El presente artículo intenta dar unaopinión para hacer un nuevoacercamiento a la filosofía de la guitarra,de una manera suficientementesofisticada, que supere todas las miradashasta ahora conocidas. Con la idea desacar a la luz este tema importante, elartículo introducirá una nueva filosofíade la guitarra en virtud al conocimientomúsico-estético de lo clásico, para estimarlos valores generales de los arreglosmusicales. Con la idea de entender mejoresta aproximación, el énfasis se hace através del prisma de la experiencia deguitarra y desde el punto de vista (...) denuevas necesidades para la literatura dela guitarra clásicaThis paper intends to advance an opinion out of which we can give a new approachto the philosophy of guitar, in a sophisticated enough way that improves over the current views. With the idea of bringing to light this important topic, thispaper will take us to a new philosophy ofguitar in virtue of the musical-aesthetical knowledge of the classical, to appreciate the general values of musical arrangements. Aiming to a better understanding of this approximation,emphasis is made through the prism of guitar experience and from the point ofview of new needs for the literature of classical guitar. (shrink)

A groundbreaking new book from the bestselling author of Shop Class as Soulcraft In his bestselling book Shop Class as Soulcraft, Matthew B. Crawford explored the ethical and practical importance of manual competence, as expressed through mastery of our physical environment. In his brilliant follow-up, The World Beyond Your Head, Crawford investigates the challenge of mastering one's own mind. We often complain about our fractured mental lives and feel beset by outside forces that destroy our focus and disrupt our peace (...) of mind. Any defense against this, Crawford argues, requires that we reckon with the way attention sculpts the self. Crawford investigates the intense focus of ice hockey players and short-order chefs, the quasi-autistic behavior of gambling addicts, the familiar hassles of daily life, and the deep, slow craft of building pipe organs. He shows that our current crisis of attention is only superficially the result of digital technology, and becomes more comprehensible when understood as the coming to fruition of certain assumptions at the root of Western culture that are profoundly at odds with human nature. The World Beyond Your Head makes sense of an astonishing array of common experience, from the frustrations of airport security to the rise of the hipster. With implications for the way we raise our children, the design of public spaces, and democracy itself, this is a book of urgent relevance to contemporary life. (shrink)

In 2018, at least 12 adults and 3 children died in U.S. detention facilities. In 2017, 12 people died in U.S. detention facilities and at least 10 women filed complaints against ICE for mistreatment that led them to miscarry. At the time of this writing, 26 people have died in US Custody during the Trump Administration and 74 people have died in U.S. detention facilities between 2010 and 2018, including Raul Ernesto Morales-Ramos, Augustina Ramirez-Arreola, Moises Tino-Lopez, Jose Azurdia, and Roxana (...) Hernandez. I am not going to argue that these deaths are wrong – I take that as obvious. Instead, I will suggest that nonideal theory shows why bioethicists have special obligations for condemning these deaths and getting involved to make them stop. When we heed nonideal theory’s demand to consider empirical realities, we will see that the role of the bioethicist extends wherever health care does. Moreover, when bioethicists expressly embrace nonideal rather than ideal theories to ground our work, we will see that there are plenty such theories available to us. Shelly Wilcox’s nonideal theory of immigration justice is especially well suited for bioethicists to use in relation to detainee health care and enter the conversation where they are so desperately needed. (shrink)

The North American wood frog, Rana sylvatica, endures seasonal whole‐body freezing during the winter and thawing during the spring without sustaining any apparent damage from ice or oxidative stress. Strategies from these frogs may solve the shortage of human donor organs, which is a multidisciplinary problem that can be alleviated by eliminating geographical boundaries. Rana sylvatica deploys an array of molecular and physiological responses, such as glucose production and microRNA regulation, to help it survive the cold. These strategies have been (...) adapted in the lab to impart cryotolerance in liver cells, and the non‐freezing supercooled storage of transplantable rat livers − milestones that have advanced the field toward cryopreserving human donor organs in the clinic. In this review, a case is presented for the use of non‐coding RNAs to decrease oxidative damage of donor organs by activating endogenous antioxidant systems prior to procurement. (shrink)

Don't tell terrible stories—everyone here has enough of their own. Everyone here has a whole bloody sack of terrible stories, and at the bottom of the sack is a hammer the narrator uses to pound you on the skull the instant you dare not believe your ears. Or to pound you when you do believe. Not long ago I saw a tomboyish girl on Khreshchatyk Street demand money of an elderly woman, threatening to bite her and infect her with syphilis. (...) Don't stroll through Volodymyr Hill Park, don't stroll around the botanical garden, and especially don't stroll on Kontraktova Square. Don't stroll anywhere. Don't go to the pavilion with the Golgotha panorama near St. Alexander's Church. Not even the twelve-meter-tall crucified Christ will save you. Don't go outside when it's dark and people turn into shadows a shade darker than dark. Also don't go where you can be seen from far away. Not to imply that people used to be like a bunch of lilies, but now they stink like a cellar of cabbage.The city, which earlier might have had some fun, is now going crazy. It's like a fish in warm water: it doesn't react to anything, swims slowly like it doesn't care if it swallows a hook or not. The excitement and exaltation pass into oppression, just as our necks have sunk into our shoulders, our shoulders into our lumbars, our lumbars into our nether regions. The holiday turns into a funeral, the parades into explosions, depression into mania. Winter passes into summer, people turn into beasts, the hours into ages, and the ages into hours. It's worth simply walking around the city to see a soldier from an unknown army taking a piss near the opera. Farther on is a row of identical old widows selling ball gowns and candelabra. Then there are the aristocrats and manufacturers who throw so much at the prostitutes that they'll soon be richer than their wives.I returned late through the Kyryliv Wood, not heeding all the warnings that I myself have given here. It really is dangerous—the place is famous for it. There's a madhouse nearby, caves where criminals and the sick can hide out. Also, once upon a time, as they say in fairy tales, the great dragon Zmei Gorynich lived here beside the Puchai River. The stench in these places drives away the most committed misanthropes and even one type of philanthrope—that is, perverts. It sounds dumb, but the stench is cleansing. I don't know where it comes from. After the operating theaters and the rooms with amputees, the stench no longer repelled or attracted me; it just was. And this was a great place to think. As I walked, I considered an incident with our patient.The patient, a respectable individual whose name carries too much weight for me to state it directly, one day began to assault people. He nearly strangled a merchant who he believed asked too much for a beaver coat. He likewise wanted to kill his business partner when he didn't say hello loudly enough. But the worst was, he lost all shame of his own nakedness. At first it was the police who took care of it. When our future patient slipped off his pants and undergarments, he was taken to Kyrylivska, which has had means for dealing with such cases dating back to the day when unhinged Cossacks and composers from Kyiv Mohyla Academy were taken there.During the examination we determined that the patient was experiencing a severe breakdown. His wife added that lately, more than once, he had allowed himself strong words in front of the children and often suffered from ennui. Furthermore, she said, the patient had been undergoing treatment for “the French disease” for some years—which was, obviously, where we needed to start.“Syphilis!” Skorsky spat out the matchstick he was chewing on. He was a specialist on the psychological aspects of diseases related to the venereal. “Tertiary syphilis! When poorly treated, over time ‘the French disease’ can destroy the central nervous system. Hence the patient's chicanery. Such theater!”Skorsky and I had not spoken since the incident at Bilinsky's. Meanwhile, something significant had happened to him. The most boring person on earth, Skorsky had simply caught fire. He said hello and kibitzed. I even heard the doctor got drunk alone in his office, then wandered through the forest. Could he be using narcotic substances?“Cocaine!” was the doctor's second proclamation. It was his favorite treatment for the psychological complications of syphilis. Skorsky himself never took what he called “the universal drug”—good for alcoholism and toothaches, neuroses and morphine dependency—though he had read in an article by a respectable Viennese physician, who used cocaine as a panacea, that it was not addictive. That doctor subsequently recanted, but Skorsky paid no attention. He believed the retraction was made under pressure from pharmacologists who had no incentive to cease production of the medications that cocaine might supplant. Their representatives either paid or threatened the Viennese to repent.As the patient was escorted to his room, he assaulted the orderly, Alevtyna. They tried pulling him off her, but, though he released his fingers from her neck, he buried his teeth in her leg. The poor orderly, who had not until then been attacked by a psychotic, nearly died of fear. Later, panic set in over Skorsky's diagnosis. He told her about the consequences of syphilis: grotesque patterns on one's face due to infection of the skin, mucous membranes, cartilage, and bones. He went on about the devastation to the central nervous system, which they had just observed in real life: “The face starts to look like lace some mangy dogs fought over before rolling in the mud.”Alevtyna, who had not yet regained her faculty of speech, straightened up. Ignoring the slavering male orderlies, she bared her leg to get a better look at the wound. She then ran down the hall and out into the garden, where she fell on the ground to rip up grass and small bunches of daisies. Alevtyna ate them along with the soil in their roots.“Minor hysteria. She needs fifteen milligrams of cocaine.”Skorsky took a snuff box out of his pocket and scooped up some white powder with a toothpick made from a goose feather. He gave the order to close Alevtyna's mouth and one of her nostrils, forcing her to snort the medication.We fretted over her so long that evening fell. I decided to walk down, along the ravine, behind the church.It was unlikely there were any large beasts there, but something was rustling. The pits and mounds, ravines, paths, graves of witches whose living sisters flew in the treetops from time to time, the whispers of the forest spirits, the spirits of the nutcases who died in the hospital, the spirits of the monks from the St. Cyril Monastery, Zmei Gorynich and the bogatyrs who wanted to defeat him. The city would be calmer without this forest. I saw the gaps between the trees and went off in the direction of the tram tracks.As I was coming out of the forest, there was a patch of Amanita muscaria that had been trampled into porridge. A bit farther on, the body of Professor Bilinsky lay killed in the blackberry bushes. The way he was lying it looked as though he had not struggled before death. I quickly examined his body but saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were no wounds, no dirt under the fingernails. Animals had not yet smelled the carrion, but swarms of various insects covered him. Oh, why did I have to find the putrid body?The best thing would be to take the tram to his house to inform his relatives. The doors closed, and I noticed my own calm. This death had not evoked any emotions in me other than a feeling of responsibility, the need to tell the family. But also—some alarm at the thought of who the murderer could be. I knew that it was murder.“Your nose is bleeding.” A woman as round as an onion, carrying two baskets full of strawberries, offered me an ironed and starched handkerchief.“Have I dirtied my shirt?”“No, it's as neat as a pin. It's just your nose that's dirty. Wipe it now before you spray blood on my strawberries.”“No one will see the red on red.”“Ah, but it's salty!”“You know why it's not sweet? We'd drink it like syrup.”“Those with Christ in their heart do not talk that way.”“Are your strawberries expensive?”“Why? What?”“I'm checking to see if you have God in your heart.”“Child, if you knew how I have to work for this berry! I have to weed it a hundred times. In a week, the quitch grass grows as high as a horse. And I water it with water I carry from the stream, it kills my arms... ”“How much are the berries?”“They're not for sale. Anyway, soon money won't mean a thing. Soon all money, all these papers made from the skins of sinners on their satanic presses will be annulled. What matters is how we treat each other.”“So if I try your strawberries for free, my ‘thank you’ will be enough?”“Hands off!” she said and thwacked my fingers.I heard loud laughter behind me—same laughter as from the café near the Continental. There was no one sitting near Alina. (This is what fate looks like, remember.) Without asking, I sat next to her, away from the old lady.“Excuse me, but the night before last didn't you, yes, didn't you intrude on my privacy?” She started right away.“I saw it a little differently. Who was that young man with the mustache who paid me for you?”“Are you checking to see if you can flirt?”The tram stopped. People got on and off.“Are you coming back from the hospital?” she asked. “Don't be shocked. My uncle works there. He's told me all about you.”“An uncle by the name of Skorsky?”(Remember: this is what fate looks like.)“Yes. Skorsky's been strange recently—says things that make me wonder if he hasn't lost his mind. Have you noticed anything?”“I don't know.”“You know perfectly well.”“Where are you going?” I tried to change the subject.“I have to send something to my theater friends in Odesa. By the way, they'll be putting on Oedipus Rex soon in Kyiv—in Ukrainian.”“Greek tragedy in Ukrainian! That's a first.”“Exactly. The troupe is rehearsing now in Odesa. The theater where they will perform this fall is being remodeled.”“Wait. Now I remember where I've seen you before—it was at a performance! Vynnychenko's Black Panther and White Bear, at the Bergonier on Fundukleivska.“The same director is doing the Oedipus. He's my friend.”“He's your friend in what sense?”“Again with that tired subject. By the way, I've been thinking about you.”“And I about you.”“That's good. I was thinking not about you, to be precise, but about that elevator you invited me on.”“Who was that man with you?”“Like a broken record! Even if he had been my fiancé, I'm not bought or inherited. I'm not a brooch or a hundred acres of land, and I'm not a house in Kaniv!... Who was with you when you saw Black Panther?“Ah, so.”“Answer!”“That was my mother. She looks very young. She is coming to Kyiv the day after tomorrow. I can introduce you.”“Oh, this is my stop.”I looked out the window and realized that I had long since passed the stop for Bilinsky's.“Can we see each other again?”“We can. But you have only one chance.”Alina the anarchist wrote something on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.Morning, not morning but a thick porridge (I hate porridge). Dew, thick spit, crushed fruits, urine, all on the sparkling cobblestones. The sun, just barely having made its appearance, is already scorching. The human masses scurry and grumble like poorly digested food inside a stomach.I walked diagonally across St. Sofia's Square, then along the perimeter, then one edge, then again diagonally across. I went underground. The basement café of the Continental Hotel was practically empty. I again asked the server to bring the cloth with the embroidered portrait, but I couldn't remember the musician's last name, only that it ended with -sky. The server said that -sky was currently in the southern cities of Yalta and Odesa. I added that Kurbas, the director, Alina's friend, was also in Odesa, rehearsing Oedipus Rex, and that he'd previously put on Black Panther.I was bored, so I walked along Khreshchatyk and then headed down, calling to mind all the Kyiv churches of Podil: there's Birth of Christ, St. Nicholas on the Shore, Intercession, Pyrohoshcha, Holy Presentation, St. Dymytrii Rostovsky, St. Illia's. And also the Epiphany Brotherhood Monastery, Ascension Convent, and St. Katherine's, all these whipped-cream churches on the waffles of our streets. A few of them reminded me of themselves by appearing suddenly out of nowhere.The smells on Kontraktova Plaza where commerce buzzed were like multicolored light bulbs turning on one after another. Here you could catch the aroma of Balabukha jam, which blended with the next smell, English shoe polish at the Raiskys’ shop. Then the crunchy-smelling cabbage from old women standing in a row like herons and spitting out the shells of sunflower seeds. Farther on, the stench of a good-sized rat that crawled under Mrs. Shevchuk's shop where she sells broadcloth. Oh, she can't scream: no, she'll quietly dig that rat out herself so as to not scare off her clients.I bought a paper and two pairs of underwear. I asked two laughing young chambermaids who were secretly puffing in a grape-filled yard for a smoke. I wandered around Podil until evening when I came across a sawmill near the Dnipro that surprisingly smelled pleasantly of mazut fuel oil. The weather was dry, yet in the middle of the road was an enormous puddle, a deep dark black. A forty-year-old woman in a pale pink dress stood near it. The theatricality of it all provoked me to pose her a question,“Ma'am, what should I do?”But she paid me no attention. I shouted,“What should I do?”“What to do, what to do?” she said in Polish. “Jump in the water and swim so far away that you cannot return.”I quickly crossed a section of the forest. The wind brought a mixture of unpleasant air, like a stinky handkerchief held under one's nose. Passing the trees, I saw light in the spaces between them and exited at the hospital.Outside the windows, two orderlies lay in chairs with their heads thrown back. Two others—fools—ran around the yard in different directions, peering out at... something. The lights on the first floor of the hospital were on, and the staff milled about.“You're just in time!” said Ivan, a tall, young orderly.“For what?”“Your patient ran away! We went into his room and he wasn't there.”“What patient?”“The one who bit Alevtyna,” said Danylo, the other orderly, short and middle-aged.“That's Skorsky's patient, not mine.”I had no intention of helping them. This was all history—like my family, Kyiv, and my previous life. I had no intention of thinking about it. I wanted to go to my office, pack up my field surgery kit, and get out. So what? Their psychotic syphilitic ran away—it happened.Of course, that patient could have something to do with Bilinsky's murder. But that was no longer my problem.“What a strange coincidence!” the doctor on duty said. “Comrade doctor, the other one responsible for this patient was just here.”“And where is he now?”“He took off toward the church to look for the patient.”“Didn't the patient escape earlier?”“Don't know.”“How do you not know? You had better call the police, moron, before he kills someone. And get those sleeping orderlies to look for him.”“They can't... ”“Why not? Should I go wake them?”“They're on morphine.”“And you, I can see, have lost your mind. Go, catch your psycho! If it turns out that he killed Bilinsky—and on your watch—you can't imagine what's in store for you.”I adjusted my homburg and set off in the direction of St. Cyril's, that unwelcoming monolithic cube. I glanced around—what if our escaped syphilitic were to jump out of the bushes and bite or strangle me. I looked around because I wasn't sure of my actions, wasn't sure of my choices. Tripping over a clump of clover, I reached the open doors of the church. I couldn't stop myself from going in.The walls and ceiling were covered with frescoes. There was what used to be an angel rolling up the sky on the southern column of the narthex. But also graffiti: people scratched their names on it so as not to be forgotten—their idea of eternity. Prince Volodymyr the Great compared this activity to the desecration of graves. The vandals paid a fine and were beaten with canes. During the raids of Batu Khan, the church was deserted and cracks appeared all over it. Wild martens and feral dogs sought shelter here; insects swarmed under the ceiling with its red mosaics. Birches grew in its midst. Water seeped in the cracks, the water became ice, the ice widened the cracks, more water seeped in the cracks, becoming more ice that further widened the cracks, the wall split and nearly fell over, and then the wall fell over. Yet the angel is still rolling up the sky... When I reached the exit, I heard a rustling behind me. I turned after I stepped outside: in the depths of the church, like a stick in a pot of tar, stood a man with a large bag thrown over his shoulder and a revolver pointed right at me.“Is that you, Doctor?“Don't move!”“What's... Skorsky, what's with you?”“Don't move, I say!”“What are you doing here?”And finally I understood... Skorsky was himself the psycho! (Really, I had known for a while.)“You are the murderer! I knew it! But—why?”“Shut up.”“It was you. You! The stolen cigarettes, the strange behavior, Bilinsky. If I shout, everybody will come running. They've already called the police!”There was heavy breathing behind me. And then a gun rang out.The city is overgrown with new buildings. They encircle everything that was once on the periphery. Kyiv has become an old lady that can no longer restrain herself in the face of pastries. The city climbs farther. It steps over the swamps, turns the old rivers into a series of lakes; the other bodies of water it drives into canals. The grain that falls from the wild wheat is black. When the sun heats it, the grain melts and trickles into the earth. St. Cyril's stands indestructible. No one spackles the small cracks in its walls with either expensive putty or glues, nor with cheap cement and whitewash. One day a small fox appears in the doorway. It runs inside and along the floor of simple gray tiles. The gods watch from the walls, watch and fall into ruin. The fox runs to the iconostasis. Before it is a time-darkened Virgin Mother and Child in oil on sheets of zinc. The fox runs the metal steps that wind up to the second floor. The fox runs past all the vaults, naves, all the frescoes. A buckthorn seed flies in through a broken window. It will be the first. Soon the buckthorn will grow everywhere. A dumb hare will make its nest in the buckthorn bushes and nightingales will settle in the upper branches to sing until the end of the world. The fox runs between the thick rays that penetrate the windows. It catches one of the rays, squints its eyes, and warms itself in the sun.The shot rang out, but I did not fall. I looked around—and on the church threshold was our syphilis patient bearing a rod. His head lay on the rocks by the doorway.“If only he'd been at the stage of nose deformity! Just imagine: a hole instead of a nose plus a hole from the bullet—like an extra pair of eyes!” Skorsky laughed at the corpse.“We need to call the orderlies.”“They heard the shot. They'll run here on their own. You see, Professor Bilinsky believed it would take two or three years to wrap up this patient's case,” Skorsky told me. “But I took care of it much faster!”“Excuse me, but I'm going crazy in this city. I thought that you were Bilinsky's murderer.”“Just so. Why not? I am Bilinsky's murderer.”“Don't tease. You've changed a lot recently, so... ”“Yes, I've started killing people. You might term such a change significant.”“You have the right to irony.”“I am not being ironic.”“Let's call it sarcasm.”“It's the honest-to-God truth.”“And yes, you have the right to mock me.”“Well then, let's be done. To the horses!”“What horses?”“Alina's waiting!”Alina, her uncle Skorsky, a few others I didn't know, and I rode like the wind that ripped off my homburg and carried it back to Kyiv.“There's a fresco in the choir loft at St. Cyril's where Vrubel painted himself and patients from the hospital as the apostles. When I came across it by accident, I really believed they were saints,” Alina said.“I've never been up there. I've only seen the church from below.”“Remember the way back so you can see it sometime.”“The Puchai River used to flow here. You shouldn't trust the landscape,” Skorsky said, reaching for something, perhaps his bag, just when we left the darkness of the trees and saw the endless steppe ahead of us.We rode all night without stopping. Though no one was chasing us. Though we had nowhere to be. We rode like beasts released from a cage. The promises of the horizon turned what we'd left behind into a cage fit for those from whom freedom had been severed, like an anomaly, at birth.The pre-morning sky looked at first like a sack of turnips—filled with something heavy. But with each verst, the sky became lighter. When it was finally light enough to see clearly, we arrived at a knoll at the foot of a stone wall that from a distance had appeared to be a gigantic piece of halva. The exterior ruins of the castle gave no hint of how it was when all was fine here, when people defended themselves successfully from the nomads’ raids. From far off, the wreckage looked like a natural agglomeration of stones—a rocky elevation, no more: a cluster of cliffs. It would rain a few hundred more times, a few hundred more winds from a few hundred directions would blow on this heap, and it would collapse as though nothing had ever been here.A few stalks of wheat grew from one of the rocks. Someone had probably cast a handful of grain here for some birds that forgot to eat it.“Who could this castle belong to?” I asked Skorsky.“I reckon the Swan Princess,” the doctor rejoined, hoping to sound knowledgeable.From behind one of the piles of gray sandstone emerged a young man in a black reptilian coat and a white papakha as lush, bright, and out of place as a dahlia. His name was Artem. The heat was melting our brains, but he was dressed like that, in rooster fashion, which was popular among the otamans. Artem helped Alina dismount her horse and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she offered him a cheek instead.Had she been racing to see this clown?We entered the yard—the ruins had fashioned an internal space that was more or less protected, at least from strangers’ eyes. It turned out that there were even places where it was possible to hide from the rain, and from there the ruins didn't look half bad.In the center of the court was a table, and on it a wooden bucket with pink gladiolas. How romantic! It all looked like it came from outer space. Where on earth, in the middle of the steppe, far from any village or town, did this table, this simple table, come from? And the gladiolas? The steppe hadn't been plowed in so long that any cultivars would have gone wild, degenerated, dried up completely.A campfire crackled nearby—a little preview of what we would soon do to the houses, villages, and cities. Artem the otaman brought over a cezve from the fire and poured the first portion into a small, copper cup for Alina. He also got out a porcelain cup with images of rosy cherubim—but how...?“Who else would like coffee?”Only Skorsky and I responded. The question excited me, even distracted me from the thought of the kiss I had recently witnessed and the Kyiv I had recently left.“It's obvious who the professors here are; cultured people drink coffee. Are you both doctors?”“Uh-huh.”“For wolves of the steppe, like us, doctors are gold, even more precious than gold. Actually, a Hippocrates like you should eat more, because those in your profession will soon be worth your weight in gold. Work on your figures, both of you.”“Who will take pity on the horses that have to carry us?”“We'll find the horses. And very large doctors can be transported on machine-gun carts. We'll need to seat the otamans near you. Only a fool would shoot at a doctor.”“I think we'll find quite enough fools here.”“With your beard, Doctor, you look like Tsar Nicholas II. But even so you won't be shot. You might even be canonized!”“We've only just arrived and you're going on about executions,” Skorsky grumbled and checked to make sure that he still had his bag.“Apologies, apologies, pardonnez-moi. But you are not merely a doctor. A venereologist! Skorsky, you're a specialist! A venereologist is the most important person in wartime. The most valuable! You are the botanists of war. You can't imagine what varieties of flowers grow here, and these beds have long awaited a proper gardener. Or even just a man with a scythe!”“Bite your tongue,” Alina said. “I don't need to listen to this.”“Yes, yes, of course. Excuse me, my r—. ” He almost said “rose.”We rested all day. We went down to a surprisingly close river overgrown with lilies. We rowed the boats left by fishermen. I talked to Skorsky. He took his bag everywhere, refusing even to swim so he wouldn't have to part with it. I asked him what he had in it, but he said it wasn't my damned business.Alina rowed with the otaman to the middle of the river. They were having a loud discussion. She was waving her hands. The current carried their boat downstream slowly and smoothly. What a nuisance, that current!I tried to meet with Alina one-on-one, but she was avoiding me. In the morning I was confused, by lunch I was sad, and after lunch I got angry.In the evening, I lay on the hot grass and drank another cup (I have no idea where they got such good coffee), which had no effect at all on my sleep. I watched the Perseids. Every year, the Earth passes through the tail of Comet Swift-Tuttle. People can see the meteor shower and make a wish. I wished. I counted forty-seven falling stars. All forty-seven of my wishes were for the same thing.Around the campfire, they were sitting, talking. I saw how he tickled her face with a piece of grass and she brushed him off in annoyance. Then they were screaming at each other. Later they again spoke kindly, after which they again quarreled. My joy grew after each tiny mistake that Artem made. I wanted him to show the worst he was capable of.They were screaming at each other, but all I could hear was beautiful opera singing. The stars fell to the sound of their screaming. The stars blessed my joy.Then this happened: Alina kicked the fire, scattered burnt kindling, and burned some of the grass. Artem grabbed her by the arm, but she broke away from him and ran off to the horses.“Go then! I guarantee you'll get to Katerynoslav and return with your tail between your legs.”“I'm going to Huliai-Pole! To Father Makhno!”I jumped up and ran after her.“Where do you think you're going?” Artem shouted.Really—where was I going? I was going after her: to Huliai-Pole, to Katerynoslav, to Rome, to Washington, to Istanbul, to Montevideo... “Go to sleep,” he said. “Come morning, this coquette will be here, right as rain. We've already been through this show. Tomorrow she'll be right here next to my boot!”... No, she won't.In some sort of shape we entered some town. There were some buildings that were some colors, some trees, some streets, some roads, and some signs. Posts, flustered birds’ nests, echoes, colors, shapes—each of some kind. A wedding procession was coming toward us. If you want to make orange, you need to add yellow to red, and then bam—it's black. If you want to salt the soup, shake in a little, and then bam—two handfuls. You want to say a kind word, and then bam—a punch in the face. I was rocked around like a watermelon on a boat and threw up my breakfast straight into the horse's fluffy mane. Sanko found this hilarious, but I said I'd pulverize him. So Sanko sped ahead.No one knew anything about Alina. The daytime sky was like a poorly washed bowl. The sun was a squashed, rotten apricot. The night sky looked like the sole of a boot to me. The moon was a dirty cheap copper coin that had gotten stuck to the sole. Everything seemed spoiled to me, irrelevant, unnecessary. Without her, this journey was a waste of time.“You'd better stay away from everyone,” Artem said. “You'll infect us with your pining, and pining is worse than the clap.”The wedding procession was before us. The young couple, still utter children, walked so calmly it was as if they didn't see us. As if we were made of a light breeze—our bodies, clothes, our horses and their iron shoes—of the lightest gasses. As if we were visible only to ourselves and the coal-black dog that barked, panting and gasping.The wedding was headed straight for us. We were in the middle of the road, and so were they. We approached each other slowly, a wave going toward a wave. Some ten meters before their indifferent faces, I noticed the color of the bride's eyes. And the coral-colored tulips that fell on the road before her. Round goose eggs on meaty stems, the flowers were falling and falling before her. The bride's eyes were almond shaped.“Hey there,” Artem shouted at me. “Wake up!”I came to and saw the whole village, everyone there, not realizing my group had turned left onto a side street away from the procession. The tulips disappeared—where'd they get tulips in the fall? I was sitting alone on my horse in the middle of the road, and the entire wedding procession came to a stop. I moved to the side, and the throng marched on, cutting off our escape route. We rode a few more meters and came across the synagogue.“You know what, you're right,” said the otaman.“Who is?”“Oleksii is the only one here who's right.”“About what?”Artem turned his horse and raced back. Everyone stood still while he ran his horse into the crowd and began firing his revolver. People scattered in all directions. Artem trotted, cackling like an imbecile. The horse kicked an old guy in the mouth. The man fell, spitting out his gold teeth. We rode up to the commotion and formed ranks, but none of us wanted to join the otaman.The bride stopped in the middle of the street. On both sides were buildings and trees, as well as dust, sky, and sun. She stood still, beautiful, as if nothing had happened. Then she adjusted her garland and walked calmly on.“Well, should we get some sugar now?” Artem laughed, looking at the bride, and off he went toward the sugar factory.It was then I noticed that all of the houses had shutters—fuchsia, blue, ocher—and that all the shutters were closed.We flew toward the dirty building, whistling and shouting. If there had been aesthetes among the otamans, they would certainly have razed the abomination in this field after seizing it. They would have spread soil on top and sown buckwheat. Long live buckwheat!, that wonderful crop. Like hunting dogs hot on the trail, we raced to our defenseless victim, with the baying of hundreds of hounds behind us. The field shook beneath us. We became an artist's canvas, evolving from Realism to Romanticism, Romanticism to Expressionism, Expressionism to Suprematism. If we had been painted in black and white, we would have been splotches (until the ink ran, annihilating all remaining patches of white).Two men stood near the gate—unarmed and undressed, in nothing but their undershirts and boots. Our fervor, our kinship with the elements, our entirety, were all for naught.“Jesus Christ! What bores!” Artem exclaimed. “How boring you are!”“Maybe boring for us, but fireworks for them,” Sanko said, dismounting his horse.“The fear of death engenders creativity,” our otaman—a distinguished philosopher of the early twentieth century, that demonic breed—prophesied.He went on, “Excuse me, but with all due respect, we are not going to search you. Just show us right away where the money is. Why are there so few of you? Don't say there's not much money. I want piles and piles of money! If you don't show it to us, we'll print our own on your skin. Believe me, we will.”We entered the factory grounds. There were no workers, only an enormous mountain of sugar beets that looked like a pile of coal from a distance and a pile of dead rats from up close.“So, did you have a good year?” Artem asked a man in an undershirt.“Not really—too dry.”“Nah, that's fine. You wouldn't have been able to gather most of the harvest this year anyway. There's a fire burning across all of Ukraine, all of Russia. The whole world!”While Artem tossed thoughts like well-chewed sunflower seeds into the crowd, the two men quietly stepped aside and then ran fast ahead to the factory's main hall. The gigantic door slammed shut. The gate was locked behind us! The windows were smashed! The factory roared from inside like a cumbersome machine starting up. Bullets whirred through every window.“Bastards! It's a trap! Quick, after me!”Still on horseback, Artem bounded over to a vast window, low to the ground, and smashed it mercilessly. He broke the frame and jumped inside on his horse. I and a few others followed. We broke into their lair, threw open the doors, and let the other warriors inside.Iron vats of hot sugar were steaming, pipes were clattering; machinery groaned.“Parasites!” Artem gritted his teeth. “I'll get you. I'll get you red sons of bitches. Painted whores!”At the word “painted,” his horse fell to the ground. Lying prone, Artem continued fighting, but the red soldiers wouldn't let him stand. Fighting nearby, I rode over to assist but did not know where to aim. Artem got up, ran forward, and brought his sword down on the head of the closest soldier, all the way to the middle of his skull, to the bridge of his nose. It was like butchering a pig. Artem thrust the sword into the buttock of another who was fleeing and cut off his leg at the bend in the knee.“I'll cut off every last one of your asses! Cut off your asses!” Artem bellowed.A half hour later, the dead were lying, the captured sitting, and the victors doing anything they pleased.“Skorsky, are there a lot of casualties?” I asked the doctor, whose hour it was. I hoped not, because I was too tired to help him.“Just a few. The dead are already dead, and the wounded are not ours.”Though Skorsky rarely asked my help, and though I'd become an ordinary soldier, the doctor in me was still present in the most unpleasant attribute—knowledge. Others saw an eviscerated man, pieces of dusty flesh smeared with clay, soil, sand, and straw. I saw a perfectly formed kidney hanging perfectly from the rest of its body like a child's mitten from its coat. You could try this death on for size. Wear it like a sanbenito of the Inquisition.Artem counted the money and then lay on the floor alongside the gigantic sugar mountain in the middle of the room. From time to time, the crystals rustled as they fell.“I didn't think you'd be such a fighter!” the otaman said without turning toward me. “I thought you'd be healing us. You'd keep to the rear and we'd hide you like a girl. But here you are, in the vanguard, like a lion!”“I got excited,” I told him, choosing not to react to the “girl” part.“’Cause Alina said there was no sense counting on you to fight.”“Really?”“Does that sting?”“Why would it? I'm a doctor—not everyone is. It requires a brain. Unlike waving a sword.”“Yeah, yeah. I gave her gladiolas. We were lying in the boat near that castle, doing all manner of things, and she told me all about you. How you met.”“You were lying in that boat talking about me?”“It was the day before you left Kyiv. You agreed to go with the anarchists so quickly!”“Were you surprised? Doctors make fast decisions.”“But you probably had great prospects. Your parents are rich, right?”“And who are your parents?”“Probably all your relatives fled abroad—bourgeois. Why did you stay?”“What the hell's your point?”“Alina, by the way, died a while ago. Probably.”“Don't jinx her.”“Listen here,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “And listen good. If you have designs on her—dead or alive—it's best you castrate yourself now.”“After you.”“If I want to kill somebody, you know, I just do it.”At last he looked at me. I was lying on the floor nearby and looking in his direction, sweaty and relaxed, my appearance complemented by my disdain for his opinion, his authority, his stupid hat. His everything.Artem raised his arm above his head, stuck a finger in the sugar mountain, and licked it. We both got up. Had I anticipated this turn of events, I would have readied a gift for him. Artem held his revolver. Under my hand I found a knife the workers used for gathering beets: it was a deliberately sharpened arc they sank into the swollen brassicas. I jumped up and quickly stepped around the sugar mountain.Artem's bullet hit a pane and broke the glass.“Not man enough for hand-to-hand?”The otaman shot again.“You should've challenged me to a duel, you romantic!”Encrusted with white crystals, I charged Artem from the sugar mountain. We fell in, and the sugar stuck in our hair, mustaches, nostrils, armpits.The gang ran in to get us apart, then backed off because it had nothing to do with them. By now the sugar mountain had burst its banks. Of the once perfect pyramid, a deformed mound remained.Wounded, Artem fell on the sugar mound, turning the white red.I stood before the gang sugar-coated and holding a bloody hook. The old otaman was drawing his last breath. Blood trickled from the corner of Artem's mouth and streamed from the left side of his breast.“What's the commotion?” Old Roman had just come in.“Be quiet,” the boys told him. And a good thing they did.“You killed him? You killed the otaman!”“Shut your mouth,” the boys told him.“You... ”I slugged Roman's stinky herring mouth. How did that son of a bitch find pickled herring in a sugar factory? My fist was now bigger and stronger than ever before, a steel anvil that could split nails and shatter memorial plaques. The unfortunate man's jaw twisted like an upper millstone that had gone off track from the lower.“Let's get out of here and go to Makhno's camp,” I gave my first order.We galloped so fast the grass burned beneath us. The birds and bugs had no time to fly out of the way; hooves trampled the burrows of rodents who didn't dare crawl out of their holes for a long time after. We raced like no one had ever raced before.The steppe, that sly fox, pretended to be an innocent fool. The steppe said, “I'm like Adam: I don't even know my own name.” But its grass harbored the tracks of thousands of armies and the heels of Herodotus, the crunch of Trypillia vessels, and the smell of Scythian hemp, Roman coins, clay figures of wolf people, the chevrons of Denikin's army, glass from the Chekists’ ruby stars, traces of uranium from flying saucers. I threatened it: “Steppe, show me your layers, or I will burn you, plow you under, flood you.” But it just replied: “I'm like Adam: I don't yet know my name.”I lost geography as if it were a silver coin. It fell out of my pocket and rolled through the feather grass that blanketed the steppe in white foam. The open space ahead was so endless that the whole world might as well have been steppe. If people ended up here from somewhere else, they would conclude they were on another planet. The coin fell and became an argentum, became one with the ring on the hand of the princess who had one green eye and one blue, with the twisted candlestick at the monastery on the other side of the steppe, with melted ingots. It broke down into simpler elements, simpler and simpler yet. The horse carried me spreading the seeds of northern plants to the south, just as southern riders had once brought flowers and weeds to the north. And then I turned back. Just as I had no geography, I had no time. Every night I fell asleep with the thought that the next day I would again race. Through all spacelessness, all timelessness. I exchanged one horse for another, got on a train, on a boat, traversed forty versts on foot—in rain that brought the river up to the road, in heat that overturned cattle. The earth I walked on became mine. Mine was the water in the lakes and springs, clean water, dirty water, enlightened water, contaminated with oil, stinking of algae, of fish that died in wells, stinking of the memory of atrocities, water as clean as broken bread. The water did not become Alina.I was doing this for her: I got the basturma out from under my saddle, sodden with the horse's sweat, sliced the throat of a rich man whose daughter I had danced with at a ball, climbed into a vat of beet juice and took a sugar bath, carried out the expropriation of the savings banks, wiped the sweat from my face with my shirt—and the cloth turned red; I didn't know from what. If it was someone else's blood, I didn't care; if it was my own, even less.We mostly came across Reds. We scraped them up like old red paint on a door in order to repaint the boards black. Black looked better. Red is tasteless, but black has style. Healthy men died before us of myocardial rupture like bunnies found in the nest. The ones whose hearts were sewn of steel wire envied the deceased. Seizing estates, banks, distilleries, and prisons reminded us of gathering in the harvest. If you're too lazy to pick an apple, you can shake the tree; some of the fruit gets bruised when it falls. We seized buildings like we were shaking apple trees. No one picked the fruits, we just shook: shook under the beds, under the tables, behind the curtains. No, there was no picking. We just shook until the red juice spurted from the apples.Near the Khorol River with Father Makhno and me in charge, we captured sixteen machine guns and four cannons, as well as five hundred prisoners who immediately came over to our side. The villagers voluntarily gave us bread and cheese, chickens and kvas. People joined us. The front of the machine-gun cart said “You can't run,” and “You won't catch us” at the back. We took factory after factory. Millions of karbovantsi, thousands of poods of sugar, weapons. We smashed the telephone exchanges and captured the telegraphs. We made alliances with some and then with others. Lenin, Wrangel, Frunze, the Germans, Chinese, Australians, Kaiser Wilhelm II, Cleopatra, Maria Theresa Walburga Amalia Christina. We ran the steppe. There were a hundred thousand of us. There were three hundred thousand of them. There were three hundred thousand of us. There were a million of them. There were two million of them. We were all of humanity. We were so many that we were none.The nobles’ estates were long ago forsaken. In the people's deepest trunks lay silks and guipure laces that were once perhaps used only to cover a table. Five steps from the barn in the direction of the pear tree, some silver candlesticks are buried; there's a plaster figure of an angel in the chicken coop, covered with shit and feathers.I was reluctant to be going to my home, but I didn't see any way out. Fate intended me to be a different being from the one I was before.Here my grandfathers and great-grandfathers were born. Here the ones who caused my grandfathers and great-grandfathers to flee had stopped. When we were still far off I noticed that someone was in the house. It was our men—Skorsky had brought them here, about twenty in all. I asked Sanko, whom I had walked with side by side more than once, where the doctor was now. All the men answered that he was around somewhere, but I didn't see him that evening.In 1918, the spirit of my great-grandfather Stepan, along with my mother and uncle, had gotten into a britzka and scrambled off to Paris, to Napoleon, against whom my great-grandfather had fought with the Cossacks, to whom the Russians promised to return self-rule. Following him in the cart went the soul of Grandpa Oleh, who lost a finger when he cut down the old linden near the house; his second finger was blown off by a cannonball near Balaklava, and later his entire hand was cut off by some Turk. Next went the spirit of my father, also Stepan, who did not take part in any war but died of measles at the age of forty. They all got the hell out of here. First, they went to Kyiv, led by my mother, Tamara Makarivna, in order to collect Uncle's family and me, their son. And their son, it turns out, has now come back to rob his own home (I didn't drive my war buddies away, did I?). It's a shame that I didn't know where the bathtub was, or whatever they bathed me in when I was small. It would have been good to walk through the ranks of anarchists with that basin and tell them all to spit into it.Remembering every room, I carried Alina upstairs to my mother's bedchamber. There was no longer furniture or pictures, only bare walls. The bed and mattress remained, but that was enough. Mother hated noise, so she set up her room far away from the running in the halls and the creaks on the stairs. I adjusted the mattress; in a gap, looking like a stalk of wheat, there lay a gold bracelet that she lost in the haste and that the thieves could not find in the mayhem. I tucked it into my pocket.The place could still be saved. It was strong, built under the leadership of my grandfather, who knew how to do it right. He built a sawmill, a gristmill, a dress factory (today it's probably been ransacked, maybe even by our own men).Alina had a complete, displaced break in her right fibula. We needed water first. I went downstairs—the guys were dragging out the piano like an old cow to the slaughter.“What are you doing with that?”“Taking it out.”“Why?”“What's it to you? We want to have fun.”“Can you play?”“We're not your bourgeois lily-handed bitches.”They couldn't play, but they were famous at destruction. “Noise is the music of the new time,” one of the smarter among them might have said. “But noise is the opposite of music. Just as a rose is the opposite of your ugly mugs,” I'd have responded if there was anyone to say it to. I could also have said that this was a Bosendorfer grand piano, that it was very valuable—but do the guys not deserve such a luxury?“Why are you so boring? We're relaxing.”“Then let me play a little first.”“Go ahead, but fast. One-two.”So I played. As before. My fingers ran up and down the black and white keys, which weren't simply keys of these, the simplest, colors. These were the keys that remembered my fingers specifically—achieved by that slovenly German Katerina, our governess. She knew a bundle of languages, could play the piano, and was interested in the latest scientific discoveries. But she had not an ounce of sympathy for anyone who couldn't master anything on the first try. More than once she hit my pinkie against the black key that remembered every one of its four thousand touches. She would pound it on the key and shout, “Si bémol! Si bémol,” and later bang my fingers and translate, “B flach! B flach!”I played. I could not expose myself, so the only thing I could do was believe in miracles. What if these coarse men saw value in this bit of furniture so unintelligible to them? And what if they didn't destroy it, this emblem of my childhood, my land, my air, which I could protect in no other way? My air. My water.“Shchedryk, shchedryk, shchedrivochka,” one of them who recognized the tune began to sing along.“Look at you.” They did not expect music from me, who had until recently been drinking blood like water.They said, “Again, again!”A group of curious men gathered around me. They were ordinary farmers, thieves, and recidivists, peasants and workers, everyone except for Skorsky. They needed this music as they needed baths. The music cleansed them from the inside, perhaps. They had not heard anything besides the whistle of a bullet, the neighing of a horse, or the knocking of a chisel and the whirring of a saw, amputating limbs, for a long time.But it could not go on long. I did not close the piano lid, just stood and went to fetch water for Alina, leaving the unfinished song for later. The well was to the north—that is, at the “Head.” My father once promised to give me a compass if I could learn to identify the ends of the earth by means of the sun. And to make it easier to remember, I gave each one of them a name: the east where the day begins was “Right” (my right hand), the west “Left,” the north “Head,” and the south “Feet.” Back when I could still do whatever I wanted all day long, I would wake in the morning and say: I'm going to the Feet. The mound was at the Feet, Left had the river, Right had the forest. It was only to the Head that I rarely went, because a village was located there. When the villagers saw me, they would speak in whispers and avoid the master's son.... I wiped her brow and her burning, sunken cheeks. I lay down next to her to feel the heat of her skin.When the fire in Alina calmed slightly, I went out into our orchard. My father had once been given a gift from Japan—a tulip tree that blossomed with yellow-green flowers. It had to have grown in the time that I was away. It would have been fatal had it been cut down. I again took the stairs down into the drawing room and came across nobody—they had all disappeared in search of food or were hidden away in their burrows. In the middle of the hall, like an opened rib cage, was the piano, irreparably shattered.B Flach! B Flach!Translation © Ali Kinsella 2022. (shrink)

İslâm düşünce tarihine dair yazılanlar, çoğu zaman tarihsel ve toplumsal gerçekliklerden ziyade, tarihin bize aktardıkları yanlı ve yanıltıcı bilgiler üzerinden şekillenmektedir. Doğal olarak tarihsel ve toplumsal gerçekliklerle birlikte sosyolojinin ve hatta iktisadın genel geçer kuralları dikkate alınmaksızın yapılan değerlendirmeler, ilmî olmaktan uzak olduğu için doğru bir sonuç ve ona uygun bir etki de yaratamamıştır. Özellikle inanç formuna büründürülerek mezheplerin düşüncelerini değerlendiren yaklaşımlar, mensubu olduğu ve zaman zaman da ötekileştirdiği diğer mezhep mensuplarının düşüncelerini doğru bir şekilde anlama yerine, onu reddetmek üzere (...) ve yanlışlamak amacıyla okumaktadır. Eş‘arî sonrası ve Eş‘arîlik sistemi içinde biçimlenmiş kelâmî yaklaşım, Mu‘tezile’ye reddiye olarak ifade edilebilecek bir temelde konumlanmıştır. Doğal olarak olgudan ziyade, Ehl-i hadîs olarak nitelendirilebilecek ve bütün sorunların cevaplarının, tarihin belli bir dönemine ait değerlendirmeler üzerinden bulmaya çalışan bir yapı biçiminde şekillenmiştir. Dinamik olan toplumun, her döneme ait sorunlarının da dinamik bir yapı oluşturduğu muhakkaktır. Kelâm ilminin teşekkül sürecine bakıldığında toplumsal sorunları göz önünde bulunduran ve çözüm önerilerini bu minvalde üreten bir bakış mevcuttur. Uzun süre varlığını böyle devam ettiren kelâm ilmi, tarihsel süreç içerisinde neredeyse tamamen teoriye sıkışan bir disiplin haline gelmiştir. Modern dönem ile birlikte yeni sorunlar, yeni tartışma alanları hâsıl olmuş ve yeni bir bilgi yöntemi ve metodu ile tartışmalar yapılmıştır. Kelâm ilminin de yeniden asli hüviyetine kavuşabilmesi adına yeni bir yöntem ve metodun geliştirilmesi gerekliliği dile getirilmiş ve Yeni ilm-i kelâm, sosyal kelâm gibi kavramlar ortaya atılmıştır. İlk çıkış sürecinde kelâmın hayat ile iç içe olduğu, sosyal ve siyasal olana göre şekillendiği, çözümlerin de toplumun gerçekliği göz önünde bulundurularak üretildiğini söyleyebiliriz. Bu anlamda her ne kadar isimlendirme bu şekilde olmasa da uygulamanın sosyal kelâma denk gelecek biçimde olduğunu ifade edebiliriz. Vâsıl b. Atâ özelinde Mu‘tezile’nin temel beş temel ilkesinin aslında sosyal kelâm olarak nitelenebilecek bir perspektifle oluşturulduğunu göstermeyi hedefledik. (shrink)

Güzellik ve sanat iç içe geçmiş iki kavramdır. Bir bakıma güzellik, sanatın özüdür denilebilir. Her sanat dalında olduğu gibi hat sanatında da güzeli arama arzusu ve eşsiz eserler ortaya koyma çabası, hattatları sabırla çalışmaya ve kendi sınırlarını zorlamaya sevk etmiştir. Bir kitap sanatı olan hüsn-i hattın kelime manasının “güzel yazı” olmasına mukabil, daha iyisini yazmak uğruna harcanan çaba yorucu ve zahmetlidir, ancak sabırla çalışan elbette ki karşılığını alır. Başka bir deyişle “Muhakkak ki Allah güzeldir, güzeli sever!” hadis-i şerifi ışığında bu (...) sanata gönül verenler, yazıyı daha muntazam yazma hususunda büyük ölçüde gayret gösterirler. Kişinin muntazam yazmayı başarması ise, sistematik çalışmasına bağlıdır. Yazıyı kaidelerine uygun ve ölçülü yazabilmek bıkmadan usanmadan, karamsarlığa kapılmadan çalışmakla mümkündür. Bu sebeple gerek öğrenme aşamasında ve gerekse sonrasında, harfler defalarca çalışma kâğıdına yazılarak el melekesi artırılır. Kelimeler ve harfler kâğıda kimi zaman noktalanıp ölçülendirilerek, kimi zaman da noktalanmadan yazılır. Talim amaçlı yapılan bu çalışmalar, başka bir deyişle karalamalar, hat sanatının temeli niteliğindedir. Arap alfabesiyle yazılan ve “karalama” adı verilen el alıştırmaları yazıyla uğraşan kişinin o an irticalen elinden çıkan harf veya kelimelerden oluşur ve çoğu zaman bir anlam ifade etmez. Bu çalışmanın amacı, karalamaların estetik unsurlarını ele almak ve zaman içerisinde uğradığı değişime mercek tutmaktır. Hattatların bu özgür yorumları gün geçtikçe daha fazla önemsenmekte ve hayranlık uyandırmaktadır. Harf bünyesini oluşturan kaidelerin dışında satır ve sınırlara bağlı kalmadan yazılan bu yazılar kendi içinde bir kompozisyon oluşturmakta ve çoğu zaman yazan kişiyi dahi hayrete düşürecek özgün çalışmalar ortaya çıkabilmektedir. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:John the Theologian and His Paschal Gospel: A Prologue to Theology by John BehrMatthew Z. ValeJohn the Theologian and His Paschal Gospel: A Prologue to Theology by John Behr (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), xv + 388 pp.Father Behr's book defies summary. Its ambitions span several fields—patristics, contemporary biblical scholarship, speculative systematics, phenomenology—and Behr has controversial proposals in each. The book is not (expressly) a work of systematic (...) theology, but its speculative élan and its ambition to give a normative account of Christian theology's beating heart is unmistakable. If a vice of the book is vagueness on questions of burning Christological, protological, and eschatological interest, among its virtues is the verve and vividness with which it provokes such questions to begin with. Behr has written, not a book on John, but a Johannine manifesto on theology. [End Page 989]The book is a "symposium" in three parts, each inviting a different kind of reader of John's gospel. The first is predominantly "historical" (the early Fathers of the Johannine school, reconstructed by modern scholarship), the second predominantly "exegetical" (contemporary biblical studies), and the third "philosophical," with a single guest in Michel Henry. The book's heart is an argument about what "incarnation" means. When it comes to the Incarnation, we labor, Behr says, under what Quentin Skinner calls a "mythology of doctrine," the hermeneutical fallacy of projecting onto a tradition's classical writers positions and whole doctrinal categories developed only later (6–8). The mythology of doctrine Behr opposes is, in fact, a mythological notion of the Incarnation as "an episode in the biography of the Word" (a phrase from Rowan Williams), the episode when a "pre-incarnate Word" is born as Jesus (3, and throughout). To break the ice on this mythology, part 1 reconstructs an original milieu for John's Gospel—a school of John the Evangelist, centered upon an original Pascha celebration—in which "becoming flesh," "Word," and "human being" mean something other than the dogmatic meanings we project back onto them. This Johannine school is not the Johannine "community" posited by historical-critical studies, but the school of John's "hearers" that J. B. Lightfoot traced from Polycarp of Smyrna, Ignatius of Antioch, Papias of Hierapolis, and Melito of Sardis down to Irenaeus (30–31). Behr's reconstruction makes the following proposals. Our evangelist is John the Elder, the beloved disciple, not the Synoptics' son of Zebedee. This John was plausibly an eyewitness to the crucifixion—alone among the evangelists. He authored both the Gospel and the Apocalypse bearing his name, according to near unanimous second-century tradition (76). The Apocalypse was possibly written before the Gospel, perhaps before the Temple's destruction. John the Elder originated the yearly Pascha celebration, and it remained peculiar to his school until the second half of the second century. This feast originally celebrated the crucifixion, burial, resurrection, ascension, and Pentecost as the single event of the Passion, just as in John's Gospel Jesus's ascension (12:32), glorification (13:31–2), and "handing down the Spirit" (19:30) are identified with the crucifixion. Only later was the Passion's simple white light refracted into the liturgical cycle's rainbow of distinct feasts (91–92, 243).This reconstruction is explicitly speculative. Its purpose is to enliven our imaginations about what the evangelist's vision may possibly be. If the mythological picture of the Incarnation is easily recognized as false, our theological traditions still have not entirely exorcised it from their standard narration. Behr proposes a Johannine narration untroubled by this [End Page 990] mythology. The Incarnation is not a novelty occurring for God at some moment. No previously fleshless divine agent undergoes change to become flesh at some time. The Incarnation must instead be understood "apocalyptically," as the eternal mystery of Jesus Christ being revealed for us in time (256-57). The Incarnation is Jesus's eternal identity as the Word being revealed and wrought in time and pro nobis by the Passion (24, 29, 257, 130). John's Gospel should be read, in John Ashton's words, as "an apocalypse—in reverse, upside down, inside out" (4, 99... (shrink)

Current philosophical theorizing about technical functions is mainly focused on specifying conditions under which agents are justified in ascribing functions to technical artifacts. Yet, assessing the precise explanatory relevance of such function ascriptions is, by and large, a neglected topic in the philosophy of technical artifacts and technical functions. We assess the explanatory utility of ascriptions of technical functions in the following three explanation-seeking contexts: why was artifact x produced?, why does artifact x not have the expected capacity to ϕ?, (...) how does artifact x realize its capacity to ϕ? We argue that while function ascriptions serve a mere heuristic role in the first context, they have substantial explanatory leverage in the second and third context. In addition, we assess the relevance of function ascriptions in the context of engineering redesign. Here, function ascriptions also play a relevant role: they enable normative statements of the sort that component b functions better than component a. We unpack these claims by considering philosophical theories of technical functions, in particular the ICE theory, and engineering work on function ascription and explanation. We close the paper by relating our analysis to current debates on the explanatory power of mechanistic vis-à-vis functional explanations. (shrink)

Müslüman kadınların İslami gelenekler tarafından bastırılmış mı özgürlüğe kavuşturulmuş mu olduğuna dair pek çok çalışma bulunmakta. Bu çalışmalardan bazıları başörtüsü gibi İslami geleneklerin bir baskı unsuru olarak görürken, bazıları da Müslüman kadınların bu gelenekleri uygularken kendi iradelerini ortaya koyduğunu, dolayısıyla bu geleneklerin bir baskı emaresi olarak görülemeyeceğini savunur. Bu çalışmada, Müslüman kadınların hayatlarının çok yönlü, ilişkisel ve mekân bağlamında şekillendiğini incelememizi sağlayacak, Deleuze felsefisi bağlamında ele alınan irade ve özgürlük kavramlarını kullanmak amaçlanmıştır. Diğer bir ifade ile Fransız filozof Gilles Deleuze (...) tarafından ortaya koyulan ilişkisel ontoloji Müslüman Kadın çalışmalarını sorgulamak için kullanılmaktadır. Bu ilişkisel ontoloji üzerinden, Müslüman kadınların dini söylemler çerçevesinde olumsuz resmedilmeleri sorgulanmakta ve bu kadınların deneyimlerine ve pratiklerine dair alternatif açıklamalar ortaya konulmaktadır. Böylece, Deleuze’in felsefesi bağlamında ele alınan irade ve özgürlük kavramları kullanılarak Müslüman kadınların dini katılım ve uygulamaları üzerinden pasif ve irade göstermeyen kadınlar olarak tasvir edilmesi sorgulanmaktadır. Müslüman kadınların durumsal uygulama ve deneyimlerini keşfedebilecek nitelikte akademik bir bakış açısı önerilmektedir. Özet: Bazı batılı kuruluşlar medeniyetler çatışması söylemini temel alarak tekil bir Müslüman dünyası tarif edip bu tek tipleştirilmiş tarifi Islama ve Müslümanlara karşı mücadele etmenin neden gerekli olduğunu gerekçelendirmek için kullanmaktadır. Müslüman kadınlar İslam gelenekleri ve Müslüman erkekler tarafından baskıya uğrayan bir gurup olarak resmedildiği için, bu söylemlerde Müslüman kadınlara dair konular önemli odak noktalarından birisi olmaktadır. Örneğin Müslüman kadın kimliğinin sembolü olarak görülen başörtüsünün bir baskı unsuru olup olmadığına dair tartışmalar görülür. Müslüman kadının başörtüsü ile bastırılmış mı özgürleştirilmiş mi olduğuna dair pek çok çalışma da bulunmaktadır. Bu çalışmalardan bazıları başörtüsü gibi İslami geleneklerin Müslüman kadınları baskıladığını ileri sürerken bazıları da kadınlar başörtüsü kullandığında bunu kendi iradeleri ile yaptığını tartışır. Örneğin Saba Mahmood irade, özgürlük, istek ve direnme gibi kavramların liberalizm temelinde anlaşılmasını sorgulayarak Müslüman kadınlar hakkındaki bu söylemlere karşı çıkar. Bu çalışmalardan bazıları da Müslüman kadınların ve onların iradelerini kullanmalarına dair konuların tarihsel ve mekânsal bağlamda yapılması gerektiğini savunur. Her ne kadar bu konuda yapılan çalışmalar olsa da, bu konu daha fazla araştırmaya ve yeniden ele alınmaya muhtaçtır. Bu çalışmada, bu konuyu çok yönlü, Müslüman kadınların deneyimlerini, isteklerini ve uygulamalarını ilişkisel ve mekânsal olarak ele alma imkânı vereceğinden, ilk olarak irade ve özgürlük kavramlarını Deleuze felsefesi temelinde ele alınmaktadır. Diğer bir deyişle, Fransız filozof Gilles Deleuze’a dayandırılan ilişkisel ontolojik bakış açısı Müslüman kadına dair tartışmalara uygulanmaktadır. Bu ilişkisel ontolojiye göre, dünya bedenlerin toplamından oluşur. Her varlık, biyolojik organizma, sosyal yapı ve soyut yapı bir bedendir. Bu bedenlerin her birisi, ister insan bedeni ister insana ait olmayan bir beden olsun, ister maddi ister madde dışı olsun, ister sosyal ister psikolojik yapılar olsun, ilişkilerin akımı ile şekillendirilir. İnsan bedeninin biyolojik, zihinsel, sosyal ve psikolojik bileşenlerini içine alan her yönü de çoklu ilişkiler ile oluşturulur. Bu yüzden, bir insan öznesi hakkında konuştuğumuzda, aslında karmaşık ve çoklu ilişkilere dair konuşuruz. Bedenin bu şekilde ele alınması irade kavramının da yeniden ele alınmasını gerektirir. İrade kavramının bu bağlamda ele alınması dikkati bedenleri üreten ilişkiler üzerine odaklar. Bedenler ilişkilerin akımı ile şekillendirildiği için, bedenlerin belirli şekillerde hissetme, davranma ve istemeye dair kapasiteleri de sahip oldukları ilişkilere göre şekillenir. Bu ilişkisel ontoloji temelinde, Müslüman kadınların bedenlerinin ilişkilerin akımı ile şekillenen çoklu elementlerin karmaşık bir araya gelişler olarak ele alınmalıdır. Bu kavramlaştırma Müslüman kadınların hayatının izole edilmiş dini gelenekler temelinde oluşmuş gibi resmedilmesini sorgulatmaktadır. Müslüman kadınların iradeleri, kapasiteleri ve sınırlılıkları kadar deneyimleri, pratikleri ve istekleri de sosyal-politik söylemler, aile içi ilişkiler, materyal yapılar ve ekonomik şartlar gibi çoklu faktörler ile kurulan ilişkiler üzerinden şekillenir. Diğer bir ifade ile bu kadınların belirli şekillerde davranmaya dair güçleri kendilerini çevreleyen bedenler ile kurdukları ilişkilere göre şekillenir. Bu bedenler dini veya seküler unsurlar olabilir, insan veya insana ait olmayan unsurlar olabilir, ya da maddi veya madde dışı faktörler olabilir. Sonuç olarak, Müslüman kadınların bedenleri ve irade gösterme şekilleri her zaman bir süreklilik içinde bağlantı kuran veya bağlantılarını koparan çeşitli elementler ile üretilmektedir. Deleuze felsefesi temelindeki bu beden ve irade kavramlaştırmaları Müslüman kadınların dini geleneklerine salt itaat temelinde resmedilmelerini sorgulamak için kullanılmaktadır. Bu kadınların hayatlarındaki çoklu yapısal denebilecek elementlerin aydınlatılması amaçlanmakta ve onların iradelerinin parçalı ve ilişkisel bir şekilde anlaşılması önerilmektedir. İlişkisel ontolojik lensler aracılığı ile Müslüman kadınlar resmedilirken görünmez kılınan veya fotoğrafın dışında bırakılan dinamik ve heterojen unsurlar tetkik edilmektedir. Bu amaç için, Deleuze felsefesi temelinde yapılan kavramlaştırılmalar 2018’de doktora çalışması için Başkent Kadın Platformunda yapılan bir röportaja ve Türkiye’deki bazı etnografik gözlemlere uygulanmaktadır. Ortaya konulan teorik bağlama daha uygun olacağından, bir gruptan ya da daha geniş bir çerçevede veri toplamak yerine, bu röportajdan elde edilen verilerin detaylı bir şekilde ele alınması amaçlanmaktadır. Bu ontolojik bakış açısını Müslüman Kadın konusuna uygulayarak, Müslüman kadınların hayatındaki çoklu ve ilişkisel etken güçlere odaklanılması amaçlanmaktadır. Müslüman kadının yalnızca dini söylemler temelinde negatif olarak tanımlanması sorgulanmakta ve Müslüman kadınların deneyimlerini ve uygulamalarını anlamak için alternatif modeller olabileceğine dikkat çekilmektedir. Diğer bir şekilde ifade etmek gerekirse Müslüman kadınların deneyimleri ilişkisel, çok yönlü, parçalı ve muayyen olarak ele alınmalıdır. Hayal edilen tekil bir grup yerine, çok yönlülüğün ve ilişkiselliğin keşfedilmesine ihtiyaç duyulmaktadır. Bu yüzden Müslüman kadınların belirli zeminler temelinde anlaşılmaya çalışılması önerilmektedir. Bu tur bir analizde, bir araştırmacının amacı Müslüman kadını çok yönlü bir özne ve irade anlayışı temelinde belirli zeminlerde keşfetmek olmalıdır ki iç içe geçmiş baskı ve özgürleşme şekilleri de anlaşılabilsin. Müslüman kadının kimliğinin kategorileştirilmesi ve marjinalleştirilmesi yerine, devam edegelen şekilde deneyimlerin ve uygulamaların oluşum ve yeniden oluşumlarının üzerinde durulmalıdır. (shrink)

Bu çalışma, Rükneddin Ubeydullah b. Muhammed es-Semerkandî'nin (öl. 701/1301) "Risâle fî ḥaḳîḳati’l-‘âlemi’l-kebîr ve’s-ṣağîr/Büyük ve Küçük Âlemin Hakikati Hakkında Bir Risâle" adlı eserini tahkîk etmeyi, müellifin hayatı ve eserin içeriğini incelemeyi amaçlamaktadır. Rükneddin es-Semerkandî'nin müteahhir/geç dönem Mâtürîdî ve Hanefî âlimlerinden biri olduğu; kelâm, tasavvuf, tefsir, fıkıh usulü, hadis ve diğer alanlardaki eserleriyle İslâm medeniyeti tarihinde belirgin izler bıraktığı belirtilmelidir. Semerkandî'nin eserlerinde de görüldüğü gibi o, sûfî kelâmcılardan veya kelâmcı sûfîlerinden biridir. Üslubu, kelâm, tasavvuf ve - zaman zaman geniş anlamıyla - felsefe (...) ile karışık olan bir sentezdir. Bu da şaşırtıcı bir şey değildir. Zira Semerkandî, ilimlerin iç içe geçtiği ve kelâm ile tasavvufun felsefe boyasıyla boyandığı (Gazâlî (öl. 505/1111) ve Fahreddin er-Râzî (öl. 606/1210) sonrası) bir dönemde yaşamıştır. Elimizdeki risâlesi aracılığıyla, Rükneddin es-Semerkandî'nin kelâmcı ve mutasavvıf olmasının yanı sıra felsefeden de etkilendiğini görüyoruz. Zira insan ile büyük âlem arasındaki benzetme veya insan ve âlem arasında bir bağ kurma meselesi, kökleri eski felsefelere dayanan eski bir bakış açısıdır; daha sonra İslâm felsefesi ve İslâm düşüncesi bütünüyle bu felsefî perspektiften etkilenmiş ve insanı küçük bir âlem olarak görmüşlerdir. Rükneddin es-Semerkandî, insanı küçük bir âlem olarak veya kendi ifadesiyle büyük âlemin fihristi olarak gören Müslüman düşünürler veya âlimlerden biridir. Görünüşe göre, müellif bu konuya özel bir ilgi göstermiş ve bu nedenle bu konuda müstakil bir risâle yazmıştır. Söz konusu risâlesini, girişten sonra on iki kısa ve öz bölüm halinde kaleme almıştır. Müellif eserinde, büyük âlem ve küçük âlemin yaratılma amacına - ki bu risâlesini yazma hedefidir - değinmiştir. Ayrıca âlemlerin kısımları, dört kavram "duyu, akıl, kalp ve ruh" ve ruhun en yüce ve en erdemli olduğu, "Allah, Âdem'i kendi suretinde yarattı" hadisinin anlamı, insan ruhunun en üstün/erdemli varlık olduğu, bir mürebbî şeyhin/eğiten hocanın bilmesi gereken ilimler, eğiten hocası olmayan birinin ne yapması gerektiği gibi tasavvufî konuları ele almış; Allah'ın sıfatlarının kısımları, insan, cin ve melek gibi diğer kelamî konuları da işlemiştir. Müellif, risâlesinde konu bağlamında ayetleri ve hadisleri aktarma ve âlimlerin sözlerini nakletme yöntemini izleyerek kendi görüş veya ifadesini belirtmektedir. Müellif genellikle Cüneyd-i Bağdâdî (öl. 297/909) ve Hakîm et-Tirmizî (öl. 320/932) gibi sûfî âlimlerden alıntı yapar, bu da ilmî kaynaklarının - en azından ilgili risâlesi bağlamında - sûfî eserler ve âlimler olduğunu yansıtır. Bu çalışmanın önemi, söz konusu risâlenin ilk kez tahkîk ve incelenmesi yapılıp, risâlenin hâlâ kütüphanelerde el yazması olarak bulunmasında yatmaktadır. Araştırmamız neticesinde, Türkiye kütüphanelerinde bulunan toplam sekiz nüsha tespit edilmiştir. Şöyle ki, Bursa İnebey Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Ulucami 1674/2, vr. 17-25; Bursa İnebey Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Ulucami 1695/15, vr. 226-231; Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Hekimoğlu Ali Paşa 933/16, vr. 108-111; Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Esad Efendi 1695/14, vr. 84-86; Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Hacı Beşir Ağa 387/6, vr. 121-131; Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Laleli 168/4, vr. 87-92; Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Muğlalı Hoca Mustafa Efendi 109/6, vr. 30-33 ve Süleymaniye Yazma Eser Kütüphanesi, Sütlüce Dergahı 117-4, vr. 94-99. Tarihsel olarak en eski ve müellifin ölüm tarihine en yakın olanı (Bursa/ Ulucami 1674/2) ana nüsha olarak tayin edildi; ayrıca iki nüsha ana nüshayla karşılaştırılarak/mukayese edilerek incelenmiştir. (shrink)

André Gallois’ (1993) modified account of restrictedly rigid designators (RRDs) does indeed block the objection I made to his original account (Gallois 1986; Ramachandran 1992). But, as I shall now show, there is a deeper problem with his approach which his modification does not shake off. The problem stems from the truth of the following compatibility claim: (CC) A term’s restrictedly rigidly designating (RR-designating) an object x is compatible with it designating an object y in a world W where x (...) exists but is distinct from y.1 It follows from (CC) that the necessary (contingent) truth of a sentence of the form “α is identical with β”, where “α” and “β” are RRDs of objects x and y respectively, does not require the necessary (contingent) identity of x and y. This is borne out by Gallois’ original example (see 1986, p. 58-63). Taking W to be the actual world, we have: (1) “Mary is identical with Mary” is necessarily true; yet “Mary” RR- designates Mary and Alice, which are only contingently identical. 1 I leave it to the reader to check that in Gallois’ own example (1986, p. 58), on the view he defends (pp. 62-63), and despite his modified characterisation of restricted rigidity, RDC# (1993, p. xx), “Mary” RR-designates Alice (as well as Mary) in W, but designates Mary and not A/ice in W1. Gallois has accepted this in correspondence. In light of (CC), while I agree with Gallois (1993, p. 153) that: (7) (a=b & ◊(a≠b)) → (∃x)(∃y)(x=y & ◊(x≠y)) is a theorem given RDC#, I dispute his defence of it (on p. 153). For, if (CC) is correct, the antecedent of (7) could be true even though a and b are identical in every world (where either exists)! (shrink)

It should be clear that Lyell's scientific contemporaries would hardly have agreed with Robert Munro's remark that Antiquity of Man created a full-fledged discipline. Only later historians have judged the work a synthesis; those closer to the discoveries and events saw it as a compilation — perhaps a “capital compilation,”95 but a compilation none the less. Its heterogeneity made it difficult to judge as a unity, and most reviewers, like Forbes, concentrated on the first part of Lyell's trilogy. The chapters (...) on glaciation were admired by Lyell's friends but had relatively little appeal to more general readers. His discussion of the species question hedged far too much to please those who accepted the cogency of Darwin's evidence and arguments. This last section of the book blatantly lacks originality or commitment and certainly has no claim to classical status in anthropology.We are left, then, with the first twelve chapters, for it was this portion that dictated the book's title and that amassed the available evidence favoring the antiquity of the human species. Did it do anything more than marshall the evidence that others had discovered? I think not. Lyell could write with style and verve. Principles of Geology is a remarkably readable book. But Antiquity is the work of a geologist, not of a systematic student of man. Despite its occasional touches of power, it never captures the freshness and immediacy of Lubbock's Pre-historic Times nor the theoretical brilliance of E. B. Tylor's Researches into the Early History of Mankind (1865).96 Antiquity utilizes little of the comparative method whereby Lyell's contemporaries used data from modern “savagery” to elaborate the possible social functions of the prehistoric remains being uncovered. It contains little social theory and has virtually no integrated framework. Even the first twelve chapters do not really hang together. As Hooker, commenting to Darwin on Lubbock's review, sadly wrote: “Lubbock in [the] N[atural] H[istory] Review, had in a note called attention to Lyell's ... ‘doing injustice’ to Prestwich & Falconer. I modified this expression ‘injustice’ in Lubbock's paper (which was friendly and apologetic). I am deeply sorry for it, but what can one do? I do think Lyell's first XII chapters a complete mess.”97 In another letter to Darwin, Hooker described this first portion of Antiquity as “confused and confusing.”98Part of the problem, of course, lay in the subject's novelty for Lyell and for most of his contemporaries. At a deeper level, however, I believe that the book accurately reflects Lyell's uncertainties about Darwin's work and its implications for man.99 Leonard Wilson's edition of Lyell's Scientific Journals provides a unique insight into Lyell's mind during the years just before he began to write Antiquity.100 Preoccupied with the human implications of evolutionary biology, Lyell was not clear how many of those implications were compatible with his deep convictions about the dignity of man's place in the cosmos. With a certain naiveté, Lyell complained in 1873 that many of his readers had failed to see the “natural connections” among the three portions of Antiquity.101 Connections could indeed be drawn between man's antiquity and his evolutionary origins; Lyell's private Scientific Journals movingly demonstrate that he was well aware of this fact. But he never fully made the connections in his published writings. Antiquity of Man is more appropriately seen as the last gasp of the heroic period in British geology than as the opening salvo in a new, post-Darwinian anthropological synthesis. Between the founding of the Geological Society of London in 1807 and the middle of the nineteenth century, geology was recognized as one of the most exciting and innovative scientific fields in Britain.102 Lyell himself had contributed much to that drama, and by the 1860's he was a public figure of venerable proportions. More then any other man he represented a geology that had extended the boundaries of process, time, and life. The fundamental achievements of Lyell and his colleagues had been assimilated into the wider Victorian consciousness, yet the earlier public debates about “genesis and geology” had left untouched in its essentials the concept of Man as a moral, responsible, created being.103Lyell never abandoned this view of his own species, and in 1863 it was a completely responsible creature which, under the weight of empirical evidence, Lyell admitted had lived on earth far longer than had previously been thought. Certainly this more generous allowance for human existence was constitutive to what Burrow calls the evolutionary social theory of midcentury Britain.104 Unlike Lyell, the younger representatives of this anthropology quietly accepted both man's antiquity and his aboriginal animality. Herbert Spencer's Principles of Psychology (1855), as well as the other volumes of his grand Synthetic Philosophy, presented as part of the cosmic process the development of human from prehuman beings.105 Tylor's discussion of what in his Researches (1865) he called the “gesture-language” presupposed the gradual and de novo origin of language in early human populations.106 Lubbock's young and polished mind was untroubled by the human implications of Darwin's work, and he cast his Prehistoric Times into such a perfect mold that it and its companionpiece (On the Origin of Civilization, 1870) went through seven editions each between 1865 and World War I, with their original theoretical structures intact. In a way that Lyell could not grasp, Lubbock was intrigued by questions concerning the origins of moral and religious beliefs and did not flinch at the thought of an amoral, atheistic creature as an ancestor.107 Indeed, as the German naturalist Carl Vogt pointed out in his Lectures on Man, translated into English the year after Antiquity, both Darwin's theories and the primitive flint knives of the Stone Age bore witness to a time beyond that imaginable from the condition of the lowest present-day “savage”:From such a low condition [little better than anthropomorphous apes], compared to which that of the so-called savages of the old and new world is a refined civilisation, has the human species gradually extricated itself, in a bitter struggle for existence, which it was well able to maintain, by being gifted with a larger amount of brain and intelligence than that possessed by the surrounding animal world.108The easy integration of biological and social themes was perhaps the distinguishing hallmark of Victorian anthropology of the 1850's and 1860's. After his fashion, Lyell got both themes into Antiquity, but he carefully separated them with a seven-chapter wall of glacial ice. Lyell's anthropology was not that of a thoroughgoing evolutionist like Lubbock, Tylor, or Spencer. For Lyell prehistoric man was not a product of biological evolution. Rude and superstitious he may have been, but he possessed ritual and a belief in a future state, and thus deserved “the epithet of ‘noble,’ which Dryden gave to what he seems to have pictured to himself as the primitive condition of our race: as Nature first made man/when wild in woods the noble savage ran.”109As a systematic argument, Lyell's book was at best a significant failure. As a popularization, it was a success — largely because of the personal stature of its author and the particular moment of its appearance. It helped establish the fact of man's antiquity with a wider Victorian audience, in itself no mean achievement. But Lyell was unable to exploit the fuller implications of his material in the service of a secular science of man. Ironically, he exploited only his colleagues' discoveries. Though the aging Lyell, with failing eyesight but unfailing mental powers, can still be seen as a man of considerable importance, his Antiquity belongs to the carefully circumscribed world of British geology rather than to the less disciplined world of Victorian anthropology. (shrink)

Bu metnin gayesi, dil felsefesi, mantık ve ontoloji alanlarında ortak olarak karşılaşılan boş adlar problemini ele almaktır. Metinde, çağdaş semantik kuramlarının ve dil felsefesinin ortaya çıkışında önemli rolü olan J. S. Mill’in özel adlar üzerine düşüncelerinden başlanarak, analitik felsefenin temelini atan, köşe taşları diyebileceğimiz G. Frege ve B. Russell’ın semantik kuramlarına değinilecektir. Daha sonra, kendi dil felsefesi pozisyonunu bu iki isimin eleştirisi üzerinden kurgulayan S. Kripke’nin, bu isimlere karşı olan argümanları incelenecektir. Metinde, bu incelemeyi gerçekleştirdikten sonra, S. Kripke ve B. (...) Russell’ın dil felsefesinde savundukları pozisyonlar ile onların ortaya koydukları mantık modellerinin arasındaki ilişki ele alınacaktır. Nihai olarak, dil felsefesi, mantık ve ontolojinin sınırlarının ne kadar iç içe geçmiş olduğu, ismi geçen filozofların dil felsefesindeki kuramlarının ontolojik çıktıları incelenerek ortaya konulacaktır. (shrink)

It is the purpose of the following pages to reconsider the basic problem of induction. According to Hume the concomitance of A with B on one or more occasions gives no valid presumption that A will be accompanied by B on any other occasion. The data of experience may give rise to an association of ideas or set up mental habits, but they provide no reasonable grounds for expecting similar concomitances or sequences in future. If this is correct, we have (...) no starting point for the formation of any valid opinions about matters of fact; we remain ice-bound in a region of total scepticism. (shrink)

1. The two argue: person "A" supports, person "B" refuses evolution... The truth (what is truer) is closer to reality than untruth: the truth improves adaptation 2. If evolution is universally true (anytime), person "A" better adapts to environment, so he gains over person "B" (=natural selection) 3. Statement "evolution is true" is motivated by the 'evolutionary' advantage, so it is biased Summary: Evolution is true, if it is untrue (when it can be unbiased) Exhibited in Holland Park, W8 6LU, (...) The Ice House between 18. Oct - 3. Nov. 2013. (shrink)

Study of Nyāyasiddhāntadīpa of Śaśadhara, treatise on Nyaya philosophy; includes Sanskrit text with English translation.