This article aims to reveal the semantic dynamics of narratives on Rousseau in Kyiv academic philosophy of the 19th and early 20th centuries. through the separation of the informational layer from the rhetorical one in their content and the identification of hidden (unarticulated) elements that determined both the general nature of the narrative and the evaluative judgments of the narrators. Based on archival primary sources and printed editions (mostly bibliographic rarities), a historical and philosophic study of the narratives on Jean-Jacques (...) Rousseau and his philosophy of education performed, which were created and broadcast by professors of Kyiv Theological Academy and St.Volodymyr University Pamfil Yurkevych, Sylvester Gogotskyi, Markellin Olesnitskyi, Mykola Makkaveiskyi, Oleksandr Selikhanovych, and Vasyl Zenkovskyi. Keeping almost the same informational core, the narratives of Kyiv academicians on Rousseau differ significantly in terms of rhetoric. While the “older generation” goes into philosophical criticism of the pedagogical ideas of the Swiss thinker as the Stranger, the “younger ones”, limiting themselves to remarks about their controversial nature, represent him as the Self. This difference is due to both personal factors and institutional conditions for the development of Kyiv academic philosophy, as well as changes in the general political situation in the period of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. (shrink)

It is generally known that the influential Kyiv researcher, professor of the St. Volodymyr University and honorary member of the Kyiv Theological Academy Ivan Sikorsky made a significant contribution to the development of the psychological science of his times and gained great authority among his colleagues in the West. In recent years, many studies have been launched in Ukraine, whose authors are trying to demonstrate the relevance of his work also in terms of contemporary science. It remains unclear as (...) to when and how he was recognized in the West, which of his colleagues he influenced in his own life, how his academic achievements are now appreciated in foreign professional circles. Trying to fill this gap, the author of the paper created Sikorsky’s personal profile on the Internet platform “Google Scholar”. This Internet-based platform is regularly used to calculate citations of the contemporary scholars and publications. However, as it has turned out, Google Scholar may also be a useful tool for the historical research. This search engine collates information on almost all of the Sikorsky’s works, including those written or translated into foreign languages and published abroad. Despite the fact that Google Scholar identified and included in its own list not all of the existing references, it nevertheless helped to reconstruct a rather large and representative bibliography. Combining the quantitative and qualitative analysis of relevant information from Google Scholar as well as such tools as Google Books, Internet Archive, JSTOR, etc. helps to clarify and substantially expand the understanding of Sikorsky’s place within the history of science and the treatment of his works in the West. As it is clearly shown in the article, he became one of the brightest domestic representatives of the leading trends in the world psychology. A significant number of Western experimental psychologists of the late nineteenth and first half of the twentieth century were actively referring to his pioneering researches on the phenomenon of mental fatigue in children. It is also shown that the contribution made by Sikorsky to the development of psychology and pedagogy has not been forgotten by the contemporary researchers. (shrink)

У статті розглядається освітня та викладацька діяльність відомого історика та мистецтвознавця Григорія Павлуцького. Показано його роль у створенні вищих навчальних закладів в Україні - Київського українського народного університету, Кам'янець-Подільського державного університету, Київського археологічного інституту, Української державної академії мистецтв. Відзначено внесок дослідника у справу формування нової генерації українських учених і в розвиток вітчизняної вищої освіти.

In the article, the main lines of the research and educational cooperation of the linguists of the Bashkir State University and the St. Cyril and St. Methodius University of Veliko Turnovo are considered. The prospects of these contacts are determined by capabilities of joint development of the long-term research programs in comparative linguistics, sociolinguistics, cognitive linguistics, which can be implement as collective monographs, Ph.D. theses, textbooks of the Russian and the Bulgarian languages, dictionaries (including the multilingual dictionaries). A (...) program of the double diplomas in the specialized training of undergraduates ‘Applied Slavic philology (translation study)‘ as a new form of the cooperation is also considered. (shrink)

In the article, from the positions of the director (2006-2012), part-time chief researcher and member of the academic council (since 2006), national higher education reform expert (since 2009), the features of the 25-year history of Institute of Higher Education of the National Academy of Educational Sciences of Ukraine, which founded in the context of global, regional and national development of higher education, its quantitative growth and qualitative enrichment, efficiency of activity are considered. The stages and aspects of the modernization of (...) the institutional mission (goal) and the corresponding status and structural reformatting of the institution as a national leader in systematic research in the university sphere are highlighted. The most important fundamental achievements obtained with the author’s participation and relevant for the science of universities (university studies), that born in the institute, as well as for creation of leadership universities as locomotives of progress, are noted. With regard to European integration, the scientific support for the development of the European Higher Education Area according to the Bologna process, Ukraine’s participation in them, in particular in two key dimensions: 1) compatibility and comparability and 2) competitiveness and attractiveness, and the spread of international cooperation and communication of the institute’s scientists, are characterized. Regarding national self-identification and self-sufficiency, ensuring state sovereignty, the contribution of scientists of the institution to the justification of the principles of increasing the competitiveness of Ukrainian universities and the development of a strategy for creating world-class universities is shown. It was concluded that the research activity of the staff of the scientific institution is important for the approaching victory in the war started by the russian federation, increasing the defence capability and security, post-war innovative recovery and European integration of Ukraine. (shrink)

In the article, a little-studied question of the critical interpretation of the philosophical and psychological position of the representative of Scotland tradition James Mill in the university philosophy, especially in the work of Kharkiv Professor Fedor Zelenogorskii is presented. At first, the main periods of scientific and creative career of Fedor Zelenogorskii, including his studying at the Kazan Clerical Academy and the historical-philosophical faculty at the Kazan University are considered. Then his scientific internship from 1871 till 1873 in (...) Germany and Switzerland is emphasized. During that period, he attended lectures of such famous Professors as Moritz Drobisch, Eduard Zeller, Friedrich Albert Lange, who was the author of the work “Geschichte des Materialismus und Kritik seiner Bedeutung in der Gegenwart”. Then the features of the teaching and the publications of Fedor Zelenogroskii in his “Kharkiv period” are pointed out, during which he was, at first, private docent, then extraordinary and ordinary professor of philosophy. Fedor Zelenogorskii’s works at this time comprise three areas: 1) Antique philosophy, 2) works in the history of philosophy, for instance, Kharkiv university philosophy and Ukrainian philosophy, 3) logic, psychology and pedagogic. In the last group, his doctoral monograph “On mathematical, metaphysical, inductive and critical research and proof methods” was of great importance. Fedor Zelenogorskii’s very important work was his monograph “Essay of Development of Psychology from Descartes to our Time”. The positions of well-known philosophers and less-known thinkers were here analyzed. Fedor Zelenogorskii’s critical interpretation of the psychological viewpoint of James Mill in his two volumes work “Analysis of the phenomena of the human mind” occupies an important place in this analysis. According to him, Chapter III. “The Association of Ideas” of James Mill's work played a key role. James Mill appears here as a representative of associative psychology. The Kharkiv philosopher gave credit to James Mill for his contribution to the development of the causal law in Chapter “XXIV. The Will” of this work. In turn, Fedor Zelenogorskii’s important achievement was the popularization of the ideas of the Scotland philosopher and psychologist James Mill, in particular, because of his translation of extracts from the work “Analysis of the phenomena of the human mind”. (shrink)

In the article, a little-studied question of the critical interpretation of the theological position of the representative of German protestant tradition Otto Pfleiderer (1839–1908) in the eastern orthodox theology, especially in the work of Kharkiv Professor Timofej Butkevič (1854–1925), is presented. At first, the main periods of a clerical and creative career of Butkevič, including his studying at the Kharkiv Clerical Seminary (1869–1875) and the Moscow Clerical Academy (1875–1879), are considered. Then the features of the theological publications and the teaching (...) of Butkevič at Kharkiv University are pointed out. His important works were two monographs: The evil, its essence and origin (1897) and Religion, its essence and origin (1902–1904) in two books. The positions of well-known German theologians such as Karl August von Hase (1800–1890), David Friedrich Strauß (1808–1874), Karl Theodor Keim (1825–1878), Karl Philipp Bernhard Weiss (1827–1918), and others were here analyzed. But Butkevič’s critical interpretation of the theological viewpoint of Otto Pfleiderer in his two volumes work Die Religion, ihr Wesen und ihre Geschichte (1869) and in his Geschichte der Religionsphilosophie von Spinoza bis auf die Gegenwart (1883) occupies a central place in this analysis. In turn, Butkevič’s important achievement was the popularization of the ideas of Otto Pfleiderer in Russia and Ukraine, in particular, because of his translation of extracts from Pfleiderer’s works. (shrink)

The author presents the most complete bibliography of Ivan Mirchuk's lifetime book and press publications from 1922 to 1962, printed in Ukrainian, German, Polish, Czech, French, and English.

In this article, a little-studied problem of the critical analysis of the philosophical and logical position of the representative of German philosophical tradition Christoph Sigwart in the university philosophy, especially in the work of a Kharkiv private-docent Isidor Prodan is presented. At first, the main periods of the scientific and creative career of Isidor Prodan, including his studying at the Czernowitz Gymnasium and the philosophical faculty at the University of Vienna are considered. His teacher in Vienna was a (...) very famous German and Austrian professor Franz Brentano, the author of the work “Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint” and the founder of “descriptive psychology” and intentionalism. Then his teaching of logic and philosophy at the Gymnasiums of Kishinev, Izmail, Riga, Tartu, and Moscow from 1876 till 1900 is emphasized. Then the features of the teaching and the publications of Isidor Prodan in his “Kharkiv period” are pointed out, during which he was a private-docent at the department of philosophy. Isidor Prodan’s works at this time comprise three areas: 1) History of logic, 2) philosophy of common sense, 3) critique of Kant and Neo-Kantianism. In the last group, his work “The Truth about Kant ” was of great importance. His very important work was the monograph “The Cognition and its Object ”. The positions of well-known philosophers and less-known authors were here analyzed. Isidor Prodan’s critical interpretation of the logical viewpoint of Christoph Sigwart in his two-volume work “Logic” occupies an important place in this analysis. In turn, Isidor Prodan’s important achievement was the popularization of the ideas of this German logician and philosopher, in particular, because of his translation of extracts from the work “Logic”. (shrink)

Physical cosmology is one of the disciplines at the forefront of modern science. Using existing physical theories and creating own ones, it describes the dynamics and evolution of the Universe, transforms and modernizes the scientific picture of the world on the largest possible scale. The article analyzes the main presuppositions and outcomes of nowadays cosmology, which are based on fundamental physical principles (theories) and astronomical observations. It has been revealed that throughout its existence as a science (about 100 years), cosmology (...) stimulated the emergence of a plenty of worldview-philosophical problems. Therefore, we need a comprehensive update of the philosophy of cosmology, which can help to realize such problems. Given the need for cooperation between cosmology and the philosophy of science, we propose to use various methodological, ontological, epistemological and other philosophical techniques to solve philosophical problems arising in cosmological research, as well as to generalize the existing knowledge about the Universe. (shrink)

The article is devoted to I. Kant's views on the problem of war and peace and the possibility of achieving "perpetual peace" on the basis of the pamphlet "To Eternal Peace" and some other late works of the thinker. In particular, attention is paid to the historical background of the appearance of the work as a certain completion of moral philosophy and philosophy of law in the context of developing one's own project of "eternal peace" taking into account the solution (...) of specific problems of foreign policy at the end of the 18th century. The article examines a kind of Kantian "formula of peace", which claims universal significance. It is laid out in the preliminary and especially in the definitive articles of the imaginary contract. It is argued that it is based on three main principles: republicanism, federalism and the presence of a cosmopolitan citizenship limited to hospitality. These principles are complemented by the so-called "guarantees" of "perpetual peace": the progress of law and the spirit of international trade. The article analyzes apologetic and critical responses to Kant's work and its subsequent interpretations in European philosophy and political thought. In particular, special attention is paid to the interpretation of his work as a "pacifist manifesto". Based on this, it was argued that Kant was one of the founders of secular pacifism. The article reasonably refutes such a position on the basis of its anachronism and inconsistency with the views of Kant himself, who considered "eternal peace" only as a higher normative ideal of foreign policy. The influence of Kantian ideas on the formation of modern philosophy of international relations, in particular the theory of democratic peace (DPT), is indicated. It is indicated that the three main principles of Kant's formula of "eternal peace" found their embodiment in the postulates of this theory. At the same time, it is noted that the practice of implementing DPT in US foreign policy has not always had positive consequences. In this regard, the problem of its application to the analysis of the causes and course of the Russian-Ukrainian war is analyzed. There are different positions on this matter, but based on the latest publications and the real course of events. It is concluded that the "militant" version of DPT can be useful for achieving our victory and a just, fair and worthy peace. (shrink)

The author of the article, based on a study of the writings of intellectuals from the Ukrainian diaspora in interwar Czechoslovakia, primarily professors at the Ukrainian Free University in Prague (1921-1945), formulates some ideas and trends and defines the Prague period of Ukrainian political philosophy. This period is determined by the formation of a powerful centre of Ukrainian intellectual life in Prague, a kind of "Noah's Ark" of Ukrainian emigration. The Prague period of the history of Ukrainian thought in (...) exile is characterised by intellectual freedom of ideas and discussions, which is different from the situation in the postwar period. Among the main topics of discussion are the problems of philosophy of history and nation-building (national mentality, consciousness, national philosophy), problems of philosophy and theory of law, and discussions between modern ideologies. From the perspective of the history of ideas, the Prague period was a continuation of the history of Ukrainian centrism, the 19th-century Ukrainophile discourse that largely continued Drahomanov's ideas of "Hromadivstvo", combining classical liberal notions with an awareness of the importance of both Ukrainian national struggle and social emancipation. This calls into question the linear progressivist scheme of Ukrainian intellectual history, in which the period of "narodnytstvo/populism" is "dialectically sublated" by the modernist period, and "federalism" cedes ground to "independence" (according to I. Lysiak-Rudnytskyi), thus, the "Ukrainophile" stage of the development of the philosophy of the Ukrainian national idea has been fulfilled (in the terms of V. Horsky), and the Drahomanov's worldview had to logically surrender to the ideas of integral nationalism. The article challenges these evolutionist schemes and emphasises that the Prague period of Ukrainian intellectual history contains many useful ideas for the history of Ukrainian liberalism and centrism in general. (shrink)

Without exaggeration, learning problems are among the most complex and most controversial not only in pedagogical and philosophical science but also in other scientific areas. We are talking about the philosophy of education as a general paradigm of the organization and content of all that knowledge - scientific and non-scientific - that we pass on to pupils and students through education, about worldview values that are brought up, merged in the process of educational and educational activities, the certainty of the (...) spiritual world of the individual which is formed at school and university and determines her personal position, role and ways of behavior in postmodern society. Education is an important stage in the formation of the human soul, his spiritual world. Consciousness, like other qualities of the human psyche, results from education and acquisition of social experience. An important means of forming a person's consciousness is the educational system, which contributes to the spiritual development of a person. Since it is education that is that social institution, it performs the functions of preparing and including the individual in various spheres of the life of postmodern society and attracting him to culture. Human consciousness is the ideological foundation of aim and reliable knowledge. In this context, consciousness is the possibility and condition of the world, the individual can perceive and develop his spirituality. Education in this case is the most effective way to form a person's spirituality. Since, besides a certain profession, education gives a person the opportunity to spiritually improve himself. (shrink)

B a c k g r o u n d. The purpose of this article is to reveal the concept of philosophical cosmology as a new metaphysics based on ideas proposed by Gilles Deleuze in his work "The Logic of Sense". For this, it is necessary to get rid of the interpretation of philosophical cosmology as an exclusively philosophical-scientific discipline and begin to perceive it as a basic theory of order that can replace ontology. To implement this strategy, Deleuze turns (...) to the ideas of the philosophy of Stoicism. This choice is primarily due to the first concept of sense (lekton theory), as well as the doctrine of space (khora) and the living, renewable cosmos (palingenesia). The relevance of Stoicism is reinforced by the historical and civilizational perspective, where the emergence and renewal of interest in the Stoics' thoughts corresponds to periods of violent crisis. M e t h o d s. The hermeneutic analysis of the works of Gilles Deleuze, the Stoics and researchers of Stoicism makes it possible to include the concept of philosophical cosmology in the foundations of spatial phenomenology which is implemented in the topographic method of researching its main subject, which is the world, and culture in particular. R e s u l t s. In this way, the philosophical cosmology of Gilles Deleuze provides grounds for a better understanding of the cultural and intellectual situation of today, which includes information overload and the essential uncertainty of the prospects of civilizational development, in which culture appears more as a spontaneous performative formation than a logical projected system of valid norms and rules. C o n c l u s i o n s. That is why philosophical cosmology has applied value, as it responds to the spatial and performative turn in modern culture. (shrink)

The author describes the Cartesian way of solving the problem of the universal method in mathematics, in particular, the problem of applying algebra in geometry when it comes to the convergence of a discrete number and a continuous quantity. The article shows that the solution to this problem proposed by F. Viète is imperfect, since it introduces vague pseudo-geometric objects, and the geometric quantity is still far from an algebraic number. The author proves that Descartes' solution to this problem through (...) the use of Eudoxus proportions is based on such Cartesian epistemological principles as: the requirement of clarity and expressiveness of thinking; the idea of the central role of a holistic mathematical science; the idea of the existence of a simple and obvious nature of length as a basis for comparing all extended things; the elevation of the concept of ratio to the rank of a single subject of mathematical disciplines. (shrink)

It is a reasonable assumption that universal properties of natural languages are not accidental. They occur either because they are underwritten by genetic code, because they assist in language processing or language learning, or due to some combination of the two. In this paper we investigate one such language universal: the suffixing preference across the world’s languages, whereby inflections tend to be added to the end of words. A corpus analysis of child‐directed speech in English found that suffixes were more (...) accurate at cuing the grammatical category of the root word than were prefixes. An artificial language experiment found that there was a learning advantage for suffixes over prefixes in terms of grammatical categorization within an artificial language. The results are consistent with an account of language universals that originate in general purpose learning mechanisms. (shrink)

The importance of the topic of the article lies in the fact that in our time there is a need for innovation of the educational process, the use of innovations in teacher self-training is therefore important teacher self-education in a pedagogical context. The purpose of the article is the need to explore and substantiate the importance of teacher self-education in a pedagogical post-historical context. The article provides a theoretical foundation of the concepts of self-education and self-development of the teacher in (...) the pedagogical context the conditions of the effectiveness of self-education of teachers in the current system of education are highlighted; the structure of readiness for self-education of teachers in a postmodern society, as the present period of modernization of education, undergoing reforms of different parties, makes higher demands on the professional competence of teachers is presented. Today it will be obvious that society needs a constantly learning mobile teacher and his improvement of personal and professional qualities. It is important to note that the training of a teacher who meets the requirements of today's professional activity is continuous, not continuous only during basic training, but also during continuing education courses and self-study, because the knowledge and skills acquired at university are no longer sufficient to solve new school problems. (shrink)

Little-studied issues of miners' society organization is analyzed in the article. Role of miners' traditions and beliefs is shown in foundation and development mining. Influence of Cistercian's Order for beginning of mining was under consideration. Monastic organization and religious motivation of "White Friars" for mining were scope. Christian and professional traditions' influence on life organization of mining artelsand on formation special feature of miners' societies was reveal. Tutelar saints of miners were describe, particular - St. Barbara. Traditions and beliefs were (...) considered from the side of mining society's separateness, protection of miner's knowledge and experience from wide spread occurrence, it gave them special privileges. Question of tradition revival for modern professional and students' environment was studied. (shrink)

This paper suggests that lessons from the field of environmental ethics and sociological perspectives on knowledge are important tools for rethinking what type of ethical analysis is needed for building up further the field of development ethics and, more generally, for addressing some of the most fundamental ethical problems related to global poverty and development. The paper argues for a methodologically pragmatist approach to development ethics that focuses on the interplay between facts, values, concepts and practices. It views development ethics (...) as a hybrid between a public moral?political philosophy and a public conception of social science. Ethical analyses of poverty and development must lead to fundamental changes in the ways knowledge is produced and justified and must challenge the dominance of global institutions and orthodox economics as the single sources of expert knowledge for development. Two of the main tasks of ethical analysis is to provide tools for the formulation of alternative knowledge for development centred on the equal moral worth of all human beings, and to influence global policy making as well as multilateral institutions' goals and policies. The last section of the paper argues that Amartya Sen's version of the Capability Approach is already methodologically pragmatist and points to some convergence between Sen's work and John Dewey's. Further sociological and methodologically pragmatist analysis of the approach is needed to assess the ways in which it is influencing debates on human development and leading to policy changes, and the possible distortions it suffers when adopted by multilateral agencies and policy makers. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the international conference on Ethics and Development at Michigan State University, East Landing (USA) 8?15 April 2005. The section on methodological pragmatism draws from an unpublished paper written with Andrew Light called ?A Pragmatist Methodology for Development Ethics,? presented at the American Philosophical Association (APA) meeting in New York, December 1999. I have updated, transformed and used some parts and insights developed with Light in a way he may not recognize. (shrink)

Guillaume St-Laurent | : Dans ses récentes méditations philosophiques, Claude Romano soutient non seulement que la phénoménologie ne devrait plus être cartésienne, mais qu’elle ne peut plus l’être, car un doute universel serait lui-même foncièrement absurde du point de vue phénoménologique. L’objectif du présent essai est de contester qu’une telle réfutation phénoménologique du cartésianisme soit possible. En ce sens, nous soutiendrons que les arguments anti-sceptiques de Romano s’avèrent insuffisants parce que le doute hyperbolique est une possibilité de pensée qui, bien (...) que spéculative, demeure à la fois intelligible et plus radicale que toute description d’essence ou « réduction eidétique ». | : In his recent philosophical contributions, French phenomenologist Claude Romano maintained not only that phenomenology should not be Cartesian, but that it cannot be Cartesian because the very idea of a universal doubt would be utterly absurd from a phenomenological perspective. Our objective is to show that such a phenomenological refutation of Cartesianism is impossible. After reviewing the two main anti-skeptical arguments propounded by Romano, we will support a simple critical thesis : the hyperbolical doubt is an irreducible possibility of thought which, although “speculative,” remains nevertheless actual and more radical than any phenomenological description. (shrink)

Professional responsibility -- Social justice -- Professional development -- Actionable knowledge -- Expert knowledge and skills -- Strategy and artistry -- Professional effectiveness -- Critical social challenges -- Transformational practice -- Conclusions.

Our research addressed an increase of unethical practices in professional settings identified in the literature, and this increase coincides with a shift in U.S. culture from principle-based ethics to one trending toward moral relativism. We discovered many programs lack comprehensiveness to deal with the complexities of culture in graduate education. The purpose of this instrumental case study was to explore and develop a conceptual framework for a comprehensive teaching model targeting graduate-level educators, administrators, and educational boards across disciplines. Data were (...) collected over 13 years from a doctoral professional ethics course at a private, faith-based university in South Texas. Using a Design Based Research process following Reeves’ (2006) guidelines, we developed a multi-disciplinary graduate theoretical teaching model for ethics: Comprehensive Professional Ethics Teaching Model (CPET model), grounded in our data analysis and findings. Recommendations include implementing and testing the efficacy of the CPET model in subsequent studies. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:During my stint as a visiting scholar at St. Bonaventure University, I stumbled on two very interesting manuscripts that are not as well known as they deserve to be. I would like to make these two 'pebbles' more accessible to other scholars and to anyone who desires to approach this valuable material, which is preserved in the Friedsam Memorial Library.The First Manuscript: A "Handbook" for the Observant FriarsAt (...) St. Bonaventure University, I was working on the sources concerning John of Capistrano's polemics against the Jews and the Turks. To this purpose, I scanned the Ottokar Bonmann Archive at St. Bonaventure for letters, sermons, and treatises. At the same time I was working on the critical edition of Capistrano's La dichiarazione in volgare sulla Regola di san Francesco, which amounts to a vernacular explanation and interpretation of the Rule of St. Francis. It is one of the first vernacular texts of its kind, providing, in a few simple words, an explanation of the meaning of Franciscan spirituality. As its author is one of the "four columns" of the Observant family, it can, in fact, be understood as a vademecum for the Observants. My first impressions in this direction were confirmed and reinforced by looking at the manuscript Holy Name College, cod. 35, which is now preserved in the Friedsam Memorial Library of St. Bonaventure University .Chiappini lists three manuscripts containing La dichiarazione:1. L'Aquila, Archivio di Stato, cod. S.73, ff. 461b - 469b 2. Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale, cod. XII.G.5 n. 23. Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, cod. B.131, ff. 53r-66vBonmann found six other manuscripts:1. Rome, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana , Vat. lat. 13100, ff. 80r-94v2. Rome, Biblioteca S. Isidoro 1/68, ff. 244r-254v3. Rome, Biblioteca S. Isidoro 1/85, ff. 10r-24r4. Washington DC, Library Holy Name College, cod. 355. Zara, Biblioteca Paravia, cod. 1552, ff. 3v-13v6. Private collection of Giovanni PansaSince I have not yet been able to see the last two manuscripts , some questions remain concerning their actual contents. When we consider the Zara manuscript, for example, we notice that Chiappini claims it to contain on folios 3v-13v the Expositione della Clementina de Clemente V, sopra la regula de li frati minori, traslata ad litteram de latino in vulgare per lo venerabile frate Iohanni de Capestrano . Based on the similarity of subject matter and the use of the vernacular language, Bonmann inferred that this text included Capistrano's dichiarazione. The circumstances surrounding the manuscript in Giovanni Pansa's private collection present us with a real detective story. This Italian bibliofile described the manuscript for the first time in 1887, when it resided in a library in Sulmona. Pansa subsequently bought the manuscript and sold it in Rome before 1925 to the antiquarian bookstore of Ermanno Loescher & Company. Since then, the manuscript has disappeared without leaving any trace. All details concerning this story can be found in the work of Chiappini, who wrote that the manuscript contains the Postilla in clementina "Exivi" super Regulam fratrum minorum per sanctum Ioannem de Capestrano. This might be the same Postilla as that found in MS. 20 of the Capestrano library. Based on all this, I believe that Bonmann misunderstood Chiappini's reference.Thus far I have found one manuscript not mentioned by Chiappini or Bonmann, namely MS Roma, Biblioteca S. Isidoro, 1/87, ff. 66ss. Hence there are now either ten or perhaps only eight manuscripts available for the creation of a critical edition . One of these, as I have indicated above, is manuscript Holy Name College, cod. 35, currently kept in the Friedsam Memorial Library of St. Bonaventure University. As I had the opportunity to study this manuscript, I can provide a more precise description of its codicological properties and contents. (shrink)

This paper examines the role of love in Xenophon’s Cyropaedia. I argue that an essential aspect of Cyrus’ knowledgeable rule is a specific understanding of eros and a corresponding strategy to cope with the power of love. Specifically, I contend that by exploiting a common Greek distinction between the beloved and the lover, he articulates the view that lovers are subjects or even slaves to their beloved who deceive themselves into thinking that their attraction and the ensuing behaviors are voluntary. (...) Accordingly, Cyrus attempts to avoid falling in love and to rule as a universally beloved leader. Reflecting on the implications of this solution, I finally suggest that Xenophon wishes to show the limits of Cyrus’ solution. (shrink)

The problem of academic dishonesty is as old as it is widespread – dating back millennia and perpetrated by the majority of students. Attempts to promote academic integrity, by comparison, are relatively new and rare – stretching back only a few hundred years and implemented by a small fraction of schools and universities. However, the past decade has seen an increase in efforts among universities to promote academic integrity among students, particularly through the use of online courses or tutorials. Previous (...) research has found this type of instruction to be effective in increasing students’ knowledge of academic integrity and reducing their engagement in academic dishonesty. The present study contributes to this literature with a natural experiment on the effects of the Academic Integrity Course (AIC) at The University of Auckland, which became mandatory for all students in 2015. In 2012, a convenience sample of students (n= 780) had been asked to complete a survey on their perceptions of the University’s academic integrity polices and their engagement in several forms of academic dishonesty over the past year. In 2017, the same procedures and survey were used to collect data from second sample of students (n= 608). After establishing measurement invariance across the two samples on all latent factors, analysis of variance revealed mixed support for the studies hypotheses. Unexpectedly, students who completed the AIC (i.e., the 2017 sample) reported: (1) significantly lower (not higher) levels of understanding, support, and effectiveness with respect to the University’s academic integrity policies; (2) statistically equivalent (not higher) levels of peer disapproval of academic misconduct, and; (3) significantly higher (not lower) levels of peer engagement in academic misconduct. However, results related to participants’ personal engagement in academic misconduct offered partial support for hypotheses – those who completed the AIC reported significantly lower rates of engagement on three of the eight behaviors included in the study. The implications and limitations of these findings are discussed as well as possible future directions for research. (shrink)

From 1945 on for two decades, Father William Wade was Chairman of the Department of Philosophy at St. Louis University. This volume, a recovery of his own 1935 Ph.D dissertation, was originally written under the direction of Vernon J. Bourke, later himself a renowned interpreter of both St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas. In his dissertation, Wade displays deep understanding of relationships between Greek and medieval thought as well as of the different influences of Plato and Aristotle by way (...) of Augustine and Thomas. (shrink)

Carruthers, P. (2006). The architecture of the mind. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. 462 pp. ISBN 0-19-92708-9, £55/$99 (hbk); 0-19-920707-0, £25/$45 (pbk).There is much to admire about this b...

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)

The article re-examines the key debates concerning the relationship between the Russian factory-committee movement and the Bolshevik Party and Soviet state in 1917‐18. It does so with reference to a four-volume collection of documents in Russian on the history of the factory-committees in 1917/18 which first began to be published in 1927 and completed publication in 2002. Rather than the traditional totalitarian view of a movement which was cynically manipulated and dominated by an authoritarian party, what emerges is a much (...) more complex and dynamic relationship. The article in particular argues that the so-called bureaucratisation of the factory-committee movement after the October Revolution emerged out of the practical dilemmas faced by the committees in the economic chaos of 1917/18 and the factory-committee leaders’ own desires to promote a rational, planned alternative to that chaos. (shrink)