The world's population is three and a half billion, in fifty years it will be seven billion, in eighty years it will be fourteen, and there are no new Americas to be discovered. The number of atomic bombs in the world is more than the number of cities "worthy" of an atomic bomb. But my child's toothless smile, soundless chirping, aimless whispering are exploding from anxiety, they are all happiness. The Darius rider of the military post rode for three days, in three days he met a man, took off his hat and greeted him from the bottom of his heart, goodbye. Did the man of Dylan live seventy or a hundred years, in the sunny valleys of memory there was a Sona, a surprise dedication, which in the wasteland of memories became vast, incomparable, desirable as a desert fountain. There was a rooster being slaughtered, ten pairs of eyes - each of us got a piece of meat, the taste of broth and the neighbor's question: did you slaughter a chicken? they grab the goose's neck with a spoon, its beak opens, they fill its stomach with a ladle, it will digest, grow fat, and become heavy whether it wants to or not. meat will be plentiful - everyone can eat a few geese. Tomatoes, pears, fish, potatoes, cows are grown and fed - all the conditions are there so that after a few years a person on Earth will have only one place to stand. I miss the ancient times. All the writers miss the Darechian times. To the question "Would you like to have lived yesterday, would you live tomorrow, or is today enough for you?", the vast majority of Japanese youth answered yes. I say tomorrow. tomorrow we will be in respectable numbers too. Tomorrow, the United Nations will decide to intelligently, humanely, consciously stop the population growth in the world... In the second week of June 1941, in our deaf village without a telephone, an old woman cried and predicted blood, massacre, hunger. The chairman of the council locked him in the barn for cheating and a week later, on June 22, he went to the front with the barn key in his pocket. Now they are talking about the existence of biocurrents. Alas, there was a highly civilized world before a great catastrophe. Alas, Sodom-Gomorrah is not a myth. In Japan, they build multi-story cemeteries out of cement and glass, in Japan they grow soilless tomatoes, more than half of the youth of the United States are ineligible for military service because of heart disease, the students of the first Chinese Air Force Academy, despite their Chinese fanaticism, could not stand the flight because of the uniformity of the food - in this lovely-terrible, smart-crazy, understandably-complicated world, it is cruel to be naked, to be the world's the bare nerve, the writer. You can be paralyzed in front of a white paper every second.
What does the writer do? the world is not the way he wants it, he wants to make the world the way he wants it to be. It was beyond the power of fascism, all geniuses and schizophrenics broke their heads over it, and here is a poor figure, whose name is writer, what he has is ink, he sat down and wants to make this chaotic world look like him. And until now, he has done that, piece by piece, piece by piece, as if from granite, he created Christ, he turned a woman from a womb-bearing woman into an idol, he made Greece, Persia, Spain beloved, he turned the old hemp field Russia into a Russia that gives literature to the world. Without "Abu-Lala Maharu" the desert would be only sand dunes. Humanity has humanized the world. Literature is humanity's longing for life. By monumentalizing, literature makes us miss the person next to us, makes a market rose that costs thirty or fifty kopecks lyrical, - literature is a creator equal to God, although every García Lorca can defeat every lieutenant, every Saroyan will order every commander to crawl.
The colonel commander of the Turkish punitive battalion pacified the Chetyan and Kurdish villages, tricked some, hanged others, swayed on the saddle from the village to the mountain, from the mountain to the forest, from the forest to a lonely monastery on a cliff, where some hotheads must have taken refuge, and in the nearby city the Europeanized puppies of the city council sat and slept for a year or four. on a half question. The colonel commander of the Turkish punitive battalion was swinging on his saddle from the mountain to the forest, from the forest to a solitary monastery, and suddenly the colonel did not like the painted puppies of the city council. the colonel commander of the Turkish punitive battalion seized the steed, drove away, blew up the horse on the way, ran over another steed, hit the pavement, gave the reins to the watchman who cut his face, softly climbed the stairs with his Mauser drawn, slammed the doors back with his foot and shot those puppies who saw Paris. who for four years were turning over a question in their sleep. The police squad shot at him, he shot at them, he was injured, he was injured and killed by one of them in the building, he was alone for a day. Then there was bleeding, they came and lifted him up by the wings, they were taking him out, and another lieutenant with a thin mustache said: "Go, go, son of a dog." Crouching his neck, the colonel looked back from the stairs, it was the lieutenant standing at the top of the stairs with a painted puppy. The colonel smiled sadly, then immediately pulled out his pistol from the crack of his boot and put it on his forehead one-two-three-seven.
I like this story. here man is preliminary and monumental. Entangled in the cobwebs of bureaucracy, the bloat of the bureaucratic apparatus like an unstoppable plague, I see simple likes and dislikes in this story; this is one of my longings. A short story, a novel or a short story might have been made from this solid and round conversation. It is necessary to plunge into this, shaking, shaking to go, to find, to absolve its philosophical power and the wings of fine art. But maybe it doesn't have a powerful philosophical charge? Well, it doesn't matter, who has suffered from alchemy? The suffering of the writer going to his truth will remain. that is fine art. The world is enriched by that noble effort. Literature is the world's painful effort to be noble. It is the vocation of literature by birth. Just as slaves are born into slavery, so every writer ends up on the bench.
Very good, but why "Turkish punitive battalion"? Well, Turkish. Why especially Turkish? Not particularly, just Turkish. Why Turkish? Well, because it's Turkish, they said that it happened in Turkey. Or do you want to say something about 1915? It is difficult not to talk about the year 1915, but it is difficult to talk about fine art. No, it's better to write: Indian punishment battalion... I agree. The colonel commander of the Indian punitive battalion was swinging from the village to the mountain on his saddle... - Why Indian? - Well, you said. - No, the Indians are our friends, it's better to write "the colonel commander of the punitive battalion." - Eh, in the air? Besides, I don't know if I should write this story in the form of a prose poem or rough prose, can I name the colonel Hassan, or will that name remind me of Abu-Hasan in the famous tale, and the colonel will thus lose his proud pride, was the colonel a good person, or were the boys who saw Paris philanthropic, clever and indecisive? Did the lieutenant curse the colonel by chance, or did he fight, win and sit on the pedestal of the winner, should I tell it as a fact, or the content is already partly a fairy tale, the fact will become a complete fairy tale in its form. how can I make the emphasis of my paragraph be able to pick up his horse's warg, quatrain, heart explosion, shudder? how can I make the landscape spread out with the action, so that the pierced average Anatolu remains in memory, when I myself have not seen that pierced average Anatolu, so that I forget his kinship with the executioner of my fathers and respect him as material, as Kartash respects quartz; to restrain the temptation of beautiful words. so that you can feel the lieutenant's momentary confusion when he saw a gun in the colonel's hand. How to say that the world became deaf and blind for the dying colonel, when I am not dead, let me say it without those words, because they are only words, and the feelings of being deaf and blind probably require completely different connections and connections - you can puzzle over it and maybe nothing will come out again. And now the raw material is being denied. the sculptor sculpts, but he sculpts from clay - what do I do when clay, the alphabet, the foundation of foundations are rejected?
And you, taking a pen, dared against the great Tumanyan, you said: "Illusion" is a good poem, but it is incomplete, I will now create the perfect one. And you are in competition with the greats of the world...
The assembly, of course, cannot write instead of the writer, but it can do something equally honorable as writing. to create the atmosphere in which the writer will feel himself the master and proud owner of this country, so that the writer sits in front of the white paper not as a student performing a task, but as a teacher who reveals complex problems of literature and life from obscurity.
"Literary Newspaper", 14.10.1966