The painful loss of Bartugh's father, a decent, hard-working Armenian man, forced young Suren to become the father of the family, and his boundless willingness and ability to perceive, take into account, understand and contribute later strengthened and confirmed his father's condition. Like a landlord who participates in the joy of his home with only one eye and only one ear and the other eye and the other ear are outside, in the winter of our worries, Aghababyan could never indulge in personal self-forgetful joys, never indulged in hopeless sadness, he did not have the human right to do so, he was not his own, he did not belong to him. Sons of the same house may not love each other and may not even love their father, the father does not give himself the right to be the same towards them, especially to show it when he is. sons should not see that some of them are dear to their father, and some are less dear. We saw him get angry, but never angry, we saw him reproach, but never enmity. They were his, he was destined to bring together, reconcile, reconcile, make all efforts one and essential.
But he was born a poet, he would also like to rebel and conquer, sin and repent, be one of the free sons of the house and be independent. It never happened. A tremendous inner discipline always kept his poet in check and stubbornly bent the historian of literature - the inimitable historian among us - to the most difficult literature, because the most difficult, however, is the ability to see the present day in history. But his essence of a poet never left him - it always helped the great literary critic to quickly understand and react quickly, helped to feel the breath of the coming days with the poetic souls of the most delicate feelings and to be alarmed, flattered, and more equal to them. Hatred never darkened any day of his days; ear always awake and eye always open and big heart always open, he was constantly hearing and seeing, constantly renewing, constantly purifying, constantly filling and overflowing.
The clean, sunny apple orchard opened and nurtured by his father is still there, and perhaps those few trees keep that city still the old and lovely Gharakilisa. We want to believe that his beautiful eyes will look at the future of our motherland, our children, sometimes with hope, sometimes with sadness, and sometimes with silent questions like themselves. He was like that with his great, full-blooded, full-blooded life, he was in the hard efforts of those who are born, reborn, who conquer themselves, who surpass themselves, with them, so he will be like that later.