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........

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