victory. My heart beat with glory.

At the third club meeting I brought three hard-to-find words. You know the first two already. Why, the third came from a street argument among two drunks shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. I just wrote down the word because, as you can figure out, I couldn’t ask them, drunk as they were, about its meaning. I asked my mom instead. She blushed and threatened to make me bite on red hot pepper if I ever spoke that word again. Just as Professor Dyli asked us to hand him our index cards, I erased the third word. I reasoned that our language might do better with one less bad word.

Week by week, month by month, the about-to-be-lost words accumulated, like little streams in a pond. When we finally correctly typed thirty of them, Presor Dyli put the list in an envelope and mailed it with an accompanying letter, explaining our humble service to the National Committee for Albanian Language.

We continued on our word pursuit the rest of the school year, although we didn’t hear back from the NCFAL. Presor Dyli’s matchless enthusiasm fueled our little engines.

During that year, our country was undergoing great changes, although we, young club-goers, took little notice. On the radio, television, the coffee shop, the street, everyone talked about the big transition from over forty years of communism, to democracy. The land and the factories were being privatized and words such as private property and business were articulated boldly for the first time in many years. We brought them over to club–that’s how I remember. Presor Dyli told us that they were new words, therefore of no use to our mission.

My parents talked over dinner each night of how some of our neighbors or their friends had come up with amazing ideas to start a trade, and how courageous it was to take such a risk in the collapsing economy. Some of them had turned their patios into little shops, selling anything they could lay a hand on and stock in such a little space. My parents wished we were living in the walk-in level apartment, so we could try our luck in business. Why, it was such a convenient thing to work so close to your living quarters. I understood nothing of their talk. Nonetheless I listened carefully, my pencil and cards nearby.

At one of our meetings, which I learned later would sadly be the last, Presor Dyli told us apologetically that he had to quit the language club. He had to dedicate his time to something really important.

“I am sorry, children. I tried to find a substitute to keep the club going but to no avail. You kids did a great job. I am proud of you. I am sorry to quit but I have to,” he said in a sad tone. He did not look at us.

We left in silence, wondering what could be so important and so sorrowful at the same time.

Had he come down with a bad disease and he needed to go for treatments? Was he moving to another city? Had he received a disheartening letter from NCFAL? What could it be?

Weeks went by. Presor Dyli still taught us language arts during regular school hours but as soon as the last bell rang, he would hurry in the direction of his apartment. I had been taught to never pry. That’s why, tempted as I was, I never followed him.

One day, I took another way home after school because I had to take a make-up assignment to a sick classmate. I was entertaining myself with my shadow sliding ahead of me on the pavement, when his voice startled me.

“One kilogram tomatoes, two dozen eggs, one box of matches. Anything else I can get for you, sir?”

Yes, it was him. In his apartment’s patio which had been converted into a shop. I couldn’t believe it! He still had on his morning attire-white shirt and black pants. A black apron hung loosely about him and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He had tomato stains on his shirt.

“No thanks,” replied the customer as he handed him the money.

As Presor Dyli rummaged in the big front pocket of his apron for change, a passerby who was the age of my father, stopped at the door of the shop and shouted.

“Hey Abdyl, how is it going? You’ve got a pretty good-sized shop here. Hang in there, buddy and before you know it, you will own a big market, just like Naim. He started small like you but look at him now. Has money to cover himself standing. I am happy for you, man.”

He made his point and patted Presor Dyli on the shoulder.

“Finally the cat caught a mouse, eh, Abdyl? “

I was about to cry. This little business was his really important something. What’s worse, he didn’t even mind being compared to the ill-famed Naim, a mafioso who was known to sell anything illegal.

Presor Dyli looked up. He saw me standing on the pavement across the street, like a statue of salt. He tried a genuine smile and waved at me, a bit hesitantly.

I was waking up from the dream.

He had lost his charm. I had lost my aspirations. He wasn’t weird anymore by the town’s standards. He was Abdyl now.

I didn’t wave back. I moved on and let my tears flow.

Much later, the 1990s generation was on everybody’s tongue. A generation that developed a relationship with a computer joystick, that can assume any identity from James Bond to the Queen of England in a virtual that expanded from kick-boxing to strategy games that can think and act in very limit ed areas, Internet geeks whose connection to life is united by the interactive means offered, and that is indifferent to social and even familial problems.

However, there is another generational in between, a generation that inherited the elders’ knowledge. This generation more or less knows equality, social justice, freedom of ideas and speech. Although it does not believe that “we are no more a hunting society,” its members are so cowed that they can be labeled at most a small gear of the System.

This generation is surrounded by new needs and modern solutions put to them, is being mechanized and is aware of what this means. Hence, a generation in deep suffering… It is contaminated, but aware of how it happened. It is living in a house full of furniture, yet aware of the “humiliation” this represents. It is working, yet aware of how “success” becomes an idol that enslaves people. It believes in heaven, is aware of its expulsion, and has not yet lost the hope of heaven, yet it is scared to confront hell and trapped in a dilemma. Again a generation in deep suffering.

What can stop this suffering? Who is the other thief in “set a thief to catch a thief,” that famous proverb? Love, or else an enormous experience that makes you feel alive? How about a fist that reminds you of your veins and the blood they contain? But please you first!

Fight Club starts with scenes from the life of a yuppie. From this introduction we understand the extent of his boredom. He makes “profitable” inspections for an automotive company and suffers insomnia due to statistics, numbers, and routines. The truth is that Norton, our protagonist whom we see with a gun pointed to his mouth, flashbacks the story for us.

The narrator, while seeking a cure for his long-lasting insomnia finds himself in a solidarity organization for the fatally ill. Marla, who attends every therapy session just as he does, disturbs him like him, she also is actually not “dying.” This irritates the narrator, who bad been the only healthy man present. Thus, even though he feels good, his problems recur.

We now begin to observe his metamorphosis, which starts with a chance encounter with the imposing, charismatic, and intelligent Tyler Durden on a plane that led to the start of the Fight Club. But what a club! A club with two rules: 1) You don’t talk about the Fight Club, and 2) You don’t talk about the Fight Club.

Tyler says that self-destruction, rather than self-improvement, might be the answer. Hence, every meeting is full of bloodshed, the fighting people are actually friends, and every punch means happiness for them!

The club’s very name, the close fighting scenes, and the phenomenon of ‘relief/purification” based on mutual consent seemingly gives the impression that Fight Club sanctifies violence. On the contrary, as in Seven and Game, David Fincher presents us with an ironic and hence indirect criticism of the System.

Tyler Durden, a sort of externalized inner soul of the narrator, utters things that are hard to disagree with, such as “You’ll get used to consuming more than you need. Then your belongings will eventually own you,`”, “You are not a beautiful and unique snow-flake” ,“If you have nothing to lose, you won’t be scared to lose,” and “You are not your job. You are not how much you have in the bank. You are not the contents of your wallet. You are not your khakis.”

Durden is asking for the television generation’s rage, and hence is trapped by the surmise of being a rock star or a CEO. But he is not offering a solution; be is merely promising a few hours of liberation from the “cowshed.”

The docile, quiet, and harmonious members of the lower class behave as they wish and discharge on the only property where the right of imposition is left to them, at least for a few hours. However, it does not stay there.

The action spreads to the streets, and deliberately harms the temples of consumption and the System’s key points. The goal is liberating individuals who spend their days under supervision and store unhappiness at night while “watching” other people’s lives, making them feel alive by peculiar experiences up to and including death! Yet it is only after you have lost everything that you are free to do anything. Fight Club represents that kind of freedom.

These relief scenes that are easily transformed into purification ceremonies, as well as the “liberating actions” thesis, evolved into a hegemony that even refuses the identities of its members. The fact that Tyler’s tyranny is a bad replica of the “great corrupt System” is accentuated by Fincher’s ingenious irony.

Let me tell you about Tyler. He had a plan. They trusted him. Tyler said that whatever they own end up owning them. The difference between the goals of the director and the characters becomes apparent. Moreover, Fincher fictionalizes group therapy and the modern psychiatry behind it as a “world of escapism.” The plump man in a group therapy session, a method peculiar to modern society, symbolizes modern times, which advises chemicals for every happiness and ideal.

Fight Club is an inexplicable movie… According to one reviewer: “Even if it was not such an effective satire, it is worth seeing just for its astonishing visual style.”1 It is a dark movie that can be viewed from many angles: revolutionary violence to social personality disorders, the relation between men who see themselves as the “waste of the world” and women who “raise them,” and individual-group identification.

However, I assume it probably will reach the generation that grew up at the “wrong time.” It will occupy a bright place in cinema’s scale, and will be talked about just like Seven, with its cast, story, surprises, and astounding camera. Fight Club is one of 1999’s best films. However, remember the warning: “Restricted: Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.”

Footnotes

1. Michael Skeet, “Fight Club: An effective, incisive movie.” See: http://infoculture. cbc.ca/archives/filmtv/filmtv_10191999_ fightclub.phtml

References

• Aksiyon, 263 (December 1999).
• http://www.foxmovies.com/fightclub/
• http://movies.yahoo.com/shop?d=hV&id=1800018964&cf=info
• http://infoculture.cbc.ca/archives/filmtv/filmtv_10191999_fightclub.phtml