arabaliozian

What kind of people are we? What kind of leadership is this? Instead of compassion, mutual contempt. Instead of reason blind instinct. Instead of common sense, fanaticism. They speak of the cross and nail us to it again as they speak. ANTRANIK ZAROUKIAN (1912-1989) Poet, novelist, critic, editor. ******************************************* All our religious, political, and cultural institutions share a single aim, the survival of the nation. If the nation perishes, neither Echmiadzin nor Antelias, not even God in his heaven, can be of any help to us. SIMON VRATSIAN (1882-1969) Statesman. Last Prime Minister of the Republic of Armenia (1918-1920). *********************************************** We Armenians are products of the tribal mentality of Turks and Kurds, and this tribal mentality remains stubbornly rooted even among our leaders and elites. NIGOL AGHBALIAN (1873-1947) Statesman, literary scholar, educator. *************************************************** A familiar figure in our collective existence is the prosperous and arrogant community leader who, by obstructing the path of all those who wish to reform and improve our conditions, perpetuates a status quo whose sole aim is his own personal profit and aggrandizement. LEVON PASHALIAN (1868-1943) Athor, editor. ************************************************** The Armenian Diaspora is losing its character. Our language, our literature, and our traditions are degenerating. Even our religious leaders have abandoned their calling and turned into cunning wheeler-dealers. Our publications thrive on meaningless controversies. I see charlatanism and cheap chauvinism everywhere but not a single trace of self-sacrifice and dedication to principles and ideals. What's happening to us? Where are we heading? Quo vadis, O Armenian people? SHAVARSH MISSAKIAN (1884-1957) Author, editor, critic.

Saturday, December 22, 2007 ************************************************** MER HAIRENIK TSHVAR, ANDER *********************************** How much of what I say is right? As a prejudiced observer I cannot be a reliable judge. You tell me! But instead of asking whether I am right, say, How right are those I quote and paraphrase, beginning with the Biblical dictum (“A house divided against itself cannot stand”) and Toynbee’s (“Civilizations are not killed, they commit suicide”). * As masters of the blame-game, our denialists assert they had nothing to do with our misfortunes, which amounts to saying, they reject all responsibility in shaping our tragic destiny, thus implying their role in our history has been that of nonentities or absentee landlords. * Writing in the 5th century, Movses Khorenatsi speaks of our divided and corrupt leadership (see his LAMENTATION, not to be confused with Naregatsi’s, which was written in the 10th century). Writing in the 20th century we have two distinguished witnesses who support Khorenatsi’s verdict: Avedik Issahakian (“our brainless leaders”) and Zarian (“Our political parties have been of no political use to us. Their greatest enemy is free speech.”) In our own days, listen to what Kocharian and Levon Der Bedrossian are saying about each other. * If I repeat myself, it’s because I don’t have a phobia of repetition. If you do, I suggest you see a shrink. If you can’t afford one, stop reading me. Never say I speak of problems without suggesting any solutions. But if you reject my solution to your problem and continue to read me, I thank you. Have a nice day. #

Friday, December 21, 2007 ******************************************* NAREGATSI ********************************* He is one of those writers everyone praises but no one reads, except our academics who are unanimous in naming him our Dante and Shakespeare combined. But whereas every Italian and Englishman is brought up to learn a few lines from Dante and Shakespeare by heart, I have yet to meet the Armenian who can quote a single line from Naregatsi. * One reason Naregatsi is not a popular writer is that he cannot be said to be a cheerful fellow. His LAMENTATION is an endless catalogue of sins, failings, and vices. A typical passage reads: “I constantly have recourse to lies, / Never uttering the truth…/ I am diligent in malignant acts of ribaldry; / I am ever active in satanic inventions.” * In his INFERNO, Dante speaks of hell as if it were a real place. Naregatsi has a more modern, not to say, existential view on the subject. “Hell is me,” he seems to be saying. And if “hell is other people” (Sartre) it’s because there is a “me” in all of us. It follows, in the eyes of our holier-than-thou propagandists, Naregatsi is bad news. Because if we are as bad as Naregatsi tells us, then perhaps we deserved our fate. But Naregatsi does not write to promote self-loathing and despair. His final message is one of hope. Salvation is yours, he tells us, provided you plead guilty as charged and repent. Not exactly a condition that will be welcome by our charlatans who parade as paragons of virtue. * TWO FACTS *********************** Naregatsi wrote in krapar (classical Armenian) but he is now available in both ashkharapar (the spoken idiom) and English (in an excellent translation by Mischa Kudian). * Naregatsi lived a thousand years ago, long before we were Ottomanized and Sovietized. * NARCISSISM ******************************* One way to define our holier-than-thou sanctimonious pricks and dealers in chauvinist crapola is to say, they are jackasses who believe, when they bray, they sound better than Pavarotti singing “Nessun dorma.” #

ARMENIAN WISDOM ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Baruir Sevak: "It is better to be a good reader than a bad writer." *** Karekin Nejdeh: "When a man falls down and doesn’t have the will to stand up, no amount of help will be of any use to him. It is the same with a nation that does nothing but complain, lament, and beg." *** Anonymous: "The worship of money is a terminal disease." *** Raffi: "The message of the world is clear: If you don’t learn how to kill, you forfeit your right to exist." *** Gostan Zarian: "If a thought cannot be expressed in a few words it cannot be worth expressing." *** Shmavon Hovsepian: "A jury of tigers, crocodiles, wolves, and hyenas is not qualified to condemn to death a cat guilty of killing a mouse." *** Hagop Baronian: "Avarice is an addiction whose eyes are bigger than its belly."

Thursday, December 20, 2007 *************************************************** NOTES / COMMENTS *************************************** Just when I think I am done with Armenians and their problems, a new one comes up or an old one that demands a novel approach. Who gives a damn about Armenians and their problems, anyway? Not even Armenians, it seems. I dream of the day when I will exhaust the subject and start writing love stories, adventure yarns, and murder mysteries. I love murder mysteries. I have read hundreds of Simenons… We all have our cross to bear. The smaller the nation, the heavier the cross. * If you want to convince a civilized man to behave like a barbarian, you tell him barbarians are at the gate even if there is no one there, and if there is one, he is either the gatekeeper or a harmless pilgrim. * Whenever I feel depressed, I console myself by saying that even those who hate me read me. Writers have this is common with women: they want to be irresistible. * Since there are no final answers, not even in science, every assertion is open to debate, provided of course the rules imposed on us by reason, common sense, common decency, and grammar are followed. And no one will ever succeed in convincing me that reason, common sense and decency, and grammar are anti-Armenian. * When I wrote flattering commentaries, I was published. When I wrote critical commentaries, I was published too. But when I started getting at the truth, I was silenced. Truth was my undoing. * I write for readers with an open mind. Not even the Good Lord can reach brainless idiots or, for that matter, brainy bastards. Consider the influence of the New Testament on the likes of Stalin (a seminarian) and his countless dupes, among them some very smart Armenians, like Anastas (ditto). #

Wednesday, December 19, 2007 ***************************************** EITHER / OR ******************************* If we are unique, that’s because every individual, tribe, nation, or for that matter, snowflake and grain of sand is unique. Whether this uniqueness is an asset or a liability I will let you decide, provided you don’t adopt one of our ubiquitous dealers of chauvinist crapola as your guide. Speaking for myself, I will say that our uniqueness is not what concerns me. What concerns me is our problems and there is nothing – repeat, nothing -- unique about them. Corruption, incompetence, divisiveness, authoritarianism, prejudice, and intolerance are as old as mankind. So is unawareness of them or self-deception. We either confront our shortcomings and make an honest effort to overcome them or we pretend there is nothing we can do because they are an integral part of the human condition. Again, speaking for myself, I am all for calling a spade a spade, a charlatan a phony and a wheeler-dealer not a man of vision or a noble specimen of humanity but a low-life and a bottom feeder. #

UNFORGETTABLE LINES +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pablo Neruda: "I know only the skin of the earth, and that it has no name." *** Arab proverb: "If an unlucky man went into business selling shrouds no one would die." *** Chekhov: "But perhaps the universe is suspended on the tooth of some monster." *** Balzac: "Love and hatred are emotions that feed on themselves, but of the two, hatred has a longer lifespan." *** Eugene Labiche: "Before doing someone a favor, make sure that he isn’t a madman." *** Brecht: "The world is God’s excrement." *** Heine: "I have never seen an ass who talked like a human being, but I have met many human beings who talked like asses." *** Winston Churchill [when told his fly was open]: "No matter. The dead bird does not leave the nest."

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 ******************************************** TYRANNY VERSUS DEMOCRACY ******************************************************* A community or a nation is not a congregation that will sing the same tune in unison. There will always be discordant voices. Get used to them. Our degree of tolerance and civilization depends on the manner in which we handle dissent. * I have been rereading Herodotus. What a great storyteller he was! Speaking of a certain Greek city-state, he writes that its citizens preferred tyranny to freedom. Impossible, I thought. Who in his right mind would choose tyranny when he can live in freedom? And then I thought of my fellow countrymen and remembered the words of our progressive and enlightened citizens (self-assessed of course) who tell us we are not yet ready for democracy. If by “we” they mean our leaders, they may be right. If they mean a fraction of the people that have been brainwashed, ditto. But I have no doubt whatever in my mind that, given a choice, the overwhelming majority will choose to live in a democracy. You want proof? Consider Armenians in the United States and Canada who did not immigrate en masse to Armenia under Stalin. * After centuries of oppression we have accumulated vast stores of resentment, anger, and bitterness. Our leaders are aware of this. That is why they channel this suppressed fury in the direction of the Turks. What motivates them to do that is self-preservation. * The chances of the unthinkable happening will be diminished if we think about it. If the unthinkable did happen it is because those who thought about it were ignored. “Zohrab effendi is exaggerating,” they said… * There is a type of critic (make it, kibitzer) who is so blinded by his own brilliance that he does not mind making an ass of himself. But he is smart enough to do so anonymously and dumb enough to add cowardice to narcissism. #

always wonderful to meet old friends. thanks for your comments. i enjoyed them. / ara

Monday, December 17, 2007 ******************************************** ILLUSIONS ****************************** “Nothing you say makes sense!” a reader writes; and another: “Tell us something we don’t know.” These two contradictory comments suggest that I may well be on the right track. But perhaps I am deluding myself. * I understand illusions. I have quite a few of them myself, as a matter of fact. I believe reason matters. I believe common sense is transferable. I believe explanations work. I think I may be able to make a difference. I like to hope where far better men than myself failed, I may succeed. Call it optimism run riot. Call it hubris. Whatever it is, it allows me to go on. * “You repeat yourself,” I am reminded once in a while. So do our Turcocentric pundits. So do our sermonizers who quote the Scriptures from hundreds of pulpits every Sunday. Has anyone ever dared to stand up and accuse them of repeating themselves? Once when I said as much in a commentary, the secretary of an archbishop wrote an angry letter to the editor in which she said: “How dare you, sir, comparing the trash you dish out [i am now abridging and paraphrasing] with the Holy Scriptures which happen to be the word of God?” My answer: Almost everything I write may be considered a paraphrase or variations on the Biblical dictum “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” * Scratch a defender of the status quo and expose a hireling for whom the establishment is manna. * There are no new ideas, only subtle adjustments of old ones. * I should like to meet an Armenian whose first impulse is to understand rather than to dismiss as absurd that which he makes no effort to understand. #

Sunday, December 16, 2007 ******************************************** THE DEATH OF SOCRATES ******************************************************** When the Greeks executed Socrates, they did not just kill a man but someone who represented the very best of Greek wisdom. To silence a thinker is like burning down a library. * The difference between an editor violating someone’s human right of free speech and a head of state ordering a massacre is one in degree. In both instances power is being abused at its maximum. Promote the editor (or a forum moderator) to head and state, and vice versa, demote a head of state to editor, and they will behave the same way. * Stalin or Hitler saying they have no use for intellectuals is the same as an architect saying he has no use for higher mathematics. The result will be buildings that collapse as surely as Stalin’s USSR and Nazi Germany did. * Hitler had no use for Jewish scientists. As a result, he lost to America some of Germany’s ablest minds, including Einstein. Had he been less of a racists, he would have won World War II and I would now be writing this in German. Toynbee is right: civilizations and empires are not killed, they commit suicide. * What our critics were saying about Levon Der Bedrossian and Robert Kocharian, they are now saying about each other; and if what they say is true, they both deserve the hangman’s noose. * Those who declare wars have a better chance to survive them than those who do the actual fighting. #

A MOTHER’S HEART ******************************** By AVEDIK ISSAHAKIAN ************************************ There is an old tale About a boy An only son Who fell in love with a lass. * “You don’t love me, You never did,” said she to him. “But if you do, go then And fetch me your mother’s heart.” * Downcast and distraught The boy walked off And after shedding copious tears Came back to his love. * The girl was angry When she saw him thus And said, “Don’t you dare come back again Without your mother’s heart.” * The boy went and killed A mountain roe deer And offered its heart To the one he adored. * But again she was angry And said, “Get out of my sight. I told you what I want Is your mother’s heart.” * The boy went and killed His mother, and as he ran With her heart in his hand He slipped and fell. * “My dear child, My poor child,” Cried the mother’s heart, “Did you hurt yourself?” * (Translated by Ara Baliozian) #

"I am called a dog because I fawn on those who give me anything, I yelp at those who refuse, and I sink my teeth in rascals." DIOGENES "Truly, if I were not Alexander I would wish to be Diogenes." ALEXANDER THE GREAT

Raffi: "Collaboration [with the enemy] and betrayal are in our blood." Gostan Zarian: "Armenians survive by cannibalizing one another." Nigoghos Sarafian: "Our history is a litany of lamentation, anxiety, horror, and massacre. Also deception and abysmal naivete mixed with the smoke of incense and the sound of sacred chants." Shahan Shahnour: "The enemy is not the Turk but us." Yeghishe: "If a nation is ruled by two kings, both the kings and their subjects will perish."

Krikor Zohrab's DELIVERANCE, *************************************** Introduced by Stephan Zeytountsian **************************************************************** Krikor Zohrab wrote "Deliverance" (original title "Jidin Bardkeh") in 1892. Ara Baliozian, modern day Armenian writer, translator and critic describes Zohrab as a unique figure in modern Armenian literature; a master of the short story, an influential journalist, editor, educator, an internationally respected jurist and charismatic leader. Zohrab’s Deliverence can be compared with Arthur Millers’s “Death of a Salesman”, which was written half a century later in1949. However, unlike Miller’s story, which is based on the great Depression that also spelled financial ruin for his father, a small time manufacturer, Zohrab’s story depicts the story of an Armenian merchant in Constantinople during the final years of the Ottoman Empire, where as well as the economic recession, Armenians faced systematic discrimination. Sadly, Krikor Zohrab's name remains totally unknown outside Armenian circles. Please read on. You will be impressed by Ara Baliozian's translation: Krikor Zohrab's DELIVERANCE ******************************************************************************** * Translated by Ara Baliozian, e-mail: [email protected] *********************************************************** It was a large, black leather bag and he carried it with him wherever he went. Like two constant companions, they were in separable. It was with that bag that he brought home the bread, fruit, meat, and all the other necessities of life. Many years of sweat and toil had gone into that bag. The daily difficulties and problems that one encounters while engaged in the struggle for existence, also the joys, sorrows, memories and above all, the anxiety of no longer being able to provide for his family they were all there in that bag. It was not so much a bag as a bottomless vessel that like a condemned soul in Hades he tried to fill but was destined never to succeed. Like the man, the bag had its good and bad days; nay, it seemed to have a soul and a destiny of its own. And it was that very destiny that the man served. Thirty years later, when misfortune with its steel talons, gripped and bound him in chains, the man realized at last that the bag had been his master and himself its slave. Housep agha was a corpulent middle aged man with a graying beard. A former prosperous merchant, then a modest shopkeeper, he was now a poor middleman, a peddler who for a small commission went from door to door and from store to store, carrying samples of linen and other low quality fabrics, receiving orders, and delivering merchandise. Others may speak of the law of demand and supply, but Housep agha knew that as far as he was concerned that was no law but just another device fate had contrived in order to frustrate his efforts to earn a living. Ah! if only he were alone, with no one to look after but himself. He had two daughters however, young girls both in their early adolescence, with all the sweet dreams and expectations of youth. He loved them with all his heart, and they were his only source of happiness. And yet, in their presence, he felt oppressed because beneath their wistful, innocent smiles he perceived an unspoken reproach. Like a man guilty of an unpardonable crime, he would come home with his head bent low, always trying very hard to conceal his despair with a smile. They lived, all three of them the two girls and their father (the mother having died many years ago of consumption) on the heights of Scutari, in a small house which they rented for 200 piasters a month. The late lamented mother's picture a youthful, emaciated woman now hung on the wall of the tiny room facing the street. Many years had gone by since her death but her memory continued to live and they spoke of her every day. At night, after his daughters retired, the poor peddler would linger before her image in its gilded frame and implore for a little help from the other side of the grave. His strength, like his wealth, had now dwindled almost to the vanishing point. Every morning he ventured forth holding his bag with weak, quivering hands, and when, in the evening, he returned home, the bag would be, more often than not, only half full. At dawn, as he waited on the dock for the ferryboat, he was sometimes given small orders by merchants, out of pity as it were, and he felt like a beggar accepting charity. On occasion he plucked up enough courage to join in their conversation and voice his own views, which needless to add, were always in complete agreement with the speaker of the moment. And when the time came for them to move, it was Housep agha who would invariably stand aside respectfully for every one else to pass first. Whenever any one of the merchants would say something to the effect that he had been deceived in a recent deal, Housep agha would get angrier than the man who had actually sustained the financial loss, heaping insults on the swindler, calling him a thief and a man fit only for the hangman's noose. Other times when the company was in a more agreeable frame of mind, he would entertain them with jokes and pleasant little tales with the expectation of thus receiving a few more order. Everyone liked this fatherly man because he was never rude like so many others in his line of work and tended to accept adjustment in the price without haggling and protesting too much. Housep agha may have had many problems, but so did the prosperous merchants, whose early morning conversations revolved more and more often now around ways and means to minimize costs and increase profit. The Persian tradetheir main source of profitwas down. Everyone was getting smart these days. Low quality and defective merchandiseboth items with large profit marginswere no longer in demand. What to do? There were some expensesexport duty, for instance, and salary for the office personnel about which they could do nothing. But they could lower the middleman's commission, perhaps even eliminate the middleman altogether. Why the need of a middleman anyway? Why not order the merchandise directly from the textile plants and sell it to their clients themselves? There were other compelling reasons to justify this more efficient method of operation. Not being an authority on fabrics, a middleman lacked first hand knowledge of the properties, quality and value of a piece of merchandise. Neither was he in a position therefore to explain these things to their clients. Hearing this kind of talk Housep agha would shake like a leaf, and his bag would shake along with him. Whereupon the merchants would hasten to reassure him:"Housep agha, you've got nothing to worry about. What we are saying doesn't apply to you, of course. After all, you are our man . . " The poor peddler would heave a deep sigh of relief. But his business kept going down and his debts piling up everywhere all the same. And since he took good care of his appearance, no one could guess the desperate situation he was in. The bag had now become a useless appendage, but Housep agha continued to carry it with him wherever he went. At home he did his best to appear cheerful. "How's business these days?" the older daughter would sometimes inquire "So far so good," he would say with a forced smile. "Things could be better, of course ..." "Promise to come home sooner today," the younger one would add, "so that we can all go out for a walk together." As always, the miserable wretch promised them whatever they wanted. Poor orphans he thought, spending the best years of their lives in utter destitution. Imagine a journey whose best view is a long. dark tunnel with no end in sight. As always, early that day too, Housep agha left for Constantinople/Istanbul on the first ferry, carrying with him that black monster with insatiable appetite that he hadn't been able to satisfy for thirty years now, holding it in a tight grip as if to suffocate it. He found no work in Constantinople/Istanbul. He had spent his last coins on the fare and the time to return home was drawing near with horrible speed. What am I to do? What am I to do? He kept asking himself. He even saw that question looming before him in massive letters. He kept on walking, feeling all the while the emptiness of the bag under his arm. Then he imagined himself back home with his two daughters beside him. For an instant he forgot his troubles. He was once more the prosperous merchant of the old days, and they were about to leave the hut on the heights of Scutari for a mansion in a wealthy district. At last he would give them what ever their youthful hearts desired new clothes, new hats, everything and seeing their joy he was happy once more. Ah happiness! he thought. How simple it was, and yet, how unattainable! Then, the weight of the large, empty bag brought him back to his senses. He decided to try his luck on a few more stores. But is was all in vain. Wherever he entered, he was invariably met with stony, hostile glances. He felt intimidated and could not bring himself to tell anyone that he didn't even have enough money to buy a loaf of bread for his children. Instead he wandered aimlessly up and down the streets in complete silence, gazing at store windows, marvelling at their contents, especially the jewels and little ornaments glittering with all kinds of precious gems. He thought of his daughters again. He would never be able to give them any of these things. His daughters! What time was it? It was getting dark. He broke into a run. He was late. What was he doing there, loafing idly in the streets anyway? He must do some thing. Ask someone for help. Yes. He would do just that with the first familiar face he saw. Where were they? All the people he knew? At last he recognized a face a merchant whom he had known in the old days, when he was himself a successful businessman. But ever since he had fallen on hard times, the other had ignored him completely. and they were no longer on speaking terms. At this point he saw another familiar face coming towards him. That man owed him a favor once, recently, when he had been in trouble, Housep agha had helped him. Yet now, as he hurried past, he pretended he had not seen Housep agha. And what about that man over there, smiling at him now? Just a derelict, alas! even more destitute than he. Housep agha advanced as far as the Galata Bridge, then he stopped. It occurred to him that since he didn't have the required ten paras, he couldn't walk across the bridge. At this point he also noted that something was amiss. What could it be? he wondered. After examining himself carefully, he realized what it was. His bag. He must have dropped it somewhere. He retraced his steps, on the trot, confused, flustered, totally disoriented. That same night a corpse was seen floating and swaying gently on the surface of the water. It was the body of a corpulent, middle aged man stretched out on his back, with wide open eyes fixed on the heavens where the full moon shone like a huge silver coin. Barely visible below the surface of the water and drifting along with the body, there was a black leather bag with its strap coiled tightly around his neck. As inseparable in death as they had been in life, the bag sometimes pulled the head be low the surface, but the head surfaced again with a jerk, as if struggling to free itself from the bag's fatal grip. Later, when the body was dragged out on the shore, it was discovered that the bag now looking like a permanently bloated and satiated belly contained nothing but stones.

ZARIAN ON STYLE ******************************************* Translated by Ara Baliozian ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Translator’s note: The following passage is taken from Gostan Zarian’s collection of essays, reminiscences, travel impressions, diaries, and notebooks titled NAVADOMAR (Logbook), edited with an introduction and commentary by Youri Khachaturian (Yerevan, 1999). ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ For an authentic writer nothing can be as easy as being difficult; and nothing can be as difficult as being easy. "Make it simple," Oscar Wilde once wrote to a friend from jail, "otherwise I will think you have nothing to hide." That which is simple has many layers of meaning. Simplicity is like the skin that covers muscles, nerves, and all the other secrets of the body. That which is difficult has nothing to say. When you finally unravel its mysteries you discover it is devoid of all sense. And those who praise this kind of writing are either simple-minded dupes or cunning operators whose hidden motives have nothing to do with literature.

From GOSTAN ZARIAN'S "NOTEBOOKS" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Selected and Translated by A.B. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Yerevan / 1961-1969 ************************ God created the world, but the Dutch created Holland. Armenians would have done the same if they had not relied too much on others. *** With us, the emphasis is on cunning: a character trait of slaves, devoid of creative impetus, never a source of strength. *** Dante once wrote to a friend: "I found the prototype of my Inferno right here where I now live." *** "The world is an opinion," Marcus Aurelius tells us. *** We are like the stars, divided by infinite spaces. By obliterating the physical dimension, death (and here is its beauty) obliterates these spaces too.

FROM THE DIARIES OF GOSTAN ZARIAN *************************************** Selected and Translated by A.B. **************************************** Beirut / April 1954 Rain. Went to Antelias with Father Shahen and Shahan Berberian. I told them, the Armenian church has become another shop. April 6, 1954 Dinner with Shahen Vartabed and Shahan Berberian. Old memories, new hopes. Shahan understands a little of everything. Generally speaking, the Armenian atmosphere is stifling. Salzburg / December 12, 1956 Everywhere Mozart, Mozart, Mozart. He has become a source of revenue, he who was buried in a paupers' grave. Vienna / March 14, 1957 For a number of years now, we have been living like monks. Once in a while a play or a concert, nothing else. I don't see any Armenians, which is no great loss. Vienna / April 5, 1957 We must oppose the concept of art as entertainment. Art must be a mission and a destiny. One must be more than an artist. Florence / November 26, 1957 Dinner with Mrs. Mann-Borgese [Thomas Mann's daughter]. Long conversations about literature and her father. I didn't know that Thomas Mann's mother was a Brazilian and he had thus a dual sensibility: German and Latin. Mrs. Mann-Borgese is herself a talented woman and the author of many essays. She can't be said to be a great beauty, but is endowed with qualities far superior to beauty: a graceful bearing and a high degree of intelligence *** Five months now that I have not seen a single Armenian newspaper. So much the better. The only thing that connects me to my fellow Armenians is the language. April 1958 We always forget that what interests us is not the nation itself but our conception of it. (My case.)

Thursday, December 13, 2007 ************************************************ CAIN’S ANSWER ********************************* Political lies have been with us for a long time. Even Plato discusses them in his Dialogues, which where written 2500 years ago. * No one lies as surely as he who speaks in the name of truth or God. In the Bible we read that God asked Cain where Abel was, the implication being that Cain knew something God did not. And Cain replied: “I don’t know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:9). * Speaking of lies, murder, and brotherhood: Our Turcocentric ghazetajis tell us they don’t hate Turks. Their sole aim, they say, is justice. But justice, like truth, is an abstraction. No one has ever laid eyes on it. Instead of abstractions, let’s speak of reality. The truth about reality is that we cannot speak about it, only fractions of it. That’s because we have only a limited number of words and reality has an infinite number of levels and complexities. That’s one reason why when we speak we lie. * Does that mean Cain did not kill Abel? No. Of course not! It only means we don’t know why Cain became a murderer. Was it envy? Why should envy lead to murder? What is envy? What has made us capable of envy? Or rather, who has instilled envy in man? For what purpose? The infinite number of complexities generates an equal number of questions until the final one, which is also Cain’s: We don’t know because we are not God’s keeper. # Friday, December 14, 2007 **************************************** FRAGMENTS *********************************** When nine out of ten are unanimous in believing one thing, go with the tenth, for believing and thinking are mutually exclusive concepts. * I disagree with anyone who holds views that were mine thirty years ago; and if I don’t stand on ceremony with them it may be because I don’t stand on ceremony with myself. * The man who views the world and his fellow men in black and white terms, as opposed to shades of gray, will invariably classify himself as all white even when he is pitch black. * If character is destiny, as the ancient Greeks thought, the question we should ask is: To what extent our character as a nation has been shaped by 600 years of Ottoman oppression followed by 60 years of Bolshevik tyranny? If this question has so far gone unanswered it may be because our nationalists and masters of the blame-game have done their utmost to ignore or cover up that aspect of our identity. # Saturday, December 15, 2007 *********************************************** FROM MY NOTEBOOKS **************************************** Where charlatans are in charge, honest men will be silenced. Where ignoramuses are in charge, knowledge will be outlawed. Where the blind are in charge, the one-eyed will be blinded. * I don’t tell you things I already know. I tell you things that I discover as I write. * Why should I trust the judgment of underdogs whose sole ambition in life is to be top dogs so that they will have the pleasure of stepping on underdogs, even when the underdogs happen to be their brothers? * The worst mistake we can make is to assume that Comrade Panchoonie is a character in a satirical novel by Yervant Odian written a century ago. Every other day I get a letter from him that ends with the word “mi kich pogh…” something similar could be said of Hagop Baronian’s “honorable beggars.” Characters in great literary works live much longer than their creators. Or rather, great writers achieve immortality through the characters they create. * Our standards have fallen so low that every panchoonie, honorable beggar, and ghazetaji parades as a defender of the faith and the savior of the nation. * What if I am wrong? There is always that possibility, of course. In my defense I will say that if only the infallible were allowed to speak, the only voice would be that of the Pope of Rome, we would all be Catholics, and Latin would be the most widely spoken language in the world. * I.B. Singer: “I am not a vegetarian for the sake of my health, but for the health of the chickens. For animals, every day is Treblinka.” #

me no speak russki! / ara

QUOTATIONS FROM KAREKIN NEJDEH (1886-1957) ************************************************** Selected and translated by Ara Baliozian ********************************************************************* The morally depraved can also voice noble principles. Life is constant and endless renewal. Only the morally irresponsible refuse to understand this. Without renewal, a nation dies every hour, every minute. Our political parties either don't understand this or they have no desire to understand it. A nation that fails to do what it can and must do has no right to expect foreign assistance. Nations that are unwilling to defend their own interests condemn themselves to death. When dealing with foreign powers and issues, our press adopts a permissive, forgiving, and subservient tone. With our own internal problems, however, it becomes arrogant, vindictive, vicious.

UNTITLED ****************************** by Shavarsh Nartuni *************************************** Translator’s note: the original of what follows is in prose. I did not go out of my way to versify it. It came out that way. I am not a poet. I have written only one poem in my life, a bad poem, as befits the bad man who inspired it. About Nartuni: he was not a poet but a doctor who produced several volumes of prose (published in book form only posthumously). He lived in Paris. This translation (my very first) was published 25 years ago in ARARAT Quarterly in New York. *************************************************************** This morning more than ever I am seized by an irresistible longing to speak my mother tongue. I search for an Armenian, any Armenian, with whom I can speak. If you understand this strange, irresistible longing, please help me. I would like to meet an Armenian, any Armenian, even an alienated one who has forgotten his mother tongue. Let him remember a single word only; and let our paths cross so that I may say to him: Are you Armenian? And if he were to nod yes with his head, I would immediately cry out the words taught to me by my father and mother: Pari Louys! In the name of everything that is holy, I swear to you there can be nothing sweeter, nothing more heart-rending. How much meaning have our ancestors placed in that expression!... O my lovely Armenian language: as fresh as the morn and as deep as the night; as frolicsome as a child and as wise as an old man; as consoling as a prayer and as beautiful as Spring. O my sweet Armenian language fit for a mighty king as well as a humble peasant, suitable for townspeople as well as villagers, ever youthful, ever mighty, may you live forever =====

i can give you reasons but i cannot give you understanding.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007 ************************************************* CONFESSIONS OF A LIBERAL **************************************** In one of his books Ben Bagdikian says that conservatives like Murdoch, Conrad Black, and Buckley control most of the media in America, and yet they bitch about the liberal media. Something similar could be said about our own pro-establishment right wingers, who control not only our media but also our community centers, schools, university chairs, and institutions. Hence the misconception that we never had it so good because we are in good hands. As for the one or two minor problems, like our mafia democracy in the Homeland: they will fix themselves in twenty or thirty years. What about dissenting voices? What dissenting voices? I don’t hear them. They don’t hear them because they have been ruthlessly and systematically silenced. * There is a tendency in America to exaggerate the importance of words spoken in anger – Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitic tirade when arrested for drunk driving, for instance. When angry we say things we don’t always mean. I have myself said many harsh things in anger even about my mother whom I love very much. That doesn’t make me anti-motherhood or for that matter, God forbid, anti-apple pie. * Speaking of motherhood: some Armenians look down at fellow Armenians who cannot speak their mother tongue. To them I ask: What’s the use of speaking Armenian if the sentiments you express are Ottoman? * I have been called a variety of names, none of them remotely close to honest. And yet, that has been my sole aim in life: to be an honest witness. * If you think you are a better Armenian, it is of course your privilege to do so and I will say nothing to disabuse you -- only warn you: if you expect all Armenians to agree with you, be prepared to be disappointed and end your days as a bitter old man. * As for our ultra-conservative Turcocentric pundits and their ubiquitous, predictable, and cliché-ridden commentaries: the only way to describe them is to say they are ideal instances of diarrhea of words and constipation of ideas. * As Brahms used to say on his way out from a party: “I apologize to anyone I may have neglected to offend.” #