Mher Mkrtchyan, Mkrtchyan Mher, was called to be one of the great inhabitants of this world, this theatre of God. Had there been no dramatic writing, no stage, Mher would have been that great figure in another way: as a Poloz Mukuch, a Pulu-Pughi or a William Saroyan, a human being whose presence and passage shower goodness, love and trust upon everyone. People wake in a different, better mood, attach no great importance to events and personalities, find the monstrous laughable, and see themselves free of the constraints imposed by order. And on this stage of God, Mher might have been greater still than he became on the theatrical stage. Himself a great creation of God, he could scarcely fit into our human works and creations: the moulds of characters shattered, the costume of a role tore apart on him with a crack, the structure collapsed at his entrance and was rebuilt and crowned with a dome in a form no one could have anticipated.
He would have to write for himself, and he did. On stage and off, his work and his life are his own great creation. Had that creation continued, our surroundings today would not be so mean and spiteful. Had that life continued, we would be better for the world, our stature a little taller, our eyes a little wiser, our souls lighter and our hearts more open.
But why do the great leave before great collapses, why do they turn their faces away from us? Is it not their duty, the duty of the great, to be among us in our hardest days, to lead our panicked flight—we whom they created—and turn our panic into an orderly retreat and advance? Or do we ourselves deserve to remain alone with our own malice, without the great?