Suren Aghababyan came from decades of loss of intelligence, faith, dear people and his own blood, and was one of the tireless seekers of healing fields and creators of healing environments, one of the first, if not the first, creators. The self-repair efforts of yesterday's woe-heroes, and the rebirth of the victims, and the suffering of completely new ones were infinitely precious to him in that new and fresh environment, also created by him. he was not looking for a new battle of all of them, red and white, old and new, he was looking for their union in a single whole, which is called great Armenian literature.
Impressive was his tremendous work ethic, his super-sensitive receptiveness, his analytical-analyzing mind, and his courage of behavior, and his memory, which knew no bounds - he threw so many allusions into his text without the help of books, in other words, the scientist was impeccable in him - but he impressed me as a big heart, a heart that was something like a mother's hearth, where all my sons would gather around. the proverbial and the profligate, those who returned with shame and returned with victory. And he knew all of us one by one from our cradle, and he was equally ashamed of our sins and put them out of sight, and he rejoiced before us and more than us for our victories. He could not deny even any success of the opponent or he was inclined to see the potential for success in all of us.
"Good writers" about literature are now, thank God, perfect and may they always be perfect, because they all do its necessary work, because literature itself withers and dries up in the absence of literary studies. But the place left by him widens and deepens day by day, turning into a black hole, from which orthodox intolerance smells blood in the name of truth. There was no such thing in what he did and did, his mind and body were repulsed by this, this easy, this denial, which is the only possible thing for lazy people to do, but for him it was easy, rejected.
With some kind of unshakable consciousness of duty and guilt before creation and the creator, he threw himself against all innocent mouths and considered all lips impure, whether they came to him, it seems, from an immature future or an unjustly forgotten past, whether they were a reciter and an actor or an artist or a poet or a student of the inclinations of a graduate. Apparently, it was the feeling of duty towards the young poet who was in and of himself and was not born, was not revealed. He was looking for that poet in everyone, he believed in the presence of pure being in everyone.
A witness of difficult times and a silent soothsayer of these difficult years, but never commemorating, in his life's work he combined our yesterday and our today, so that the homeland of generations does not appear in strange times, so that the past does not appear as a rumor in our today, so that we are not strangers in our home. What he did was the work of a son absent from home, a stable resident of the motherland, which, unfortunately, despite his and his generation's persistent efforts, would end with this heavy collapse, and the motherland would once again appear in the times of losses. The accumulated past burst the dams and rushed into the present with a black maelstrom. Perhaps there will be a time of atonement again, and his image of a beautiful man will build peace dams with a new name for all our times of Armenian literature and all its inhabitants: Charentsin-Bakuntsin-Maharu, Zoryan and Zaryan, Sahyan and Sevak, Shiraz and Dashtens... also himself, the worthy, and himself, Suren Aghababyan.