And I will sprawl over your pages, I’ll hide away between the lines, in your words’ boiler or in the attic of the title, or in the outhouse of the drafts….
Born of one mother or two fathers, we are two orphans, sister and brother, but man and wife we shall become, and be each other’s canopy, two bodies welded into one, we’ll live in love, in shame and incest, we’ll live sex-ridden and diseased, blind to the staring gaze of others, condemned and voiceless outcasts, unwed and sinful, dragged by the water and the wind, wrapped in one skin, boxed in one body, turned into one hermaphrodite….


The Premiere

“Don’t worry. Tatevik Benyaminovna likes to relax like this after a performance.” He led me aside, and then knelt down next to Tata, took a readied syringe out of his pocket, bared the needle, and injected the contents into Tata’s arm.


Workplace Romance

translator: Margarit Tadevosyan-Ordukhanyan

Why the inevitable? Why was it inevitable? Simply because a woman always feels it, nothing more, and she has no need to explain or rationalize it. The ostrich-like expressions of being interested in the other person, the conducive surprises, all those come later. Physical desire ranked last for Anna, who had a young, passionate husband with a constant eagerness for more self-assertion.



translator: Margarit Tadevosyan-Ordukhanyan

Bathroom. He’d already showered, and was now staring into the mirror. First—work, then off to see his wit-stealer. By the door, he bent down, his eyes red, fixed on his feet, as he squeezed his them into his shoes. He quickly straightened up, erect like a penis, closed the door, passed through, was gone.


Ode to the Panic Attacks

I don't have the excuse of youth
anymore to justify my lack of life
experience and real soul accomplish
ment like traveling to countries



translator: G. M. Goshgarian

you read distractedly you'd think a fire was going to burn up what you're going to write, the other person yawns, collapses onto his chair, he closed his eyes, he looks at the door that has opened inwards, the scene can be repeated a thousand times, it's a film, someone's doing someone else in. the convicted man stands in the cell, there's no light but it's light, the reporter copies what he's written from the top or bottom. his footsteps are recorded in his ear, he counts the steps of someone going from the paving stones toward the exit, a criminal or a policeman?



translator: Margarit Tadevosyan-Ordukhanyan

he got on his feet. of course! there you go, brother shit, my great brother shit. the brother in america counts for nothing, i don’t consider him a brother. you’re all i’ve got.



translator: Nanor Kebranian

For this reason perhaps, the detour often resembles an unshaded passage, and never a magnificent gate, it leaves its impression on those grand entrances, introductions, promising a lovely house, a beautiful book and in the end materializing as resplendent and unforeseen huts. Metaphor has the benefit, perhaps the only one, of taking us from one to the other. It is bisexual like the symbol.



translator: G. M. Goshgarian

Where does this moment lie? Should we look for it in "aristocratic Darwinism"? Can we discern it in the fiction of the people as a work of art, which is the very definition of "national-aestheticism"? Is it present from the outset, in the announcement and expectation of a new mythology? Or even earlier, in the philological definition of religion as mythological? These questions are plainly appropriate in the case of the Mehyan group, Zarian's participation in which was anything but an aberration. But they are also appropriate to the whole of the European adventure, the one that led from the discovery of mythology to National Socialism. No attempt to determine Nietzsche's place in this European trajectory can sidestep them. What are we to make of the affirmation of art? Is it to be confined to playing a denunciatory, deconstructive role? Or should it be placed back within the circuit of power, which is to be affirmed in its turn? The distinction between art as mourning and art as founding fiction is of no help here.