It's unbelievable, but it's a fact. the remaining mind and heart would be paralyzed after the mountain, but the opposite happened. Bakunts has such an image - the grass grew more lushly on the place where Petu fell, on his blood and bone marrow. here, yesterday's valley of blood was flourishing culture - everyone was creating: artists, architects, musicians, writers, and everyone was a poet, everyone was creating well, even those who seemed to be barren from birth. the loss of age-old dreams and the real homeland was compensated by the spiritual homeland. Here, the multifaceted, colorful, light-hearted Mahari testifies that Bakunts promised to live for a hundred years and testified to his ninety-year-old grandfather that he was still cracking walnuts with his teeth in order to please Charents even more. he didn't live that long, even with both of them, he and Charents didn't live. three: Mahari, Bakunts, Charents, minus the known unknown years of Maharu, perhaps. His tragic death, which was not only his death, but the end of many, many beginnings, brought our star traveler to the grave as well, and this is not just words to glorify their faithful partnership - this is substance; Charents, who was still outside, described his imprisoned, imprisoned friend as follows:
... And for words your marble,
Ancient, Buryan, as our old
Stone sculpture chapels
The indelible writings are ancient,
And as sacred as myrrh
Kept in the pure vessels of your songs,
For tips always,
As the counsel of our Naira spirit,-
For your "Mirhav" - and light:
Havet sanctified by the memory of Arpenik,
The fragrant "Alpine flower"
That will smell like immaterial things,
And finally your noble, heroic
For the "seed" to sow with my hands
This blackness of our existence on black arrows
Sprinkles shine and impersonal seed,
For all this, and Tsirani
Millennial money for yours
For centuries longing for peace!
The song is playing - and how many are our people?
Has a get ap a land under the sun,
Brotherly songs will be played.
For all this, oh, my poor friend,
I bless you now with my pure song...
For all this - and your sister
For suffering again
It mixes majesty with your pristine song -
I recognize you as a brother...
And I apologize to you, here again, honestly
With my lips, like days ago,
When you were still a virgin,
And I was your poet friend.
This miraculous portrait that perfectly glorifies the embattled Bakuntsi is more intimate than Bakuntsi himself, the tough copperhead Charents, his unbreakable masculinity, his physical sense of the sadness of the days to come, and the heavy tragedy of the past, but with its consequences, who feels his great absence today at every moment, they will not want to understand Ignorant people - an ignorant person would not know the place of the heart of literature so precisely - no, they will not want to understand the conscious, embittered enemies of culture, evil people, such people who, even after killing and digging, look at the place where their victim stood with malice for a long time.
Bakuntsi's untimely absence was more than a tragedy for him and his contemporaries, it was more of a tragedy for his descendants of Armenian literature, for all Soviet literature, for the literature of the world, because through his mouth we would say something to the world, because in today's interconnected, interconnected, intertwined world, talent can be the child of a people, but never the property of only one people, and how poor we Armenian readers would feel if there were no American Americans. Faulkner, the Spanish-speaking Marques, if Tolstoy's great fact had not been established - perhaps as poor as the above-mentioned peoples were deprived of having something beautiful and true, Armenian.
This is not a pity for the untimely martyrs in general, nor is it a request not to raise a hand to the talents in front of the enemies of culture, - kudos to them, whoever they raise a hand to, whether it is Garcia Lorca in Spain or Axel Bakunts in Armenia, the people ignore their deviations, wipe away the stains and sanctify them - this is the desire to correct our hump with his upright height, this is the word of Mirhav and Sabu. About the author of the Humble Girl and Tigranuh, Chark and Gulbahar, Tsiran Street and Kyores, Province Sunset and Abovyan's unfinished novel, and the deep awareness that in today's world, there is a struggle of cultures more than a wrestling match of armies, natural sciences, explorations and economies, and woe to the people whose culture is defeated in the struggle - after that, the head of the people itself is expected unconditionally. indulgence. It is so and only so and so, and the commander of our culture was eliminated from the middle at the very beginning of the battle. We consider him a military leader not because our place is narrow, our place is certainly not wide, but because the language and the people among our contemporaries and descendants, except for Charents, have not endowed anyone as much and in the same way as Bakuntsi.
He was a worldview and aesthetic new beginning, and many perspective phenomena, which were difficult to clarify before the eyes of my descendants even after fifty years, fifty years before us, were already taking breath and shape in his work. but do not recall the clash of clay and metal, twentieth century and medieval, national and individual introversion and the nationless, individual mass parade in "Provincial Sunset" or the chain infinity of phantasmagoric images that are celebrated today in "Kores" - and it becomes clear that almost every one of his works was a new beginning and as such a must for all of us.
What the people gave him and he was going to return and what he managed to return are not things to compare, but what was saved from his employment as an agriculturist, from his hastily closed work and life, from destroyed archives, in short from his excited contemporaries and time, for whom destruction and construction seemed equally easy, and especially what he managed to correct and edit with his Momikian fingers, he is considered one of the greatest masters of modern culture. series, because its lack of merit is fully compensated by the accuracy of its depiction of the era and its people. About a writer who could not finish the "Red Karm" epic about social enmity, World War I, inter-ethnic pogroms and civil strife, a writer who collected only distant, distorted, rural echoes of the revolution and upheaval in the Armenian mountains thousands of versts away from Smoln and Der-Zor, a writer whose handwriting constantly reminds of Armenian medieval miniatures and khachkar art - to say epochal and precisely epochal will sound absurd to the ears of the newest descendants, to those people for whom the eternally saving creed of internationalism excluded the feeling of national dignity and efforts of resistance and the unmistakable, one hundred percent novelistic realization of this or that useful idea alive - turned people into chess pieces, let's say those novels are chess pieces board, and for whom the content of the socialist reconstruction of the village was invariably summed up in the quadrangle of kuscetu-village council-collective council-people. they themselves wanted to be epoch-making and they really were, but only for two days. then living life transformed that reality by exaggerating, and the literature accurately reproducing that reality remained in its epoch, although it could happen that reality disappeared, the literature of reality remained; thesis, both reality and literature were intentional, and both were left behind, while Bakuntsi's "Gülbahar" remained about the wrong, missed, secondary, secondary importance.
Bakuntsi's view of people and phenomena was fundamentally new, the style brought by that worldview was new, Bakuntsi-writer as a whole was new and unprecedented and as such, he is exemplary for my descendants, perhaps the most exemplary among all his predecessors, just as Teryan's "Yerkir Nairi" series was exemplary for him among many previous greats. Bakunts was new not in the way that every more or less gifted creator looks at the world, admires and gets disappointed, surprised and angry in a new way, but he was new epochally, that is, no matter how great personalities there were before him, they could not and did not see the world and phenomena the way Bakunts did.
That, that look of his, among the contemporaries buried in their poor, religious-social-national three-layered tomb during the awakening of nations, from the hopes of the predecessors to commemorate the heroism of the ancient centuries, whose end was bitter disappointment, he had neither memory nor love for those "crazy-smart" people who did not believe in the power of the people, who equated his role in the salvation of the people to zero, deprived the people of their rights and the cause of their freedom. they considered it a matter of life and death, the end of which was again deep disappointment. Bakuntsi's view was essentially a view of the people or on the people - it is a view from within the people, he said that he does not look at the people as ammunition or rescue material, he does not approach the people with a ready-made plan, but reveals for us the secret of being among the people, and that advice is good, again he said that he is not speaking on behalf of the people dressed as a people, but on the contrary, the people speak through his mouth. His living art comes from his reports and essays and could not be otherwise - the multitude of natives does not allow him to create an art made by authorial violence, it is an art of being, which is the essence of the literature of our century.
We are grateful to the nation that gave birth to him, his time and the language of his people, for having his apostle alongside the greatest artists of the century.