Christopher Hitchens, The Great

Tags

Arman Grigorian, Arts, Baruch de Spinoza, Christopher Hitchens, Depth, enlightenment., literature, philosophy, quotes, truth

In my last post, I shared a great quote from the amazing Y/A novel: The Perks of Being A Wallflower, and even though I’m tempted to share another great quote from the world of ‘traditional’ literature, I’m not going to do so; I’m instead going to share a quote from the world of Philosophy, because besides being a writer, I also consider myself a ‘Philosopher’, so you can only imagine the time I spend inside my own head – I even use a lot of philosophy in my writings – latest being: Pioneers, the novel. 

The quote I’m going to share with you is one by the great Christopher Hitchens, who sadly died in 2011 from cancer. – If not the cancer had taken him, I’m convinced that he would have become our modern time Baruch de Spinoza. 
The quote Christopher Hitchens is most known for – or probably most known for – goes like this:
Take the risk of thinking for yourself – much more happiness, truth, beauty, and wisdom will come to you that way. 

This simple, yet so beautiful and CORRECT quote is beyond my capacity to fully understand; I mean, fully understand. It’s nothing mind-blowing as such, not if you read the words and let them slip away with the same ignorance which you read them with, but if you try to understand the depth of the quote, it becomes mind-blowing. I admire this man with all of my heart, I truly do. 
If you are completely unaware of who Christopher Hitchens is, I highly recommend you to go and study him – I promise, your life will be changed once you let his powerful and rhetorical perfected sentences sink in. 

Here’s just a few other quotes I could have chosen.
A: Religion ends and Philosophy begins, just as alchemy ends and chemistry begins and astrology ends, and astronomy begins. (One of my favorites)
B: The Essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks.
(I encourage you to try to figure out the essence of this quote) 

I don’t mean to make this a long post, since the 3 quotes I’ve shared with you, will give you a lot to think about, but the meaning of this post is to show you that not all ‘literature’ and ‘word play’ has to come from the traditional world of literature. Sometimes, if a writer needs inspiration or enlightenment, all he has to do is to step out of his traditional reading-zone and seek other type of literature; other type of arts, such as the art of thinking: Philosophy. 

Rest in peace, dear mentor, Christopher Hitchens, we all miss you greatly. 

Quote, The.

Tags

Arman Grigorian, hope, illusions, mental illness, nightmares, pain, Perks of being a wallflower, quotes, Stephen Chbosky, truth.

Sometimes … you can put more words in a single quote, than in an entire book.
This amazing quote – being the favorite one of the day – is from ‘The perks of being a wallflower’, which is written by the great Stephen Chbosky, it’s absolutely one of my favorite books and one I will read and re-read, till the day I take my last, humble breath. 

“Sometimes people use thought to not participate in life.”
– Stephen Chbosky. 

When life happens

Tags

Arman Grigorian, dedicarion, family, Love, nietzsche, Passion, philosophy, the moment

Yesterday, when I got home from work, I was lucky to find my family enjoying life; they had gathered their closest friends, dad was BBQ’ing – in an Armenian traditional way – mom and the ladies were enjoying their cold glasses of wine, children were playing around and my beautiful girlfriend was speaking with my older brother – who is soon to leave Denmark; he is going away to study traditional martial arts in Korea – so you can pretty much visuals the harmonic picture I’m trying to paint – but what is my point? Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is: this was one if those moments where one truly had to be in the moment – in the present, because sometimes the present can truly be a pleasant present.

When we sat to dine – my dad, being Armenian and all – kept it traditional and held quite a few toasts; he spoke of life, of friendship, of the close bonds they shared with the people whom they had invited. – for me to sit there and just … listen, observe, soak up the harmonic moment was an honor. – he is truly my idol and inspiration in life, he and my brother.
I don’t know if you’re like me in spirit, but I tend to find greater joy in life by observing the smiles upon the lips if my loved ones – I don’t necessarily have to participate – I like to be on the sideline and observing; and that was exactly what I did – and it hit me: life is happening right now.

Conversation was flowing in same paste as the wine – there were laughter everywhere, heck, even my mom were dancing with my girlfriend and I – and eventually she got everyone up and dancing. I guess that is one if the strengths of my culture – we don’t need much in order to enjoy life – all we need is genuine love; and speaking if love – I have the most dedicated girlfriend – I have a family whose bond is stronger than faith ! – and I have friends who’re truly faithful and very loyal – life is happening right now and I’m living life in the moment – it’s not too often I get to do that, but whenever I get the chance to do so, I’ll be damned if I let the opportunity slip.

As the evening was to end and I were lying in bed with my beautiful girlfriend, cuddling, enjoying the last bits of an amazing day – I got emotional; very emotional actually. I couldn’t understand why I was so lucky – so blessed if you will – what had I done to deserve such love ? Her silent and tender breathing had an calming effect on me – and the calmness made it possible for me to reflect in the entire day; all the speeches, the wine, the conversations, the genuine smiles – how good life truly feels once it happens – and not just that – but how good life feels once you’re aware of the “moment” where nothing else but love matters – love from your loved ones.
Anyways – I’ve promised myself to capture the moment and truly make sure that every day is as the one last night; cause Nietzsche was right when he said: God is dead – what he meant was: it is up to us to create joy and happiness – and I will do just that; starting from NOW.

Noy Emin

Tags

Anna Karin, Arman Grigorian, Edwarian Era, Love, Novel, Passion, Short stories, truth.

As the last remaining drops of rain were vanishing underneath the early morning sun, Noy Emin, the head of the servants, was already preparing for the day to come; at times he allowed himself to admire the beauty of the sun, but it was no longer than a few seconds – there was, as usual, a lot to be done, especially when you were the head servant for the Artavazd family, whom the aristocratic society looked upon with admiring eyes, and whom they always found time to pay a visit. 

While reading his notes from the night before – Noy Emin felt a gentle hand on his shoulder; he closed his eyes in pleasure, knowing, without looking, whose beautiful hand it was; for him beauty came in many shapes and ages and the elder Anna Karin, the head maid, was a very beautiful women, whom he respected greatly. 
‘Miss Karin,’ he said with his deep manly voice. His lips fought hard not to show hints of a humble smile. 
‘Would you to join me for a cup of tea, Mr. Emin? Or have you already had yours?’ 
‘No, a cup of tea would be nice, thank you.’

Noy Emin was pleased by the attention given to him, and even though he already had his morning cup, he lied to Miss Karin; the morning cup of tea was one of the highlights in Noy Emin’s day – it had become a ‘tradition’ if you will, one he intended to keep for years to come; he enjoyed the company of Miss Karin. 
In a complete and a peaceful silence, they enjoyed their morning tea. Anna Karin dared to look at Noy Emin with admiring eyes; even though she often disagreed with Mr. Emin’s traditional state of mind, especially the firm way he lead his staff, she had come to respect him. 

Noy Emin took out his pocket watch, his brows gave away the words he was about to say.
‘You go, Mr. Emin, you go.’ she said smiling. 
‘Thank you, Miss Karin, for the tea and for your company,’ he said and took another look at his pocket watch as he was leaving the room. 
Anna Karin began her morning, where Noy Emin ended his; it was now her turn to admire the morning sun, that shone with great hope and promising; this was going to be another good day in the house of Artavazd. 

Spoken Word, The.

This is just a piece of poetry; please don’t take the lyricism too literary. I guess one of the most important qualities a good writer must posses, is the ability to be versatile – to be able to write in different ways to touch different crowds. Not everyone is sitting in a cosy home, with tea and a blanket reading poetry or a great novel. To some people the art of ‘Spoken Word’ or ‘Lyricism’ is food for thought and the cosy blanket you wrap around your body as safety. Often these ‘spoken word’ pieces consist of more serious topics so I’ve tried to capture the essence of nightmares – because we all have them – we all have experienced at least one night in horror; waking up screaming with a leaking T-shirt covered in sweat.
Yes, writer are not people who have experienced EVERYTHING in life, but still, they must posses the ability to put themselves into the mindset of EVERYONE. Rich and poor, Good or bad, Angels or Demons etc. etc.

Here’s my go; A piece of Spoken Word dedicated to the people who have experienced the meaning of ‘Nightmares’. 

Young and poor with a tougher road leading to suffer
To suffer hunger was nothing, nothing left for me to suffer. 
I’m rushing up to see the ‘cyanide’
I just came to realize, I don’t wanna see my hero die, maybe he can get a second chance in ‘Cyanide’
They say: The flesh disappears, but the soul survives
but what about the pain and memories that still revives.
I aint feel a bump, body numb, mind drifting
My vision blurry, still I saw your face clear
You were the voice when I considered the thoughts

Monsters in my head
I wake up screaming and swinging
dreaming that I’m fighting demons, dreaming I’m swinging on heathens 
I need a priest and a deacon 
cause being in a well isn’t good for my well-being.
A walking zombie, I be a comatose, nobody loves a nobody

Shaking like an earthquake’s inside me or like I caught the Holy Ghost
This ain’t the last supper, but raise your glass to my final toast
Flipped and I Lost it off hallucinogenic, I saw lucifer imagine
He asked of me questions like it was the last scrimmage
The elephant in the room are my skeletons in the closet
Now, I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord, my soul to keep
Wake me up before i die
Don’t bury me with monsters in my head
I always see them out the corner of my eye
Scared to death to fully see them but i try
I just want to ask them, why they follow me around
And they reply when i hear a sound, or they walk by and give me a chill I cant explain, was it the high?
My anxiety’s at an all time high

I’m destroying every positive force
With these negative thoughts
How can i find happiness when I can’t remember it’s lost
I do so many temporary things: To smile for just a minute,
Trying to make everybody laugh, but that’s just a disguise, i’m really timid.

Take heed to what I’m giving you
Or i will appease and get rid of you
Maybe the only thing I seek is biblical
The scars are internal and the bleeding is invisible
I’ll let you walk in my shoes once I find a new balance
With faith I stay in peace for I know every man’s equal
So im playing with the monsters like a space jams sequel
I don’t know what they want from me
Best is: they keep running the insomniac company

I was losing my mind like I was trying to lose it
I would have washed down a pill with my own spinal fluid
Should have tattooed the earth on my heart, feel like the world against me 

It hurts when I’m thinking; me versus my personal demons
Dont know my story; my struggle and the demons that i combat
Or how I’m staring at them waiting for an eye contact
Beyond that
These are not just monsters, these are my neighbors
And if you watch each others back? I guess its favor for a favor

Are you a ‘Writer’ or a Writer?

Tags

Arman Grigorian, art of writing, Leo Tolstoy Foydor Dostoevsky, Passion, scam artist, truth, Writers

If you’ve read my ‘Persona’ – and most of my posts, then you’ve most likely noticed that philosophy plays a huge part in my writing; philosophy is put in between the lines and makes it possible for me to speak of the unspoken – it allows me to whisper the things other writers are afraid of. 

Surely we’re all different – besides the fact that all human beings are ‘special individuals’ (cliché, cliché) – we writers have different writing-styles. Writers like John Green tend to be straight forward – they write what they think, without any deeper, mysterious meaning, which is just great! He’s an awesome writer, don’t get me wrong, but books without a deeper meaning, is for me like an empty shell; you work hard to open it and when you finally do, all you’re left with is emptiness. For example, in both Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy’s writings, philosophy plays an enormous part and allows them to do what other writers – still to date – can’t achieve with same perfection.
You might argue against me, you might think – and I’ve come across a lot of passionate John Green fans who have all said the same to me: You don’t ALWAYS need to put hidden lines between the written ones – you don’t ALWAYS need some ‘woohoo-deep-secret-crack the code’ type book; sometimes a ‘simple’ story is just fine.

You know what I always say back? ‘I’m glad there’s a crowd for every type of book’ But writing down words and getting them published doesn’t make you a writer.’ (Get the irony?)

I guess one could be temped to say that I’m snobbish when it comes to books – but, please, let me ensure you, I’m not. You see, there’s a great difference between being ‘snobbish’ and ‘passionate’. I’m overly passionate when it comes to books, I admit; I don’t want the craft to be ruined by modern ‘writers’ who don’t share the same passion for the craft as the ‘fathers of literature’ did – even if they do, it’s still not always enough. I mean, I’m super passionate about writing and have read lots of books and even studied the art of writing for several of years, but I’ve still not tried to get anything published because being passionate ISN’T … ALWAYS … ENOUGH. I ‘can’t stress enough how much thought one has to put into the whole idea of being published and becoming a ‘writer’. Why? Because you mustn’t forget the many passionate readers who won’t get fooled by a cute plot or some cute love story or even a sex-dominated plot (50 Shades of Grey). No, they will either see you as a scam artist – someone ruining the art of writing, or they will see you as an artist molding the clay the ‘fathers of literature’ have left behind; it’s all up to you: do you want to become a ‘writer’, or a writer? Your choice. 

The Golden Era

Tags

Arman Grigorian, Charles Dickens, Fitzgerald, God, Golden Era, Hemingway, legacy, Oscar Wilde, philosophy, poetry

My dear reader, dear friend, Miss you not the time – the golden era – where poets were kings? Miss you not the time where words could paint pictures that even blind souls could see? Miss you not the time where genuine passion for storytelling was looked upon with eyes of admiration?
– Even philosophers have glorified poetry as a sign of Gods existence; Aristotle even wrote an entire book about poetry.

My beloved girlfriend and I have spent countless of sleepless nights talking about ‘the golden era’, as I call it; Actually, to be more precise: She has spent countless of sleepless nights listening to my craving; to my humble desire; my humble wish of a life in ‘the golden era’. 
Even though she smiles whenever I am to speak about it, she knows of the depth of my craving; she knows of the passion that I have for the fathers of literature, and she knows how much I wish that I had been given the chance to become one of them. – Surely we have amazing writers – writers whose hearts still beat as I write this post, but still, I dare claim that none of them – nor us, the upcoming writers – will ever come close to the level of the fathers of literature. We can only hang on the vague hope of making them proud with the stories we write; the worlds we create; our own blood, which we use as ink. 

So, what is ‘the golden era’? Surely, if you are a true student of literature, your immediate answer will be: mid 1500’s – early 1600. Why? Might one wonder. – Well, because the great William Shakespeare – the man who wrote Hamlet, Romeo & Juliet, etc., the man whom we all have sought when the mysteries of love knocked on our door, the man who defined true love and beauty – lived in that period. But as shocking as it might sound, dear reader, that’s not the period I have in mind, no. The period I have in mind is: the 1800’s.
This was the time where Edgar Allan Poe, Leo Tolstoy, Oscar Wilde, Charles Dickens, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Ernest Hemingway, Scot Fitzgerald and many other revolutionary writers were born; they were given life – a life with a purpose that would ultimately change the way we would perceive the world. This is the golden era (or perhaps one of the golden era’s, since there has been a few of them in the past) of poetry, literature and passion. 

I personally – being a writer – try to study all the greats for an important reason: I’m simply scared of writing – even typing down a single word, if not with passion, gentleness, extreme respect, because who are we to ruin the craft – the art – that these fathers dedicated their entire lives to perfecting. How often have tears run down your smiling face while reading? – and how often were these books written centuries ago? Books – just like art – are a matter of taste, I agree, dear reader, but let us not deny the frightening fact: We’re not breathing poetry; we’re not eating passion; we’re not bleeding ink. The breed of true poets, writers, storytellers are slowly dying out; the only ones who can save the craft are you and I, so please, dear reader, let’s not fail but prosper! Let’s not forget the golden era(‘s) but instead remember it/them proudly – lets study it/them, so that we can carry on the legacy of Hemingway, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Poe, Wilde, and maybe, dear friend, maybe one day in the unknown future, one might look upon us with the eyes of admiration and concede us the glory and welcome us in one’s heart; one might even remember us as fathers of a new ‘golden era’, thus that’s not the aim of a true poet.

‘The aim of a true poet is to make the blind see.’
– Arman Grigorian. 

Pioneers, A Novel

Tags

Arman Grigorian, Art, dedication, Depth, Love, Novel, pain, Passion, Pioneers, unknown, war

‘Pioneers’ is a novel consisting of letters. It’s written in past tense and as a reader, you’re suppose to get the feeling of reading someones diary. Lucky Jenkins, the protagonist, is the one whose heart we enter; whose thoughts, feelings and states of mind we explore, and also whom we follow throughout the novel. 

Even though I’m very protective of my work, and quite shy at the same time, I thought I’d share one of the letters of Lucky Jenkins.
What’s the purpose of writing soulful stories, when nobody is to read them, right? 
Pioneers, The Novel:

‘November 23^rd, 1996.
Dear Esme.

It’s been almost a month now, 28 days to be exact. Autumn and I haven’t shared a moment; haven’t exchanged a single word in all this time. Whenever I saw her, either walking down the hall with Maggie or sitting outside in the November cold, drawing sketches or simply just getting some fresh air, she appeared to be so strong – she appeared untouchable; as if nothing had happened; as if she wasn’t hurting as I was.
But – and I’m tempted to write ‘luckily’ – this whole idea of her being invulnerable turned out to be false.

Being insomniac, I rarely slept at the same time as Josh – as anyone else really -, so I decided on getting some fresh air on the top of the roof: my favorite place in the world: close to the stars – close to complete freedom – close to eternity. But before I reached the roof, I saw light flaking – it appeared to be candle lights from distance – down the hall. The only person I knew of, who would be up this late and paint was Autumn; with my heart pounding hysterically against my sore chest, I took careful steps towards the light; there was something metaphorical over the whole scenario: ‘the light at end of the tunnel’. I felt the warmth from the light, which turned out to be what I thought it was: candle lights, as I got closer.

There she were, completely alone with only loneliness as her faithful companion. 
The light lit up her face, as she turned to get more paint on the brush; it revealed traces of tears – salty tears had run down the pretty face of hers and it was probably all my fault. I felt this strong urge to run to her, hold her tight in my arms and tell her how sorry I was, but I was stun-locked by my own fear of rejection.

I remember how beautiful she looked, dear Esme, standing there with her back against me, reaching high; reaching towards the top of the canvas with her humble brush. The brush appeared to be an extension of her own body – her curvy feminine body. I remember smiling – even though the sadness was tearing my heart apart – because every time she reached for the top of the canvas, she had to stand on her toes, or else she wouldn’t be able to reach. Oh Esme, if only you could feel the craving I felt for her – I still feel for her, as I write this; I truly hope you some day will find a special person, who’ll completely mesmerize you with his kindness, beauty, passion – I truly hope you find love, my dear girl.

I pinched my eyes together, to better my sight, since the candle lights didn’t provide much vision, and from where I was standing, it appeared as if Autumn had painted two lovers. Her style of painting was abstract, so I could very well be mistaking, dear Esme; perhaps I was interpreting the painting the way I felt deep inside – perhaps I had become the artist at that point: repainting the canvas with my emotions. The colors – at first – were passionate and fragile: deep red, orange, yellow, but all of a sudden she took a bucket of black paint and threw it angrily at the loving canvas – hulking, she threw the entire bucket of paint and fell down on the shining wooden floor; a silent cry filled the air and almost suffocated me. It broke my heart to see her suffering this much, but at the same time I was relieved. I know what you must think, dear Esme, but please, forgive my egoism, but you must understand how relieved I felt, when I realized that she shared the same craving as I; she missed me just as much as I missed her.

I broke my stealth with a deep, complaining sigh of pain; my chest hurt more than usual – ‘it must be the pain she’s feeling’, I convinced myself and stepped back before Autumn saw the broken pieces of me standing in the depth of the darkness, observing her every move. I crumbled my entire body into the position of a newborn baby, lying on the carpet. If Autumn had decided to go back to her room at that very moment, dear Esme, she would have found me lying there, gasping after air – trying to work through the pain, which I knew often lasted a couple of seconds. When the pain finally had released its grip of my humble heart, I got up on my feet – still gasping after air – and took one last glance at Autumn, before I walked back to my room; I walked like a wounded soldier who thought that the war was over; I had won – if only I knew what was coming.

Love always,
Lucky.’

A life liven in the confines of fear

Tags

Arman Grigorian, escape, essays, Fear, Life, novels, Pioneers, poems, power of words, writing

What is a life liven in the confines of fear? – what’s it worth, if anything at all.
In this post, I’ll be careful not to generalize, since it’s such a fragile topic to speak of; so I’ll whisper quietly.

Without specifying; without giving away my privacy, I’ll be honest and open: I’ve had a life that has forced me into a world of fears.
We all have fears, don’t we? I believe we all have this great fear of failing – not being good enough; the fear is living among us, it’s hidden in the depth of our hearts. We fear death – we fear life – we fear the unknown, so the question is: How do we escape these fears?

As cliché as it might sound, I’ve found my escape in: writing. You see, whenever I write poems, essays or even work on my current novel: Pioneers, I feel invulnerable; I feel as if nothing can touch me – hurt me. Through the power of words, I find comfort and safety; I find the strength to look into the eyes of my fears, knowing that I will prosper – I will overcome them. 
It must be hard to grasp how ‘simple‘ words can change a fragile soul. I guess one would have to feel it for oneself before truly understanding what we writers are speaking of, when we speak of: the power of words. 
Through writing I’ve managed to escape my ‘old life’: a life liven in the confines of fear. The moment I forced myself to become fearless, an entire new world has opened up for me. So what if you fail? – You’ll get back on the horse again. So what if you’re not the coolest kid in class? – Go redefine the meaning of ‘Cool’. So what if you’re not the prettiest girl in class? – Beauty is much more than physical appearance. Besides, dear friend, we all have a different definition of what beauty is, so don’t let others discourage you.

I’ll finish with this whisper: A life liven in the confines of fear, is not to be defined as: living – simply existing. So I beg you, dear friend, start living life without the confines of fear: start living – take your first breath … now. 

Fiction is non-existing.

Tags

Arman Grigorian, Art, dreams, Edgar Allan Poe, Leo Tolstoy, love for writing, Passion, philosophy, War and Peace, writing

The art of fiction writing isn’t a pure imaginable one. 
You see, fiction is the offspring of reality; its roots dig deep in the heart of reality and generates a huge amount of inspiration; so even though we tend to think: ‘This isn’t real, it’s just a story’, we are actually deceiving ourselves, because each and every masterpiece – written by the great fathers of literature – are inspired by real life events. 

Leo Tolstoy served the army with his participation in the ‘Krim-War’ in 1854. So when he was to write ‘War and Peace’ in 1864-1869, one can only imagine how much inspiration he drew from his experiences from that war. Surely ‘War and Peace’ is a piece of fiction – or at least it is considered so, since history doesn’t speak of the imaginary people Leo Tolstoy created in his masterpiece, but then again? – how much ‘fiction’ is it really – when his experiences from reality are actually the ones writing the masterpiece?

If we are to take another writer – artists, we could speak of Edgar Allan Poe, whose life is fully exposed, if one is to read his writings. The poems of Edgar Allan Poe are often mysterious, dull and even scary to some extend, but he was the best in what he did! – No other artist, till this day even, have come near his artistic skills. But, why is that? As I said: his life is fully exposed, if one is to read his writings, but what I forgot to say was: you have to read between the lines. If one knows of E. A. Poe’s personal life, it wouldn’t take long before one sees his personal experiences from ‘reality’ hidden between the unwritten lines. 

I guess what I am trying to say is: – being a writer myself – I don’t believe in the word ‘fiction’, simply because I don’t believe a writer is capable of creating universes inside his head, without inspiration from reality. Surely one could argue against me and say: ‘What about imagination? Couldn’t he just use his imagination? – to that I would answer: No, he can’t.
You mustn’t forget that even our imagination draws inspiration from reality, and once reality is drawn into the equation, then the answer can’t never be pure ‘imagination’ – ‘Fiction’. Unicorns are basically horses – expect they have a horn. Dragons are basically birds, except they are mixed with crocodiles or some other exotic animal. Our imagination isn’t capable of inventing without inspiration from reality. 
If you study literature – and I’m not speaking about ‘Harry Potter’, ’50 Shades of Grey’ or other weak writings – you will see how much an impact reality has on ‘fiction’ – almost to the extend of destroying ‘fiction’ from being to non-being.
Fiction is non-existent. 

(Sorry for the philosophical aspect in this post)