Showing posts with label APRIL 21. Show all posts
Showing posts with label APRIL 21. Show all posts

Monday, May 18, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Pierre Joris and Nicole Peyrafitte reading Shushanik Kurghinian

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Pierre Joris and Nicole Peyrafitte - photo by Khatchik Turabian

I Want to Live


I want to live–but not a lavish life 
trapped in obscurity–indifferent and foolish, 
nor as an outright hostage of artificial beauty, 
a frail creature–delicate and feeble, 
but equal to you–oh men–prosperous 
as you are–powerful and headstrong– 
fit against calamities–ingenious in mind, 
with bodies full of vigor.
I want to love–unreserved–without a mask– 
self-willed like you–so that when in love 
I can sing my feelings to the world 
and unchain my heart–a woman’s heart, 
before the crowds?ignoring their stern 
judgmen’s with my shield and destroy 
the pointed arrows aimed at me 
with all my vitality unrestrained!
I want to act–equal–next to you– 
as a loyal member of the people, 
let me suffer again and again–night or day– 
wandering from one place to another– 
always struggling for the ideal 
of freedom?and let this burden 
torment me in my exile, 
if only I may gain a purpose in this life.
I want to eat comfortably–as you do, 
from that same fair bread–for which 
I gave my share of holy work; 
in the struggle for existence–humble and meek, 
without feeling shame–let me 
shed sweat and tears for a blessed earning, 
let scarlet blood flow from my worker’s hands 
and let my back tire in pain!
I want to fight–first as your rival, 
standing against you with an old vengeance, 
since absurdly and without mercy you 
turned me into a vassal through love and force. 
Then after clearing these disputes of my gender, 
I want to fight against the agonies of life, 
courageously like you–hand in hand, 
facing this struggle to be or not.


I PITY YOU

I pity you, dull-witted women,
for chasing after rouge and beauty aids,
wasting away your time without a goal,
with faces adorned for lewd sale.

For using any possible means to
always please and gratify men,
day and night obsessing only
how to set traps of jealousy.

For robbing those who love you
of their last penny earned in pain,
at times of distress, callous and low
like owls you hoot, playing the victim.

For having a subtle instinct of marketing,
selling yourselves for the highest price,
bickering endlessly over style, appearance,
a circus show of fashion rivalry.

I pity you, vain captives, whose
thoughts are lost in folds of velvet
for having minds that are utterly vacant,
for having hearts that are tainted with deceit.

WE ARE THE ONES COMING—

In our worn out jackets, oil-stained and sooty,
Trampled caps and dirty hair,
Jaundiced, poor, barefoot,
Sometimes pale, sometimes docile,
Sometimes marked with the black stamp
Of hunger and quiet suffering,
Sometimes filled with riotous disdain,
Unruly rage and vengeance!
With the wearisome pain of aging too soon,
Longing for the light and fresh air,
Hopeful for a dignified life,
With deep wounds still raw in our hearts—
WE ARE THE ONES COMING . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Unpaid hands toiling for the bloated stomachs,
Layers of fat, mounds of gold . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Comrades in sorrow and tears,
Half-starved life, prison, and exile . . !
……………………We, the workers—
Twisted in the drive to live and cheaply sold
In the base marketplace of existence . . !
O monstrous leeches,
Vile stranglers of invention, of human life,
You, insensible moles
With your corrupt lust for opulence,
You, shameful gravediggers and
Hangmen of sacred freedom,
You, soul-snatching demons of new hopes,
……………………You, sated bodies!
Impoverished souls!
Perhaps our afflicted faces
Aren’t moving enough for your gentle senses?
For isn’t it true that
……………………You feed yourselves,
……………………You prosper and grow
From every drop of our blood,
Our salty, bitter sweat,
Our endless flood of tears,
Our strong, laboring arms,
Our bent backs, restless souls,
Our terror of unimagined death
Always lurking above our heads . . ?
And disgruntled you throw a few petty crumbs
As payment for our labors,
As if we were humanity’s stepchildren
And you—the fittest wrestlers of enjoyment
……………………And unjust life . . !
YES! WE ARE COMING—
Out of the age-old furnace of privation
Out of persecution, out of slavery,
……………………We, the neglected class—
To smash the rulers’ glory with our chests—
To break the throne of violence—the slave’s chains—
To build a new path for ourselves and others
Deserving of freedom—
……………………THAT’S HOW WE ARE COMING . . !

1907. All poems translated by Shushan Avagyan

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Aaron Poochigian reading Daniel Varoujan


Aaron Poochigian - photo by Khatchik Turabian
ALMS

TO THE STARVING PEOPLE.

“There is famine; bread, bread !”
Who is sighing?
On the threshold of my cottage, who is sighing?
My love has gone out, with the flame in my fireplace.
Ashes within me, ashes around me; oh, of what use is it
To sow tears on ashes?
I have nothing, nothing! To-day, with my last
Small coin I bought poison;
I shall mix poison within me.
Come to-morrow to the graveyard, thou Hungry One,
Through the storm, early, when around the village
Wolves are still wandering.
Come to-morrow! As bread, from my grave
I will throw into that bag of thine
My poet’s heart.
My poet’s heart shall be thy blood, the blood of thy orphans,
As long as thy grief lives.
Come to-morrow to the graveyard, O thou Hungry One!

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell


The Longing Letter

My mother writes: “My son on pilgrimage, 
How long beneath a strange moon will you roam?
How long a time must pass ere your poor head
To my warm bosom I may press, at home?
“Oh, long enough upon strange stairs have trod
Your feet, which in my palms I warmed one day—
Your heart, in which my breasts were emptied once,
Far from my empty heart has pined away!
“My arms are weary at the spinning wheel;
I weave my shroud, too, with my hair of snow.
Ah, would mine eyes could see you once again,
Then close forever, with my heart below!
“Always I sit in sadness at my door,
And tidings ask from every crane that flies.
That willow slip you planted long ago
Has grown till over me its shadow lies.
“I wait in vain for your return at eve.
All the brave fellows of the village pass,
The laborer goes by, the herdsman bold—
I with the moon am left alone, alas!
“ My ruined house is left without a head.
Sometimes for death, and always for the cheer
Of my own hearth I yearn. A tortoise I,
Whose entrails to its broken shell adhere!
“Oh, come, my son, your ancient home restore!
They burst the door, they swept the larders bare.
Now all the swallows of the spring come in
Through shattered windows, open to the air.
“ Of all the goodly flocks of long ago
One brave ram only in our stable stands.
His mother once—remember, little son—
While yet a lamb, ate oats out of your hands.
“Rice, bran and clover fine I give him now,
To nourish his rich dmak,* of noble size;
I comb his soft wool with a wooden comb;
He is a dear and precious sacrifice.
“When you come back, his head with roses wreathed,
He shall be sacrificed to feast you, sweet;
And in his blood, my well-beloved son,
I then will wash my pilgrim’s weary feet.”

_____________________ 
* A mass of fat which hangs down behind sheep of this breed, in place of a tail.

Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Sarah van Arsdale reading Rouben Sevak

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Sarah Van Arsdale - photo by Lola Koundakjian

Whisper Of Love

They sailed away, loaded with mystery and secrets,
The ships of my love sailed away from my gaze,
Their prows high, facing dark and distant shores,
And their sails drunken with the warm sunset breeze.
And I saw how, like ancient and beautiful goddesses,
In their immaculate sanctity, pure as snow,
Wings high, like pilgrims to unknown lands,
The swans of my love silently glided away.
It is evening. I am watching the immense flow,
The sea-breeze is quietly recounting the happy memories
And the boundless waters are rising with an ineffable mystery.
In front of me, gravel and foam are kissing on the shore,
I am looking at the distant horizon beyond which
The ships of my love and the swans of my dreams have silently glided away.
They sailed away, loaded with mystery and secrets…

Rouben Sevak
Translation by Berge Turabian

Friday, May 15, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Peter Bricklebank reading Rouben Sevak

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Peter Bricklebank and Sarah Van Arsdale 
Photo by Lola Koundakjian


Edelweiss

On my wall, wordless, pale, 
covering an unseen nail 
its freshness evaporates 
as it wilts and browns,

its petals gradually fade 
losing its delicate 
bouquet. What ill wind 
brought it down

from the mountains 
to this fate of 
crumbling pistils 
drooping crowns

as the coiled petals dry, 
unclasping to velvet ash?

But still it keeps 
the unreached heights 
of my dreams in its white 
heart of edelweiss.

ROUBEN SEVAK



*A small white herb growing high in the Alps whose name in Armenian is Lion's Paw. It is the symbol for freedom in Austrian and Armenian poetry. Roupen Sevag recovered in the Alps from tuberculosis contracted as a medical student.

From Poetry of  our Time

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Lola Koundakjian reading Rouben Sevak

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Lola Koundakjian - photo by Khatchik Turabian

ԳԻՆՈՎ ԳԻՇԵՐ

Օդին մէջ խունկ կայ, օդին մէջ համբոյր,
Օդին մէջ գգուանք, օդին մէջ գաղջ բոյր.
Բի՜ւր, բիւր դիցանոյշ կարծես շշնջեր
Ջորսդիս, այս գիշեր օդին մէջ ինչե՜ր…։

Ցայգին մէջ թրթռում մը կայ անդադրում,
Սիրոյ պէս հըզօր, սիրոյ պէս տրտում,
Հազար աստղ կարծես մէկ-երկու պաչեր
Վերեւս, այս գիշեր երկնքին մէջ ինչե՜ր…։

Լիճն արծաթ փրփրով վե՜ր կը սլանայ,
Ամէն ալեակէ մէկ-մէկ սիրենա
Ինձ կախարդ հրաւէր կարծես շշնջեր .-
Այս գիշեր լճիս ծոցին մէջ ինչե՜ր…։

Ա՜խ, տաք սիրտ մ՛ըլլար, երկու թաց աչեր,
Գլուխըս սիրոյ կուրծքին վրայ հանգչէր.
Թեւերս իր մերթ թեւին վրայ խաչէր…
Այս գիշեր գինո՜վ սրտիս մէջ ինչե՜ր…։


ՌՈՒԲԷՆ ՍԵՒԱԿ, ԵՐԿԵՐ, 1986, Antelias, Lebanon

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Vasyl Makhno reading Paruyr Sevak in Ukrainian

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photo by Khatchik Turabian

Vasyl Makhno read an excerpt from Paruyr Sevak's "The Unsilenceable Belfry" in Ukrainian. 


Vasyl Makhno is a Ukrainian poet, essayist, and translator. He is the author of ten collections of poetry: Skhyma (1993), Caesar’s Solitude (1994), The Book of Hills and Hours (1996), The Flipper of the Fish (2002), 38 Poems about New York and Some Other Things (2004), Cornelia Street Café: New and Selected Poems (2007), Winter Letters (2011), I want to be Jazz and Rock’n’Roll (2013) and most recent Bike (2015). He has also published two book of essays The Gertrude Stein Memorial Cultural and Recreation Park (2006) and Horn of Plenty (2011), and two plays Coney Island (2006) and Bitch/Beach Generation (2007). He has also translated Zbigniew Herbert’s and Janusz Szuber’s poetry from Polish into Ukrainian, and edited an anthology of young Ukrainian poets from the 1990’s. His poems and essays have been translated into 25 languages. Two poetry collections Thread and Other New York Poems (2009) and Winter Letters (2011) were published in English translation. He is the 2013 recipient of Serbia’s Povele Morave Prize in Poetry. Makhno currently lives in New York City.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Sweta Vikram reading Tekeyan and Komitas

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Sweta Vikram - photo by Khatchik Turabian



IRAINS, MSON…
It rains, my son… Autumn is wet,
Wet as the eyes of a sad deceived love…
Go, shut the window and the door
And come sit beside me in stately
Silence… It is raining, my son…
Does it at times rain in your soul as well?
Does your heart feel cold and do you shiver
Thinking of the bygone bright sunshine
Now beyond the shut door of dire fate…?
But, you cry, my son… In the dusk, sudden
Heavy tears tumble down your eyes…
Cry the unredeemable tears of innocence,
Cry oblivious, my sad unaware son,
You poor prey of life… Cry to grow up…
……………………Vahan Tekeyan
Translated by Tatul Sonentz

TO THE READER

My soul belongs to me no matter how I offer pieces,
on every page to strangers passing by.
My soul belongs to me. No one can recognize it whole
with its formidable darkness and blinding lights.

Like the unstripped mine for gold, coal, or perhaps lead,
the dredging has bared only the first layer
of joys, and the black floodwaters of pain.
A deeper volcano rumbles underneath it all.

My soul is that mine, only partially excavated.
Who knows how many new pains will burrow
and shaft, blast by blast? It belongs to me.

Today I regret that so many samples were passed
to onlookers when I intended all the while
to give it whole, to only one or two. 


Sacred Wrath: The Selected Poems of Vahan Tekayan, translated by Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian. Ashod Press, NY, 1982



THE PATH by Komitas
The narrow path crawling,
Shivering underneath the feet,
At the end of which
The Tree of Life has grown, shimmering...
What a big heart it has
This road to Eternity
This path for people, plants and beasts alike,
This path of winged birds...


translated by Mher Karakashian

Monday, May 11, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Alan Semerdjian reading Siamanto

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Alan Semerdjian - photo by Khatchik Turabian

The Dance
by Siamanto (Atom Yarjanian 
1878-1915).
(Translated by Peter Balakian and Nevart Yaghlian)

In a field of cinders where Armenian life
was still dying,
a German woman, trying not to cry
told me the horror she witnessed:

"This thing I'm telling you about,
I saw with my own eyes,
Behind my window of hell
I clenched my teeth
and watched the town of Bardez turn
into a heap of ashes.
The corpses were piled high as trees,
and from the springs, from the streams and the road,
the blood was a stubborn murmur,
and still calls revenge in my ear.

Don't be afraid; I must tell you what I saw.
so people will understand
the crimes men do to men.
For two days, by the road to the graveyard …

Let the hearts of the world understand,
It was Sunday morning,
the first useless Sunday dawning on the corpses.
From dawn to dusk I had been in my room
with a stabbed woman —
my tears wetting her death —
when I heard from afar
a dark crowd standing in a vineyard
lashing twenty brides
and singing filthy songs.

Leaving the half-dead girl on the straw mattress,
I went to the balcony of my window
and the crowd seemed to thicken like a clump of trees
An animal of a man shouted, "You must dance,
dance when our drum beats."
With fury whips cracked
on the flesh of these women.
Hand in hand the brides began their circle dance.
Now, I envied my wounded neighbor
because with a calm snore she cursed
the universe and gave up her soul to the stars …

"Dance," they raved,
"dance till you die, infidel beauties
With your flapping tits, dance!
Smile for us. You're abandoned now,
you're naked slaves,
so dance like a bunch of fuckin' sluts.
We're hot for your dead bodies."
Twenty graceful brides collapsed.
"Get up," the crowed screamed,
brandishing their swords.

Then someone brought a jug of kerosene.
Human justice, I spit in your face.
The brides were anointed.
"Dance," they thundered —
"here's a fragrance you can't get in Arabia."

With a torch, they set
the naked brides on fire.
And the charred bodies rolled
and tumbled to their deaths …

I slammed my shutters,
sat down next to my dead girl
and asked: "How can I dig out my eyes?"

Siamanto, Bloody News from My Friend, Wayne State University, 1996.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Marianela Medrano reading Vahan Tekeyan

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Marianela Medrano - photo by Khatchik Turabian

"Forgetting" by Vahan Tekeyan

Forgetting. Yes, I will forget it all.
One after the other. The roads I crossed.
The roads I did not. Everything that happened.
And everything that did not.

I am not going to transport anymore,
nor drag the silent past, or that "me"
who was more beautiful and bigger
that I could ever be.

I will shake off the weights
thickening my mind and sight,
and let my heart see the sun as it dies.

Let a new morning's light open my closed eyes.
Death, is that you here? Good Morning.
Or should I say Good Dark?

Translated by Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian

OLVIDANDO

Olvidar. Sí, voy a olvidarlo todo.
Uno tras otro. Los caminos que crucé.
Los que no crucé. Todo lo que pasó.
Y todo lo que no viví.

Ya no voy a transportar más,
ni arrastrar el pasado silencioso, o ese "yo"
que era más bello y más grande
de lo que nunca podré ser.

Voy a sacudir todas las cargas 
que entorpecen mi mente y la vista,
y dejar que mi corazón vea el sol mientras muere.

Y dejar que la luz de una nueva mañana abra mis ojos cerrados.
Muerte, ¿estás aquí? Buenos Días.

¿O debería decir Buena Oscuridad?

Translated from the English by Marianela Medrano

Saturday, May 09, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: George Wallace reading Daniel Varoujan

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George Wallace - photo by Khatchik Turabian

Working Girl

BENEATH my window, as each morning dawns,
You like a wandering ghost go flitting by, 
And on your beauteous virgin head there fall
Tears from my rose vine, leafless now and dry.

I hear your footsteps in the silent street,
And the awakened dog that barks at you;
Or in my sleep I hear the constant cough
That racks your lovely bosom through and through.

I think that you are hungry, robbed of sleep,
Your body shivering in the breezes cold,
And on your tresses, O my sister! Lies
The frost, like jewels, glittering to behold.

Or else, I think, your shoes are torn and rent;
The water from the street is oozing through;
Or impudently, as you pass along,
Some scoundrel Turk is whistling after you.

I think that ill at home your mother lies,
And that the oil which fed the lamp is dry,
And to the factory you go, to toil
For light and life. I think of it, and sigh!

I think of it, and madly then I wish
I might come down, my pallid sister dear,
Come down to you, to kiss your thin, frail hand,
And whisper low, "I love you!" in your ear.

I love your sorrow, which is mine as well-
My grief of griefs, all other woes above;
I love your shattered breast, where still your love
Sings on and on-a skylark wild with love.

Pale girl, I long to press you to my heart
Like some poor banished dove, forlorn and lone-
Give you my strength, my prizes won from fame,
And my untarnished name to be your own.

Fain would I be your honor's veil and screen,
My breast a shield for your defenceless breast.
If I could guard, with arms as granite strong,
Your sex and your grave beauty, I were blest!

Fain would I give you all that I have won
In life's hard struggle, all I have of good-
Crown you with roses of my victory,
Roses that wear the color of my blood;

Only that never more, my sister dear,
You should be pale and hungry, coughing sore,
And that your mother's lamp should not go out,

And to the factory you should go no more!

Based on the translation by Alice Stone Blackwell 

ANDASTAN

At the Eastern part of the earth
Let there be peace…
Let sweat, not blood, flow
In the broad vein of the furrow,
And at the toll of each hamlet’s bell
Let there rise hymns of exaltation.

At the Western part of the earth
Let there be fecundity …
Let each star sparkle with dew,
And each husk be cast in gold
And as the sheep graze on the hills
Let bud and blossom bloom.

At the Northern part of the earth
Let there be abundance …
In the golden sea of the wheat field
Let the scythe swim incessantly
And as gates of granaries open wide
Jubilation let there be.

At the Southern part of the earth
Let all things bear fruit…
Let the honey thrive in the beehive
And may the wine run over the cups
And when brides bake the blessed bread
Let the sound of song rise and spread.

Daniel Varoujan 1914

Translated by Tatul Sonentz

Friday, May 08, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Nancy Agabian reading Zabel Essayan



Nancy Agabian- photo by Khatchik Turabian

In the Ruins (excerpt)

Two children had gone off by themselves and were talking.
"Do you have a father?"
"No."
"A mother?"
"No."
"I don't have a mother or father, either."
"Did they kill them?"
"Yes."
"They killed mine, too."
A long, grief-stricken silence reigned, and then:
"Do you want us to be brothers?"
And they adopted each other.

That was the general tenor of the conversations of hundreds of children between five and ten. Sometimes, too, brothers and sisters found each other again and rediscovered, in one another's eyes, the hours of terror they had spent together and did not dare come closer, as if held apart by the awful memory of the corpse of a butchered mother or father. For, almost without exception, driven by an instinctive passion for life, they wanted to forget, wanted desperately, frantically to forget; thus they saw an enemy in anyone who tried to expose the passions of their bleeding hearts, or simply stirred up the memory of that hour by his or her presence.


One evening I expressed a desire to visit the children after they had gone to bed, and was ushered to their dormitory. A terrible, unforgettable sight met my eyes. In that spacious hall, on mats arranged in rows on the floor, was a welter of young, half-naked limbs. . . . Because there wasn't enough room for all of them, the children seemed to be piled up on each other. What with their breathing and all their other exhalations, the air was stifling and unbreathable. Something unnameable, something nightmarish and unsettling drifted through the semi-obscurity. The children's bodies were indistinguishable from the blackness of the sheetless beds; only the outlines of their limbs could be made out here and there, an arm, a leg. . . . Those rooms seemed as sad to me as desecrated, devastated graveyards.

Sometimes one of the children, prompted by a bad dream, would raise his head and look right and left, shuddering. One cry of his would be enough to throw all those shapeless, almost undifferentiated piles into agitated motion and, sometimes, uneasy heads would be lifted here and there. In the first few days, it sometimes happened that the ravings of one of the children rattled all the others sleeping in the same room; Still hall asleep, not knowing where they were, they would all jump to their feet screaming, in the belief that they were reliving the hours of the massacre.

Although I had resolved to maintain my sangfroid, I was deeply shaken by that throng of children, deprived of affection and a mother's love and care. ... I decided to leave so that we wouldn't disturb their sleep with our presence. Some were sighing, and all had woken up and were casting uneasy glances our way....

We were getting ready to leave when I noticed a little slip of a girl almost directly at my feet. Two bright, unblinking eyes were looking at me. Her blond hair was strewn over the pillow, and her emaciated neck and emaciated arms and legs spoke of such severe mental and physical suffering that I lost control of myself, and started to cry. And, although I managed to stifle my sobs, the children heard me and woke up. For an instant, a strange stillness prevailed: they were all holding their breaths; then heads were raised, and a child started to cry. At that, as if on a signal, all at once, hundreds of children overcome by a terrifying attack of nerves suddenly began sobbing, screaming, and weeping, twisting and turning their frail, strengthless limbs on their shabby straw mats and calling out to the parents they had lost...
It took us a long time to calm them down. When their tired heads at last came to rest on their pillows, the little girl's two bright eyes were still looking at me. Before leaving, when I stepped closer to see why she hadn't gone back to sleep, she stretched out a pair of arms toward my neck and held me close for a long time.... Before I left, I looked at all the children again. The room was quiet and peaceful. I was assured that now they would sleep soundly till morning. It seemed to me, however, that those children would dream unceasingly, with relentless insistence, of the days of horror they had lived
through, and that the nightmare would hover constantly over then dark-haired heads.

(excerpt)

Translated by G.M. Goshgarian

Thursday, May 07, 2015

Live from Holy Cross: Norman Manea reading William Saroyan

Click to hear the audio segment.

Norman Manea - photo by Khatchik Turabian


William Saroyan: Seventy Thousand Assyrians (excerpt)

    I hadn't had a haircut in forty days and forty nights, and I was beginning to look like several violinists out of work. You know the look: genius gone to pot, and ready to join the Communist Party. We barbarians from Asia Minor are hairy people: when we need a haircut, we need a haircut. It was so bad, I had outgrown my only hat. (I am writing a very serious story, perhaps one of the most serious I shall ever write. That is why I am being flippant. Readers of Sherwood Anderson will begin to understand what I am saying after a while; they will know that my laughter is rather sad.) I was a young man in need of a haircut, so I went down to Third Street (San Francisco), to the Barber College, for a fifteen-cent haircut.

    Third Street, below Howard, is a district; think of the Bowery in New York, Main Street in Los Angeles: think of old men and boys, out of work, hanging around, smoking Bull Durham, talking about the government, waiting for something to turn up, simply waiting. It was a Monday morning in August and a lot of the tramps had come to the shop to brighten up a bit. The Japanese boy who was working over the free chair had a waiting list of eleven; all the other chairs were occupied. I sat down and began to wait. Outside, as Hemingway (The Sun Also Rises; Farewell to Arms; Death in the Afternoon; Winner Take Nothing) would say, haircuts were four bits. I had twenty cents and a half-pack of Bull Durham. I rolled a cigarette, handed the pack to one of my contemporaries who looked in need of nicotine, and inhaled the dry smoke, thinking of America, what was going on politically, economically, spiritually. My contemporary was a boy of sixteen. He looked Iowa; splendid potentially, a solid American, but down, greatly down in the mouth. Little sleep, no change of clothes for several days, a little fear, etc. I wanted very much to know his name. A writer is always wanting to get the reality of faces and figures. Iowa said, "I just got in from Salinas. No work in the lettuce fields. Going north now, to Portland; try to ship out." I wanted to tell him how it was with me: rejected story from Scribner's, rejected essay from The Yale Review, no money for decent cigarettes, worn shoes, old shirts, but I was afraid to make something of my own troubles. A writer's troubles are always boring, a bit unreal. People are apt to feel, Well, who asked you to write in the first place? A man must pretend not to be a writer. I said, "Good luck, north." Iowa shook his head. "I know better. Give it a try, anyway. Nothing to lose." Fine boy, hope he isn't dead, hope he hasn't frozen, mighty cold these days (December, 1933), hope he hasn't gone down; he deserved to live. Iowa, I hope you got work in Portland; I hope you are earning money; I hope you have rented a clean room with a warm bed in it; I hope you are sleeping nights, eating regularly, walking along like a human being, being happy. Iowa, my good wishes are with you. I have said a number of prayers for you. (All the same, I think he is dead by this time. It was in him the day I saw him, the low malicious face of the beast, and at the same time all the theatres in America were showing, over and over again, an animated film-cartoon in which there was a song called "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?", and that's what it amounts to; people with money laughing at the death that is crawling slyly into boys like young Iowa, pretending that it isn't there, laughing in warm theatres. I have prayed for Iowa, and I consider myself a coward. By this time he must be dead, and I am sitting in a small room, talking about him, only talking.)

    I began to watch the Japanese boy who was learning to become a barber. He was shaving an old tramp who had a horrible face, one of those faces that emerge from years and years of evasive living, years of being unsettled, of not belonging anywhere, of owning nothing, and the Japanese boy was holding his nose back (his own nose) so that he would not smell the old tramp. A trivial point in a story, a bit of data with no place in a work of art, nevertheless, I put it down. A young writer is always afraid some significant fact may escape him. He is always wanting to put in everything he sees. I wanted to know the name of the Japanese boy. I am profoundly interested in names. I have found that those that are unknown are the most genuine. Take a big name like Andrew Mellon. I was watching the Japanese boy very closely. I wanted to understand from the way he was keeping his sense of smell away from the mouth and nostrils of the old man what he was thinking, how he was feeling. Years ago, when I was seventeen, I pruned vines in my uncle's vineyard, north of Sanger, in the San Joaquin Valley, and there were several Japanese working with me, Yoshio Enomoto, Hideo Suzuki, Katsumi Sujimoto, and one or two others. These Japanese taught me a few simple phrases, hello, how are you, fine day, isn't it, good-bye, and so on. I said in Japanese to the barber student, "How are you?" He said in Japanese, "Very well, thank you." Then, in impeccable English, "Do you speak Japanese? Have you lived in Japan?" I said, "Unfortunately, no. I am able to speak only one or two words. I used to work with Yoshio Enomoto, Hideo Suzuki, Katsumi Sujimoto; do you know them?" He went on with his work, thinking of the names. He seemed to be whispering, "Enomoto, Suzuki, Sujimoto." He said, "Suzuki. Small man?" I said, "Yes." He said, "I know him. He lives in San Jose now. He is married now."

    I want you to know that I am deeply interested in what people remember. A young writer goes out to places and talks to people. He tries to find out what they remember. I am not using great material for a short story. Nothing is going to happen in this work. I am not fabricating a fancy plot. I am not creating memorable characters. I am not using a slick style of writing. I am not building up a fine atmosphere. I have no desire to sell this story or any story to The Saturday Evening Post or to Cosmopolitan or to Harper's. I am not trying to compete with the great writers of short stories, men like Sinclair Lewis and Joseph Hergesheimer and Zane Grey, men who really know how to write, how to make up stories that will sell. Rich men, men who understand all the rules about plot and character and style and atmosphere and all that stuff. I have no desire for fame. I am not out to win the Pulitzer Prize or the Nobel Prize or any other prize. I am out here in the far West, in San Francisco, in a small room on Carl Street, writing a letter to common people, telling them in simple language things they already know. I am merely making a record, so if I wander around a little, it is because I am in no hurry and because I do not know the rules. If I have any desire at all, it is to show the brotherhood of man. This is a big statement and it sounds a little precious. Generally a man is ashamed to make such a statement. He is afraid sophisticated people will laugh at him. But I don't mind. I'm asking sophisticated people to laugh. That is what sophistication is for. I do not believe in races. I do not believe in governments. I see life as one life at one time, so many millions simultaneously, all over the earth. Babies who have not yet been taught to speak any language are the only race of the earth, the race of man: all the rest is pretense, what we call civilization, hatred, fear, desire for strength . . . . But a baby is a baby. And the way they cry, there you have the brotherhood of man, babies crying. We grow up and we learn the words of a language and we see the universe through the language we know, we do not see it through all languages or through no language at all, through silence, for example, and we isolate ourselves in the language we know. Over here we isolate ourselves in English, or American as Mencken calls it. All the eternal things, in our words. If I want to do anything, I want to speak a more universal language. The heart of man, the unwritten part of man, that which is eternal and common to all races.

    Now I am beginning to feel guilty and incompetent. I have used all this language and I am beginning to feel that I have said nothing. This is what drives a young writer out of his head, this feeling that nothing is being said. Any ordinary journalist would have been able to put the whole business into a three-word caption. Man is man, he would have said. Something clever, with any number of implications. But I want to use language that will create a single implication. I want the meaning to be precise, and perhaps that is why the language is so imprecise. I am walking around my subject, the impression I want to make, and I am trying to see it from all angles, so that I will have a whole picture, a picture of wholeness. It is the heart of man that I am trying to imply in this work.

    Let me try again: I hadn't had a haircut in a long time and I was beginning to look seedy, so I went down to the Barber College on Third Street, and I sat in a chair. I said, "Leave it full in the back. I have a narrow head and if you do not leave it full in the back, I will go out of this place looking like a horse. Take as much as you like off the top. No lotion, no water, comb it dry." Reading makes a full man, writing a precise one, as you see. This is what happened. It doesn't make much of a story, and the reason is that I have left out the barber, the young man who gave me the haircut. He was tall, he had a dark serious face, thick lips, on the verge of smiling but melancholy, thick lashes, sad eyes, a large nose. I saw his name on the card that was pasted on the mirror, Theodore Badal. A good name, genuine, a good young man, genuine. Theodore Badal began to work on my head. A good barber never speaks until he has been spoken to, no matter how full his heart may be.

    "That name," I said, "Badal. Are you an Armenian?" I am an Armenian. I have mentioned this before. People look at me and begin to wonder, so I come right out and tell them. "I am an Armenian," I say. Or they read something I have written and begin to wonder, so I let them know. "I am an Armenian," I say. It is a meaningless remark, but they expect me to say it, so I do. I have no idea what it is like to be an Armenian or what it is like to be an Englishman or a Japanese or anything else. I have a faint idea what it is like to be alive. This is the only thing that interests me greatly. This and tennis. I hope some day to write a great philosophical work on tennis, something on the order of Death in the Afternoon, but I am aware that I am not yet ready to undertake such a work. I feel that the cultivation of tennis on a large scale among the peoples of the earth will do much to annihilate racial differences, prejudices, hatred, etc. Just as soon as I have perfected my drive and my lob, I hope to begin my outline of this great work. (It may seem to some sophisticated people that I am trying to make fun of Hemingway. I am not. Death in the Afternoon is a pretty sound piece of prose. I could never object to it as prose. I cannot even object to it as philosophy. I think it is finer philosophy than that of Will Durant and Walter Pitkin. Even when Hemingway is a fool, he is at least an accurate fool. He tells you what actually takes place and he doesn't allow the speed of an occurrence to make his exposition of it hasty. This is a lot. It is some sort of advancement for literature. To relate leisurely the nature and meaning of that which is very brief in duration.)

    "Are you an Armenian?" I asked.

    We are a small people and whenever one of us meets another, it is an event. We are always looking around for someone to talk to in our language. Our most ambitious political party estimates that there are nearly two million of us living on the earth, but most of us don't think so. Most of us sit down and take a pencil and a piece of paper and we take one section of the world at a time and imagine how many Armenians at the most are likely to be living in that section and we put the highest number on the paper, and then we go on to another section, India, Russia, Soviet Armenia, Egypt, Italy, Germany, France, America, South America, Australia, and so on, and after we add up our most hopeful figures the total comes to something a little less than a million. Then we start to think how big our families are, how high our birthrate and how low our death-rate (except in times of war when massacres increase the death-rate), and we begin to imagine how rapidly we will increase if we are left alone a quarter of a century, and we feel pretty happy. We always leave out earthquakes, wars, massacres, famines, etc., and it is a mistake. I remember the Near East Relief drives in my home town. My uncle used to be our orator and he used to make a whole auditorium full of Armenians weep. He was an attorney and he was a great orator. Well, at first the trouble was war. Our people were being destroyed by the enemy. Those who hadn't been killed were homeless and they were starving, our own flesh and blood, my uncle said, and we all wept. And we gathered money and sent it to our people in the old country. Then after the war, when I was a bigger boy, we had another Near East Relief drive and my uncle stood on the stage of the Civic Auditorium of my home town and he said, "Thank God this time it is not the enemy, but an earthquake. God has made us suffer. We have worshipped Him through trial and tribulation, through suffering and disease and torture and horror and (my uncle began to weep, began to sob) through the madness of despair, and now he has done this thing, and still we praise Him, still we worship Him. We do not understand the ways of God." And after the drive I went to my uncle and I said, "Did you mean what you said about God?" And he said, "That was oratory. We've got to raise money. What God? It is nonsense." "And when you cried?" I asked, and my uncle said, "That was real. I could not help it. I had to cry. Why, for God's sake, why must we go through all this God damn hell? What have we done to deserve all this torture? Man won't let us alone. God won't let us alone. Have we done something? Aren't we supposed to be pious people? What is our sin? I am disgusted with God. I am sick of man. The only reason I am willing to get up and talk is that I don't dare keep my mouth shut. I can't bear the thought of more of our people dying. Jesus Christ, have we done something?"

    I asked Theodore Badal if he was an Armenian.

    He said, "I am an Assyrian."

    Well, it was something. They, the Assyrians, came from our part of the world, they had noses like our noses, eyes like our eyes, hearts like our hearts. They had a different language. When they spoke we couldn't understand them, but they were a lot like us. It wasn't quite as pleasing as it would have been if Badal had been an Armenian, but it was something.

    "I am an Armenian," I said. "I used to know some Assyrian boys in my home town, Joseph Sargis, Nito Elia, Tony Saleh. Do you know any of them?"

    "Joseph Sargis, I know him," said Badal. "The others I do not know. We lived in New York until five years ago, then we came out west to Turlock. Then we moved up to San Francisco."

    "Nito Elia," I said, "is a Captain in the Salvation Army." (I don't want anyone to imagine that I am making anything up, or that I am trying to be funny.) "Tony Saleh," I said, "was killed eight years ago. He was riding a horse and he was thrown and the horse began to run. Tony couldn't get himself free, he was caught by a leg, and the horse ran around and around for a half hour and then stopped, and when they went up to Tony he was dead. He was fourteen at the time. I used to go to school with him. Tony was a very clever boy, very good at arithmetic."

    We began to talk about the Assyrian language and the Armenian language, about the old world, conditions over there, and so on. I was getting a fifteen-cent haircut and I was doing my best to learn something at the same time, to acquire some new truth, some new appreciation of the wonder of life, the dignity of man. (Man has great dignity, do not imagine that he has not.)

    Badal said, "I cannot read Assyrian. I was born in the old country, but I want to get over it."

    He sounded tired, not physically but spiritually.

    "Why?" I said. "Why do you want to get over it?"

    "Well," he laughed, "simply because everything is washed up over there." I am repeating his words precisely, putting in nothing of my own. "We were a great people once," he went on. "But that was yesterday, the day before yesterday. Now we are a topic in ancient history. We had a great civilization. They're still admiring it. Now I am in America learning how to cut hair. We're washed up as a race, we're through, it's all over, why should I learn to read the language? We have no writers, we have no news- well, there is a little news: once in a while the English encourage the Arabs to massacre us, that is all. It's an old story, we know all about it. The news comes over to us through the Associated Press, anyway."

    These remarks were very painful to me, an Armenian. I had always felt badly about my own people being destroyed. I had never heard an Assyrian speaking in English about such things. I felt great love for this young fellow. Don't get me wrong. There is a tendency these days to think in terms of pansies whenever a man says that he has affection for man. I think now that I have affection for all people, even for the enemies of Armenia, whom I have so tactfully not named. Everyone knows who they are. I have nothing against any of them because I think of them as one man living one life at a time, and I know, I am positive, that one man at a time is incapable of the monstrosities performed by mobs. My objection is to mobs only.

    "Well," I said, "it is much the same with us. We, too, are old. We still have our church. We still have a few writers, Aharonian, Isahakian, a few others, but it is much the same."

    "Yes," said the barber, "I know. We went in for the wrong things. We went in for the simple things, peace and quiet and families. We didn't go in for machinery and conquest and militarism. We didn't go in for diplomacy and deceit and the invention of machine-guns and poison gases. Well, there is no use in being disappointed. We had our day, I suppose."

    "We are hopeful," I said. "There is no Armenian living who does not still dream of an independent Armenia."

    "Dream?" said Badal. "Well, that is something. Assyrians cannot even dream any more. Why, do you know how many of us are left on earth?"

    "Two or three million," I suggested.

    "Seventy thousand," said Badal. "That is all. Seventy thousand Assyrians in the world, and the Arabs are still killing us. They killed seventy of us in a little uprising last month. There was a small paragraph in the paper. Seventy more of us destroyed. We'll be wiped out before long. My brother is married to an American girl and he has a son. There is no more hope. We are trying to forget Assyria. My father still reads a paper that comes from New York, but he is an old man. He will be dead soon."

    Then his voice changed, he ceased speaking as an Assyrian and began to speak as a barber: "Have I taken enough off the top?" he asked.

    The rest of the story is pointless. I said so long to the young Assyrian and left the shop. I walked across town, four miles, to my room on Carl Street. I thought about the whole business: Assyria and this Assyrian, Theodore Badal, learning to be a barber, the sadness of his voice, the hopelessness of his attitude. This was months ago, in August, but ever since I have been thinking about Assyria, and I have been wanting to say something about Theodore Badal, a son of an ancient race, himself youthful and alert, yet hopeless. Seventy thousand Assyrians, a mere seventy thousand of that great people, and all the others quiet in death and all the greatness crumbled and ignored, and a young man in America learning to be a barber, and a young man lamenting bitterly the course of history.

    Why don't I make up plots and write beautiful love stories that can be made into motion pictures? Why don't I let these unimportant and boring matters go hang? Why don't I try to please the American reading public?

    Well, I am an Armenian. Michael Arlen is an Armenian, too. He is pleasing the public. I have great admiration for him, and I think he has perfected a very fine style of writing and all that, but I don't want to write about the people he likes to write about. Those people were dead to begin with. You take Iowa and the Japanese boy and Theodore Badal, the Assyrian; well, they may go down physically, like Iowa, to death, or spiritually, like Badal, to death, but they are of the stuff that is eternal in man and it is this stuff that interests me. You don't find them in bright places, making witty remarks about sex and trivial remarks about art. You find them where I found them, and they will be there forever, the race of man, the part of man, of Assyria as much as of England, that cannot be destroyed, the part that massacre does not destroy, the part that earthquake and war and famine and madness and everything else cannot destroy.

    This work is in tribute to Iowa, to Japan, to Assyria, to Armenia, to the race of man everywhere, to the dignity of that race, the brotherhood of things alive. I am not expecting Paramount Pictures to film this work. I am thinking of seventy thousand Assyrians, one at a time, alive, a great race. I am thinking of Theodore Badal, himself seventy thousand Assyrians and seventy million Assyrians, himself Assyria, and man, standing in a barber shop, in San Francisco, in 1933, and being, still, himself, the whole race.

    1934