"...I am a young man living in the old city. It is morning. I am in a small room. I am standing over a pile of yellow writing paper - this is the only type of paper that I can afford - ten cents for one hundred and seventy sheets. On This paper has not yet been written, it is virgin and perfect. And I, a young writer, am just getting ready to start work. Today is Monday... September 25, 1933... what a blessing that I am alive, that I am still there. For many days and nights I walked through many streets and cities, and then I found myself, on the wall of this small, untidy room, a photograph of my dead father. I appeared on this earth with his face and eyes and I write in English. , what he would write in our native language. And we are the same person - one dead, the other alive.) I desperately smoke a cigarette, because for me the moment of greatest importance has come, and therefore for everyone I am going to transfer the language. , my tongue is on a piece of blank paper, and a shiver runs through me. Being a user of words is such a big responsibility. I don't want to sin against the truth. I don't want to speculate. I'm very afraid of this. I have never behaved prudently, and now that I have taken up work greater than life itself, I do not want to utter a single false word. For months I have been telling myself, “You have to be humble. Modesty is paramount." I was determined not to lose my character..." Translation: Aram Ohanyan