Before entering these times of war and politics, Vazgen Sargsyan was a good writer. the word, the thought, the figure, the action before him on the white paper, were so obedient and precise, moving and carrying you with them, as it is on the battlefield under a good commander; there was no extravagance of emotions, all the words were an important and mandatory part of the main idea like a trained soldier, all the characters performed their duty excellently - and on a white paper, our 25-30-year-old celebrated the joy of victory, just like a military commander who won a battle. he said that Vazgen Sargsyan was a very good writer, which at that age was only given to unique people, and he said that very good writers can be very good military commanders just as good commanders become good writers. testimonials are not needed. It means that the joy of writing, the joy of literature, the joy of telling, building a story is an indelible feature of every moving greatness, that words do not die under their pens, or that stories do not die under their tongues - they are born and play as a living work itself. And the work does not die in their hands - it is born, established, strengthened, given to speech, narrative, history. They are a lucky birth, they are the heirs of the logos in the true sense of the word, the capital thing, their thing is a thing and a thing is a thing.
There is a word hidden like a night bell in the unsaid, unsaid, thinking black souls: those who failed to work peacefully in their regions were the first to fall into disintegration and war. It is necessary to immediately say "it is not so" and shut the mouths of those black holes. It's not like that, and according to Vazgen, it's not like that at all.
Another problem is that those regions of peaceful work did not satisfy even the most successful of us, we were often surrounded by severe nightmares, there were moments of crazy outbursts when you wanted to leave the pen on the desk and run into the street with the weapon in hand. what was it - perhaps your premonition of the impending disaster, the coming collapse perhaps made itself felt in us, perhaps it was the desperate protest in front of our condemnation, in which we had no complicity - before our lives, without asking us, they wrote that we should live half a life and that our effort is on a sinking ship. This happened to all of us, but the challenge of disaster and rebirth was immediately accepted by the few, those who saw and heard what they saw and heard. it was not the virtue of those few, those pioneers, just as it was not the sin and vice of many of us, almost all of us, that we delayed because we did not see what we saw, we were deaf and did not hear what we heard. we didn't listen because we didn't want to believe that fate itself was knocking at our door.
They would become a sin and a virtue after the new reality, when the burden of victory and defeat pressed down with all its weight, defiled, distorted, simply crushed many of us, and for many of us it was a formative episode, just as red copper turns into copper by cold bending. They were sin and virtue after they were sealed, when our prosecutors would take the bishop's seat and judge the hour of war and trial by the laws of times of peace and eternity.
Handzin Vazgen's native literature was sending the new native reality of the homeland's politics, diplomacy, state and army building, war and peace as best as it could, to the one who was going to be broken like pure copper, to the one who was born full of ink and the joy of joy, to the one who was opposed to spiritual rust, the appearance of a complainer, a complainer, always someone else, always blaming yourself. for example, the one who radiated the joy of victory and joy, when he managed to somehow escape from even a crushing defeat on the field, when he loaded slate trucks with a Turkish friend and sweated well, when he had to take a good bath, when he had to have the full 270 rubles a month, when the opponent was stupid, when the enemy was superior to him in intelligence and power, he would win in front of the whole world. and stood in the joy of joy, joy was the possession of his soul and body. He overwhelmed even the opponent and the enemy with his joy.
And this is not a confession in front of the great martyr, this is today the clear realization of the need of the great individual, the great optimist, who should have been standing today in our national state-political square and is not standing. His living presence would hold us to one another and to the world in an entirely different attitude—his absence makes our speech unsteady and our step unsteady.
Yes, he was smart and gray - he cut ashes for treachery, yes, he was a guy with elbows, but what successful individual was not a man with strong elbows - my Christ and yours, my and your Dro, Nzhdeh, Mesrop Mashtots, Kemal Atatürk, or one of the glorified generals of the Great Patriotic War? They elbow their way through our mass of simple human ambition and will and unwillingness; we force them to bend the elbow, because in our souls the generals are not themselves - we are.
We are all generals, we are all saviors, we are all Mantashovs, we are all Catholicos - we drive our lives as ordinary breadwinners through the public, as Mantashov, sprinkling money and money, carried himself to the morning service, as a Catholicos carries himself over the heads of religious subjects, as generals pass through stone rows.
We are all pauls - apostles - we read an invitation to the fallen, the crippled, the afflicted to have us, to be corrected by us, to take refuge in us, and they are no longer our subjects, the inhabitants of our kingdom, we are lords over them. We make them a pedestal for us, and in our heights we can be satisfied that we love them, those fallen, crippled, hashms, that our kingdom is the kingdom of conscience and compassion.
And those who do not stand obediently in front of our magnificent parade of generals, they are already enemies and from the hostile army. who are not strong and crippled and fallen, they are already lost and lost. It is difficult, unspeakably difficult for us to accept that we are not Mantashov, we are not Mantashov. we are not apostles, we are not the Apostle Paul, we subjugate with unspeakable delight and we subdue with unspeakable displeasure.
And so I say praise, in front of the memory of a great man, I say thanks and praise to his soldiers and comrades-in-arms, who by defeating themselves became a living corridor for the march of a hero and a figure, who saw in him themselves, fresh and new, themselves energetic, themselves insanely brave, themselves sober, themselves sensible and not given to illusions, but also materializing illusions, making real power, as the spirit is the body takes, as the body is strengthened by the spirit.
Kudos to us for being able to honor, magnify and believe that we call and believe that our best will come out of us and through us.