(Preface by the author to the Russian edition of the poetry book "Unverschlossener Kreis", Olma Press, Moscow, 2003)
When two people meet by chance, they greet one another and ask about the latest news. One of them may be the author of this book, who is seeking a general beginning for that book. The other may be his reader who could tell him the following:
“There was once a time when people did not need to speak. They were a harmonious part of a great and vibrant spiritual universe whose only language was silence. People did not speak, as all of them, without exception, knew the truth. For they themselves were part of the truth.
Thus it happened that this time perished and was buried by a thick and impenetrable layer of ice. People lost the truth and so began searching for it. The word was born of the urge to find truth again. People began to use the word ‘God’ to designate truth, and from that word all known and unknown Gods came forth.
The word began to increase and the farther it disseminated itself, and the more all-embracing it became, the more the people distanced themselves from the truth. Then came the moment when during their search for the truth people were confronted everywhere with the word. One day they discovered to their astonishment that everything was word, and they themselves also part of the word.
They lost truth and began to seek God in the word, believing that God was truth itself. In this way they identified God with truth and so also lost God.
To find God again, people invented writing. They believed they could reach God by means of writing, but they then realised to their astonishment that there was only writing. This time they identified writing with God and said writing was God itself. And so they also lost writing.
To find writing again, people began to churn up all the secret and obvious corners of the earth and invented the so-called world religions. This time they identified the religions with writing and declared that these religions were writing itself. However, as writing was just one, and there were many religions, they all rose up against one another and people lost the religions as well.
When there was nothing more to find or lose, people retired into themselves and became silent.
And in that silence they heard, saw, felt, touched and suddenly grasped the truth.
And they were very astonished …
Their astonishment gave birth to the song.
And that song is poetry itself.”
31.7.2003
©Sevak Aramazd
Dear Visitor!
Perhaps you have entered this house where literature lives by chance or else out of some inner constraint. The house has an address, an entrance and an exit, which is the same as the entrance. It also has a spacious hallway from which rooms lead off to the right and left. The walls of the house are decorated with poems and the windows covered in curtains of prose. The books are carefully ordered on the shelves in strict succession. At the other end of the house, where the work room is, there are two upright chairs opposite one another, where peaceful and intense conversations can be held. Not far from these is a narrow inconspicuous door from where a rickety staircase leads down to the cellar. There, mystical, indecipherable secrets and hidden contents live in the cold and eternal semi-darkness. At first sight, the furniture in the house may seem a bit old and humdrum, but it is arranged so as to be pleasant to look at. The air smells of flowers and is pure. If a sound is made, the echo can be heard with the same clarity and, for a moment, the feeling of space and time disappears. It seems as if each object here is transparent and unreal, and the only perceptible presence is boundlessness …
In this house you can find the known and the unknown. What is absent is the man of the house, whom no one has seen so far…