The notions of a commutative (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal and a commutative falling neutrosophic ideal are introduced, and several properties are investigated. Characterizations of a commutative (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal are obtained. Relations between commutative (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal and (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal are discussed. Conditions for an (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal to be a commutative (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal are established. Relations between commutative (∈, ∈)-neutrosophic ideal, falling neutrosophic ideal and commutative falling neutrosophic ideal are considered. Conditions for a falling neutrosophic ideal to be (...) commutative are provided. (shrink)

This ninth volume of Collected Papers includes 87 papers comprising 982 pages on Neutrosophic Theory and its applications in Algebra, written between 2014-2022 by the author alone or in collaboration with the following 81 co-authors (alphabetically ordered) from 19 countries: E.O. Adeleke, A.A.A. Agboola, Ahmed B. Al-Nafee, Ahmed Mostafa Khalil, Akbar Rezaei, S.A. Akinleye, Ali Hassan, Mumtaz Ali, Rajab Ali Borzooei , Assia Bakali, Cenap Özel, Victor Christianto, Chunxin Bo, Rakhal Das, Bijan Davvaz, R. Dhavaseelan, B. Elavarasan, Fahad Alsharari, T. (...) Gharibah, Hina Gulzar, Hashem Bordbar, Le Hoang Son, Emmanuel Ilojide, Tèmítópé Gbóláhàn Jaíyéolá, M. Karthika, Ilanthenral Kandasamy, W.B. Vasantha Kandasamy, Huma Khan, Madad Khan, Mohsin Khan, Hee Sik Kim, Seon Jeong Kim, Valeri Kromov, R. M. Latif, Madeleine Al-Tahan, Mehmat Ali Ozturk, Minghao Hu, S. Mirvakili, Mohammad Abobala, Mohammad Hamidi, Mohammed Abdel-Sattar, Mohammed A. Al Shumrani, Mohamed Talea, Muhammad Akram, Muhammad Aslam, Muhammad Aslam Malik, Muhammad Gulistan, Muhammad Shabir, G. Muhiuddin, Memudu Olaposi Olatinwo, Osman Anis, Choonkil Park, M. Parimala, Ping Li, K. Porselvi, D. Preethi, S. Rajareega, N. Rajesh, Udhayakumar Ramalingam, Riad K. Al-Hamido, Yaser Saber, Arsham Borumand Saeid, Saeid Jafari, Said Broumi, A.A. Salama, Ganeshsree Selvachandran, Songtao Shao, Seok-Zun Song, Tahsin Oner, M. Mohseni Takallo, Binod Chandra Tripathy, Tugce Katican, J. Vimala, Xiaohong Zhang, Xiaoyan Mao, Xiaoying Wu, Xingliang Liang, Xin Zhou, Yingcang Ma, Young Bae Jun, Juanjuan Zhang. (shrink)

We investigated the ethical behavior of Turkish university students to compare the difference in ethical behavior between business students and non-business students, examine the impact of key contingency variables on how they make decisions when confronted with an ethical dilemma, and investigate the process underlying the ethical behavior of Turkish students. Data were collected from business students at a major private university in Western Turkey. The results indicate that a Turkish student’s peers, marital status, and education level exert a significant (...) effect on their ethical behavior. Further, business students specifically differed from non-business students in their enhanced use of egoism when confronted with an ethical dilemma. The results of this research may have important educational policy implications for business ethics in Turkey. (shrink)

Grammar studies on Arabic started with Abu Aswad ad-Duali (d. 69/688) in Basra, the center of science and culture. Grammar studies have improved with scholars such as Khalil b. Ahmed (d. 175/791) and Sibeweyhi (d. 180/796) during the Abbasid period (750-1258). These studies, which continued in the style of commentary and annotation after the Abbasid period, reached its peak in the Ottoman period (1300-1922). One of the scholars who wrote a work in the style of commentary on the science of (...) nahw (syntax) is Ali b. Muhammed b. Mas‘ud al-Bistami al-Shahrudi (d. 875/1470). He became famous with the nickname Musannifak because he started to write books at a young age. 15th-century Ottoman scholar Alaaddin Musannifak Mas‘ud al-Bistami al-Shahrudi (d. 875/1470) grounded the nahw issues, he used the Qur’an, hadith and Arabic theology; he also applied to rational proofs such as qiyas and istishab. In this article, Musannifak’s method of applying only to narrated sources such as the Qur’an, hadith and Arabic words in order to reveal his methods of commentary is discussed. In this context, Musannifak’s method of reference to narrative sources in his commentary has been revealed with a qualitative approach by analysing his work on al-Misbah by Nasir b. Abdiseyyid b. ‘Ali al-Mutarrizi (d. 610/1213), Sharḥ al- Miṣbâḥ fi al-naḥw. (shrink)

This tenth volume of Collected Papers includes 86 papers in English and Spanish languages comprising 972 pages, written between 2014-2022 by the author alone or in collaboration with the following 105 co-authors (alphabetically ordered) from 26 countries: Abu Sufian, Ali Hassan, Ali Safaa Sadiq, Anirudha Ghosh, Assia Bakali, Atiqe Ur Rahman, Laura Bogdan, Willem K.M. Brauers, Erick González Caballero, Fausto Cavallaro, Gavrilă Calefariu, T. Chalapathi, Victor Christianto, Mihaela Colhon, Sergiu Boris Cononovici, Mamoni Dhar, Irfan Deli, Rebeca Escobar-Jara, Alexandru Gal, N. (...) Gandotra, Sudipta Gayen, Vassilis C. Gerogiannis, Noel Batista Hernández, Hongnian Yu, Hongbo Wang, Mihaiela Iliescu, F. Nirmala Irudayam, Sripati Jha, Darjan Karabašević, T. Katican, Bakhtawar Ali Khan, Hina Khan, Volodymyr Krasnoholovets, R. Kiran Kumar, Manoranjan Kumar Singh, Ranjan Kumar, M. Lathamaheswari, Yasar Mahmood, Nivetha Martin, Adrian Mărgean, Octavian Melinte, Mingcong Deng, Marcel Migdalovici, Monika Moga, Sana Moin, Mohamed Abdel-Basset, Mohamed Elhoseny, Rehab Mohamed, Mohamed Talea, Kalyan Mondal, Muhammad Aslam, Muhammad Aslam Malik, Muhammad Ihsan, Muhammad Naveed Jafar, Muhammad Rayees Ahmad, Muhammad Saeed, Muhammad Saqlain, Muhammad Shabir, Mujahid Abbas, Mumtaz Ali, Radu I. Munteanu, Ghulam Murtaza, Munazza Naz, Tahsin Oner, ‪Gabrijela Popović‬‬‬‬‬, Surapati Pramanik, R. Priya, S.P. Priyadharshini, Midha Qayyum, Quang-Thinh Bui, Shazia Rana, Akbara Rezaei, Jesús Estupiñán Ricardo, Rıdvan Sahin, Saeeda Mirvakili, Said Broumi, A. A. Salama, Flavius Aurelian Sârbu, Ganeshsree Selvachandran, Javid Shabbir, Shio Gai Quek, Son Hoang Le, Florentin Smarandache, Dragiša Stanujkić, S. Sudha, Taha Yasin Ozturk, Zaigham Tahir, The Houw Iong, Ayse Topal, Alptekin Ulutaș, Maikel Yelandi Leyva Vázquez, Rizha Vitania, Luige Vlădăreanu, Victor Vlădăreanu, Ștefan Vlăduțescu, J. Vimala, Dan Valeriu Voinea, Adem Yolcu, Yongfei Feng, Abd El-Nasser H. Zaied, Edmundas Kazimieras Zavadskas.‬‬. (shrink)

A widely held assumption is that hallucinations are not a type of perception. Coupled with the idea that hallucinations possess phenomenal character, this assumption raises a problem for naive realism, which maintains that phenomenal character is at least partly constituted by perceived worldly objects. Naive realists have typically responded by adopting a disjunctive view of phenomenal character. But in what follows, I argue that to resolve the conflict we should instead reject the idea that hallucinations are not a type of (...) perception. I argue that this idea is supported by six alleged differences between hallucination and perception, but these differences are all accommodated for in a particular type of perception, picture perception. Drawing on picture perception’s resources, I offer an account of hallucinations which construes them as a type of perception, and does so in a way that that preserves their idiosyncrasies and varieties, and in a way compatible with naive realism. (shrink)

In this paper, we investigate similarities and differences between the main neo-Copenhagen (or “epistemic–pragmatist”) interpretations of quantum mechanics, here identified as those defined by the rejection of an ontological nature of the quantum states and the simultaneous avoidance of hidden variables, while maintaining the quantum formalism unchanged. We argue that there is a single general interpretive framework in which the core claims that the various interpretations in the class are committed to, and which they emphasize to varying degrees, can be (...) represented. We also identify, however, remaining differences of a more substantial nature, and we offer a first analysis of them. We also argue that these remaining differences cannot be resolved within the formalism of quantum mechanics itself and identify the more general philosophical considerations that can be used in order to break this interpretation underdetermination. (shrink)

Over 200 health journals call on the United Nations, political leaders, and health professionals to recognize that climate change and biodiversity loss are one indivisible crisis and must be tackle...

This article uses Halliday’s (An introduction to functional grammar, Edward Arnold, London, 1994) Systemic Functional Grammar-transitivity system and Anthony’s (AntConc (Version 3.5.8) [Computer Software], Waseda University, Tokyo, 2019. https://www.laurenceanthony.net/software ) antconc for the corpus analysis to illustrate the way the two newspapers namely, Arab News and Tehran Times represent the violence in Yemen. The reason behind choosing Arab News and Tehran Times is that both newspapers belong to two conflicted countries, namely Saudi Arabia and Iran. Undoubtedly, the two newspapers are (...) incompatible regarding the Yemeni violent crisis. Transitivity system focuses on the clause as its unit of analysis. It analyzes the clauses in terms of the processes and participants and the circumstances surrounding the clause (Halliday 1994). Transitivity is crucial for this study since it can be invested ideologically and at the same time it can uncover the hidden ideologies of certain political and media texts. In terms of antconc, concordance is used in the analysis. The selected data are 36 reports from Arab News and 36 reports from Tehran Times. The total of Arab News data is 13,120 words. The total of Tehran Times data is 16,061 words. Based on the results of data analysis, both newspapers invested transitivity and concordance for ideological interests. (shrink)

The beliefs of ancient Mesopotamia included many important topics, which looked into the secret of man’s existence, life, and well-being, and the matter went beyond that when he beliefs with his death or the cessation of his life, so the idea of death for him was mysterious, frightening, or chilling the soul, and surrounded by the unknown. So the study of death and life is one of the topics, which draws knowledge of the emotional state towards knowing mortality and how (...) to deal with it, especially, when the people of Mesopotamia thought about, all this leading us to a better understanding of death. The people of Mesopotamia did not doubt about the inevitability of death for man, and made immortality the share of the gods, but Mesopotamian mythological thought leads us to differentiate between the death of gods and the death of humans. Through literary texts we know that the death of gods means disappearing and then appearing or returning again. It also means changing from one state to another as a result of an act that was not death in the true sense, but rather it is their transformation from one state to another. Or they took the permanent form or nature consecrated to them after they were killed, or the final stable form whose accompanying entity was known. (shrink)

Muḥammad ibn Ibrāhīm Ṣadr al-Dīn Shīrāzī, -1641 -- Criticism and interpretation.

Ḥuqūq al-Islām.--Ḥuqūq al-vālidain.--Ādāb al-maʻ̄ashirat.--Ag̲h̲lāt̤ al-ʻulūm.

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)

There are numerous studies on the esoteric sects in Islam. Though in these studies they have been discussed from different respects, none of them draws attention to the place and importance of the theory of shadows (aẓilla) in the esoteric sects. In this article, after the identification of the meaning of the theory of shadows, it has been argued that the concept of shadows has a central role in understanding the esoteric system of thought. In this context, it has been (...) tried to reveal the central effect of the theory of shadows on the basic ideas of esoteric sects. -/- SUMMARY There are numerous studies on the esoteric sects in Islam. Though in these studies they have been discussed from different respects, none of them draws attention to the place and importance of the theory of shadows (aẓilla) in the esoteric sects. In this article, after the identification of the meaning of the theory of shadows, it has been argued that the concept of shadows has a central role in understanding the esoteric system of thought. In this context, it has been tried to reveal the central effect of the theory of shadows on the basic ideas of esoteric sects. The theory of shadows can be defined as the reflection of the shadows or non-material beings, which appear in the divine world, in this world in a material form. The origins of this view go back to the Plato’s theory of ideas that he formulated as ideas and forms and to his allegory of cave that he used to explain this theory. This theory which was formulated and developed by the pre-Islamic various religious and philosophical traditions took an Islamic form through the bāṭinī/esoteric schools. The theory of shadows was first developed by the extremist groups of shiʿa. Though the early classical works referred the theory of shadow to the extremist shiʿas, they do not give any detail thereof. Nevertheless, it is possible to find in some views of theirs and in the esoteric sects such as Ismailites, Nusayrites, Druzes and Yazidites some clues about the character of this theory. In addition, the later works like Kitāb al-Haft wa al- ʾAẓilla directly articulating the theory of shadows were composed. Although the theory of shadows was not mentioned sufficiently in the works produced within the bāṭinī/esoteric circles, it is witnessed that their understandings of religion were based, to a large extent, upon the theory of shadows. The most basic feature of this unnamed understanding is the claim that every being in the divine world has been reflected in this world in a material form. Since the essence of God generally was kept out from the manifestation (tajallī), reflection was not started with his essence. However, the first beings emanating from Almighty Creator brought the divine world into being and that world was reflected to this world in a material form. With this perception, a Gnostic understanding was developed that the material has no reality and the ultimate reality should be sought in the non-material. According to this, the material beings consisting of only reflection of reality are not possible to have an ultimate reality. The only truth is the meaning, inner (bātin) or shadow which reflects to the world in a material form. Naturally what a bāṭinī should do is to seek the non-material ultimate truth hidden behind the material form. The theory of shadows in this point argued compulsorily the distinction of ẓāhir-bātin (outer-inner). Accordingly, ẓāhir consists of a shell or reflection in which hides the truth. The duty one should do is to go beyond the outer meaning of religious text and to get the inner truth hidden behind the outer meaning. The theory of shadows made a dualist view point obligatory, because every being has an inner aspect which includes the truth and an outer respect in which the ultimate truth is reflected in a material form. God has the inner attributes through which the truth appears spiritually and material attributes to which they are reflected. Universe has a dualist character, a spiritual universe consisting of non-material realities and material universe consisting of its reflections. Human beings have a dualist character, a soul belonging to the divine world and a body belonging to this world. Religious texts which were sent for the salvation of mankind also have two aspects, the inner (bāṭin) belonging to the divine world and the outer (ẓāhir) belonging to this world. Since the Bāṭiniyya considered the divine world to be composed of sevenfold and each fold to be a divine being, they sought, as a result of the theory of shadow, to find in the material world the counterparts or reflections of these beings. Even if their names show differences, the bāṭinī/esoteric groups regarded in certain times some figures as the reflections of the divine world in the material world. Divine beings called al-ʿAql al-Kullī (the Universal Intellect), al-Nafs al-Kullī (the Universal Soul), al-Kalima, Sābiq and Tālī were reflected in the world as the material forms like the Prophet Muhammad, Ali, Salman al-Farisī, Miqdāt b. al-Aswad, Ammār b. Yāsir. This understanding resulted in the divinization of some figures in the world, because it was held that through the manifestation these figures differ from the ordinary people, thus having some divine features. These figures gaining a bipolar identity were outwardly human beings, while inwardly regarded as the forms of divine beings reflected in the world. In this point, what the other people should do is to comprehend, with reference to the figures and their forms, the divine truth reflecting them. This approach brought about a religious understanding in which an individual salvation was not possible and some figures were perceived as charismatic leaders. As a result, the religious understanding developed by the Bāṭiniyya schools is under the ultimate influence of the theory of shadows. With reference to this theory, they developed a new understanding of Islam called Esotericism. At the core of this perception lies the theory of shadows and dualism as its inseparable part. In this sense, Esotericism represents a religious understanding developed in this direction and having a wholeness and deepness. In order to understand this religious understanding correctly, the theory of shadows must be taken into consideration and the esoteric texts be read in this direction. This kind of way of reading, in which the outer is seen as the unique reality, fails to realize the duality behind it, will not enable us to comprehend the inner wholeness of Esotericism and cause to see it as a mass of contradictions. (shrink)

To achieve accreditation standards and train residents for clinical practice, ACGME placed a lot of emphasis on ethical competence and professionalism. A crucial requirement for enhancing the standard of future medical practice is ethics education. This study sought to identify the requirement for ethics knowledge in clinical training from the perspective of the residents and determine the most effective methods for education. A cross-sectional descriptive study was conducted between March and May 2023. Participants included Lebanese postgraduate medical students, 210 completed (...) a Google Forms survey via WhatsApp. A validated questionnaire adapted from a previous study was used, focusing on demographics, ethical experience, attitudes, educational goals, and training effectiveness. Analyses were performed on IBM SPSS Statistics software (version 26.0) and R software. 210 residents representing a range of specialties participated in the survey. predominantly in internal medicine (54.8%). Residents strongly affirmed the importance of professionalism and ethics education. Participants overwhelmingly agreed that it should improve patient care and clinical decision-making (_p_. (shrink)

A number of innovative hermeneutical approaches emerged in Muslim exegetical discourse in the second half of the 20th century. Among these developments is a trend of systematic reform theology that emphasises a humanistic approach, whereby revelation is understood to be dependent not only upon its initiator, God, but also upon its recipient, Prophet Muhammad, who takes an active role in the process.Ali Akbar examines the works of four noted scholars of Islam: Fazlur Rahman, Abdolkarim Soroush, Muhammad Mujtahed Shabestari and Nasr (...) Hamid Abu Zayd. His study shows that the consequences of taking a humanistic approach to understanding revelation are not confined to the realm of speculation about God-human relations, but also to interpreting Qur'A nic socio-political precepts. And the four scholars emerge as a distinctive group of Muslim thinkers who open up a new horizon in contemporary Islamic discourse. (shrink)

Russell once said that “Vagueness and precision alike are characteristics which can only belong to a representation, of which language is an example. They have to do with the relation between a representation and that which it represents. Apart from representation, whether cognitive or mechanical, there can be no such thing as vagueness or precision; things are what they are, and there is an end of it” (1923). In other words, expressions like ontological vagueness (and even ontological precision) are category (...) mistakes and therefore make no sense. Half a century later, as the view began to emerge that some vagueness could be intelligibly ascribed to the world, Dummett opined that “It is not apparently absurd to suppose ... that the physical world is in itself such that the most precise description of it that even omniscience would yield might yet involve the use of expressions having some degree of vagueness” (1981). Evans had already questioned the idea of worldly vagueness, arguing that it was inconsistent (1978). A quarter of a century later, however, many papers had been written in defense of the intelligibility and possibility of this once nonsense and then contradictory claim. This chapter is one of them, albeit from a different viewpoint. The aim of this chapter is twofold: firstly, to consider the intelligibility of vague ontology, and secondly, to discuss the most famous argument against vague ontology, i.e., Evans’ argument. To this end, in Sect. 11.2 we present some commonsensical considerations on vague ontology. In Sect. 11.3, we look at some supervaluationist theories and the kind of vague ontology they accommodate before arguing that this kind of ontology is inconsistent with commonsense. Section 11.4 outlines a version of supervaluationism that can accommodate the commonsensical considerations discussed in Sect. 11.2. The outlined view is an ontological variation of Kit Fine’s characterization of vagueness as incompleteness (1975). It will be argued that the view is more effective than other versions of supervaluationism at accommodating commonsensical and metaphysical considerations. In the following section, we consider vague identity. Based on the view outlined in Sect. 11.4, there may be vague identity in some special cases. In Sect. 11.6 we focus on Evans’ argument and argue that it can be blocked in the first step. (shrink)

To establish the scientific-theoretical and philosophical- methodological foundations for the transition from classical set theory (Cantor set) to fuzzy set theory, the mathematical and ontological structures of the Cantor set are presented in a localized manner. This approach aligns with the research direction, incorporating philosophical reflections on the fundamental concepts of this theory, such as infinity, continuum, and the empty set. Particular emphasis is placed on infinity and infinite sets (countable and continuum), which are crucial to the development of set (...) theory as a scientific field and have been subjects of inquiry in both scientific and philosophical cognitive processes from ancient times to the present. In addition, a relatively concise explanation of the mathematical and ontological structures of both classical set theory and fuzzy set theory is provided. Through certain epistemological and cognitive approaches, the article identifies the scientific-theoretical and philosophical-methodological bases for the emergence of fuzzy set theory, framed within the context of the scientific-philosophical reflections on classical set theory and its core concepts. (shrink)

The 18th century witnessed the transformation of aesthetics into an independent philosophical discipline. In this period, two main traditions emerged, based on which we can categorize aesthetic theorists. The first of these is classical or rationalist aesthetics, and the other is empiricist or subjective aesthetics. Because classical/rational aesthetic theories were largely based on Cartesian metaphysics, they also inherited the difficulties faced by Cartesian metaphysics. For Descartes, senseperception is not a reliable mode of cognition and truth only comes out of the (...) ideas of pure understanding. Where Descartes' philosophy came to a dead end was that it could not convincingly explain how the concepts in our minds represent reality that is independent of us. This problem also manifested itself in the rationalist aesthetics. Similarly, the empiricist theory inherited the weaknesses of the empiricist epistemology. The main problem of empiricism was to overcome subjectivism and reach universal principles that make sense of the world surrounding us. To overcome the relativism of the empiricist epistemology, empiricist theoreticians claimed that there is an intuition, a common feeling shared by all human beings. However, this common feeling could not be proven empirically. Diderot created a new aesthetic theory that aimed to reconcile rationalist and empiricist aesthetics by redefining the term perception. This article discusses Diderot's innovative effort to create a new aesthetics free from the limits of rationalism and empiricism. (shrink)

The book will discuss and criticize the objections from Blackburn, Searle and Glock to Quine's arguments for the indeterminacy of translation, i.e., that these arguments result in a denial of first-person authority, as well as Hylton’s solution to these objections. The book argues that these objections, as well as Hylton's solution, all rely on a misconstrual of Quine, among other things, that there can be a distinction between meaning and translation for Quine. I will then offer a Strawsonian-Wittgensteinian account of (...) first-person authority and show that this account can work within Quine’s naturalism. (shrink)

Kripke uses a fictional skeptical character in order to review and refuses “cognitive meaning” theory. According to this theory, the propositions which contain reference to the meaning show the state of mind of belief which is a correct state of mind. In order to challenge this theory, Kripke uses another theory which is known as “Normativity of meaning” in philosophic literature. According to the latter theory, meaning of a word limits its application in a normative way; for example, if I (...) use ‘table’, I mean table, then I should use this word for the things which are really table. On the other hand, in meta-ethics, there is a famous argument named “motivational introversion argument”, presented by Michael Smith, whose purpose is to reject “moral cognitivism”, the sentences which include references to moral concepts in an action show state of mind of belief which is a correct state of mind. The following article is going to discuss the possibility of the developing of Michael Smith’s motivational introversion argument into the sphere of meaning. In other words, this paper is a comparative study of fields of meta-ethics and philosophy of language, i.e. it examines whether there can be an argument similar to Michael Smith’s so that one can come to reject meaningful cognitivism. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Run Away from HistoryKazim Ali (bio)I’m at the tail end of this conversation but also at the tail end of history. Fanny Howe says five Black boys on a corner (any corner) are “runaways from history.” Meaning they are still enslaved. Still a slave. Tongo Eisen-Martin says, “I am arrested all the time for nothing.” And yet there is no white crime in America, statistically speaking, no police crime.When (...) a dog wagged its tail and approached Christian Cooper in Central Park a white woman began screaming. That is the mythic beginning of the end for a Black man: a white woman screaming. It doesn’t matter what laws apply to his body because Blackness is the first law. It happened exactly when George Floyd was expiring. I thought of his breathlessness when I read about Amy Cooper screaming into her phone in Central Park. “Cooper,” every newspaper found it necessary to mention, “is of no relationship to Cooper.”Floyd being pressed from breath is what Cooper in her brutal imagination wanted to happen to Cooper.Fanny is the mother of a novelist and a designer, mother-in-law of another novelist and a poet, aunt to a novelist, sister to a poet, daughter of an actress and a Pink Boy, mentored by a playwright called Beckett, mentor to an aspirant named Ali, who followed her from the Vineyard to the Western shore, as did the characters in her novels, obsessed also with understanding race in America, trying to understand what is the worth of a person.I saw Tongo Eisen-Martin recite his poetry twice, and each time—for twenty minutes or a half hour—he recited off the page, only from memory, no, not from memory, membery, but from breath. In breath his lines arose. I kept checking against the page because I thought he might be engaging in a more ancient practice of inspiration, but no, not that: the words were as inscribed. [End Page 139]What words inscribe laws on bodies? Old Western ones that began with the representation of wealth: value placed upon labor and bodies required to transfer wealth. But from whom to whom? One Cooper was looking for birds. But in Black life in America the most ordinary event brushes up against death. [End Page 140]Kazim Ali Kazim Ali is the author of numerous books of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and cross-genre work. He is professor and chair of the Department of Literature at the University of California San Diego.Copyright © 2022 State University of New York... (shrink)

“A flawless compendium of flaws.” —Alice Roberts, PhD, anatomist, writer, and presenter of The Incredible Human Journey The antidote to fuzzy thinking, with furry animals! Have you read (or stumbled into) one too many irrational online debates? Ali Almossawi certainly had, so he wrote An Illustrated Book of Bad Arguments! This handy guide is here to bring the internet age a much-needed dose of old-school logic (really old-school, a la Aristotle). Here are cogent explanations of the straw man fallacy, the (...) slippery slope argument, the ad hominem attack, and other common attempts at reasoning that actually fall short—plus a beautifully drawn menagerie of animals who (adorably) commit every logical faux pas. Rabbit thinks a strange light in the sky must be a UFO because no one can prove otherwise (the appeal to ignorance). And Lion doesn’t believe that gas emissions harm the planet because, if that were true, he wouldn’t like the result (the argument from consequences). Once you learn to recognize these abuses of reason, they start to crop up everywhere from congressional debate to YouTube comments—which makes this geek-chic book a must for anyone in the habit of holding opinions. (shrink)