diary

Thursday, November 25, 2010
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DIARY
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After a silence of more than half-a-century, a call from an old friend (now in his 80s) .
It soon becomes apparent that he has been too busy in community affairs – church, politics, sports, fund-raising – to have read a single line I have written.
I doubt if I will hear from him again.
Why did he call?
He didn't say and I didn't ask.
Whatever the reason, it couldn't have been nostalgia.
*
Monster snowflakes.
Winter is here.
We may now look forward to Spring.
*
Reading three books:
a biography of Lesley Blanch – the author of one of the most fascinating books of all time: THE SABRES OF PARADISE, about the Caucasus, which I have read three time and I look forward to reading again if and when our library replaces its lost or discarded copy;
Antonia Fraser's MUST YOU GO? -- MY LIFE WITH HAROLD PINTER (I have read several of his plays but none of her books);
and the memoirs of Christopher's Hitchens.
In all three books there is talk of encounters with many celebrities, including kings and queens, even emperors and empresses.
*
How many celebrities have I known? None. Only a letter from Saroyan and another from Lawrence Durrell (Zarian's name is mentioned in both).
Saroyan knew Zarian but “couldn't figure him out.”
By contrast Durrell understood Zarian and wrote about him more insightfully than any Armenian I have ever read.
*
Because we rate money above ideas, we treat our benefactors as kings and we starve our writers. If I am slightly overweight it's because I have enjoyed the financial support of the Canadian government – and not because I am an agent of the CIA, Mossad, Grey Wolves, or the KGB -- as my critics have alleged at one time or another.
I remember once when Zarian's name came up, one of our elder statesmen who paraded as an eminent teacher, poet, and critic, accused Zarian of being a KGB agent – and this in his efforts to convince me that translating Zarian was a waste of time; I should translate him instead.
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Friday, November 26, 2010
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DIARY
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“Did you ever write about what that priest did to us?” my sister wanted to know last night.
“I didn't.”
“Why not?”
I had no answer.
Because I wanted to forget about it.
But how can I?
*
It happened almost a year ago.
In accordance with her wishes, Mother was cremated.
When asked to bless her grave, the Armenian priest refused.
“It's against our rules,” he explained. “We don't believe in cremation.”
My guess is, his refusal had another reason.
He knew as an Armenian writer I work for nothing and I would probably pay him less than minimum wage. I suspect that because immediately after he added, “I cannot do it unless I ask permission from the bishop,” thus implying exceptions are made, especially if the ashes belong to an Oriental carpet dealer – there are several of them in the neighborhood.
It would have taken him less than a minute to call the bishop, but I guess neither Mother nor my sister (both, unlike me, devout church-goers) deserved the courtesy of a phone call.
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Saturday, November 27, 2010
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REVIEWING THE SITUATION
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Privately they brag: “We taught Armenians a lesson they will never forget.”
Publicly they assert: “It was Armenians who slaughtered Turks.”
You want to unmask compulsive liars?
Nothing easier.
Think the opposite of what they say.
*
When we speak, we confess.
With every word we utter we say “Guilty as charged, your Honor.”
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“Among ten men nine are sure to be women,” Turks confess.
Hence the slaughter of unarmed women and children.
*
What matters is not that I have only two readers three of whom would like to see me silenced.
What matters, what really matters, is that I am no longer dependent on benefactors (“the charity of swine”) and editors, about whom one could say: “Among ten Armenian editors, nine are sure to have been Ottomanized or Sovietized.”
*
What really matters is that even if I have only one reader today and if – repeat if! -- what I say is worth reading, I may have two tomorrow; and if I have two, I may have more-- if not the day after than next month or year. Not because time is on my side, but because time is on no one's side.
*
I don't paint a pretty picture, granted.
If pretty is what you want listen to our speechifiers and read our Turcocentric ghazetajis, all of whom make a comfortable living – thank you very much – by dishing out what you want to hear and read.
*
What matters is not that I don't have a high opinion of these gentlemen.
What really matters is that neither do they. Hence their subservience and cowardice.
Hence their habit of saying one thing publicly and the exact opposite privately.
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