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Бакалавр
Join Date: 03 2007
Location: canada
Posts: 687
Rep Power: 4
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wisdom
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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THE DARK SIDE
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Politicians belong to a different species. What they hate most is projecting the image of losers. That's why when they lose, they claim victory on some other level; and what's even more astonishing, they are believed. Turks believe Talaat was a great statesman, and we believe all our misfortunes must be ascribed not to our kings, princes, warlords with dynastic ambitions, nakharars, and bosses, but to our geography, to our bloodthirsty neighbors, and I once even heard one of our eminent poets – a notorious brown-noser parading as a fearless critic – blame the Good Lord Himself.
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About the fearless critic: He was fearless towards defenseless underdogs, vodanavorjis like himself, and lowly priests, but at no time did he dare to publish a single line against any one of our bosses, bishops, and benefactors. There is a saying in German: “Whose bread I eat, his song I sing.”
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If you want to understand politicians, don't read their dime-a-dozen hirelings and partisans. That would be like reading a former member of the Communist Party in order to understand our Soviet era. The very same people who say, “Who in his right mind would do that?” read Tashnak ghazetajis to understand Tashnaks, Ramgavar wheeler-dealers to understand Ramgavars, and Armenian nationalist historians to understand Armenian history. And when Turks do the same , they call them dumb.
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“After reading you I feel ashamed of being an Armenian,” writes a reader; and he feels ashamed not because he is exposed as a dupe, but because I expose the dark side of the moon and because I dare say there is something rotten in the State of Denmark. I don't write to promote shame. I write to challenge readers to confront the forces of darkness that have shaped and continue to shape our destiny as a nation.
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Friday, August 1, 2008
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THE WISDOM OF DIOGENES
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Once upon a time when I was gainfully employed first as a stock boy in a department store and later as a clerk in an insurance company, they would ask me: “Do you like your job?” and I would lie and say, “Yes, like it very much.” I wonder, has anyone ever asked a garbage collector if he likes his job? Another question that is seldom or never asked: Where would civilization be without garbage collectors?
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So far no one has ever bothered to ask me if I enjoy writing for garbage. But I shouldn't complain. In all fairness, I should mention the fact that I also have a handful of civilized readers who, whenever they disagree with me, they say “I disagree with you,” as opposed to calling me a senile old man who should commit suicide by banging his head against a wall.
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To be hated by an Armenian is to have a foretaste of immortality. My friends may forget me, but my enemies never will. Among us, hatred has a longer lifespan than any other emotion. Like Pollyanna, I see a blessing even in a curse.
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To my friends who criticize my critics, I say, “Please, be gentle with them. They are my bread and butter. I need them the way a garbage collector needs garbage.”
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On entering the home of a wealthy Greek and warned not to spit on the floor, Diogenes is said to have spat on his host's face saying he couldn't find a meaner receptacle. I dare anyone not to love such a man!
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Saturday, August 2, 2008
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THE ARMENIAN WAY
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If they can't see what you see, their first instinct is to gouge your eyes out.
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We know the names of the writers who were shot by our Stalinist commissars. What we don't know are the names of the commissars. That's the way it is with executioners – they prefer to be faceless and anonymous. They are probably dead by now, but I suspect their offspring are among us and they speechify as superpatriots, sermonize as defenders of the faith, and parade as role models.
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If a future scholar writes a history of contemporary Armenian literature, I suspect it will be the shortest book in the world and it will bear the subtitle “The Age of Commissars.”
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There is a commissar in every boss, bishop, benefactor, and their dupes who recycle their propaganda in the name of patriotism.
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There are two ways of committing suicide, by killing the body and by poisoning the mind. He who cannot think for himself is a walking cadaver.
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An insult is a silent cry for flattery.
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There is no prejudice, lie, misconception, or absurdity that was not at one time or another part of my belief system. Neither Armenianism nor Ottomanism is a terminal condition. We can overcome! (And they say I am consistently negative!)
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