“As a writer and chairman of the Writers’ Union, how would you describe the state of literary creation today?”
“I do not distinguish between Hrant Matevosyan the writer and the chairman of the Writers’ Union. I do not think that if I were not chairman, my attitude, every line of my individuality towards anyone, would be different. Hrant Matevosyan the chairman does not constrain my tastes or personal sympathies at all. My outlook has remained the same: the reader within me, expecting writing of quality from Armenian literature and not hardened by thirst, remains the same. I distinguish names in poetry and prose too. I am not so well acquainted with drama. In children’s literature there remain the same beloved, almost aspiring-to-be-classical Yuri Sahakyan and, perhaps, Yervand Petrosyan. In prose, Levon Khechoyan and Gurgen Khanjyan. I could give more names, but let them remain discernible in the depths of my soul; I do not yet want to name them. It is difficult to indulge in predictions. In my predictions I have been the only unerring one in all Armenian literary history, and I do not want to be wrong now either. In poetry I would single out Violet Grigoryan and Khachik Manukyan.”
“What is the Writers’ Union’s role today? It is said that it once created a literary atmosphere… Can we say the same today?”
“Yes, it really can create a literary atmosphere. The Writers’ Union is a concept of enormous significance. It is a moral and civic institution, an indivisible part of the nation’s formation. In Armenia the Writers’ Union was the first to give literature civic standing within the Armenian nation. It drew traders, merchants, people becoming Russian, people far from national and cultural life, into literature. They began speaking of literature, breathing it, in Mantashov’s and the Palanshevs’ homes. The aristocracy came into literature. Over fifteen hundred years literature received attention; otherwise our people would have remained a people of traders, never coming to their senses. That is what our forebears managed to do. In its present state the Writers’ Union of Armenia is a very fragile institution. In today’s life, through its significance, essence and vitality, it is not a great thing, but its loss will become a great thing. In that sense the institution must be cherished and tended by literary circles, the state and society. If the Writers’ Union ceases to exist, it will be very bad.”
“So there is a fear of losing it?”
“Yes, there is. Even in its years of power, the past seventy years, the Writers’ Union was not something great in significance, but its loss would be bad. Today it must be responsible towards those who have gone before and, in these times of declining standards and morality, be able to impose literary standards on society.”
“What new qualities are being created in literature today that did not exist in the Soviet Union?”
“There is absolutely nothing newly discovered, unfamiliar to the previous literature. Everything matured and came from there. The fault of the past was perhaps that people were constrained and there was no freedom of discovery; this created a revolutionary situation. Revolutions, instead of being daily renewal and refreshment, were preserved in jars, and this explosive state was bound to come. If I said that a quality is revealed today in G. Khanjyan or V. Grigoryan that was entirely unknown to our names of yesterday, it would not be true. Only the scale differs. Paruyr Sevak said: ‘Poetry is not for the people; for the people there are tomatoes, aubergines, bread. Poetry is an elite thing.’ This so-called mass culture that attacked along the entire front—that is the novelty that did not exist before. Yesterday the gates were closed, and society was gradually accustomed to the values that arose beyond the Iron Curtain; that too was a humane approach. But after the gates were shattered, society suddenly found itself besieged, conquered.”
“What are relations between the state and the writer today? The present president relatively often arranges meetings with writers and intellectuals. What should the state’s attitude towards writers be?”
“It was pleasant that Armenia’s president nevertheless came to that meeting in part as an admirer of Hrant Matevosyan, as a person of literature, although he is not very much a literary person. I do not want to surrender to the general, central thought that when there was no state, the state took refuge in literature, from the days of Raffi and Abovyan; that the state and nation were indebted to us, that yesterday it sheltered with us and today we should shelter too. Let us not speak of that, but literature must nevertheless have state patronage. National literature needs national protection. If as a nation we want to withstand this cultural expansion, be part of the world’s cultural ensemble, we must give writers the best help and support possible. It would be right for the state to support twenty writers with stipends so they could attend solely to the pen, because literature is, after all, professional work, not a dilettante’s work. Dilettantism spoils everything; one cannot turn to literature from time to time, when an opportunity arises. Every day the writer must be given the chance to work at literature, and then a certain result can be expected.”
“How do you regard our political events and the policies pursued by our authorities?”
“They are all me. In this imposed confinement, this dead end where we have found ourselves, they perform my spasms, my acts of heroism. I cannot say any one of them is not me. I do not stand against anyone with hostility. I know all the pain and suffering are nationwide and imposed, and I must say they are part of me, my brothers. It is theatre: some play badly in this farce, some well.”
“Literature is neglected today. There were social hardships and war before too, yet people were drawn to literature.”
“Before us, the West sounded the alarm about the decline of what we call culture, because theatre had broken through its curtains and gone down into the street, as had literature. The same happened among us. There was no life; there was Paruyr Sevak. Historiography was forbidden, and Paruyr Sevak’s ‘The Ever-Ringing Belfry’ arose. Poetry gave the answers of the head of state, diplomat and historian, and they resonated widely. Paruyr Sevak was General Andranik, an Armenian diplomat, everything. Poetry and literature satisfied our interest and society’s emotional thirst. It is not the same now. Theatre overflowed into the street, leaving life and books aside. The square is open: you want Tumanyan, you want Sevak, you want porn—everything has gone into the street. The street has become a theatrical square. If yesterday I could confidently publish my volume in fifty thousand copies, which would not remain in the bookshop even two days, today it takes great boldness to publish five hundred.”
“Are you writing today?”
“I have unfinished works that I certainly want to complete. The pen is my bread, my faith, my freedom, my friend. The blank page is the only place where I am a builder of a country.”
“Vano Siradeghyan and many others always said: ‘If Hrant Matevosyan writes again, I will read.’ Otherwise they do not follow our contemporary writers’ work.”
“There was something accurate in Vano Siradeghyan’s answer: in every age, in the hardest times for books, the strong compel people to read them. Like a commander, like a close friend, they fall in beside you and come with you. Strong friends. Each of us must be able to draw out of himself that great, powerful, guiding presence that will not abandon the reader.”
“The events concerning Vano Siradeghyan became the best means of exposing your ‘hidden’ enemies.”
“Indeed, many were looking for an opportunity. Frankly, the great love and good treatment shown towards me have not flattered me much, and I am not afraid of hostility at all. Writers, writing people, should simply have treated their literary companion in a more friendly way. The attitude towards Vano Siradeghyan, his work and these events, especially in literary circles, was at least ugly, in a way the attitude towards the previous, non-writer president was not. If we regard the republic’s previous authorities as criminals, writers should not have singled out from eleven thousand criminals a person close to their circles merely because he had been a Writers’ Union member, and stoned him in particular. Quite the reverse. If the republic has entered a severe crisis, it is not through Vano Siradeghyan’s fault, but everyone’s: those enjoying themselves, those who are here, those who built eleven thousand mansions. They should not single out Vano Siradeghyan. They stone him because he is onstage today. We are obliged to defend the man from our own workshop, our community.”
“It was said that Silva Kaputikyan had intended to leave before the well-known events, and that they were not the reason at all.”
“What if I too say: I am leaving the Writers’ Union?… Silva Kaputikyan is certainly no ordinary voice, but within the Writers’ Union she is only one voice. What if I leave too? What if for a long time, since the sixties, I have not wanted to belong to this Writers’ Union, where every meeting becomes an occasion for stoning and which has never once defended me? I too have grounds for taking offence. Why should we take offence at one another? Should we not forgive, tolerate the line each of us has found, the word each has written? Literature is difficult. We fill thousands of pages, and only in rare places can extracts be taken. Literature comes about through love, forgiveness and tolerance, so that we become one another’s echo. We must revive the past and summon the future. That should be our attitude, rather than creating an atmosphere of hostility and tearing society apart.”
“Some supposed you would resign.”
“I will resign yet; I will leave here. I have long said that every day I come here like an animal driven to slaughter. I will bring some conscientious official here and leave this post, because my life is truly too precious to spend here.”
“Would you resign if you knew your replacement could not preserve even the Writers’ Union’s present significance? For many, it matters because of Hrant Matevosyan.”
“No. In that case I will not leave. They draw me into an ugly fight. Let them not force me to tell them who they are, where the line they have written is, what they amount to. Let them not draw me into ugly conversations. What, should I have stayed outside so I could say from a distance: there are four hundred Writers’ Union members, three hundred and ninety cannot even write an application, and those unable to write an application should come and run things here?… I may swear and leave. If they consider it proper, say, to send a greeting to Russia’s State Duma and sign it ‘Chairman of the Writers’ Union of Armenia Somebody Somebodyan,’ let them come.”
Interview by Lilit Seyranyan.
“Zhamanak”, 23 February 1999.