april / 19

Sunday, April 16, 2006
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ANOTHER HOJA STORY
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The following Nasredin Hoja story is my own version based on what I heard many years ago as a child. Like all truly wise men, the Hoja didn’t write a single line for publication. As a result there are as many versions of his stories as there are tellers. Most so-called Hoja stories, moreover, are not even his stories but counterfeits. In his anthology, THE SUBTLETIES OF THE INIMITABLE MULLA NASRUDING (London, 1973) Idries Shah, the foremost authority in the English language, includes even stories about the Hoja in an airplane, and another on a psychoanalyst’s couch, and still another about Hoja in London. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, therefore, if an expert writes to say that the story that fellows does not belong to the canon. The only reason I am recounting it here is that “Se non vero, ben trovato” (freely translated: if untrue, it’s as good as true, because it’s good”).
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When on his way home late one night Nasredin Hoja sees a man bent over looking for something, the following exchange takes place: “What did you lose?” “My gold ring.” “Where did you lose it?” “In the barn over there.” “If you lost it in the barn, why are you looking for it in the street?” “Because there is more light here.”
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This story has several morals, among them:
(i)Most people pretend to solve a problem because pretending is easier even if completely useless. (ii) Before men hit on the right solution, they will try all the wrong ones first.” (iii) Common sense is the least common of all faculties. (iv) Before you act, consider your motives and the consequences of your actions. (v) Action without contemplation is meaningless.
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Monday, April 17, 2006
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JESUS AND HITLER
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According to scholars who have studied the underlined passages and marginalia of Hitler’s private library, one of the subjects that interested him the most was, “Where did Jesus derive the power that has held his followers for all eternity?” For more on this subject see, EVERY BOOK ITS READER: THE POWER OF THE PRINTED WORD TO STIR THE WORLD by Nicholas A. Basbanes (New York, 2005).
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POETRY
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I don’t read much poetry, especially that of our vodanavorjis, whose number probably exceeds that of our self-appointed pundits, but I love these lines by Salvatore Quasimodo: “Your eyes have seen my depths / Unto the darkness of my bowels.”
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THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A FORUM
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Some years ago I was a member of an Armenian discussion forum whose moderator did not allow four-letter words, abusive language, and aliases. Any member that did not abide by his rules was immediately and unceremoniously removed. As a result, after dwindling from over a hundred members to only one, the forum was terminated. Moral: Armenians are better at sharing insults than ideas.
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TOLERANCE, ARMENIAN STYLE
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A fascist thinks he is being tolerant when he allows the free exchange of fascist ideas. Tolerance of anti-fascist ideas he equates with treason.
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JESUS AND TURKS
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In his memoirs, Zaroukian quotes the following two lines from an unidentified Armenian poet: “The Turk did not yet exist / When Jesus said, Forgive your enemy.”
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Tuesday, April 18, 2006
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ACADEMIC MAFIAS
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After publishing a genocide-related book, a friend of mine complained that no one had bothered to review it. “I know something I didn’t know before,” he went on. “We have a genocide mafia that treats non-members as interlopers.”
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EGO TRIP
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In his memoirs, Zaroukian writes that Nikol Aghbalian not only contributed scholarly essays to an Armenian academic periodical but also paid his annual subscription fee. When asked why he did that, he is said to have replied: “This is one of those publications whose sole subscribers are its contributors. If we don’t pay, it will cease to exist.” There you have a typical failing of our academics: instead of educating the masses, they try to impress one another with their erudition.
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I REMEMBER
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When I write about mafias, fascists, and dupes, I write about myself. I imagine nothing. I guess even less. I only remember.
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Z/Z
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Zarian’s fans outnumbered his detractors; but whereas his fans were silent, his detractors were not, probably because he was an outsider, an interloper – an Armenian from Karabagh among Armenians from Istanbul and Yerevan. He could never qualify as a member of the club. Anywhere else he would have been a best seller. Among Armenians, his status continues to be marginal. For every positive statement that Zaroukian makes in his memoirs of Zarian, there are more than a dozen negative ones. Had I known Zarian only through Zaroukian’s, or for that matter, Oshagan’s writings, I wouldn’t even have bothered to read him.
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Wednesday, April 19, 2006
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MORE ON ZAROUKIAN
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One of the most astonishing aspects of Antranik Zaroukian’s memoirs is the degree of seriousness he and his contemporaries took themselves. Their internecine tempest-in-a-teacup disagreements and quarrels are treated as if they were historic events with serious repercussions. Case in point: When the three political parties agree to sign a document, the argument that erupts is about whose signature will appear on top. The wisest words in the book are spoken by a gifted poet who, when asked why he has quit writing, replies: “To write what? To what end?”
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I REMEMBER
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Once upon a time when I was young, naïve, and ignorant, I too treated our elder statesmen with some respect and believed what they said. But when in time I decided to rely more on my own observations and experiences, the Tashnaks assumed I was a Ramgavar, the Ramgavars assumed I was a Tashnak, our bishops assumed I was an atheist, and our capitalists, or rather their flunkeys, assumed I was a communist. It never even occurred to these gentlemen that one could be anti-partisan, anti-clerical, and anti-capitalist and be a decent human being able to have one’s own thoughts and to be independently poor by surviving on bread and books.
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