No matter what Nariné Abgaryan writes—about the plain everyday life of residents of a small mountain village, about the horrors of war, or about childhood—everything she creates tells of the beauty of life. And that in any situation you must remain human.
“On the top of Hali-kar there is no room for pain. Everything that’s yours is in you, everything that’s yours is with you. Stone thresholds, the chapel dome overgrown with grass, morning mists flowing down from the hilltops like milk rivers—forward, forward, to where, getting close enough, you can look into the windows of dwellings. A portrait of grandmother in a darkened wooden frame, the house of childhood, the graves of ancestors in the old cemetery, a red-haired village road starting in your heart—on it are the traces of those who left. Inhale—exhale. Inhale—exhale. One, two, three, four, five… Nothing to take away, nothing to give back. All yours are in you; all yours are forever with you.”
Contents:
Machucha
Six
Sixteen
Twenty-two
Forty-three
Haddum
War
My War
Zanazan
I live
Berd
January
February
March
April
May
June
July
August
September
October
November
December
Afterword