I won't say that I accepted the entry into the country with jealousy. Not at all. The written success was so little, the Abovian flood of language, once and for all unleashed by the lamentation of the Wound, so often avoided peacefully feeding the peaceful meadow of prose that it seemed that the story is not the element of Armenian, that the element of Armenian is not prose, that the self-portrait in the Armenian language is once and for all opposed to the Armenian writer.
You say Tigranuhi, Khndzor Orchard, Yeghjeru, or Mushegh... Mushegh, Aghasi, Yeghjeru, Sila, Khndzor Orchard are evidence of how talkative and sparsely populated the land of Armenian prose is, and how scarce, how barren, almost barren are the owners of that land. And so every new entrance was a great and new hope, every splash - an expectation of a melody, every clap - an expectation of the expansive life of the great valley - even more so, its entrance.
A boy had entered the land of prose, who, more precisely than all his predecessors, told true stories with exact words, he had no approximate words, as if the speech would pass to the stone, he was stingy and selective, he had no missed word, his word and object were found at the same moment, the fleeting, the momentary, the elusive, the nameless appeared his word had already found, had already become a figure and image and had a name... And they were delighted to find out those images and characters - delighted themselves with their already aliveness and multitude, their owner delighted with his selection of the unique among the many. This was a true writer and this was true prose. The reason for all the near desolation was proximity, and this was called longevity. But because Axel and Mushegh put down their pens prematurely, and Mndzuru's long life was devoted to literature only for a short time and in a short moment the exhaustion seemed to be fate - what was going to happen to this one?
It happened that the unfolded and continuous reality did not satisfy this Vano, more precisely, he was not satisfied with the lack of communication of reality in front of the writer, the literary work, thus, the opposition of the writer, the literary work in front of the unfolded and continued reality for itself, as if literature is not a composite of reality, as if that reality is not a derivative of that literature, as if they are not descended from each other and do not belong to each other. In his case, at least in this case, the reason was not his. himself and the procession born purely from him lived their work and life of the god in conscientious obedience - the reason was the falsity of the great ritual, and he and that reality that was falsified, falsified, defiled, defiled by its falsity for generations and time, of course, would not belong to each other. And here is his transition to politics, but also to power, he said, the reversal of the ritual, I accepted it with jealousy, he was on the platform instead of me, Vano himself was arrested in my place, he stood in the den of the beggar robber called the police and today he put his neck in the place where necks are usually broken.
It is a good thing that politics, like literature, like mathematics, punishes those who defame it, how good it is that literature has sent its unique non-swindler to politics.