Miracle of Varis’ Creativity: Hope, Salvation and Mirror to History

Literature is an irreplaceable jewel of national and cultural heritage. The true creators of this priceless treasure are writers, painters, poets, publicists, and men and women of art.

Today, on Azernews, we shall speak of a great writer and public figure, a man who has earned admiration not only within Azerbaijani literature but also beyond the republic’s borders with his novels — Varis Yolchuyev. His creative output is distinguished by profound psychological depictions, sensitivity towards social issues, and a capacity to shed light upon human destinies. In particular, his novel The Last to Die Are Hopes has become one of his most widely read works, resonating strongly with younger readers and serving as a powerful source of motivation that has inspired many to cling to life.

Varis Yolchuyev is also the laureate of numerous literary and public awards. His novels and stories have been translated into several languages, receiving attention in the international literary world. Through his art he contributes not only to literature but also to the formation of social consciousness.

In this interview, we shall take a closer look at the author’s creative universe, the role of literature in human life, and the spiritual bridges he has built with his readers.

Q: Varis Musa oghlu Yolchuyev — you are known to a wide readership through your novels and stories, and you continue to write prolifically. How did you choose this calling?

A: My life story begins in the city of Sumgait where I was born, though our family roots are in Yukhari Salahli, a village in the Gazakh region. My father was born there. It is a very small village in Azerbaijan — one might imagine that the first secular school in our country was founded in Baku, or perhaps in Ganja or Shamakhi, yet in fact it was in our village of Yukhari Salahli. Not by chance is this village also the birthplace of our classical poet Molla Panah Vagif, as well as Samad Vurghun.

You know, there is a saying: "When a person comes into the world, he is like a blank sheet of paper." I do not believe this saying. Talents such as genius, nobility, kindness, and the like are innate qualities; when a person is born, fifty per cent of them are already in his nature, and the other fifty per cent are shaped by self-development.

When I opened my eyes to the world, I saw these qualities — talent and nobility — in my parents. If I may digress: at a gathering one day, when researchers were speaking about the Second World War of 1941–45, they reminded me of a story about my maternal grandfather. Incidentally, my mother too is from our village. According to what is told, my great-grandfather was the director of a state farm in Gazakh. He had a large two-storey house, which during the war he turned into an orphanage for children who had lost their parents. In those difficult times, he himself moved into another rented house, yet insisted that his own home serve as a shelter for orphans. Imagine what pride it gives me to have such a humanitarian in my lineage. I believe that being raised in such a family and inheriting such a gene is part of my love for literature.

My father was a scholar of philology and also a pedagogue. He taught at a technical college, where he was a senior lecturer. Imagine: in our house, there were three thousand books, and I grew up amongst them. At first, those books were mere toys for me; later they became the source of inspiration for my pen. Here too my father played a great role in encouraging me. When I used books as cars or to build houses as a child, my father never forbade it. Perhaps other parents would have objected, but he said: "This is how a child shapes his artistic calling." He gave me the freedom to relate to books in my own way. Through that contact with books I learned letters early, before I even went to kindergarten. And finally, at the age of five I wrote my first poem, entitled The Orphan Child.

Granted, one can scarcely call it a poem, but for a child of that age to write in free verse and with such thought was not an ordinary thing.

Stories that give a green light to the future

My mother was a chief engineer at a factory. At that time, she used to bring office paper home. From those sheets, I fashioned a little book of my own, on the cover of which I had written, as a title, "The Book of Varis." On the inside front page I had marked out sections: "Novels," "Stories," "Essays," and "Novellas." To tell the truth, even I no longer know where such ideas came to me from back then...

Thus, by the time I entered university life, I had already begun writing my own secret stories. In my family, my confidante was always my mother. I shared only with her what I had written. One day, unbeknown to me, my mother took those stories and gave them to my uncle, the poet and publicist Davud Nasib, telling him to show them to our renowned writer Ismayil Shikhly. To be honest, I could not imagine how the stories I had written could possibly draw the attention of such a celebrated figure.

But one day, while I was in class at Baku State University, my uncle appeared, calling me out halfway through the lecture. When I stepped outside, he whispered into my ear: "Ismayil Shikhly is waiting for us." At that moment, the very fact that a well-known figure had summoned me gave me the stimulus I needed, and in a way, instilled in me confidence in my own creative ability. At that time, he had a flat near the Government House. When we went there, he wrote a foreword to my collection of stories, inscribing: "To our literature comes Varis." Imagine that in those days—a man who cared nothing for the opinions of relatives or acquaintances—how deeply he had been moved by my stories...

Thus, even as a student, my stories began to be published in Ulduz magazine. Gradually, among the students, I began to be pointed out: "That’s the boy who’s a writer." At that time there were no social networks, no internet. We became known through what was published in the university’s journals and newspapers.

Q: Our conversation has reached a very interesting point. You mentioned that you began with short stories, yet in contemporary literature, you also have many novels—and in those novels, you often strike a positive note. So, who has been the principal source of inspiration for your writing?

A: You see, poetry is written suddenly. A poet may glimpse a scene in nature, or witness an event, and this sparks within him a spontaneous feeling, which becomes a source of inspiration. But in prose, the wellspring of inspiration lies deeper.

When I was a child, my father directed me more towards children’s literature. But for some reason, I was drawn to books far beyond my years. For example, among the works I read avidly were The Book of Dede Qorqud, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Karlsson-on-the-Roof, Suleyman Sani Akhundov’s Scary Tales, Garaja giz (A gipsy girl), and others. As I grew older, my father steered me towards books of greater depth and meaning. In this way, those books became the sources of my inspiration. Later, as I matured in literature, the celebrated Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk and the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami became inspirations for me.

As a child, however, my earliest inspiration that stirred me towards literature was Victor Hugo. In general, my admiration for Orhan Pamuk arises from many parallels between us. There are about 14 years between our ages, but we share the same birth date, and we both began in literature at the same time of life. As a boy, inspired by the works I read, I also drew pictures, many of which were published in Goyarchin (Pigeon) magazine while I was still at school. My teacher would take me by the hand and introduce me to the older pupils, calling me, in front of them, "The famous Varis." Later I learnt that Orhan Pamuk, too, had entered art by a similar path. It was precisely this similarity that drew me to him, as if by a magnetic pull.

Q: A novel that saved the life of a young woman who wanted to end her life – "The Last to Die are Hopes." The strong, positive energy of your novel helped a desperate young woman to reattach herself to life. Was this simply a coincidence, or is there some divine mystery in it?

A: A moment ago, we were speaking of inspiration and stimulus in literature. I would say that the main stimulus for a person lies in being able to hit one’s target. As a child, I always wondered how Nizami Ganjavi, Fuzuli and other great poets had become so renowned. I dreamt of becoming one of them myself. I even wished that one day, when I grew up, I would become a mentor, a giver of counsel and advice—in simpler terms, I enjoyed the thought of being famous.

Of course, every human being is a treasure; it is not essential to be constantly teaching someone something. Yet in general, as a writer, to create a resonance in the world is every creative person’s dream. Take the Afghan novelist Khaled Hosseini. Imagine—a writer who, with his novel The Kite Runner, altered people’s views across the world on the Afghan war. After his book, attitudes towards Afghans began to shift. I would call this the power of literature. Truly, literature is a mighty weapon.

The novel that saved a life

As for my own novel "The Last to Die are Hopes," published in 2008, it is now on the verge of its ninth edition. Every year, it is published and sold in runs of two or three thousand copies. I have not given the distribution rights of this particular novel to anyone, though I had done so with earlier editions.

Around 2014, at the request of a publishing house, the book was printed in Uzbekistan in 10,000 copies. It appeared both in book form and as a serial in a magazine with a circulation of 140,000...

But the real story of the young girl who wished to end her life goes like this: In Samarkand, a 16-year-old girl, tormented by her stepfather, climbed onto the roof of her house, intending to hang herself. At that moment, on the floor of the attic, her eyes fell upon the front page of the newspaper Daraqchi, where she saw, above the picture of a young man struggling with cigarette addiction, the title of my novel in Uzbek: "Umudlar intihara bulad?"—the Uzbek translation of "The Last to Die are Hopes."

In an instant, she loosened the rope from her neck, climbed down, and began to read the article with interest. The girl later wrote down her story herself. According to her, the newspaper had published the opening of my novel. It stated that the continuation would appear in the following week’s issue. That girl abandoned her intention to take her life and decided instead to wait for the next instalment of the novel. And thus, week by week, her anticipation grew, each issue kindling new hopes within her.

It is no coincidence that the novel itself tells the story of a woman abandoned by her wealthy lover, who, despairing, contemplates suicide. Yet in the novel she refrains, asking herself: "For what, and for whom, should I die? Who would care? And whose revenge would my death serve?" In the same way, that young Uzbek girl was moved by the same thought, and resolved to live her life differently. Some time later, through her social media account, we learnt that she had entered university and even started a small business of her own. Her revenge upon her stepfather was not death by suicide, but precisely the opposite—growing stronger, developing herself, and finding happiness.

After such an impression, it was only natural that in 2023, in Uzbekistan, my second novel "I Believe in You" became one of the most widely read books.

Q: Varis Yolchuyev is a solitary figure, yet he counts thousands among his readers. Naturally, there are many who wish to see him in person and engage with him directly. It is no coincidence, then, that even today you are travelling to the southern region of Azerbaijan to attend the jubilee and book presentation of a lady journalist and publicist. There, too, you will have the opportunity to meet admirers of Varis. But on ordinary days, do you manage to find the time to meet your readers from time to time, and to listen to them as well?

A: After I had written my novel The Last to Die are Hopes, the largest gathering with my readers took place in 2009 in Lankaran. Imagine: in the Lankaran Drama Theatre, readers had come not only from Lankaran itself, but also from Astara, Lerik, Masalli and Yardimli districts. With my book in their hands, they filled the theatre hall to overflowing. Everyone, under the pretext of conversation, was calling out questions to me from their seats.

Suddenly, an elderly reader from Lerik addressed me in the Talysh dialect: "My son, come here and look. What is this – you are writing about love and suchlike? If you are truly a good lad, why do you not write about Garabagh?" – he asked, clutching my book tightly to his chest.

I replied: "Elder, let me ask you something – what was the last novel you read about Garabagh?" At that time, the only such book was Agil Abbas’s novel Dolu. There was nothing else. The elderly man fell silent, unable to answer. And I said: "Yet you have read my novel, travelled all this way from Lerik to Lankaran just to meet me..."

A novel that raised a hero

Of course, I promised him then and there that I would write a novel about Garabagh – and that very year I wrote A Handful of Earth. That novel, in 2011, was awarded the "Golden Word" prize by the Ministry of Culture, and was later adapted for the stage. But do you know what is most striking?

One day, when I visited the family of our National Hero Mubariz Ibrahimov, I saw my novel lying upon his desk. The hero of the book was called Zaur. Mubariz’s father told me that his son had often said that one day he, too, would be a hero like Zaur.

Just imagine: one novel saves a life, another raises a hero...

You see, a writer must know how to give the reader what the reader seeks. And for that, the writer must first of all know his reader, must be able to grasp the social message, and only then should he step forward.

Q: And how does Azerbaijan’s Varis wish to be seen by the readers of the world? Have you ever considered realising the ambition of becoming a world-renowned author?

A: You have touched upon a very sensitive point, Elnur. After becoming known in Azerbaijan, once I too was seized by the appetite – I wished to become famous in the world, to make the name of Varis known on every continent.

So I wrote to 500 English-language, 500 Russian-language, and 500 Turkish-language publishers by email, telling them that I was the author of novels published in the largest print runs, and that all my books were bestsellers. I urged them to publish my works too.

But imagine – not one of those 1,500 addresses ever replied...

At that moment I realised that to go out into the world requires another skill entirely. I will admit, I was somewhat disheartened; it cast me down in spirit, and I almost lost hope. But once more, life’s miracles found me.

One day in Turkiye, a member of the wealthy "Mertler" family contacted me. It turned out that even there I had a reader of my novel The Last to Die are Hopes. Yet her story was rather complex. After a long conversation, she explained everything to me, and even invited me to her home.

It transpired that a fellow countrywoman from Azerbaijan was working as a nanny in the Mertler household. One day the baby began crying, and instead of soothing it, the nanny remained absorbed in her book. The master of the house, angered, came in to find her wholly engrossed in reading. In fury, she snatched the book from her hands, threw it to the ground, scolded her harshly, and declared her dismissed.

But here is what was remarkable: the nanny, instead of showing distress at the loss of her job, calmly agreed. As she gathered her things to leave, the master asked her: "Wait – what is this book you are reading? Are you truly not concerned about losing your work?"

At that, the nanny showed her The Last to Die are Hopes and replied: "For this book, I am willing even to lose my job."

Her answer astonished the master so greatly that not only did she not dismiss her – she took the book from her, paid €3,000 to have it translated into Turkish, and later introduced it to well-known Turkish figures such as the actor Hamdi Alkan and the head of IQ Publishing, Adem Sar?gül.

Unaware of any of this, one day I suddenly received a call from IQ Publishing. I thought at first it must be a reply to one of those 500 letters – at last, someone had answered! But as the conversation went on, I realised that my novel had spawned a new story of its own, and that, having been translated, it had already enchanted new readers.

Thus, I was invited to Istanbul, where I signed a contract with the publishing house and received an offer to distribute my books in Turkiye.

In general, I must say that today, to be recognised by Western readers requires a completely different talent. You may be the finest novelist, but if you cannot convey your work to the reader in the right way, all your writing may remain locked away in the chest of literature.

Later, I researched on various websites the ways of becoming known among Western readers. Imagine – to present even the most beautiful novel, one is given only a single sentence of fifty or sixty words on such platforms. That single sentence must strike such an impression that it compels the reader to take notice. That, I would say, is another talent in itself.

Q: What shortcomings do you see in contemporary Azerbaijani literature? In particular, with regard to the recognition of our literature abroad, what do you think we most need but have not yet attained?

A: Today, there are many problems in our contemporary literature, but if I were to speak of all of them, there would not be enough time. I shall simply say this: in recent times, I have observed that many of our writers are focusing too much on family, domestic life, and other small matters. For this reason, many of our works are confined within a narrow frame.

I think our writers ought to step away from purely domestic subjects and turn their gaze more towards the world. After all, those readers, too, must be given what they desire. Just as we benefit from their works, why should they remain unaware of ours?

Another urgent need, in which we have not yet fully succeeded, is the translation and distribution of our works into foreign languages at the highest level. I regret to say that some works, translated through modern tools, lose much in quality and impact. In most cases, the wear and tear in translation strips away the spirit of the work. I consider this to be one of the greatest obstacles to the spread of our literature worldwide.

Q: Dear Varis, before the interview you mentioned in conversation that you are working, by state commission, on a new historical novel. If it is not a secret, could you tell us something about it?

A: Yes, at present I am writing, on state commission, a novel about Western Azerbaijan. Before this commission reached me, I had considered several subjects. One of them concerned the expulsion of the last Azerbaijanis from Yerevan at the very start of the Garabagh conflict. This was, in itself, a perfect subject, and I had even thought to call it The Last Azerbaijani.

Another subject I had in mind was the deportations that began under Soviet rule in the 1950s. A third, one of my favourites, was the massacres committed by Dashnaks in Zangazur and Goycha in 1918, when they inflicted atrocities upon Azerbaijanis.

But in the end, setting aside all these themes, I chose one still more striking and compelling: the 167-day siege of Yerevan in 1827. For people, this is a white spot in history, and alas, very few know of it. So I thought – this shall be my subject.

In writing this novel, I have drawn upon nearly 600,000 archival sources. I have referred to materials not only from Azerbaijan, but also from Persian, Georgian, Armenian, Russian, and even English archives. Truly, as I write, I see that the novel is becoming something remarkable. For it holds up a mirror to the events of the nineteenth century, presenting them to the reader largely through historical fact, with but the slightest touch of artistic imagination.

I believe that novels of this kind are the treasures of our literature. Newspapers, journals, and periodicals perish in time, but literature and books endure, preserved in the archives as the treasury of our history.