He would put only one of these epithets - either peaceful or kind. He would not write "either-or". He would not write "only one", he would write "one". His surprisingly solid prose does not beguile the swaying of the accent. His word "apple" is an apple-fruit, the "fragrance of a thorn tree" envelops a thorn tree like the right fragrance, the existing-not-existing sword-thorn of a poem separates halls from you, only the sound of "homeland" robs a reader from you, the praise of pleasure drives a reader away from you, as he writes, without exaggeration, the whole world and the whole world is good. writes, and in order not to "like this world in a concert, not like it", you want to blow up the word, the feeling, the feeling, instead of the epithet you want to put a bomb, you want to say space, interplanetary... and in Zoryan's release, only an apple orchard is axed, only a dog is going to die in the concert, a spring is destroyed, only snow is falling, with the absence of his son, the power of fighting has lost only a skin his "morning" is morning, "wine" is wine, "cavalry" is cavalry. He does not have the words "love", "philosophy", "homeland", "hate", "beautiful", but he is love, philosophy, patriotism, hatred and beauty in full. He should have been the only authority on the advice "When the dactyl pulls - curb it", because his multi-volume work, and his long life as well, is "rein the dactyl".
And how beautiful is the trunk. he keeps fire inside him for months. From the charm of the flame, the charmer is the hot ash. smokeless-flameless his prose does not let go of him with the heat of hot ashes. And what is the rain that the fields want? When there is a lot of lightning, the villagers often say: "Screams, maybe it won't rain." they often distinguish the lightning of the driving-carrying downpour. and they smile, when the cloud comes to the silent cloud, the clouds get heavy, descend, and with a soft rustle the rain that the fields want is sifted, far away from the mountains, sometimes the glimmer, which the people of Lorraine call the sea, rests quietly, then the glimmer murmurs once more, the rain is slowly pulled up, towards the clouds, and a green, washed, clean place opens. sun-world. it is a peaceful, kind, longing rain. It is Zoryan. From the pulpit of the last congress, his really great demand to have artists-writers instead of essayists-writers was again quietly heard among the words spoken by the hen, and his latest, "Varazdat", again quietly entered our literature, of which he was the ploughman, sower, waterer and guard.
We lost forty-year-old Charents, thirty-eight-year-old Bakuntsi, fifty-four-year-old Tumanyan. Zoryan was eighty years old... No, the good die in vain.