The blow of death, after Sevak and Minas, was again right at the heart of our culture and again at the age of 47. Children call people of that age grandfather. For young people, it is a far distant future, but we know that it is the beginning of people of literature, youth, at that age we are just learning to hold a pen, or in other words, the land, the world, the hope of discovering and inhabiting, in the right words, creation is connected with the most gifted of us, that world looks so mysterious, beautiful, big and inexhaustible that it seems like the effort of one person and even a long life cannot be possible to the last greatness. to open the borders to that world. Before his promise and creation, Mushegh's life was really cut short, the best half of the life of a man of literature was taken from him, with his loss, the inseparable temper of honesty, love, secret, revenge, history, anger, despair and hope that was embodied in him was taken from us.
I have seen his birthplace, it is the southern wide slopes of Aragats, Talin, I have not seen the other, the land of his father and grandfathers, Sasun. rooting like uprooted scrubs, leaving the root in the old earth's difficult roots, it has come to cling to these slopes, which are a nightmare and not soil. it is a stone, they are difficult to cut, they cannot be cut both in the place of the house, the tree, and the grave. After the short, fifteen-day flowering of spring, the cattle eats everything that is chewed up to the root, then it gnaws on stone and soil, it is impossible to live there, but in no other canyon and slope of this country are the people so attached to the earth, where the layer of soil is as much as two fingers. The walls of the chapar are carefully and firmly connected, as in other places the houses are not connected, apart from the walls, it is a stone building, just a storehouse of stone taken from that small area and collected, in other places they do not connect such walls for their hearth and children. therefore, the stone must be taken and kept in the structure, otherwise it will scatter and spoil those little Edens, which can neither be called a garden nor a garden. All that is bitter, hard, religious work, and so what demonic force was able to displace this people. And there are small, two-cubic-inch-sized alcoves in that stone nightmare—red, flag-red, luxuriant poppies flare up in those little alcoves, the male murky flower is nowhere so dark as there. Mushegh brought those cruel and beautiful slopes and the indomitable dreaming people of those slopes, defeated and not defeated, to our literature. Memories and hopes of those people.
If I am a bit him and he is a bit me, I know for sure. he slept with the enemy in his arms and woke up with the enemy; he didn't believe in what happened, but he had to believe. he was looking for a way to cling to the future and had to invent one.
Whether it's an abandoned garden, a road, a settlement, or a grave, when we encounter abandonment, we feel a pang in our throats. It is terrible to come to terms with the idea that the Musheghian road, which took us to the land of Davt of Sassoon and machkals, apricot trees and Haiduk men, is no longer abandoned. Everyone is irreplaceable, especially every colorful talent, and it is foolish to look for it in others now, but it is also terrible to remain hopeless; one cannot but expect that the people of those cruel and beautiful slopes will not send a child to their native literature who will tell about their heroic past and the equally heroic present full of faith.