Every time I see these flowers, either in their purple freshness or in rain-bleached white, I think of the story ‘Ալպիական Մանուշակ’ by Aksel Bakunts;1 it is a false association, sadly, because the ‘alpine violet’ of the story ...
Every time I see these flowers, either in their purple freshness or in rain-bleached white, I think of the story ‘Ալպիական Մանուշակ’ by Aksel Bakunts;1 it is a false association, sadly, because the ‘alpine violet’ of the story is a cyclamen, as the red stems would indicate, but I think the mistake is a common one. Indeed, I recall the times students brought in violets for the teachers in the spring – mountain violets, tiny and freshly purple, from the hills above town. They would shyly joke about the ալպիական մանուշակներ and tell me about the Bakunts story in terms so vague that I cannot recall the details. The flowers, wrapped in a damp napkin to keep them fresh, were very like the ones pictured above.
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