The old apostle of great philanthropy, the younger brother of Schweitzer, Nansen, Gandhi, Tumanyan died, the greatest monument of humanity and humanity of the 20th century, which was the unity of the person and work of American and Armenian William Saroyan, was finished. Although the black, dulling, constraining grief has sat heavily on my heart and mind, but I consider his person and work the greatest of the century with all sobriety, remembering both outwardly victorious-not defeated and inwardly both defeated and defeated, the light image of Hemingway, the owner of a fragile heart, remembering both Volker's magical power and Sholokhov's Cossack bell the images full of blood and ringing treats, I say soberly of the days when Saroyan himself was there, his every visit to the motherland was a holiday for all of us, his departure a feeling of robbery and the next days waiting for the sunrise of his return.
Like the warm light itself, he filled with himself the gaps that opened in man and between people and soared like the sun in the sky of no longer married people and could and had the right to say that he did not see and recognize gaps, because they really did not exist for him, because he was filled with his own light.
Neither the emergence and magnificence of his titanic image in the world crisis of the distant thirties (his encouraging, cheerful call was needed like fresh air in a liquid world), nor his almost disappearance in the nightmarish decade and a half of accidental war and cold war (he, the great philanthropist, the father of the poor and orphans, was stuffed into army clothes and sent to the front) was not accidental. with the flag of the parliament in hand, the re-emergence and expansion was accidental, already in us, in our country.
He knew where he was coming and why he was coming, his great ancestor, Tumanyan, had spent his life in the same mission. his brother-in-law, Faulkner, with the same mission, according to Saroyan, was sent by the American government to Japan to warm the coldness between the two countries, with the same humanitarianism, between the two wars, Nansen's figure appeared on Europe destroyed up to the Urals and Armenia. That is the fate of great men. With the same mission, the great American of Armenian nationality, Saroyan, stood between the last war and the other threat. He stood with the wonderful children he created, the purity of the child, the purity of Saroyan himself, the multitude of Armenians, Mexicans, Norwegians, Assyrians, women, men, the memory of the Gehenna of Der-Zor and Auschwitz... and each and every one of them is the denial of war, there is no war in any of them, they are the denial of evil and stupidity and most of all, the tragic act of writing new writing on the divine forehead of man. ambition. Lma's giant, perfect, God-like, he did not laugh at the crookedness of those who came from the small handful of Tsovinar Khan, the great mother of humanity, but wept, as if he came from the small handful and not us.
No one should know that I am not with him, he said, and it was so: he was with a Russian and an American, Charents and Tolstoy, a musician and a hired worker, and when it was no longer possible to fit into any miscarriage and any miscarriage phenomenon, he escaped into the world of childhood and art, placed himself among children and child-like adults.
Those who were with him in the Auschwitz Gehenna Museum testify that others looked at fascism and the victims in horror, surprise, excitement or disgust, and only he, Saroyan, cried, sobbed like a child. It was a tear not over bones, women's gums and ashes - they were already ashes and gums - but over the human capacity to be mean, cruel and ambitious.
I was lucky to be his two-day travel companion. Among many good people, he finally singled out the best one, an eight-year-old girl, Anush, who stared at you with big eyes in faith. "He was defenseless, how will he live?"
He was freedom incarnate, and contact with his great, complete, light-breathing work and a minute of his day gave you the wings of a free spirit.
People will go to Saroyan's door many times for their entangled and entangled lives, and never once will they become stubborn and dejected from his door - he is the victorious, natural life itself.
His great spirit now hovers over a land flooded with anxiety and hope, and blessed is he in whom that spirit dwells.