Am I Armenian, am I Italian?
Giorgio Agamben, Quodlibet, November 30, 2023
My relation with Armenia — first and foremost with the Armenian language — has something both intimate and legendary. Many years ago, Gianfranco Contini, a philologist for whom I had and have the greatest esteem, told me that the surname of Agamben is certainly Armenian in origin. The Armenian surname of Aganbeghyan would have been shortened to Agamben, just as the Italian surname of Gianni derives from the Armenian Gianighyan. And this was later confirmed to me, not without a hint of contempt, by a monk from the convent on the Island of the Armenians in Venice. In my family traditions, however, there was no trace of such an origin, and the surname — which we are the only ones to have in Italy — was explained in other and more fantastic ways, perhaps invented to hide its exotic origin.
My identity is therefore divided, but this split seems to me to contain something like a precious indication. Am I Armenian, am I Italian? And what does it mean to be an Italian of Armenian origin? The more one adheres to a language and a culture — as I did as best I could to Italian — the more there needs to be a way out. Perhaps, for me, Armenian is this way out. From where and to where? Not from Italian towards another more original identity or, even worse, towards a generic universality. Rather towards that unthought elsewhere which is buried in the centre of every language and every identity and towards which all identities and languages have always set out on a journey. Being Italian, being Armenian is not an origin from which to start; it is a destination which perhaps we shall never be able to reach, but towards which it is worth travelling. And in any case, as the poet wrote for Ulysses e and his native island, it will be the destination that gave you the journey: “Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. / Without her you wouldn’t have set out. / She has nothing left to give you now”.
Giorgio Agamben, Quodlibet, November 30, 2023
My relation with Armenia — first and foremost with the Armenian language — has something both intimate and legendary. Many years ago, Gianfranco Contini, a philologist for whom I had and have the greatest esteem, told me that the surname of Agamben is certainly Armenian in origin. The Armenian surname of Aganbeghyan would have been shortened to Agamben, just as the Italian surname of Gianni derives from the Armenian Gianighyan. And this was later confirmed to me, not without a hint of contempt, by a monk from the convent on the Island of the Armenians in Venice. In my family traditions, however, there was no trace of such an origin, and the surname — which we are the only ones to have in Italy — was explained in other and more fantastic ways, perhaps invented to hide its exotic origin.
My identity is therefore divided, but this split seems to me to contain something like a precious indication. Am I Armenian, am I Italian? And what does it mean to be an Italian of Armenian origin? The more one adheres to a language and a culture — as I did as best I could to Italian — the more there needs to be a way out. Perhaps, for me, Armenian is this way out. From where and to where? Not from Italian towards another more original identity or, even worse, towards a generic universality. Rather towards that unthought elsewhere which is buried in the centre of every language and every identity and towards which all identities and languages have always set out on a journey. Being Italian, being Armenian is not an origin from which to start; it is a destination which perhaps we shall never be able to reach, but towards which it is worth travelling. And in any case, as the poet wrote for Ulysses e and his native island, it will be the destination that gave you the journey: “Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. / Without her you wouldn’t have set out. / She has nothing left to give you now”.
(English translation by I, Robot)
Charles Blackman, Alice’s journey, 1957. Courtesy of WikiArt.
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