"Here he appeared, here he leaves, you see for yourself who" is the name of his autobiographical book. It remains for us to testify that the passer-by himself was the messenger of this tormented and poor Adamordi and, therefore, of the exalted person of literature. It came and passed and left those who have not yet left, those who remain in awe for now, saying, what noble materials the mother earth is made of, what children it is capable of and how much it still deserves to soar in the universe as the homeland of humanity and humanity.
It is its speech and creed, before being a display of thought and conscience, literature is a confession. in other words, literature will be what you are.
Again, his words are: "No one should know that I am not with him". in other words, you see yourself in everything and everyone, boys and girls, women and men, animals and trees, children and old people, and you look at yourself through them, or rather:
But who would give me that pleasure if I didn't feel myself?
And I would melt, expand, be in everything.
Many people write good books. everyone can be the author of at least one good book: his life. but such books, which have a worldview significance for contemporaries and posterity, are given to rare people, and Saroyan was unique among those rare ones.
He mocked and ridiculed those legislators of literature, for whom their idea of us is above and beyond human, each and every one of us, and who are fried in their national-class-tribal-confessional prejudices and try to sanctify what is the birth of their own short mind. There he was laughing, because those legislators did not imagine him as mothers, but directly from the mouth of God.
And again it is from his book. "I wrote in immigrants' English. it was an atrocity to the language, the publishers recoiled in horror, but I was, and they finally gave in.' During a TV interview, he added: "I am on the side of the oppressed. if those immigrants - my father, uncle, relatives, Mshetsi, Bitlis people - were not despised people in America, maybe I wouldn't have written about them and I wouldn't have left my surname Saroya, like one of our compatriots, who was a gifted writer, but avoided his nationality. Anyone who hides his race, parents, nationality cannot be a true writer." And, days later or before, with a slight smile of satisfaction, "You know, there is a Japanese boy named Aram. They are proverbs in my books. Like that.
Sing my lyre to my cold,
With love one last hello -
March to sleep in Cilicia:
The world behind me.
After extinguishing all loves, becoming the only immortal with a cold lyre is the last leap of many, many delicate souls, but here, right from the beginning, right at the proud age of youth, when the whole world seems like a mother and lover with open arms, to take the way back to the "bright Armenia" - this is already a uniquely unique gift, this is already a convergence from the very essence of genius, that is, leaving that path it would be a rejection of the path leading to the very depths of literature. He was constantly on the way to his homeland. In short, he found his homeland on the way to true literature, and this spiritual achievement of a brave, unstoppable soul was already indisputable as the essence of great literature.
And, of course, that continuous, undaunted, constantly beginning and never ending soar towards the motherland would have ended beautifully as straight as his whole life and work had been, with a landing, depositing his remains on his native soil. the body, where he himself resided, would descend from the native heaven to the native land as a remnant.