It is questions that children need to do higher-order thinking in a community of inquiry. There, more fundamental questions should be asked with some efforts to understand clearly and analyze the given texts. The initial questions should be elaborated into more fundamental ones through dialogues and discussions, and the process may be changed by the given conditions and contexts. In this paper, I show by some real cases how teachers can help children make more fundamental questions in a community of (...) inquiry. (shrink)

Clinical success with human hematopoietic stem cell (HSC) transplantation establishes a paradigm for regenerative therapies with other types of stem cells. However, it remains generally challenging to therapeutically treat tissues after engineering of stem cells in vitro. Recent studies suggest that stem and progenitor cells sense physical features of their niches. Here, we review biophysical contributions to lineage decisions, maturation, and trafficking of blood and immune cells. Polarized cellular contractility and nuclear rheology are separately shown to be functional markers of (...) a hematopoietic hierarchy that predict the ability of a lineage to traffic in and out of the bone marrow niche. These biophysical determinants are regulated by a set of structural molecules, including cytoplasmic myosin‐II and nuclear lamins, which themselves are modulated by a diverse range of transcriptional and post‐translational mechanisms. Small molecules that target these mechanobiological circuits, along with novel bioengineering methods, could prove broadly useful in programming blood and immune cells for therapies ranging from blood transfusions to immune attack of tumors. (shrink)

This longitudinal study examined the development of moral judgement in 37 nursing students attending a university in Suwon, Korea. The participants completed the Korean version of the Defining Issues Test to allow analysis of their level of moral judgement. The development of moral judgement was quantified using ‘the moral development score’ at each stage (i.e. the six stages detailed by Kohlberg) and the ‘P(%) score’ (a measure of the overall moral judgement level). The results were as follows: (1) the moral (...) development score for stage 5A was consistently the highest across the four years of the students’ course, showing significant differences in some sociodemographic factors including home, birth order and monthly income; and (2) the P(%) score was higher in fourth-year (47.47 ± 11.21) than in first-year (46.13±9.73) students. There was no significant difference in the P(%) score according to sociodemographic factors. Further studies will examine in detail the correlation between curriculum and moral judgement development. We suggest that courses in ethics education should be made more relevant. (shrink)

BackgroundMotor imagery training has a similar effect to that of physical training on motor performance. The objective of this study was to investigate the short-term effectiveness of motor imagery training on response inhibition using the stop signal task.MethodsParticipants were divided into a physical training group, a motor imagery training group, and a motor imagery combined with physical training group. All participants performed 10 SST training sessions over 5 days. Both stop signal reaction time and non-signal reaction time were measured before (...) and after SST training.ResultsThere were significant interaction and time effects, although the group effect was not statistically significant. Bonferroni post hoc analysis showed that MIPT group revealed a significantly greater change in SSRT than PT and MIT groups, while there was no significant difference between PT and MIT groups. SSRT significantly decreased after training in all groups. In NSRT, there was a significant effect of time, but there was no significant interaction effect or group effect.ConclusionResponse inhibition could be enhanced via training, and it was most effective when motor imagery and physical training were combined. We demonstrate that motor imagery training significantly improves response inhibition and should be accompanied by physical training when performing SST. (shrink)

Être transgenre implique des relations uniques à son propre corps, ainsi que la question du récit dans la formation du sujet – deux thèmes-clés chez Merleau-Ponty. Mais même si l’on accepte d’aller au-delà de l’histoire stéréotypée d’être « pris·e dans le mauvais corps », tant dans les communautés trans que dans le discours public plus large il existe une tendance fâcheuse à universaliser de tels récits – et ce, en dépit de l’hétérogénéité apparente que l’on retrouve dans les descriptions individuelles (...) à la première personne. La question émerge donc à savoir : comment rendre compte philosophiquement de cette différence à la première personne tout en visant une politique de solidarité? Cet essai cherche à utiliser la phénoménologie de Merleau-Ponty dans un sens pratique, en se concentrant sur sa description du « schéma corporel » pour atténuer cette tension. En effet, tandis que Merleau-Ponty nous fournit un ensemble général d’instruments pour comprendre la relation entre incarnation et comportement, ses exemples phénoménologiques sont souvent fortement singuliers. De la sorte, dans le contexte des subjectivités transgenres, le but est de creuser davantage cet espace discursif, comme prologue pour une praxis qui soit plus réceptive à l’expérience vécue des personnes trans. (shrink)

This research explores the dynamic capabilities required for firms to implement environmental, social, and governance strategies, and investigates sustainable management performance that can be created based on them. By using dynamic capabilities theory, we integrate sustainable management and the ESG literature to suggest a research model and identify the factors that act as the catalysts achieving sustainability. The data used for the analysis were collected from 78 firms listed on the Korea Exchange with assets totaling more than 2 trillion Korean (...) won. In this study, the partial least squares structural equation model is applied. We found that absorptive capability and adaptive capability significantly affect sustainable management performance through implementation of the ESG strategy as a mediating variable. In particular, a firm’s implementation of an ESG strategy is a significant determinant that impacts sustainable management performance. We also believe our model contributes to the current knowledge by filling several research gaps, and our findings offer valuable and practical implications not only for achieving sustainable growth but also for creation of competitive advantage. (shrink)

Throughout the New Testament, the Gospel stories, the sayings of Jesus, and the writings of Paul not only teach a way of life that requires individuals to be moral but they demonstrate how. In biblical studies, character ethics has been one of the fastest-growing areas of interest. Whereas ethics usually studies rules of behavior, character ethics focuses on how people are formed to be moral agents in the world. Here editor Robert Brawley presents the most up-to-date academic work in New (...) Testament character ethics, covering topics throughout the Gospels and Paul, as well as focusing on the essential topics of forgiveness, reconciliation, politics, and peacemaking. In addition to Brawley, contributors are C. Clifton Black, Neil Elliott, Jens Herzer, L. Ann Jervis, Sylvia C. Keesmat, Jae Won Lee, J. Clinton McCann Jr., Elna Mouton, C. Drew Smith, Glen Stassen, Willard M. Swartley, Allen Verhey, and Jinseong Woo. (shrink)

Se intenta ofrecer una visión panorámica y un análisis del territorio historiográfico del americanismo cultivado en Madrid en el seno de la JAE y del CSIC durante el siglo XX. Para abordar esa tarea se realiza un estudio comparado de las revistas Tierra Firme y Revista de Indias. Estas dos empresas culturales son contempladas como dos expresiones discontinuas de un laboratorio o lugar de cultivo de las ciencias humanas, en el que se produjo una diferente mezcla de ideología nacionalista, cultivo (...) de la memoria y práctica historiográfica. (shrink)

In this fascinating autobiography from the foremost genius of twentieth-century physics, Max Planck tells the story of his life, his aims, and his thinking. Published posthumously, the papers in this volume were written for the general reader and make accessible his scientific theories as well as his philosophical ideals, including his thoughts on ethics and morals. Max (Karl Ernst Ludwig) Planck was a German physicist and philosopher known for his quantum theory, for which he won the Nobel Prize in Physics (...) in 1918. Planck was born in Kiel, Germany, in 1858 to an academic family, and he valued education from a young age. He attended the Universities of Munich and Berlin to study physics under the great scientific leaders Kirchhoff and Helmholtz. His early work mainly focused on the study of thermodynamics, and in 1900 he published a paper on his quantum theory that would change the face of modern physics. Planck worked as a professor at Berlin University his entire life, and he also served as the president of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society for the Promotion of Science. During World War II, Planck experienced great hardships while he remained in Germany but openly opposed the Nazi regime. One of his two sons was executed during this time for an unsuccessful attempt on Hitler's life, and Planck's home in Berlin was eventually bombed. He continued to write on physics and philosophy until his death in 1947. (shrink)

TheSudatells us the following about the elder Theodectas, the Phaselian orator and tragedian:Θεοδέκτης, Ἀριστάνδρου, Φασηλίτης ἐκ Λυκίας, ῥήτωρ, τραπεὶς δὲ ἐπὶ τραγῳδίας, μαθητὴς Πλάτωνος καὶ Ἰσοκράτους καὶ Ἀριστοτέλους. οὗτος καὶ ὁ Ἐρυθραῖος Ναυκράτης καὶ Ἰσοκράτης ὁ ῥήτωρ, ὁ Ἀπολλωνιάτης, καὶ Θεόπομπος, ἐπὶ τῆς ρϛ́ ὀλυμπιάδος εἶπον ἐπιτάφιον ἐπὶ Μαυσώλῳ, Ἀρτεμισίας τῆς γυναικὸς αὐτοῦ προτρεψαμένης. καὶ ἐνίκησε μάλιστα εὐδοκιμήσας ἐν ᾗ εἶπε τραγῳδίᾳ. ἄλλοι δέ φασι Θεόπομπον ἔχειν τὰ πρωτεῖα. δράματα δὲ ἐδίδαξε ν́. τελευτᾷ δὲ ἐν Ἀθήναις ἐτῶν ἑνὸς καὶ μ́, (...) ἔτι τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ περιόντος. ἔγραψε δὲ καὶ τέχνην ῥητορικὴν ἐν μέτρωι, καὶ ἄλλα τινα καταλογάδην.Theodectas, son of Aristander, from Phaselis in Lycia, an orator, then he turned to tragedy, a pupil of Plato, Isocrates and Aristotle. This man [that is, Theodectas] and Naucrates from Erythrae and Isocrates the orator from Apollonia and Theopompus, in the 106th Olympiad [356/5–353/2b.c.], gave funeral speeches for Mausolus, at the instigation of his widow Artemisia. And [Theodectas] won, gaining great honour in the tragedy which he spoke. Others, however, say that Theopompus won first prize. He [that is, Theodectas] produced fifty plays. He died in Athens at the age of 41, being survived by his father. He also wrote anArt of Rhetoricin verse, and some other works in prose. (shrink)

We all make mistakes from time to time. I have made my fair share, but none of my mistakes have ever won a prize.In 2002 Lundbeck breached the UK industry code of practice in the way it advertised escitalopram . Escitalopram is the son of citalopram . The company claimed that its new drug, escitalopram was more effective than citalopram, even though the two drugs have exactly the same active ingredient.1The company was found to have breached the industry code, mainly (...) by stating that “Cipralex is significantly more effective than Cipramil in treating depression”. The company also attributed side effects to citalopram in its literature on escitalopram that were not mentioned …. (shrink)

Robert Rees Davies, a Fellow of the British Academy, was a highly original historian who offered compelling new insights into medieval society through a body of work focused on Britain and Ireland and, above all, Wales. He deployed his formidable public skills as a chair of committees and eloquent promoter and advocate of the cause of history. To a considerable extent, Rees Davies' work as a historian was influenced by his higher education at University College London and the University of (...) Oxford, as well as by the example of Marc Bloch and of other French historians. He was born at Glanddwynant, Caletwr, near Llandderfel in Merioneth, the fourth and youngest son of William Edward and Sarah Margaret Davies. The publication in 1987 of Conquest, Coexistence, and Change: Wales 1063–1415, which won the Wolfson Literary Award for History, further enhanced Rees Davies' reputation as a scholar. He was elected a Fellow of the British Academy in the same year. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Roman Literary Culture: From Cicero to ApuleiusWilliam S. AndersonElaine Fantham. Roman Literary Culture: From Cicero to Apuleius. Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996. xv 1 326 pp. Cloth, $39.95.This is a book that needed to be written, in answer to a deep gap in our resources on Latin literature. As our current time and our students keep raising questions along the lines of cultural history, (...) we are obliged to seek answers about the circumstances that conditioned the production and consumption of [End Page 135] poetry and prose. Fantham’s book is a significant start on a project which, I dare predict, others in coming generations will be inspired to continue.Fantham modestly declares at the outset that she is contributing to the search “toward a social history of Latin literature.” If we ask her to elaborate on the extent of her project, she obliges as follows: “I see as important aspects of any literary work its author in his social and political setting, its recipients and their culture, and the medium or nature of its presentation” (2). Fleshing out each of these three aspects (author, audience, and medium of presentation), she devotes most attention to the various circumstances that affect the author. First of all, the author is almost universally male: Sulpicia is a precious exception that proves the rule. But then his social class may vary widely, as will his civil status in Rome. Fantham instances for contrast Cato and Ennius, the first a novus homo and therefore an almost fanatic advocate of Roman values, a thorough politician (consul, censor, senator), a celebrated speaker and a writer of prose (history and treatises on agriculture and education); the second a noncitizen Calabrian who came to Rome and won patronage for his poetry, then citizenship, practicing a variety of genres that looked to the Hellenistic world—a poet, not a politician. (An even greater contrast would have used Terence, a slave brought to Italy from Carthage and eventually freed because of his literary talents.) Fantham does not elaborate on how the different social and civil backgrounds affected the literary culture, except to say that senators and some equestrians did not need to resort to patronage, whereas of course outsiders and equestrians like Horace did. We would expect that social background would often have had decisive and particular influence on writers, but that is an area where we still are groping for reliable methodology. How often did men use their literary presentation to turn their backs on their socially inferior or non-Roman background? How often did they look at Roman culture obliquely from the alien cultural position of their origins?A writer’s education was obviously very important. We have a fair sense of how senatorial sons and wealthy equestrians were educated; Horace’s father, who wasn’t exactly poor, but rather undignified in the way he personally took the boy to and from school, saw to it that Horace was given an education that equaled the training of senatorial sons, both in Rome and later in Athens. Boys were taught Latin grammar, style, and the classics of Latin literature; and they were given a grounding in Greek. The amount of Greek and the relative mastery of that language would vary according to the century and the social and political intentions of the future writer. A young man whose family destined him for a political career and who one day might retire to write history, like Sallust or later Tacitus, would be unlikely to become as thoroughly bilingual and bicultural as a poet like Vergil, Horace, or Ovid, whose entire career was centered on poetry and achieving effective intertextuality with the great poets of Classical Greece and the Hellenistic world. There were men like Cato who ostentatiously [End Page 136] put Greek culture down (while instinctively exploiting it), and men like Catullus, a century later, who idolized the literary culture of Alexandria.As Fantham notes, the word “audience” (auditores) does not fully cover what we today mean by the literary public, but it was accurate to start with. Since the first literary material was tragedy and comedy, it was aimed at the... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Things Are NOT OkayLynne HillardThree doctors, each with good intentions, led us to believe that everything would be all right for our son Ben. In the fall of 2008, Ben presented with two documented seizures. We first saw a doctor from our pediatrician’s office. He told us not to worry since the basic neurological physical exam showed nothing, but recommended that we see a pediatric neurologist. He gave us (...) a list of recommended doctors, and upon leaving the examining room the doctor then said, “Don’t worry. It’s not a brain tumor.”We arranged a meeting with one of the pediatric neurologists who had been practicing for a long time and had worked in one of the well–respected children’s hospitals before going into private practice. She was attentive and kind and spent a couple hours with us as we went over Ben’s medical history. She examined Ben and found nothing unusual, in fact per her notes, “his neurological examination is better than normal.” She said that she would order an EEG and a brain MRI because he had two witnessed seizures. She asked us to look into family history to see if there was anyone with a history of seizures in either one of our families. Upon leaving she said not to worry that it was probably something that he would out grow.After looking into family history, I found out that my older brother had had a couple of seizures when he was about twelve. He was put on phenobarbital. He eventually outgrew the seizures. Armed with this information I felt certain that Ben’s issues were hereditary. It was right before Christmas 2008, so I delayed on getting the EEG and brain MRI until January of that new year. The results of the EEG were unremarkable. The following week was the MRI. The day after the MRI, the receptionist at the neurologist’s office called. She requested that we come in the next day and asked that Ben not come to the appointment.“I am sorry to tell you, but Ben has a brain tumor.” What? I couldn’t even concentrate on what the doctor was saying. Ben’s tumor was located in the right temporal lobe and extensively involved the right amygdala and right hippocampus.I remember feeling completely overwhelmed with the process of choosing the individual who would ultimately perform brain surgery on our son. My husband and I interviewed three surgeons within a few weeks. On March 20 of 2009 Ben underwent surgery. The neurosurgeon was able to remove about 75 percent of the tumor. Two days after surgery Ben was released from the hospital. I remember that surreal feeling. My son had just had brain surgery and now we were going home with a list of medications and a schedule for administering the medications. I felt inept, unprepared, and yet relieved that my son had made it through; he could talk, he could move all his limbs and everything appeared to be normal. The only distinguishing feature that anything had happened was the six–inch scare on the side of his head.The pathology report said it was a DNET tumor (Dysembryoplastic Neuroepithelial Tumor), one that should not re–grow or cause any further problems. I remember the audible sigh of relief that came out of my mouth. I remember the neurosurgeon’s words: “Ben will grow up to be a fi ne young man, and you will dance with him at his wedding.” I wanted to be happy, like I had won the lottery, but I had this feeling that there must be something more to this, it couldn’t be this easy.In his second year at preschool Ben’s behavior problems became more obvious. When Ben became overwhelmed he would just sit down and not budge. Even when the director of the preschool asked us if there were any problems that were the result of his anti–seizure medication or his surgery, we said “no” because we were told “all should be good.” But all along there was that nagging feeling that not all was good in Ben’s world. [End Page 11]In... (shrink)

Dans la Bibliothèque , le pseudo-Apollodore raconte la joute musicale qui oppose Apollon au satyre Marsyas. Le dieu musicien l’emporte parce qu’il joue de sa cithare après l’avoir retournée, exécutant une manœuvre que son rival est incapable de reproduire avec l’aulos. Apollon fait ainsi de sa cithare un instrument palintone et palintrope, très proche de son arc réflexe, un instrument capable d’inverser sa position, mais aussi de renverser la situation au profit de celui qui l’utilise. Même « conduite de retournement (...) » pour la lyre, dont la réversibilité efficace est redevable à la tortue ainsi qu’à Hermès et à son travail de luthier. La puissance de retournement des instruments à cordes apolliniens permet de jeter un éclairage nouveau sur la victoire d’Apollon et sur l’écorchement de Marsyas, tout en situant l’épisode dans le champ de la mètis. De l’instrument d’Apollon, retourné vers le bas, qui précipite Marsyas aux Enfers, à celui d’Orphée, tenu à l’endroit, qui en ramène Eurydice, se dessine la nature ambivalente de la lyre symétrique à celle de l’arc. Comme lui, la lyre est bien « signe de chute », de la vie vers la mort, ou « signe de remontée », de la mort vers la vie.The reversal’s notion and the musical agôn between Apollon and Marsyas in ps.-Apollodorus: interpretation of a myth. In The Library , the pseudo-Apollodorus reports how Apollo, the musician god, opposed to Marsyas the satyr, won the musical contest by playing his kithara upside down, a trick his opponent was quite unable to reproduce with his aulos. Thus, Apollo turned his kithara into a palintonos and palintropos instrument, very much like his reflex bow, an instrument, whose position could be reversed but which could also reverse the situation to the benefit of its user. The same reversal ability is true of the lyre, which could be played efficiently both ways thanks to the tortoise and to Hermes, the skilful lyremaker. The extraordinary capacity of Apollinian stringed instruments to be reversed throws a new light on both Apollo’s victory and Marsyas’s skinning, setting the episode in the mètis area. From Apollo’s reversed lyre hurling Marsyas down into Hades to Orpheus’s being played the right way, to bring back Euridyke from the underworld, emerges the ambivalent nature of the lyre in perfect symmetry with the bow’s. Just like it, the lyre means the fall from life into death but it also represents the ascent from death into life. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Re-dating Ausonius’ War PoetryJ. F. DrinkwaterThe extant works of ausonius contain a small but intriguing number of references to military activity on the Rhine in which he himself appears to have been closely involved. In perhaps the best known of these (Mosella 420–24), he declares that the Moselle has seen the “united triumphs of father and son”—that is, of the ruling western Augusti, Valentinian I and Gratian—which they have (...) won by defeating enemies beyond the River Neckar and the former Roman city of Lupodunum (normally written Lopodunum, the modern Ladenburg), and the source of the Danube: Nicrum super et Lupodunum / et fontem Latiis ignotum annalibus Histri (425/4). However, Ausonius also devotes two of his epigrams to the same topic. In one (Epig. 3/28 [Green/Peiper]), he depicts the Danube, at its source, hailing the Augusti, again “father and son,” and anticipating with pleasure its announcing to their colleague in the East, Valentinian’s brother, Valens, the destruction of the “Suebians” and the fact that the Rhine is no longer the frontier of Gaul. In the other (Epig. 4/31), Ausonius’ Danube rejoices that, though its head was once concealed in lands remote, it now flows for its entire length under Valentinian’s sway. In the preface to his Griphus (line 14 Green) and in the introduction to his Cento Nuptialis (line 48 Green) Ausonius makes passing allusion to the time when he was on “active service” (expeditione; quia sub imperatore meo tum merui). We may conclude this short catalogue with others of his better-known works, the “Bissula poems,” in which he sings the praises of his “Suebian girl,” his “pet,” taken as a spoil of war beyond the Rhine, at the source of the Danube (17.1.3-4/9.1.3-4).All such references are generally assumed to derive from a single action, the campaign of 368 in which, according to Ammianus Marcellinus, both Valentinian and Gratian (and, presumably, the latter’s entourage, including Ausonius) campaigned over the Rhine against the Alamanni. 1 The terminus post quem of the composition of all the works [End Page 443] concerned is, therefore, 368. As far as completion and publication are concerned, most attention has been given to his Mosella, where two internal references have been interpreted as indicating a date late in 370 or in 371: as Green has recently put it, “in or close to 371.” 2But neither of these dates is as solidly founded as they may seem. The precise details of the 368 fighting are unclear. It may have remained north of the Main, and may therefore have not taken Roman forces south to the Neckar; and even if it had, it may still not have taken them as far as Ladenburg and beyond, to the source of the Danube at Donaueschingen. 3 However, we can be fairly sure that Valentinian reached Ladenburg in 369; 4 and this has led some to treat the two campaigns as one, with Ausonius probably accompanying Gratian in the earlier stage, and certainly being with him during the later. Thus he would have reached, or have been able to claim that he had reached, the Danube source, have been given Bissula, and have been inspired to write Mosella not in 368, but in 369. 5 In addition, the internal references in Mosella are very opaque. As Seeck observed, and some have accepted, the unnamed high official who “ruled Rome... bearing a title all but the highest, though he was peer of the highest” (trans. Evelyn White) of lines 409–11 should not necessarily be taken to be Sextus Petronius Probus, consul posterior to Gratian in 371. 6 If Ausonius’ language allows of any precise identification of an individual or an office, it is equally, if not more, likely that the reference is to the holder of a Roman metropolitan position, specifically that of vicarius urbis or praefectus annonae, both of which were subordinate to the praefectus Urbi, who had close links with Trier or its region. Seeck in fact suggested that Ausonius was here referring to the Gallo-German Bappo, who reached the premier position of City Prefect in 372; but... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:American Journal of Philology 121.2 (2000) 309-313 [Access article in PDF] James Romm. Herodotus. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1998. xv 1 212 pp. Cloth, $30; paper, $15. Yale's Hermes series offers this contribution by James Romm on Herodotus, a subject dear to the heart of the series' founding editor, the late John Herington. This series addresses itself, in the words of the editor, to the "nonspecialist (...) adult" or "uninstructed beginning student" (ix). Though an introductory "Hermes book" need not have a thesis to prove, Romm does start with an agendum. He sets out to show, he says, that the best way to appreciate Herodotus is not to worry about the historian's accuracy. Ideally, the reader should use a translation without footnotes and should "otherwise ignore modern fact- oriented treatments of the archaic period" (7). Romm intentionally avoids calling Herodotus a historian (8) in these pages. He concentrates on the first four books of the Histories, which he says readers find puzzling and often skip, moving on to the "more familiar ground of The Persian Wars" (10).But wait: Romm writes for the "uninstructed," for whom the Persian Wars will be presumably just as obscure as early Lydian history. How many Persian wars were there? Who won? Why do we care? Romm gives no early help to the reader who picks up Herodotus for the first time. Instead his first chapter, "Myth and History," begins with an unenlightening quotation from M. Ondaatje's English Patient and then makes the dubious statement (page 1) that "quite possibly" Croesus on his pyre could not have expected to be famous thousands of years later (because of Herodotus' Histories). In fact, Croesus went to great lengths in his lavish dedications at Delphi to make sure he would be remembered, and the Myson vase and Bacchylides 3 attest to the Lydian monarch's public relations success. A prominent Athenian family even apparently named a son after Croesus (CEG 27). Romm's focus on the first four books seems, in fact, to stem more from his own love of geography and ethnography in the early books--as attested in his useful The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought (Princeton 1992)--than from concern for the puzzled reader.The second chapter, "From Homer to Herodotus," presents more introductory material. Between Homer and Herodotus, it appears, there is not much that readers of the latter need take into account. One might have expected more substantial treatment (here and later) of Hesiod, the early poets, the Presocratics, and the Sophists. Hippocrates does not even make the index; Aesop gets three pages (15-17). Indeed it seems symptomatic of the shortcomings of this book that Romm avoids, overlooks, or ignores some of the commonplaces of Herodotean criticism. His earlier book, for example, touched on the theme [End Page 309] of the Noble Savage, but it never appears here. Romm's focus on his author and on the text is admirable, but he disserves the beginning reader by presenting Herodotus as a writer with little or no intellectual or literary history.In his next chapter Romm appears to ignore his earlier antihistorical statements by giving "a quick survey of archaic Greek and Near Eastern history" (32). It is here that we first learn of the great battles of 480 and 479 B.C.--but no mention as yet of Marathon. He appears to be providing, albeit sketchily, precisely the historical footnotes he earlier said were to be avoided. We hear, for example, that Cambyses' attack on Egypt was not a "personal vendetta" but "more likely part of a carefully planned program of imperial expansion" (42-43). He may be right, of course, but Herodotus' focus on unpredictable personal motivations instead of rational political ones deserves respect even in our modernist and democratic age. Herodotus would have had no trouble writing the histories of Lyndon Johnson or Richard Nixon.Chapter 4, "The Man and His Work," presents, with curious omissions, standard handbook information about Herodotus' life and his book. Herodotus "undoubtedly" spent time in Athens, "though the Histories gives curiously little evidence of this" (53... (shrink)

continent. 1.2 (2011): 129-135. Introduction Vincent W.J. van Gerven Oei Successions of words are so agreeable. It is about this. —Gertrude Stein Nachoem Wijnberg (1961) is a Dutch poet and novelist. He also a professor of cultural entrepreneurship and management at the Business School of the University of Amsterdam. Since 1989, he has published thirteen volumes of poetry and four novels, which, in my opinion mark a high point in Dutch contemporary literature. His novels even more than his poetry are (...) criticized for being inaccessible, which I generally take to be a compliment. It would be like saying that Fernando Pessoa is inaccessible, which he is not. Neither is Wijnberg. When we think of the combination economist-poet we are immediately reminded of the American poet Wallace Stevens, who, as the story goes, had two stacks of paper on his desk, one for contracts, one for poems. We also know that Stevens wrote on the economy and that questions of economy and insurance surface at multiple points in his poems. The following text is a very preliminary attempt to point at the intersections between poems, novels, business, and poetry in Wijnberg’s work. On the back cover of his novel De opvolging ( The Succession , 2005), Wijnberg states the following: “[This is] a novel for whomever is interested in the workings of a company as much as in the workings of a poem.” Wijnberg thus claims that the way in which a company “works” may be similar to the way in which a poem “works.” The question is the obvious one, what does this similarity consist in? De opvolging tells the story of company in which bosses and company doctors, secretaries, children, clowns, and beggars have tons of meetings, recite poems, perform plays, tell jokes, and succeed each other, climbing up and down in the company’s hierarchy. De opvolging is a novel in which the career of people follows the career of words. It resonates with Gertrude Stein's sentences, "Grammar. What is it. Who was it" (1975, 50). The words in Wijnberg's poems are like he characters in his novel. And if we keep in mind this allegorical reading of De opvolging , which is obviously only one of the possible readings, we may be able to understand some aspects of Wijnberg’s poetry. A repetition is already a pun. Look, that word is trying it again, as if it is afraid that by not doing it it would give up the hope that it will ever be able to do something. A pun is the opposite of the first word coming to the mind of someone who shouts it when he suddenly discovers something. (104) The repetition, the succession of the same word, is already a pun, a joke. The succession of the father by the son after the revolution is a joke. "Look he's trying it again!" The essence of a joke is a repetition. Archimedes’ “Eureka!” is its opposite. Poems can easily become jokes, depending on the way the words follow and repeat each other. In De opvolging , the careers of the bosses, good and bad secretaries, and company doctors easily become jokes, as they are “afraid that by not doing it [they] would give up the hope that [they] will ever be able to do something.” Not only the repetition, but also the distance and difference between the words in a poem, their cause and effect relations can be read as company relations. This becomes clear when we, for example, read the first lines of the poem “Cause, sign” from Het leven van ( The Life Of , 2009). A sign lets know what is going to happen, a cause lets it happen. If the sign also lets happen there is no reason to isolate it, because then I would isolate some- thing only because it’s different for me. If I didn’t have to write this myself, but would have secretaries to whom I could dictate it, I would be able to say more about it. (49) Upon reading the first two lines we can already conclude that any word may be cause or sign or both. If a sign is also a cause there is no reason to discriminate it, yet to the poet they are still different. This difference only becomes expressible the moment he would have a secretary. Just like in De opvolging , the secretary introduces a distance; not in a company but in a poem. Hence the difference between “good” and “bad” secretaries in a company, where the good secretary of one boss may be the bad secretary of another one. The more we can say about the bosses of the company, or signifiers of the poem, the greater the distance we introduce between them and us. We should take serious the relation between Wijnberg’s novels and poems. Although they operate on different scales, they explain and converse with each other. Another example may be the novel Politiek en liefde ( Politics and Love , 2002), which deals with the relation, precisely, between politics and love. In the novel, Nicolai, a lieutenant in the Dutch army, is sent to Africa on a military mission. Upon leaving a receives a letter from his father. Dear son, Don’t do anything stupid before your father has advised you to do so. Your mother asked me to write a wise letter. I have been looking for wisdom for half a day and haven’t found much. If you borrow a small amount from a bank you become the bank’s slave, but if you borrow a couple of millions and spend them as quickly as possible the bank becomes your slave. What I want to say is that you have to return from Africa in good health, and before you know it the world will be your slave [....] Signed with a kiss from your father. (88) The line, “If you borrow a small amount from a bank you become the bank’s slave, but if you borrow a couple of millions and spend them as quickly as possible the bank becomes your slave,” returns as the title of poem in Het leven van: “If I borrow enough money the bank becomes my slave” (12-3), which elaborates this theme. So both in the way that these poems are structured and in their subject matter, they refer to the structures of our economy, to the ever-continuing line of CEOs succeeding each other like words, to the distance between them introduced by bureaucracy, and giving and receiving as economical and poetical acts. Poem and economy map onto each other, as in another episode from De opvolging : Edward reads two of the beggar’s poems about presents. Of a holiday nothing remains, except for memories, and if some of them are bad I’d rather forget them all; if I get a present I’d rather get something that’s useful to me for a long time. If I may choose, I choose what I can use longest, long enough to partially forget that this was the present, because it feels bad when nothing is left of it. […] Giving away becomes destruction in the stock destruction economy [ voorraadvernie -tigings-economie ], that is a gift economy [ geschenkeneconomie ], encountering for the first time an economy in which there’s selling and buying on markets. Instead of destroying supplies someone can also quickly say that they aren’t worth anything anymore; if someone wants to take them I’d gladly give him something extra. In a stock destruction economy he is someone who each day wants to work more hours than his colleagues. If around a company there is a gift economy in which someone’s rank is determined and made visible by the gifts someone can give someone else, a company will be more often character- ized by an invisible or unclear system of ranks. (152) Two poems about gifts present two different economical models, described by Wijnberg with the terms “stock destruction economy” and “gift economy.” Here we immediately recall the opposition introduced by George Bataille’s work on the concept of expenditure in The Accursed Share , where a “general economy” would surpass the stock destruction economy based on scarcity (capitalism) and become a gift economy (potlatch) and an egalitarian (communist) society. These claims are made both on the level of the poems and in their discursive explanation. They follow each other and on each other. I would like to finish this introduction to Wijnberg’s writing with a translation from his novel De joden ( The Jews , 1999), which develops the story of Hitler abdicating as chancellor of the Third Reich, appointing philosopher Martin Heidegger as his successor. In a conversation with two Russian actor-spies, sent by Stalin to figure out the situation, philosopher Walter Benjamin describes the abdication scene. Maimon: You were there when Hitler resigned? Benjamin: In the room we’re right now. The desk and the chairs are new. After his resignation Hitler would like to take his furniture to his new house. Martin naturally agrees. It is a sunny day. Martin is very nervous and complains about the heat. Martin is wearing his best dark blue suit, not his professor’s robe. Hitler is wearing his uniform. We enter the room and Hitler gets up and embraces Martin. Martin is not very good at embracing. Hitler shakes his hand. Hitler’s cap is on the desk. The cap has a metal lining. Hitler has strong neck muscles. Hitler says: A man is unclean. He takes a bath. Does he make the bath water unclean? I say: a man is unclean. He steps into a river. A little further a man steps into the river; does he become unclean? Hitler nods. I say: a man is standing in music. Another man hears the music but also sees the first man moving on the beat of the music in a way that he is certain that the music would excite different feelings in him if he wouldn’t to see the first man. Hitler says: a man is clean, listens to music, is suddenly touched and he doesn’t know by what. The conversation ends in the way you know it ends. Hitler picks up his cap from the desk and puts it on Martin’s head. (73-4) Aware of the never ending debate on the question of Heidegger’s involvement in the Nazi regime, Wijnberg has the audacity to present the arguments of complicity in the religious terminology of cleanliness and uncleanliness, while at the same time recalling overtones of Hitler’s supposed love for Wagner, suggesting a relation between Benjamin and Hitler, and so on. The space of this introduction is to small to treat a novel like De joden , a reading of which together with passages from Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe's Heidegger, Art, and Politics: The Fiction of the Political , Jacques Derrida's Of Spirit , Christopher Fynsk's Heidegger: Thought and Historicity , and Avital Ronell's The Telephone Book would be extremely elucidating and potentially open new avenues in thinking Heidegger's emphasis on poetry after the fall of the Nazi empire. But at this point we will have to curb our curiosity and follow the poet himself. The themes of the relation between business and poetry, but also Chinese landscape painting, love, Indian and Japanese poetry, and Western philosophy are analyzed and assimilated in Wijnberg’s work without ever losing the clarity of expression. It may be that, according to Alain Badiou, the “Age of the Poets” is over, but its end (Paul Celan) has exactly brought a new balance between philosophy and poetry, and it is this playful, but nonetheless serious balance that makes one hope that one day Wijnberg’s complete oeuvre might become available to readers across the planet. Tiranë, Albania February 15, 2011 English translations (all of them translated by David Colmer, who is preparing an English collection of Wijnberg’s poems entitled Advanced Payment ): Poetry International Words Without Borders Green Integer Review from Het leven van ( The Life of ) THE LIFE OF KANT, OF HEGEL As if every day he takes a decision that is as good as when he’d been able to think about it all his life. The life of Kant, of Hegel, the days of the life of, select three or four of them. Tell what he has discovered during those days as if he were the last one who knew so little. Give me something that I can cancel against then I can prepare myself for it. The reward is that I may continue with what I’m doing, it doesn’t matter how long it takes. This has nothing to do with everything remaining the same if I say that I no longer want anything else. I wouldn’t be able to say in which one and the other occur in a way that I if I knew something to cancel that one against it wouldn’t be possible now. The stars above my head and being able to say what belongs to what if I’ve let them in. FOLLOWING MY HEART WITHOUT BREAKING THE RULES Observing the rules without observing the rules by going where the rules no longer apply. I could also observe the rules there by applying them to what at great distance may resemble what the rules are about. But why would I do that, not to confuse someone who is seeing me from a great distance? Behind this morning the morning prepares itself when the rules are everything I have. IF I BORROW ENOUGH MONEY THE BANK BECOMES MY SLAVE A bank lends me money, if I don’t pay it back they tell my boss that he has to pay them my salary. But they have to leave me enough to eat and sleep and an umbrella when it’s raining. They can also empty my house, the furniture isn’t worth a lot, but every little helps. Each morning I leave for work, if I don’t start early they’ll soon get someone else, no bank will lend me money when the sun is shining. My boss has given me a cat to raise as a dog. Of course I know that it won’t work out, but I’ve asked for a week—maybe the cat gets lucky, maybe I get lucky. My hands around a cup of coffee, before I leave for work, warm-empty, cold-empty, as if hidden in the mist over a lawn. What I make when there’s no work left for me, I’m ashamed to say how little it is. Once I’m outside I check it, if they watch out of the window they can see me doing it. Suppose it is so much that I’d stay counting for hours, it’s getting dark and I’m still there. They stay watching for a while once they’ve finished their work, but have to go home, I get that, sure, I could also go home and continue counting there. If it’s too little running back immediately won’t help, because nobody’s there anymore, and if I come back tomorrow I may have spent what’s missing tonight. Going somewhere where it’s warm enough to walk around without clothes during daytime, it helps me to know that something’s more there than here. For someone like me there’s work anywhere, it shouldn’t take a week to find work for me there. Three times work and a home close to work, I may choose one and try for a week whether I want to stay there. If at the end of the week I don’t want to stay I’m back on the next day, then it was a week’s holiday. RULES If that’s against a rule, it’s yet another one that I cannot observe, or only so briefly that I cannot re- member it later. Anyways the rules are only there to help me remember what I need in order to do better what I do. In that respect there’s no difference between the rules that I find in a book and the rules that I think of early in the morning. I know that because I’ve made a rule just now nothing has yet to observe it. CAUSE, SIGN A sign lets know what is going to happen, a cause lets it happen. If the sign also lets happen there is no reason to isolate it, because then I would isolate something only because it’s different for me. If I didn’t have to write this down myself, but would have secretaries to whom I could dictate it, I could to say more about it. If something is taken away from me I consider how it would be if the opposite had been taken from me. That is what causes or signifies what is farthest away from what is caused or signified by what has been taken away from me. note: For the translations of “The life of Kant, of Hegel” and “If I borrow enough money the bank becomes my slave” I was able to consult David Colmer’s wonderful translations. (shrink)

Le but de cet article est de montrer comment la lecture de Kant par Bergson, loin de se ramener à un mot d’ordre sommaire, comporte une reprise partielle, une critique précise, un refus ultime enfin, qui conduisent au cœur d’une relation profonde entre deux philosophies irréductibles. La reprise partielle de la distinction entre intelligence et intuition, et même entre matière et forme de l’intuition, doit être comprise autrement que comme un hommage ironique. Elle seule permet de comprendre l’unité que Bergson (...) revendique contre Kant, d’abord entre matière et forme de l’intuition, dans le cas du temps, puis entre intelligence et intuition même, à partir de L’évolution créatrice. À son tour, cette unité permet aussi de comprendre pourquoi l’intelligence reste à l’écart de l’intuition pratique dans le dernier grand livre de Bergson. « Gagnée » par l’intuition, l’intelligence ou l’entendement le sont donc bien en un double sens : non seulement surmontés, mais envahis par elle, jusqu’à une limite qui révèle au cœur d’un problème commun, une singulière différence.The purpose of this paper is to show how Bergson’s reading of Kant, far from any expeditive fightword, implies at the same time some reappropriation, a precise critique, and a final objection that together lead to the heart of a profound relationship between two irreducible doctrines. The partial endorsing of Kant’s distinction between intelligence and intuition, and even between matter and form of intuition itself, must not be understood only as a ironical hommage. On the contrary, it helps understanding the unity Bergson advocates against Kant, first between the matter and form of intuition, in the case of time, then between intuition and intelligence itself, after Creative Evolution. In its own turn, that unity helps understanding why intelligence is put aside of practical intuition in Bergson’s last great book. Intelligence or understanding are thus « won » in a double way : not only as surpassed, but also as penetrated by intuition, up to a last limit, which reveals a peculiar difference, at the heart of a common problem. (shrink)

Valérie Chevassus-Marchionni | : Le « cas » de Marie de la Trinité illustre d’une manière particulière la thématique « croyance et psychanalyse ». En effet, chez cette soeur dominicaine des campagnes, la foi religieuse et la croyance en sa vocation de dévotion interfèrent très étroitement avec l’expérience psychanalytique : d’une part, elle se prête pendant quatre années à une cure psychanalytique avec le docteur Jacques Lacan, d’autre part, elle exercera elle-même quelque temps la profession de psychothérapeute. Pour Marie de (...) la Trinité, la psychanalyse arrive à un moment critique de son existence, alors que ce qu’elle nomme ses « obsessions » lui rendent la vie impossible et lui interdisent même de pratiquer sa foi ; elle se tourne alors vers des traitements divers, parfois brutaux et inhumains. Ce n’est pas la psychanalyse qui la guérira, mais c’est à partir de cette expérience qu’il lui sera donné de triompher de son mal et, en comprenant quelle en était l’origine, d’entreprendre « sa propre rééducation » et de connaître « la lumière et l’harmonie » dans sa vie de dévotion. | : The case of Mary of the Trinity illustrates in a particular way the thematic of “belief and psychoanalysis”. Indeed, in this Dominican sister, a missionary in the country, religious faith and belief in her vocation of devotion closely interfere with psychoanalytical experience : on the one hand she undergoes a four year psychoanalytical cure with Doctor Jacques Lacan ; on the other hand she works for a while as a psychotherapeutist. For Mary of the Trinity psychoanalysis appears at a critical moment in her life, just as what she calls her “obsessions” make her life unbearable and even prevent her from practising her faith ; then she tries many different treatments, sometimes brutal and inhuman. Psychoanalysis won’t cure her, but thanks to this experience, she will overcome her pain and by understanding its origin will undertake “her own reeducation” and know “light and harmony” in her life of devotion. (shrink)

For the life of the poet Ion we have more certain dates than for most of the Other writers of the fifth century. He produced his first tragedy in the 82nd Olympiad, 452after the death of Perikles and when the revolt of Lesbos was imminent7dgr; 'Aa fact which seems significant of the position which Athens had won for herself by the foundation of the Delian League. At the same time this fact clearly indicates that his father Orthomenes, whom they called (...) Xuthos, had whole-heartedly espoused the cause of Athens. He bequeathed his loyalty to his son Ion, who adhered to Athens through all vicissitudes of fortune, and he in his turn bequeathed it to his son Tydeus, who paid for it with his life. (shrink)

Epaminondas the soldier has been much admired. His two great battles rank as masterpieces of the military art. Epaminondas himself perhaps regarded them as his greatest achievements, to judge by his last words as reported by Diodorus . He had been carried from the battlefield of Mantinea with a spear stuck in his chest. The doctors declared that when the spear was removed he would die. After hearing that his own shield was safe and that the Boeotians had won, he (...) ordered that the spear be removed. One of his friends said to him ‘But you die without a son.’ He answered ‘I do, by God, but I leave two daughters, my victory of Leuctra and my victory of Mantinea’, and then he died. Nor were his ‘daughters’ unadmired. By remarkable chance the future Philip II of Macedon was hostage at Thebes at the very time of Epaminondas' pre-eminence and did not fail to learn, as Chaeronea was to show. (shrink)

Resumen: Varios filósofos han hecho notar que el naturalismo metafísico ha sido un supuesto compartido por los miembros de la comunidad científica involucrada en la investigación acerca del origen de la vida. Es una consecuencia de esta presuposición que la emergencia de la vida debe haber sido muy probable bajo las condiciones físicas y químicas de la Tierra primitiva. El estado de la investigación sobre el origen de la vida, sin embargo, está muy lejos de poseer una hipótesis naturalista convincente (...) en los términos buscados. La actitud de los investigadores y de algunos filósofos ha sido suponer que estos fracasos no son una razón para pensar que alguna otra hipótesis naturalista no fuese a funcionar. Aquí se ofrece una reconstrucción epistemológica de esta actitud en términos bayesianos. Se argumenta, luego, que el aislamiento del naturalismo metafísico respecto de la desconfirmación no es racional, y podría convertirse en un obstáculo para el avance del conocimiento. Abstract: Several philosophers have noted that metaphysical naturalism has been an assumption shared by the members of the scientific community involved in the research concerning the origin of life. It is a consequence of this presupposition that the emergence of life should have been very probable under the physical and chemical conditions in the primitive Earth. The state of the research on the origin of life, though, is very far from having a convincing naturalist hypothesis in the terms sought after. The attitude of the researchers and some philosophers has been to suppose that these failures are not reason to think that some other naturalist hypothesis won’t work. Here, an epistemological reconstruction of this attitude in Bayesian terms is offered. It is argued that the insulation of metaphysical naturalism from disconfirmation is not rational, and would become an obstacle to the advancement of knowledge. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Two Sonnets DANIEL GALEF Thales to Thratta (spoken by “The Astrologer Who Fell into a Well”) All things are full of spirits. So said I, who plumbed the well of science, saw the sun made black and tracked its course across the sky, who, armed with muscle, wrote the river’s run. Where is my spirit? Thratta! I feel cold and wet. This well is deep. The world is wet (...) and cold. The world I knew was filled with gold and fire.... How quick the Olympic sun has set, how quick my words rewritten, and my land made palimpsest. The sea has left Miletus, the shore on which I walked and lectured—and the wise men who walked with me, whom I taught. The boundless sea, whose tides once rose to meet us has changed its shape, moved on. But I cannot. arion 27.2 fall 2019 Eudemus to Apollonius (spoken by the dedicatee of Apollonius of Perga’s first books of the Conic Sections) I write this note in the sand because I know the waves will wash it clean, and you won’t see it. Like the circles we traced here so long ago, our footprints fade from Pergamum. So be it. Your book was well-received. As was your son; his seems the echo of your dimming face. How did my thoughts, which like an hour-glass run, once hold the eternal laws of boundless space? The beach bends on forever. How might a man reckon every mote, each grit and grain? The universe of truths seems greater than could ever fit within the human brain— Yet love, which binds over such a greater span, all mortals its completeness can contain. 104 two sonnets... (shrink)

continent. 1.2 (2011): 70-75. cartography of ghosts . . . And as a way to talk . . . of temporality the topography of imagination, this body whose dirty entry into the articulation of history as rapturous becoming & unbecoming, greeted with violence, i take permission to extend this grace —Akilah Oliver from “An Arriving Guard of Angels Thusly Coming To Greet” Our disappearance is already here. —Jacques Derrida, 117 I wrestled with death as a threshold, an aporia, a bandit, (...) a part of life. —Akilah Oliver Moraine in geological lingo is that which is left behind. Moraine- a euphemism for the de-stabilizing referent of the writer-ly body as a “troubled and troubling landscape marked by cultural and historical signifiers, the body as flesh memory [...] the body as transitory” (Oliver, Author Statement). Moraine— a geological metaphor of the poet as a holder of memory, as an accumulation of rocks and debris carried along the edge, terminal, dropped at the foot of language (in language). “Flesh Memory” according to Akilah Oliver is "that which my body recalls [...] everything has to do with the task of remembrance and its narrative reinvention [...] I was always translating an idea of the world as it presented itself at any given time. To write was a choice about how to be seen, how to enter the world as translator, actor, participant, in the dialogues that apparently made the real 'real'" (Levitsky). Flesh. Memory. The stuff some poems are made from. The stuff that gets abandoned, gleaned, and picked up by more flesh and memory. "My body, my life has always felt like a kaleidoscopic rip in the dominant fabric [...] has always been a dialogue with the impossible and the apparent” (Levitsky). The impossible-body or poet's body anticipates and performs (through language) an irretrievable death. IN APORIA I realized everything I must have been doing must have been Death. It was Christmas or Labor Day—a holiday—and every time you turned on the radio they said something like ‘four million’ or ‘going to die’.” — Andy Warhol I’m trying on egos, [a justification for the planet’s continuance]. Oh hello transgressor, you’ve come to collect utilitarian debts, humbling narrative space. Give me condition and wheatgrass, I his body disintegrating. I his body is ossification. Death my habit radius, yeah yeah. I his body can’t refuse this summons. I can’t get out this fucking room. Tell me something different about torture dear Trickster. Tell me about the lightness my mother told me to pick the one i love the best how it signals everything I ever wish to believe true just holy on my ship. I jump all over this house. this is it [what I thought is thought only, nothing more deceptive than]: I his body keeps thinking someone will come along, touch me. As like human or lima bean. I’m cradling you to my breast, you are looking out. A little wooden lion you & Peter carve on Bluff Street is quieting across your cheekbone. Not at all like the kind of terror found in sleep, on trembling grounds. It is yesterday now. I have not had a chance to dance in this century. Tonight I shall kill someone, a condition to remember Sunday morning. To think of lives as repetitions [rather than singular serial incarnations]. To understand your death is as exacerbating as trying to figure out why as schoolchildren in mid-nineteen-sixties Southern California we performed reflexive motions: cutting out lace snowflakes, reading Dick and Jane search for their missing mittens, imagining snow. Disintegrat ing . The -ing gerund catapults from the non-finite verb into past, present, future. The -ing as a tail pinned to death, a dog spinning to bite and never fully reaching itself, always shy of the end, circumreferential; a double copulative: deathing. Possessively AO calls it “habit radius” (a virtual fetish attribute) or an inescapable death presence that “confronts us with the paradox of an unattainable object [...] through it’s being unattainable” (Agamben, 27). A flirtation or dialogue with an unknowable thing and aporia utilized as investigative instrument to engage (death) while (in Southern California) we “perform reflexive motions,” cut lace snowflakes, imagine snow, and pay rent like “yeah, yeah” what else is new. And this too, fiction. The book I wish to right. The restored fallen, heroic. Did you expect a different grace from the world? Or upon exit? I’m working on “tough.” They think I am already. All ready. Who is the dead person? Is "I'm sorry" real to a dead person? Browning grass. My hands on this table. A contentious century. A place to pay rent. Redemptive moments. Am I now the dead person? Dead person, dead person, will you partake in my persimmon feast? The body inside the body astounds, confesses sins of the funhouse. I too have admired the people of this planet. Their frilly, orderly intellects. The use they’ve made of cardamom, radiation as well. How they’ve pasteurized milk, loaned surnames to stars, captured tribes, diseases, streets, and ideas too. The living-body as archive: is it possible to experience the living-body as archive without a (kind of) death? Sifting the rubble, rummaging through hoarded debris, skin sheds, memory-napping, and re-awoken (in flesh and) on terrain. “An investigative poetics seeks to unravel staid communities of thought and grasp at what might always be just beyond reach; a poetics of inquiry that lies between language as meaning, and language as rapturous entry into the world of posited ideas and idealism”( Levitsky). Something snaps. Lights blow out prior to embarking upon an investigative poetics. It begins with a question (often a sexy aporia) that leads to openings. "Every politics of memory [...] implies an intervention of the state. It's a state that legislates and acts with regard to the nonfinite mass of materials to be stored, materials which must be collected, preserved” (Derrida & Stiegler, 62). It seems poetic investigation already contains the potentiality of an (invisible) archive if the writer is “always writing” especially when not. Here’s my stupid digital romantic inclination: the living-body (of a poet) is a self-sustaining archive of non-finite memories. But not even I really believe that. AO innovated and sculpted an investigative poetic praxis. In a conversation with poet Rachel Levitsky, poetic-voice is viewed not as a precious identifier, but as a means to think through/about form, concluding that form is linked to framing. While poetic-voice may have tendency to precede form, it also erupts as a result of framing techniques. “They are frames that hold the shape of thinking (which is also to say of imagining) [...].”7 This reminds me of my rabbit who symmetrically chewed the corners of his hutch, which makes me wonder if it’s an expression of the shape of some animal anxiety tick I won’t ever have access to. Beyond the form/frame, death is an unoriginal yet unique limit; death is a damn deathless thing. It functions as a source of poetic investigation; that thing always “just beyond reach.” And how is death not a fetish (in this case an obsessive reverence for something non-material)? “Insofar as it [death] is a presence, a fetish [...] it is in fact something concrete and tangible; but insofar as it is the presence of an absence, it is, at the same time, immaterial and intangible, because it alludes continuously beyond itself to something that can never really be possessed [...] The fetish is [...] a sign of an absence, it is not an unrepeatable unique object; on the contrary, it is something infinitely capable of substitution, without any successive incarnations ever succeeding in exhausting the nullity of which it is the symbol” (Agamben, 33). AO utilized absence (the absent body [catapulted by the death of a beloved]) as an apparatus to investigate. In the process of conversing with absence or that which is absent, the absent body is affectionately objectified, incessantly summonsed back to a place of recognition, of objects, a desire for the absent body to remain intact while exiting the structural limits of grammar and syntax by moving into chant forms “to say what cannot be said” (Levitsky). from AN ARRIVING GUARD OF ANGELS THUSLY COMING TO GREET dear oluchi- the light is blinking rapidly on the black boxy machine. your room seems bigger than before and i am still planning to read some of those robert jordan books of yours. yesterday at the used bookstore where i was browsing the mysteries to “stall reality” (they are really not mysteries at all, they just employ death as the plot mistress but are unable to grasp its mystery at all)—well the point is, things were calm down here for a while and the world was little. i want to be big like you. or i want you not vast, not dead, not gone, but human small and here. i am so selfish. that is what i really want. to see you again. to oil your scalp. to hear you walk in the door, say ma i’m home . give me a chance to say welcome home son. or when leaving, don’t forget your hat . what do you wear out there? i wish you could have taken your new shoes with you. i’m so proud of you. i’m sorry for the way you died. i miss you all the time. even before, i missed you. out there, one time, some different men said: “shake for me girl, i wanna be your backdoor man.” who dat you love. 5/18/03 A letter-poem in sixteen lines “dear oluchi-” is safe-housed in epistolary form. Poetic voice is rendered as internal thought meanderings, a not-so-much confession, private/(pillow?) talk in the desire to be heard/witnessed by the referent and reader with an intent to absolve. The diminutive “i” bears a relation to poet Fanny Howe’s “little g God” in that “One of the (many) things I like about little g God is that you can have a vodka tonic while you talk to little g God, sing along to Bowie’s “I’m Afraid Of Americans,” and hum Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme,” though maybe not all at the same time” (Oliver, 2009). Towards the middle of the poem AO is at a used bookstore and remarks on the funny employment of death as a ‘plot mistress’ that ‘they’ (the dubious employed mystery authors) are ‘unable to grasp’, thereby giving death a mouthpiece, a modeling job, something to do to pass the time. from THE VISIBLE UNSEEN When I first saw graffiti, I recognized in it an ugly aesthetic, a dialectics of violence, a distortion of limbs, a hieroglyph. It was only later when I read the names of the dead that I then saw the path of ghosts charted there; its narrative of loss for the visible unseen whose place in history has been fictionalized and rendered unseen under the totalizing glare of history. Inscriptions, traces, specters. Graffiti begs a public face just as ghosts require non-ghosts (humans) to sense them. The “visible unseen” is a game of hide-and-seek between public viewer and graffiti-inscriber, an ephemeral-violent aesthetic on an ephemeral-policed canvas. Graffiti-inscribers already submit to being forgotten, expect to be washed away; perhaps it’s a holy urban mandala created by gangster-type monks without Buddhism. [...] in its refusal to disappear it forces a discourse in the public imagination we are forced to see what we would rather not, to make sense of an encoded language that we cannot read on the level of meaning. it irritates, forces its agency on us, speaks outside and beyond semiotic reach. An epic font-size pervading the public’s imagination, illegible, I could just close my eyes, remain passive, drive past, abandon it beyond reach, push it further away beyond death walls. In Barcelona I watched a clean up crew wash walls with an awesome water hose but I was more intrigued by their bodies; not a distortion of limbs, not hieroglyph but also not entirely legible; the laboring body permanently erasing specters of the city, and of course they knew it was also an invitation for the ghosts to return. Graffiti is death’s little sister, is also an aporia. [...] Graffiti (fr GK -graph(os), something drawn or written, to diagram or chart) attempts to stage the impossible: to erase the essence of its own subjectivity. Graffiti is a cartography of ghosts, a mapping of elegiac rapture (the transporting of a person from one place to another, as in heaven) and rupture (the state of being broken open.) Dwelling is a fiction stasis. [...] The notion of the past as being something done with, a look-back event, inhibits the possibility of reading graffiti as rapture, as rupture. If graffiti posits history as always in the process of becoming undone. [...] Because what is the body, if not also a complex temple, an unstable site through which to negotiate subjects, materiality, economies, gods, and modes of representations? The site where we are all already belated. Graphein meaning “to write.” “Derrida says every archive makes a law, and the law of genre is its own rupture” (Bloch, 39). However, graffiti is an (non/anti)-archive of erasure due to (the politics of) washing out its subjectivity, which only adds onto (or is symptomatic of) its character. The inhibition of “reading graffiti as rapture, as rupture” is partly due to it being a “look-back” event in that it’s process involves scratching through layers to reveal previous specters underneath. Graffiti (as an ancient genre) has always been a thing of ‘becoming undone’, and therefore ‘belated and always in arrival’ (Levitsky). It’s a Dionysian activity done at night with it’s back turned toward us. "The specter [...] is of the visible, but of the invisible visible, it is the visibility of a body which is not present in flesh and blood [...] appearing for vision, to the brightness of day [...] something becomes almost visible which is visible only insofar as it is not visible in flesh and blood. It is a night visibility. As soon as there is a technology of the image, visibility brings night. It incarnates in a night body, it radiates in a night light" (Derrida & Stiegler, 115). (shrink)

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) was born in the village of Röcken, in Prussian Saxony, the son and grandson of Lutheran ministers. He studied theology and classical philosophy at the University of Bonn, but in 1865 he gave up theology and went to Leipzig. Then he discovered the composer Richard Wagner and the philosophers Schopenhauer and F. A. Lange (author of History of Materialism and Critique of its Present Significance, 1866). He won a prize for an essay on Diogenes Laertius, the biographer (...) of ancient Greek philosophers, and was appointed associate professor of classical philology at Basel, when he was only twenty-four. He became a full professor the following year. His principle writings between then and 1879, when illness made him resign from the university, were The Birth of Tragedy (1872) and Human, All Too Human (1878). After his resignation his principal writings were Daybreak (1881), The Gay Science (1882), Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Parts 1 and 2 published 1883, Part 3 published 1884, Part 4 issued privately 1885, published 1892), Beyond Good and Evil (1886), On the Genealogy of Morals (1887), The Wagner Case (1888) and Twilight of the Idols (1888). Nietzsche became insane in January 1889, and vegetated until his death in 1900. His madness was probably tertiary syphilis, which he may have contracted while ministering to sick soldiers in 1870 as a medical orderly in the Franco-Prussian war. (shrink)

Identities were “murderous” in Algeria, to borrow an expression from Amin Maalouf. However, through this process, Algeria won its independence. Albert Camus, a son of France and a child of Algeria, caught between his two mothers’ identities, was torn apart and sometimes had to make choices; he was blamed for his Franco-French vision of Algeria and, above all, in the crucial hours, for preferring his biological mother to his cultural one. In other words, Camus had a poor record in Algeria. (...) And yet, there is something like a tuning fork vibrating in unison at the sound of “Camus” and “Algeria”: it is Camus’ Mediterranean, with its timeless and universal present, which takes its sense and essence from the “Algerian Mediterraneanness”. It is a fact: Algeria allows us to understand Camus, but Camus also allows us to know Algeria. Questionable dark areas lie within either of them, but would not it be better if we imagined that Camus and Algeria could find together a world beyond the absurd and revolt, on a quest for universality that would not abolish identities which are still asserted but played down today? (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)

"Text, it is Jean-Luc Godard’s “ennemi royal, principal." Text, it is on the side of death, “les images c’est la vie et les textes, c’est la mort”. Twenty years later and the war is not over: “Une image est paisible. Une image de la Vierge avec son petit enfant sur son âne n'amène pas la guerre, c'est son interprétation par un texte qui amènera la guerre et qui fera que les soldats de Luther iront déchirer les toiles de Raphaël.” Godard’s (...) story is not just of the history of cinema, it is one in which text has won out to the extent that TV and the computer too make of the image something subservient to text. “Since Gutenberg” the text has triumphed in this way. “There was a long struggle, marriage or liaison between painting and text. Then the text carried the day. Film is the last art in the pictorial tradition... Take away the text and you’ll see what’s left. In TV nothing is left.” It is obvious from these lines of demarcation, lines which divide the art of the image from what would declare war on its most sacred icons and defeat its technologies, a conflict in which there is just the one aggressor, a division which makes of the relation between image and text nothing less than a matter of life and death, that for Godard text is indeed the enemy...". (shrink)

In the beginning was an aborted word. The first example of a woman’s literary criticism in Western tradition, or more accurately the first miscarriage of a woman’s criticism, occurs early in the Odyssey. High in her room above the hall of suitors, Penelope can hear a famous minstrel sing that most painful of stories, the Greek homecoming from Troy—significantly, the matter of the Odyssey itself. That is no song for a woman. She comes down the stairs to protest. “Phêmios, other (...) spells you know, high deeds of gods and heroes, as the poets tell them; let these men hear some other, while they sit silent and drink their wine. But sing no more this bitter tale that wears my heart away. It opens in me again the wound of longing For one incomparable, ever in my mind— His fame all Hellas knows, and midland Argos.”It seems a reasonable request. But her words meet an immediate brutal rebuff from an unexpected source: her own son Telemachus. “Mother, why do you grudge our own dear minstrel Joy of song, wherever his thought may lead? Poets are not to blame, but Zeuswho gives what fate he pleases to adventurous men.Here is no reason for reproof: to singthe news of the Danaans! Men like besta song that rings like morning on the ear.But you must nerve yourself and try to listen.Odysseus was not the only one at Troynever to know the day of his homecoming.Others, how many others, lost their lives!”9Men like to hear the news; women must learn not to take songs so personally! And Penelope gives in. Marveling at the wisdom of her son, she goes back to her room and cries herself to sleep.Telemachus’ words do not seem very much to the point. Penelope had not asked Phêmios to stop singing, after all, or to sing something fit for women; she only asked him to choose some other adventure. And to reproach her for not considering that others besides Odysseus had failed to come home seems irrelevant as well as cruel. The fact that others feel pain is hardly a reason for her not to feel it. Penelope cannot bear even to name her husband, but Telemachus seems to take pleasure in saying “Odysseus.” By proclaiming his own indifference to pain, he argues just like a man. And that, of course, is the point. The scene has been contrived exactly to show his new maturity. He proves himself no longer a boy in the time-honored fashion, by rejecting any tenderness of heart and by putting down a woman. Henceforth he will be equal to the suitors. Lawrence Lipking is Chester D. Tripp Professor of Humanities at Northwestern University and director of the program in comparative literature and theory. He is the author of The Ordering of the Arts in Eighteenth-Century England and The Life of the Poet, which won the Christian Gauss Award of Phi Beta Kappa in 1982. His previous contributions to Critical Inquiry are “The Marginal Glass” and “Arguing with Shelly” . The present essay was originally given as a lecture at the School of Criticism and Theory in the summer of 1982. It is part of a book, Abandoned Women and Poetic Tradition, which is to appear in 1984. (shrink)

Resumen: Este artículo parte de un interrogante y se propone abordar un problema, a saber, si existen y son posibles una epistemología de la imposibilidad o, lo que es equivalente, una ciencia de la indeterminación. A fin de resolver el problema, se proponen tres argumentos. Esto son: primero, la imposibilidad, como la indeterminación, no deben ser concebido en modo alguno como limitaciones, restricciones o carencias. Por el contrario, se trata de ganancias o adquisiciones en el campo del conocimiento y de (...) la investigación. En segundo término, la imposibilidad significa un abandono de toda la tradición centrada en la importancia del ser, la realidad, lo dado, lo que acaece o lo que está ahí. Lo que está en juego es una fantástica revolución científica. El tercer argumento pone en evidencia que el mundo y el universo no tienen una determinación específica, y ciertamente no dada de antemano. Sobre la base de estos tres argumentos el artículo afirma que no hay ninguna disyuntiva entre una epistemología de la imposibilidad y una ciencia de la indeterminación, y que la buena investigación puede avanzar por este camino gracias al descubrimiento o la invención, que es la dúplice forma de una educación e investigación que sabe de cambios y transformaciones. Algunas conclusiones de cara a las ciencias sociales y humanas se extraen el final.: This paper starts with a question and is devoted to solving a problem, namely so establish whether an epistemology of the impossible or a science of indetermination are at all possible. In order to solve the problem three arguments are set out: firstly, impossibility very much as indetermination are not to be conceived in any sense as limits, restraints or constrictions. Quite on the contrary, they are assets that are won or acquired in the field of research and knowledge. The second argument claims that the impossible entails abandoning the entire tradition centred around being, reality, the given, what happens or what is at-hand. What is at stake is a fantastic scientific revolution. The third argument point out that the world and the universe do not have any specific determination, and certainly not one established beforehand. Based on these arguments this paper argues that there is not disjunction between an epistemology of the impossible and a science of indetermination, for research can go forwards thanks to discovery or invention which are a twofold form of research and education that know about change and metamorphosis. Several conclusions are drawn at the end vis-à-vis the social and human sciences. (shrink)

The present work focuses on some particular demonological texts attributed to Fortunatianus and Chromatius, both bishops of Aquileia. It also includes Victorinus, bishop of Poetovium, who shared the same geographical-cultural milieu of the Aquilean bishops. We have considered primarily their biblical commentaries and, in the case of Chromatius, also his liturgical sermons. In these texts, the devil is characterized by a broad range of expressions in relation to his spiritual struggle against humanity, a struggle already won by Jesus and now (...) entrusted to Christians. The three bishops highlight both the devil’s ability to deceive the sons of God, leading them to idolatry and heresy, and also the victory over him achieved by means of evangelical preaching. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Difficult Road to Deciding on CircumcisionAnonymous TwoAnonymous TwoWhen I got my results back from my noninvasive prenatal testing, NIPT and found out I was going to have a little boy, one of my first thoughts was, "I don't want to circumcise him," which sounds silly because I just found out the gender of my baby and my first thought is about his genitalia. The idea of growing and (...) carrying this perfect little baby for nine months and then hurting him was unthinkable to me. I simply did not want to hurt him. The idea of it made me feel sick. Anytime the subject came up, I would protectively put my hand over my belly. And I do admit there were a lot of times I wished I was having a girl so I didn't have to deal with the circumcision debate.There was a lot of conversation between myself and my husband about it. My husband was adamant about getting it done. He referred to uncircumcised penises as "snake penises" and said our son will be made fun of for being different. He said it would be easier for him to clean and when he's old, he won't have to worry about infection. I would counter with, "well what if he falls in love with a girl from a culture that doesn't circumcise? She will think his penis is weird." The more we talked about it, the more ridiculous it felt thinking that far in advance and all these hypothetical situations he might get in over his penis. My parents wanted it done for religious reasons, but that wasn't a factor for me. My mom kept saying it's in the Bible and it needs to be done. My boss is Jewish and she joked that I could just convert to Judaism and the choice would be taken away from me so I didn't have to stress over it. Everything I read on my mommy groups and sites like Reddit called male circumcision child abuse and stated how barbaric it was. Terms like "genital mutilation" were thrown around a lot, and I didn't want to be part of a group that was seemingly looked down upon by so many.I spent my whole pregnancy saying how much I did not want to circumcise my baby. About a week after he was born and we were starting to get settled, my husband started to call around trying to get him an appointment for circumcision. It was unusual to do it this way, as typically it's done when babies are still in the hospital. But the hospital wasn't doing circumcisions because it was elective, and they weren't doing elective procedures because of COVID. At his first doctor's appointment, I talked to our pediatrician about it. She is Indian and told me she didn't circumcise her boys and said that it was very normal in many parts of the world to not do it. I would watch her pull back the skin to check it for fibers and think, "Is it really that bad to keep it? It's just skin." Our pediatrician didn't do it, as she doesn't perform procedures in the office, and she gave us some names of doctors that were supposed to be doing it. My husband called them all and none of them were doing circumcisions either. Finally, my husband found a doctor, but he was booked out for almost a month and a half. With no other option, we made the appointment. I was not thrilled about it, and made my husband do all the calls and arrange it because I did not agree with it.What made me change my mind about circumcising him was I didn't want him to be different. My husband assured me this was the best choice and he was very concerned our son would be bullied for being different. I have a good friend that is a nurse in a long term care facility currently. I called her and asked if it was really that bad for old men to care... (shrink)

In their historical overview of cognitive science, Bechtel, Abraham- son and Graham (1999) describe the field as expanding in focus be- ginning in the mid-1980s. The field had spent the previous 25 years on internalist, high-level GOFAI (“good old fashioned artificial intelli- gence” [Haugeland 1985]), and was finally moving “outwards into the environment and downards into the brain” (Bechtel et al, 1999, p.75). One important force behind the downward movement was Patricia Churchland’s Neurophilosophy (1986). This book began a movement bearing (...) its name, one that truly came of age in 1999 when Kath- leen Akins won a million-dollar fellowship to begin the McDonnell Project in Philosophy and the Neurosciences. The McDonnell Project put neurophilosophy at the forefront of philosophy of mind and cogni- tive science, yielding proliferating articles, conferences, special journal issues and books. In two major new books, neurophilosophers Patricia Churchland (2002) and John Bickle (2003) clearly feel this newfound prominence: Churchland mocks those who do not apply findings in neuroscience to philosophical problems as “no-brainers”; Bickle mocks anyone with traditional philosophical concerns, including “naturalistic philosophers of mind” and other neurophilosophers. (shrink)

This article examines how growing fears, insecurities and uncertainties during the COVID-19 pandemic have prompted an emotional distance from others. The aim is to explore how global solidarity and nationalism are challenged and constructed as collective emotional processes concerning ‘others’. Drawing on social theories of emotions during crises and emotions towards others, this study looks at policy decisions around vaccines and health services and their associated emotions in the context of Korea, which has a relatively small migrant population and a (...) short history of supporting people in lower-income countries. The study finds that the COVID-19 pandemic has strengthened nationalism, both ethnic nationalism and cosmopolitan nationalism. This points to the need to highlight global norms such as human rights and justice and cultivate foundational emotions such as empathy and compassion. This article suggests paying attention to the role of emotions in generating othering practices and developing global solidarity. (shrink)

This book examines transmissibility to remind us why the vitality and epistemic significance of an artwork is anachronistic and futural. Transmissibility: Writing Aesthetic History performs a transdisciplinary philosophy of aesthetic history via the work of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Cy Twombly, Marina Abramović, Paul Celan, Cecil Taylor, Italo Calvino, Candida Höfer, and others by focusing on the artistic and historiographic labor that differentiates artworks from other modes of creation.

Temporal experience and its radical alteration in schizophrenia have been one of the central objects of investigation in phenomenological psychopathology. Various phenomenologically oriented researchers have argued that the change in the mode of temporal experience present in schizophrenia can foreground its psychotic symptoms of delusion. This paper aims to further the development of such a phenomenological investigation by highlighting a much-neglected aspect of schizophrenic temporal experience, i.e., its non-emotional affective characteristic. In this paper, it denotes the type of an experience (...) wherein an afflicted individual experiences a pervasive pull or attraction coming from the past, present, and future. By employing Husserl’s account of affection, I argue that such an affectively prominent temporal experience is not yet another abnormality that happens to be present in schizophrenia. Instead, it is indicative of the core disturbance that underpins the schizophrenic temporal mode of experience. I identify such a disturbance as ‘affective modification dysfunction’ and employ it as a core concept with which I synthesize and organise heterogeneous components of schizophrenic temporal experience in their conceptual unity. For the sake of clear description, I organise those components into the following categories: 1.) Time Stop 2.) Ante-festum 3.) Déjà vu/vécu and 4.) Time Fragmentation. I conclude by demonstrating how approaching schizophrenic temporal experience from its affective dimension can further help us better understand its pre-psychotic phase known to precipitate schizophrenic primary delusion, i.e., delusional mood. (shrink)

Humility is widely regarded as a moral excellence and telos, hence, openly inculcated-instructed. Character education in and for humility, however, sits uncomfortably against today’s pedagogical maxims such as self-esteem and self-assertiveness. This article looks into this and other tensions from the perspective of humility as experience (phenomenon) instead of humility as goal. Surveying humility qua experience can help us to understand how the mind directs toward objects of cognition with their content, meaning and axiology. Husserl’s phenomenology and its theory of (...) intuition suggests that humility is a personal belief (doxa) that moral agents construct out of their lived-experiences. Through iterations of similar lived-experiences, humility can become a habitus and, arguably, episteme. This process is detailed by intersecting experience of humility with intentionality, phenomenological reduction, and intersubjectivity. It is argued that, in contemporary education, ‘experience’ is widely accepted as learning content and teaching method. Humility as experience has significant implications for the main schools in curriculum studies, namely traditionalists, conceptualists and phenomenologists. This article claims that inculcating humility poses ethical challenges, and the role of education should instead be to explain and present to learners the phenomenological reality of humility. (shrink)

Silence has been a relatively neglected phenomenon despite its significance in psychiatric research. Acknowledging this oversight, there has been a recent move towards systematically describing the first-personal experience of silence in mental disorders within the field of philosophy of psychiatry. This paper contributes to this research effort by highlighting the underexplored interpersonal aspect of silence crucial for both psychopathological and therapeutic research. More specifically, I develop the interpersonal aspect of distressing silence associated with depression, recently coined as ‘empty silence’. Complementing (...) its original analysis, I argue that this distressing silence not only involves the loss of linguistic agency but also the loss of social agency. Having established this claim, I situate it within the wider research context and open an ethical dimension to the current analysis. I explore this by identifying a therapeutic silence others can establish for an individual undergoing a severe depressive episode. I provisionally term it ‘undemanding silence’ and argue that this form of silence can help restore the loss of social agency by providing a distinct form of social affordance that depressed individuals can easily realise at their own pace. (shrink)

Asian workplaces are often characterized by cultures that require more overtime than other cultures. Although predictors for overtime work have been rigorously studied, it is still meaningful to investigate specific aspects of Eastern cultural values that stem from Confucian ethics and may influence overtime work among Asian employees. We suggest that four major Confucian orientations are positively associated with employees’ affective and normative motives, which in turn affect working overtime. This article extends management literature on the subjects of cultural ethics (...) and workaholism. It also suggests how Eastern cultural values lead to working overtime. We hope that our research effort on Confucian cultural value and its associations with other managerial outcomes and theories is a small cornerstone that allows management researchers to explore interesting and meaningful ways to apply Confucian culture and orientations in the workplace. (shrink)