In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Fabuler la fin du monde: La puissance critique des fictions d’apocalypse by Jean-Paul EngélibertCyril CamusJean-Paul Engélibert. Fabuler la fin du monde: La puissance critique des fictions d’apocalypse [Fabulating the end of the world: The critical power of apocalypse fiction]. Paris: Éditions La Découverte, 2019. 239 pp. Print. 20€. ISBN 978-2-348-03719-1.Jean-Paul Engélibert is a well-established expert on apocalyptic and postapocalyptic fiction. His exploration of the genre thus far includes (...) the monograph Apocalypses sans royaume: Politique des fictions de la fin du monde, XX–XXIe siècles (2013), numerous articles, as well as the essay collection L’Apocalypse: Une imagination politique, XIXe–XXIe siècles (2018), which he co-edited. In his latest book, Fabuler la fin du monde, he returns to several texts and aspects of the genre previously covered, delving deeper into what he calls “fictions of the end of the world.” In the ten chapters, gathered in five parts, he approaches his subject as a seasoned scholar in the field of comparative literature, and his analysis draws from comparisons between modern fiction’s representation of apocalypse and biblical literature’s visions of apocalypse and messianism. The book also offers ecocritical insights into the specter of Anthropocenic manifestations in fiction, with reflections on the interrelated genres of utopia and dystopia, theories of cinema, and philosophical writings on the catastrophic history of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.The range of fictional works discussed is wide, including Jean-Baptiste Cousin de Grainville’s Le dernier homme (1805); Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818); Émile Souvestre’s Le monde tel qu’il sera (1846); Didier de Chousy’s Ignis (1883); Robert Merle’s Malevil (1972); José Saramago’s Blindness (1995); Antoine Volodine’s Minor Angels (1999); Don DeLillo’s Cosmopolis (2003); Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (2006); Céline Minard’s Le dernier monde (2007); Davide [End Page 163] Longo’s The Last Man Standing (2010); and Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy (Oryx and Crake [2003], The Year of the Flood [2009], and MaddAddam [2013]). Engélibert also touches on feature-length movies such as Stanley Kramer’s On the Beach (1959), Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011), Abel Ferrara’s 4:44 Last Day on Earth (2012), and Mamoru Oshii’s Ghost in the Shell (1995), as well as on other literary and audiovisual fictions, such as E. M. Forster’s short story “The Machine Stops” (1909), Edward Bond’s dramatic trilogy The War Plays (1985), and the first season (2014) of Damon Lindelof and Tom Perrotta’s TV series The Leftovers (2014–17).Engélibert’s exegeses of the genre build around two aspects of the evolving relationship of apocalyptic narratives to the context of their production. Apocalypse (in the sense of “the end of the world” rather than the etymological sense of “revelation”) is no longer primarily a religious myth: the creation and use of the atomic bomb during the Second World War, the theorization of the Anthropocene, and the mainstreaming of concerns over climate change have made the term “apocalypse” a very real, tangible prospect for the future. Engélibert relies on Günther Anders’s Die atomare Drohung (1981) to highlight the importance of the A-bomb in bringing home the reality of potential annihilation to people’s collective consciousness. Yet his second contextual/historical point is that the Anthropocene (albeit unnamed at the time) actually started with the Industrial Revolution, and that thinkers and polemicists such as Charles Fourier or Eugène Huzar, as well as contemporary fiction writers, were already acknowledging the environmental impact of humans and their economic/industrial/technological activity as threats to human and nonhuman life, and to the health of the planetary system itself.1Citing the work of Jean-Baptiste Fressoz and Christophe Bonneuil on the history of climate science, Engélibert analyzes in detail several nineteenth-century novels (namely Le Dernier homme, Frankenstein, Le monde tel qu’il sera, and Ignis) and one early-twentieth-century story (Forster’s “The Machine Stops”) that denounce the harm that the idol of the time, Progress, was already wreaking on nature and human life... (shrink)

Recently highly-efficient quantum engines were devised by exploiting the stochastic energy changes induced by quantum measurement. Here we show that such an engine can be based on an interaction-free measurement, in which the meter seemingly does not interact with the measured object. We use a modified version of the Elitzur–Vaidman bomb tester, an interferometric setup able to detect the presence of a bomb triggered by a single photon without exploding it. In our case, a quantum bomb subject to a (...) gravitational force is initially in a superposition of being inside and outside one of the interferometer arms. We show that the bomb can be lifted without blowing up. This occurs when a photon traversing the interferometer is detected at a port that is always dark when the bomb is located outside the arm. The required potential energy is provided by the photon even though it was not absorbed by the bomb. A natural interpretation is that the photon traveled through the arm which does not contain the bomb—otherwise the bomb would have exploded—but it implies the surprising conclusion that the energy exchange occurred at a distance despite a local interaction Hamiltonian. We use the weak value formalism to support this interpretation and find evidence of contextuality. Regardless of interpretation, this interaction-free quantum measurement engine is able to lift the most sensitive bomb without setting it off. (shrink)

A series of conflicts that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union culminated in the war in Ukraine waged by Russia in 2014. The international community was taken by surprise, and its reactions to the Russian aggression were often confused and inadequate. Even more confused and inadequate were the responses from global Christianity. Russian propaganda often renders the aggression against Ukraine as a quasi-religious conflict: a “holy war” against the “godless” or “heterodox” West. It would be natural, therefore, (...) for the Christian churches worldwide to loudly condemn both propaganda and aggression. However, in most cases, their response was silence. Such reactions came from most local Orthodox churches, the Roman Catholic church, and international ecumenical organizations such as the World Council of Churches. An exception was the reaction from the Ecumenical Patriarchate, which decided to grant autocephaly to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine. The article argues that the Tomos for autocephaly was, among other reasons, a reaction to the war in Ukraine. The responses of other local Orthodox churches to the Tomos also indicate their attitude to the war in Ukraine. These reactions have demonstrated a profound crisis in inter-Orthodox solidarity and social ethics. (shrink)

Experiments (E), computer simulations (CS) and thought experiments (TE) are usually seen as playing different roles in science and as having different epistemologies. Accordingly, they are usually analyzed separately. We argue in this paper that these activities can contribute to answering the same questions by playing the same epistemic role when they are used to unfold the content of a well-described scenario. We emphasize that in such cases, these three activities can be described by means of the same conceptual framework—even (...) if each of them, because they involve different types of processes, fall under these concepts in different ways. We further illustrate our claims by presenting a threefold case study describing how a TE, a CS and an E were indeed used in the same role at different periods to answer the same questions about the possibility of a physical Maxwellian demon. We also point at fluid dynamics as another field where these activities seem to be playing the same unfolding role. We analyze the importance of unfolding as a general task of science and highlight how our description in terms of epistemic functions articulates in a noncommittal way with the epistemology of these three activities and accounts for their similarities and the existence of hybrid forms of activities. We finally emphasize that picturing these activities as functionally substitutable does not imply that they are epistemologically substitutable. (shrink)

Learning grammar requires practice and practicing grammar can be boring. We examined whether an instructional game with intrinsically integrated game mechanics promotes this practice: compared to rote learning through a quiz. We did so “in the field.” Tens of thousands children visited, in their leisure time, a public website with tens of attractive online games for children during a 6-week-long period. Of these children, 11,949 picked voluntarily our grammar training intervention. Thereafter, unbeknown to them, they were assigned either to (...) the game or the quiz condition. By means of learning analytics, we examined variables related to participants’ persistence and performance. The results showed large participant drop-out before completing the first level in both conditions, confirming the boringness of the topic. More children completed at least one level in the game compared to the quiz. However, more children completed the intervention with the quiz. In the game, children answered fewer questions correctly and made more errors compared to the quiz. These findings suggest that even if a game initially catches user attention, it may not hold it. Plus, even if it is a minimalistic game with intrinsic integration of learning and playing, it may be distractive. We conclude that persistence in practicing grammar may be driven by other means than by a game’s shooting mechanics; for instance, by a desire to learn the topic and a feeling of achievement or by quizzing mechanics. (shrink)

Current artificial neural network or connectionist models of music cognition embody feature-extraction and feature-weighting principles. This paper reports two experiments which seek evidence for similar processes mediating recognition of short musical compositions by musically trained and untrained listeners. The experiments are cast within a pattern recognition framework based on the vision-audition analogue wherein music is considered an auditory pattern consisting of local and global features. Local features such as inter-note interval, and global features such as melodic contour, are derived from (...) a two-dimensional matrix in which music is represented as a series of frequencies plotted over time.Manipulation of inter-note interval affected accuracy and reaction time measures in a discrimination task, whereas the same variables were affected by manipulation of melodic contour in a classification task. Musical training is thought of as a form of practice in musical pattern recognition and, as predicted, accuracy and reaction time measures of musically trained subjects were significantly better than those of untrained subjects. Given the evidence for feature-extraction and weighting processes in music recognition tasks, two connectionist models are discussed. The first is a single-layer perceptron which has been trained to discriminate between compositions according to inter-note interval. A second network, using the back-propagation algorithm and sequential input of patterns, is also discussed. (shrink)

Background: Research has shown important between-individual variations in physical activity during the COVID-19 lockdown.Objectives: The objectives of this is study are to examine the individual, sociodemographic, and environmental factors related to PA during the spring 2020 COVID-19 lockdown in France and to explore the mediating and moderating role of intention and self-efficacy toward PA in the relationships between sociodemographic/environmental variables and PA.Design: In this cross-sectional study, participants living in France completed an online survey between March 30 and April 10, 2020.Method: (...) Minutes per week of moderate-to-vigorous PA during the lockdown; usual physical activity before the lockdown; and psychological, sociodemographic, and environmental factors were measured in the survey. Multiple linear regressions were used to investigate the role of these predictors on PA. Intention and self-efficacy were also examined as moderators and mediators of the association between sociodemographic/environmental factors and PA.Results: Usual physical activity before the COVID-19 lockdown, intention toward PA, habitat surface area, and controlled motivation significantly predicted PA during the lockdown. No mediating effects of intention or self-efficacy were found. Intention significantly moderated the association between gender and PA and the association between part-time work and PA.Conclusions: PA during the COVID-19 lockdown was mainly predicted by individual factors and notably usual PA. These results highlight the important role of habits in a highly changing context. (shrink)

This study examines the psychological contract between academics and their institutions during a time of great stress—the COVID-19 pandemic. Given that relationships between these parties have been found to be deteriorating prior to the pandemic, we believed it pertinent to explore how environmental changes brought about through lockdown conditions may have shifted the academic-institution relationship. Through a qualitative research design, our data is from 2029 women academics across 26 institutions of higher learning in South Africa. The major shifts in the (...) psychological contract were found to be workload and pressure, provision of resources, top-down communication, as well as trust and support. Whilst these shifts altered the transactional and interactional nature of the psychological contract, violation, rather than breach, occurred since the emotional responses of participants point to incongruence or misalignment of expectations between academics and their institutions during this time of crisis. We offer recommendations for rebuilding trust and negotiating the psychological contract to re-engage academics in the institution. (shrink)

The roles models play in science have long been recognised and sparked rich and varied philosophical debates. In recent years attention has also been paid to the computational techniques used in the sciences, and the question arose what the implications were of the use of computer simulations for our understanding of scientific modelling, and science more generally. This was the subject of the conference “Models and Simulations”, which took place at the IHPST in Paris in June 2006. Selected papers (...) of that conference appeared in a special issue of this journal (Synthese 169(3) (2009)). After the conference there was a general feeling that there still was much ground to cover, and so we decided to organize a follow up a year later. “Models and Simulations 2” took place in October 2007 at the Tilburg Center for Logic and Philosophy of Science (TiLPS) in the Netherlands. The conference was made possible due to generous financial support from IHPST (Paris, CNRS), Universitat de Barcelona, TiLPS (Tilburg Center for Logic and Philosophy of Science) and the Evert Willem Beth Foundation. The papers in this special issue were presented at the conference and selected after a double-blind review process. We would like to thank the authors and referees of the papers for their work, and Vincent Hendricks and John Symons for their support of the project of another special issue on models and simulations. (shrink)

What were the historical and cultural processes by which Cyril of Alexandria was elevated to canonical status while his opponent, Nestorius, bishop of Constantinople, was made into a heretic? In contrast to previous scholarship, Susan Wessel concludes that Cyril's success in being elevated to orthodox status was not simply a political accomplishment based on political alliances he had fashioned as opportunity arose. Nor was it a dogmatic victory, based on the clarity and orthodoxy of Cyril's doctrinal (...) claims. Instead, it was his strategy in identifying himself with the orthodoxy of the former bishop of Alexandria, Athanasius, in his victory over Arianism, in borrowing Athanasius' interpretive methods, and in skilfully using the tropes and figures of the second sophistic that made Cyril a saint in the Greek and Coptic Orthodox Churches. (shrink)

Cyril of Alexandria was a prolific biblical commentator who underscored the meaning and relevance of the Old Testament for Christian theology by employing a typological method of interpretation. His exegetical concern was to demonstrate that everything associated with the old covenant- people, events, commandments, institutions-were types and shadows foretelling the ‘mystery of Christ’. The key to understanding the types of the Old Testament is to recognize their soteriological fulfillment in the person and work of Jesus Christ. Throughout his (...) exegetical writings, Cyril draws particular attention to the Jewish rite of circumcision, showing how the physical operation signifies the saving work of Christ through the Spirit. Cyril does not interpret circumcision in a monolithic sense, but derives multiple soteriological meanings from it. Insofar as circumcision represents a variety of saving realities for Cyril, it helps us understand his complex, multi-faceted doctrine of salvation. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:BOOK REVIEWS 529 any agent qualitatively identical with S would do A in a situation qualitatively identical with S's" (257). (14) The " would " in the above statement is the " would " of Molina, and the author acknowledges that his theory resembles that of Molina (262). For a reader who cannot swallow Molina's "futurihles," a good deal of Leftow's argument falls apart. In the end, then, we (...) have here a hook that verges on the monumental hut that will he diversely judged-as is normally the caseaccording to the philosophic stance of the reader. Surely it is a hook that cannot he ignored. JAMES w. FELT, S.J. Santa Clara University Santa Clara, California Wittgenstein on Ethics and Religious Belief. By CYRIL BARRETT. Oxford : Basil Blackwell, 1991. Pp. xiv + 285. $44.95 (cloth). Since his editorship in 1974 of the volume Lectures and Conversa· tions: Aesthetics, Psychology, and Religious Belief, Cyril Barrett's name has been associated with the interpretation of Wittgenstein's views on ethics and religious belief. At last we have in hook form his comprehensive exposition of this important dimension of the philosopher's thought. Barrett ranges from the Notebooks 1914-1916 all the way to remarks in On Certainty that stem from only a few days before Wittgenstein 's death. In addition to placing pertinent remarks of early and late periods in the context of the relevant major works and their chief themes, Barrett also expounds and analyses such shorter, more explicit treatments of ethics and religious belief as the " Lecture on Ethics," the "Remarks on Frazer's Golden Bough," and the remarks collected in Vermischte Bemerkungen (Remarks on Culture and Value). The hook is sympathetic in tone-perhaps too much so. The reader quite often feels-as I will make plain in what follows-that Barrett interprets Wittgenstein in a way that obscures the strangeness of his thought, tending to assimilate it too readily to the mainstream of Western theological reflection. Barrett has a three-fold program: "to show that (a) what Wittgen· stein has to say on ethics and religious belief was for him of the ut· most importance, if not sole importance; (h) his views on these subjects did not radically alter throughout his life, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding; and (c) what Wittgenstein said about ethics was intimately interwoven with what he said about religious belief " (xiv). The elements of this program call for different sorts of evalua· 530 BOOK REVIEWS tion. Clearly Wittgenstein thought ethics and religious belief were im· portant. So the question is whether Barrett's claim, that for Wittgen· stein they are the most important elements of his work or even the only important elements of his work, is an exaggeration. Barrett takes as determinative such remarks as Wittgenstein's statement to Ludwig Ficker that the point of the Tractatus is ethical, and he must explain or discount the fact that the vast hulk of his work has little obvious hearing on ethics or religion. Or if the hulk of that work is ethical and religious, then these terms come to mean, in a Wittgensteinian context, something quite different from their senses in Barrett's somewhat domesticated reading. As for the third element in the program-the interweaving of ethics and religion-this, too, is a question of degree. And the question is whether Barrett's analysis, keeping as it does to relatively standard notions of what constitutes religious belief, really does justice to Wittgenstein's insistence that religion must he a way of life rather than a body of doctrine. But it is Barrett's second thesis which is most interesting, most difficult to understand, and most promising, if it is true, for helping us to understand Wittgenstein's thought on ethics and religion. Barrett writes: " Wittgenstein did not abandon his earlier views on ethics and religious belief with their attendant notions of the mystical, transcendental, inexpressible, viewing sub specie aetemitate.... (T) here is no compelling reason to assume such a radical change of view and... all the features of the earlier views can he fitted into the new conceptions of language-games and forms of life" (xiii). Can it he that what Wittgenstein has to... (shrink)

_ Source: _Volume 35, Issue 1, pp 32 - 52 In the 1630s, Grotius was engaged in extensive reading of patristic texts. From his involvement with these texts come the numerous and sometimes extensive quotations from patristic texts in the Annotata of De veritate religionis Christianae, which accompanied the work starting in 1640. Grotius was particularly interested in the apologetic literature of the ancient Church, which can also be seen in his correspondence. Strikingly, Grotius cites individual passages from texts that (...) had not yet appeared in print, which he could only have learned of from the circle of those who, in 1630s Paris, were working to produce editions of various Greek texts. The texts in question are Cyril of Alexandria, Contra Julianum, and the letter of Barnabas. Grotius had received a handwritten copy of the Barnabas letter, which he later bound into his notebook amid excerpts of patristic texts. This shows the high level of detail at which Grotius knew the patristic texts, and how he moved in the intellectual circles of Paris. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Explorations in the Theology of Benedict XVI ed. by John C. CavadiniJeffrey L. MorrowExplorations in the Theology of Benedict XVI. Edited by John C. Cavadini. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012. Pp. viii + 318. $30.00 (cloth). ISBN: 978-0-268-02309-6.Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI is arguably the greatest theologian to ascend to the chair of St. Peter in centuries. His theological output even prior to becoming pope (...) is staggering. It is thus fitting that an edited volume examine his theological oeuvre; there is a need for many more such volumes. The essays collected in this book were originally presented at a conference on the theology of Pope Benedict at the University of Notre Dame. Each contribution brings something insightful and unique to the volume. The book is divided into three sections: “The Dynamic of Advent,” encompassing chapters 2–5; “Caritas in Veritate,” encompassing chapters 6–7; and “God is Love,” encompassing the remaining chapters 8–11. The initial chapter-length introduction and the first chapter fall outside of this division because in many ways they set the stage for the entire volume.John Cavadini’s introduction (1–20) could serve as a useful overview of the theological work of Pope Benedict. Cavadini provides a preview of each chapter but also underscores the significance of Benedict’s theological work. He emphasizes how “one of Benedict’s major achievements is the demonstration of Augustine’s original insight into the unity of the theological tasks of understanding and of engendering understanding” (3).Cyril O’Regan’s very fine essay, “Benedict the Augustinian” (21–60), examines the Augustinian nature of Benedict’s theology. O’Regan maintains, “throughout his career Benedict not only turns again and again to Augustine as his theological model, but also... in Benedict’s self-understanding[,] the basic figuration of his theology is Augustinian” (22). This Augustinian texture to Benedict’s theology involves, among other things, his “real familiarity with and admiration” for “the classic” works of Augustine, his use of Augustine’s “theological style,” his use of shared themes, and the manner in which he consciously “articulates substantive theological positions” typical of Augustine. Moreover, O’Regan points to “Benedict’s sense that he is living in a time of crisis and senescence similar to that of Augustine” (21–22). Some of the similarities O’Regan observes in the theological work of Augustine and Benedict pertain to eschatology, the relationship between faith and reason, biblical interpretation, culture, the role of the liturgy, and the centrality of prayer. O’Regan’s essay is undoubtedly the best piece I have read on the importance of Augustine for Benedict.The thesis of Peter Casarella’s “Culture and Conscience in the Thought of Joseph Ratzinger/Pope Benedict XVI” (63–86) is that for Benedict, “the witness to truth is the key to seeing how culture and conscience are necessarily intertwined” (64). Casarella initiates his investigation with the pope’s critique of relativism. The first major section examines what he terms Benedict’s “theology of culture.” For Benedict, this has a moral dimension, and thus [End Page 493] Caserella spends the entire second portion of his essay looking at conscience and its formation in the context of culture. This is a very helpful essay that makes an important contribution to Benedict’s thought as it relates to moral theology.The late Fr. Edward Oakes’s contribution, “Resolving the Relativity Paradox: Pope Benedict XVI and the Challenge of Christological Relativism” (87–113), explores Benedict’s problem with relativism, but homes in on relativism in the context of Christology. Oakes argues, “the challenge of relativism cannot be met unless it is done first and foremost in Christological terms” (93), and he thinks Benedict does precisely this. Oakes’s overview of Ernst Troeltsch’s discussion of historical criticism as corrosive to Christology is enlightening:what most undermines Christocentrism is the historical-critical method, not so much because of the results arising from that method as from its very use.... Historical criticism... is marked by three key methodological principles: (1) the principle of criticism, that no historical document... can be taken on its own terms as automatically reliable but must... (shrink)

The emergence of Latin monks, and then the spread of the monastic orders of the Catholic Church in Rus-Ukraine occurred in the conditions of political-religious transformations of the nineteenth century. Acceptance of baptism from Byzantium did not mean separation from Rome. The Eastern and Western churches were still in unity at that time. The Pope remained the formal head of all Christianity. In 988, as the Nikon Chronicle attests, the ambassadors from Rome and the relics of the saints (...) class='Hi'>were brought to the Prince of Kiev during his march to Korsun. It was about the relics of St. Clement, the Pope, found by Cyril and Methodius in the same Korsun on his return from a missionary journey to Khazaria. Two years earlier, according to a chronicle, Vladimir had received ambassadors from Rome who had invited him to adopt Christianity in Latin. There are reports that Vladimir also sent ambassadors to Rome. (shrink)

In the history of the Slavic East, the word "philosopher" first appeared in the first great Oriental-Slavic work, known as "Chronicle." Nestor "or" The Tale of the Bereaved Years ". Ukrainian monk Nestor wrote this essay at the beginning of the XII century. on the basis of those older chronicles, which were written before him by Kiev chroniclers of Rus. In the Chronicle of Nestor "the philosophers" are called saints Cyril and Methodius.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:538 BOOK REVIEWS pressing my admiration for his work and for the wealth of sensibility he brings to the interpretation of a most difficult thinker. Anyone who is seriously interested in Wittgenstein's thought on ethics and religion should encounter the mind of Cyril Barrett through this volume. Hendrix College Conway, Arkansas JOHN CHURCHILL Faith and Political Philosophy: The Correspondence Between Leo Strauss and Eric Voegelin, 1934-1964. Trans. and (...) ed. by PETER EMBERLEY and BARRY COOPER. University Park, Penn.: The Penn· sylvania State University Press, 1993. Pp. xxvi + 368. $45.00 (Cloth). Those of us who have followed the development of Leo Strauss's and Eric Voegelin's thought with passionate interest over the years owe a debt of gratitude to Professors Peter Emberley of Carleton University, Ottawa, and Barry Cooper of the University of Calgary for presenting us with yet another opportunity to reflect upon certain well defined aspects of the thinking of these important political philosophers, and to confirm views that we have long held about the cordial relationship that existed between these two men, despite frequent reports to the contrary. Prefaced by an insightful "Introduction" by Emberley and Cooper, which almost constitutes a commentary on the correspondence, Faith and Political Philosophy is divided into three parts. In Part One, the editors present us with their English translation of the fifty-two extant letters (a few letters appear to have been lost) exchanged between Strauss and Voegelin during the years 1934 to 1964. (For the most part, Strauss and Voegelin corresponded with one another in German.) Because Strauss wrote most, if not all, of his letters longhand, the editors inform us that some passages from Strauss's letters were especially difficult to decipher, and that, on occasion, they had to have re· course to German-speaking persons familiar with the German academic idiom of the 1930s and '40s in order to make sense of what was said. Voegelin, it seems, also had trouble decoding Strauss's handwriting, and admits on one occasion to being unable to read the writing or make sense of Strauss's point. By contrast, Voegelin, we are told, was very much easier to transcribe, since his letters, although, on average, longer than Strauss's, were typewritten. Part Two contains four essays, two by each of the philosophers, on the relationship of reason to reve- BOOK REVIEWS 539 lation-a central theme of the letters, a theme that is explicitly addressed in the letters dating from the late 1940s and early 1950s, and tacitly present in much of the remaining correspondence that is of an academic nature. This theme also attracts the attention of all of the commentators in Part Three, and is plainly the source of the title for the book. All four essays are familiar to Strauss-Voegelin scholars, having been published in various venues. And, finally, Part Three is a collection of eight commentaries on the correspondence by recog· nized scholars, some of whom are frankly famous in academic circles and beyond (e.g., H. G. Gadamer, who, for my tastes, should have had more to say about Voegelin). These commentaries are generally of a very high quality, although curiously, given the theme, most of the commentators seem to be more attuned to modern reference points rather than to the ancient ones with which both Strauss and Voegelin were often in dialogue. The effect of this is particularly noticeable with respect to observations made about Voegelin. Voegelin frequently saw himself in debate with the fathers of the early Church (as his piece " The Gospel and Culture " bears witness), and unfortunately this is not obvious from these commentaries. Still, while exploring the im· plications of the positions taken by Strauss and Voegelin in light of their formally published writing, the commentators make many interesting and, ~t times, controversial observations about one or both of the letter-writers. In this brief review, we will limit ourselves to commenting solely on parts One and Three. This said, perhaps we might open with a general observation about the nature of the correspondence as a whole. As one might expect, the content of the correspondence between Strauss and Voegelin is by no means solely academic and... (shrink)

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

This paper explores the linkages between national identity and educational traditions, and the range and flexibility of the incarnations of tradition. It investigates in detail three versions of a specifically English tradition in education that have been generated at different times in England over the past century. These are Cyril Norwood's account of the English tradition in the 1920s, Fred Clarke's portrayal of education and social change in the 1940s, and the ideals of teachers' professional autonomy as they (...) class='Hi'>were articulated in the postwar period. In each instance the 'tradition' developed as responses to contemporary challenges and threats, and asserted particular images of the past to justify a given approach to present and future changes. These representations of the national tradition have thereby established sets of values and principles drawn from idealised versions of the educational past that provided guidelines for reform, and the direction and guidelines of change. (shrink)

The present essay is intended to supply amplification, and where necessary correction, to my previous article on Anaxagoras' philosophy. Since its publication important essays on the same subject have been written by Mr. Cyril Bailey and by Mr. F. M. Cornford, and the present essay is also an attempt to examine some of the theories put forward in them. There are one or two points which may be stated at the outset. The conclusions which I put forward five years (...) ago I still believe to be valid. Some of the presentation of the evidence, however, I now see to be misleading and inadequate, notably the treatment of Aristotle's evidence, which I now hope to deal with more fully, and to show that it lends even stronger support to my thesis. I should also say that my former use of ‘Elements’ as a convenient collective term to refer to the four Empedoclean Elements has proved confusing, since it was never intended to suggest that these substances were elements in Anaxagoras' system. I now refer to them by their names in full. (shrink)

This paper challenges the traditional notions of ‘Monophysitism’ and ‘Nestorianism’ or ‘The Nestorian Church’. With regard to ‘Monophysitism’, it argues that two interpretations of the basic ‘Alexandrian’ Christological formula of the ‘one nature of the God-Logos incarnate’ need to be distinguished. One, according to which the individual properties of the two ‘natures’ of Christ were lost and mixed, and which can, indeed, be referred to as ‘Monophysitism’ – in contrast to another interpretation which insisted that the individual characteristics of (...) the two ‘natures’ were preserved and the ‘God-Logos incarnate’ remained consubstantial with human beings (homoousios hēmin). This second approach might be better referred to as ‘Miaphysitism’. Similarly, this contribution suggests that it seems necessary to differentiate between what Nestorius of Constantinople himself taught and what his opponent Cyrill of Alexandria imputed to him. When analyzing Nestorius’ own writings, it becomes clear that Nestorius neither challenged the true union between the God-Logos and the ‘Man’ nor assumed a time in which the ‘Man’ existed prior to his unification with the God-Logos. Therefore, Nestorius taught no ‘Nestorianism’ in the sense in which Cyrill of Alexandria introduced it. Likewise, the Christology of the Apostolic Church of the East is based on the views of Theodore of Mopsuestia. It is not before the 6th century that representatives of this Church discovered Nestorius as a martyr for the ‘orthodox belief’ who was persecuted by the Egyptian ‘Pharaoh’, just as had been John Chrysostom before him. Because of its loyalty to the Christology of Theodore of Mopsuestia, it seems rather fitting to abandon the inappropriate title ‘Nestorian Church’ – a polemical title that has been pinned on the ‘Church of the East’ by its theological opponents from the 6th century onwards. (shrink)

Ukraine's ties with Rome have a long history. Along with such ways of Christianity penetrating into Kievan Rus as Byzantine, Bulgarian, in particular Cyril and Methodius, there was also Western European - Roman. The Apostolic Capital has made considerable efforts to convert Christianity to the people of Russia. Relations with Rome and Western Latin Christianity were maintained long before the baptism of Kievan Rus and continued unhindered until the Mongolian invasion. It is enough to remind briefly of contacts (...) and exchange of embassies with Rome by Princess Olga, during the reign of Vladimir Svyatoslavovich, Yaropolk, son of Svyatoslav, Yaroslav the Wise. (shrink)

Aristotle produced several arguments to vindicate the futura contingentia and to refute the conception of modalities which do not allow incidental facts. This conception was coined mainly by Diodorus Cronus and implied the view that whatever may happen, is to happen necessarily. Although Aristotle condemned this view and refuted the theology which it implies, Diodorean modalities were employed by the scholastics to support their theology. Abaelard’s Diodorean formula reads: God wishes no more and no less than what He is (...) able to do – i. e. God’s ability to do something implies necessity. In the Summa theologiae, Thomas Aquinas employed Diodorean modalities along with this result of Abaelard’s. Leibniz himself confessed his debt to Diodorean modalities as well as to the work of Abaelard in formulating his own ontological proof. Kurt Gödel was under the influence of Leibniz when he wrote his »Ontological Proof«, which employs Diodorean modalities. — For the Greek-speaking scholars of the Middle Ages, however, Aristotelian influences were stronger than Diodorean as regards theory building on modalities. Philosophers from the East from the 2nd to the 11th century A.D., such as Alexander of Aphrodisias, John Philoponus and Michael Psellos, condemned Diodorean modalities as fallacious. In the same period, Greek Church Fathers such as Cyril of Alexandria, Maximus Confessor and John of Damascus gave an orthodox account of God and the modalities, according to which God is able to do whatever He wishes. The absence of Leibniz-like modal ontological proofs in the Greek tradition seems more plausible under these circumstances. (shrink)

This paper examines reports of Eremya Çelebi Kömürcüyan (1637 – 1695) and Luigi Fernando Marsili (1679/80 in İstanbul) on three churches still existing in the late seventeenth century. Their topographical informations are compared with early pictorial representations of Constantinople/İstanbul (Hartmann Schedel, 1493; Giovanni Andrea Vavassore, c. 1530/50; Onufrio Panvinio, 1600; Pîrî Reis, 16th century; Franceso Scarella, c. 1686) in order to check whether the churches can be identified with those depicted here. The church of Aya Yani (St John) mentioned by (...) Eremya Çelebi must have been located south of the Stable Gate (Ahırkapı). Marsili describes a church near the Sultan’s stables and a further one inside the Seraglio Garden. The location of the stables can be determined using the İstanbul-view from Matrakçı Nasuh (1537). The church of Aya Yani and „the church near the stables“ must therefore be identical. In Schedel’s illustration, the church in the Seraglio is erroneously designated as S. Grovus, whereas on the Düsseldorf copy after Buondelmonti’s Liber insularum Archipelagi (1485/90) it is labelled s. Maria. The building can be identified with the church of the Theotokos of the Hodegoi Monastery. Regarding the church depicted on the vedute of Vavassore and Panvinio in the former area of the imperial palace, the thesis already established by Cyril Mango is maintained, according to which the remains of the Nea Ekklesia can be seen here. Little is known about the original form of the Nea Ekklesia, but there is evidence from written sources that it was erected above substructures with underground spaces that were open to the public. If the church that Eremya Çelebi saw south of the Stable Gate, while Marsili located it near the Sultan’s stables, can be identified with the Nea Ekklesia, as suggested in this essay, then considerable remains of the building must have been still present at the end of the seventeenth century. (shrink)

George Santayana published The Realm of Matter and The Genteel Tradition at Bay. He continued work on Book Three of Realms of Being, The Realm of Truth, and on his novel, The Last Puritan. Citing his commitment to his writing and his intention to retire from academia, he declined offers from Harvard University for the Norton Chair of Poetry and for a position as William James Professor of Philosophy, as well as offers for positions at the New School for Social (...) Research and Brown University. The deaths of his half sisters, Susan Sturgis de Sastre and Josephine Sturgis, in 1928 and 1930, respectively, were extremely distressing to him. Santayana and Charles Strong continued their epistolary debate over the nature and perception of reality and the problem of knowledge. The book also includes letters to Robert Bridges, Cyril Clemens, Morris R. Cohen, Curt John Ducasse, Sydney Hook, Horace Meyer Kallen, Walter Lippmann, Ralph Barton Perry, William Lyon Phelps, and Herbert W. Schneider. Santayana sent many letters with articles and reviews to journalists Wendell T. Bush, Henry Seidel Canby, Wilbur Cross, and John Middleton Murry. Discussion of his novel and continuing work on Realms of Being took place with Otto Kyllmann and John Hall Wheelock, his editors at Constable and Scribner's. Although Santayana now made the Hotel Bristol in Rome his permanent residence, he continued to travel in England, France, and Italy. (shrink)

The phenomenon of nationalism, which emerged as a result of modernization and industrialization in Western Europe, soon began to threaten the multi-lingual multinational feudal state structure of the Tsarist administration. Tsarist Russia, which wanted to preserve its borders and the existing state structure that expanded to the Caucasus and Turkestan, followed the assimilation and missionary policies towards the middle of the 19th century to Russify and Christianize non-Russian (Nerusky) and non-Christian (Inoverets) ethnic groups. At the beginning of this cultural nationalist (...) policy, which was carried out by Nikolai Ivanovich Ilminsky, who worked on theology and Turkish dialects in Kazan Spiritual Academy, in order to have Russian as a language of education and communication within the Tsarist borders. The education method of Ilminsky, supported by Tsar Alexander II, enabled the Russian language and Christianity to become widespread and more systematically applied as a reflection of the rising Russian nationalism. In line with this training method, it was aimed to carry out missionary activities, to teach Russian and Cyrillic alphabet alongside local languages, to divide these languages with accents and dialects and to make Russian a common language within Tsarist borders. Thus, the religious and ethnically different groups were wanted to be assimilated within the Russian and Orthodox Christian identities. This study examines the process of cultural assimilation policy carried out by the Russian nationalism through the education system of Ilminsky, the factors affecting this process, the structure and applications of this education system. Although the education system of Ilminsky did not reach its target within the boundaries of the empire, it was seen to be quite effective in Christianization of Tatar Turks, in spreading Russian among other ethnic groups and in terms of laying the ground for the subsequent Russification policies. The Ilminsky education system, which caused the start of a new phase in Russian nationalism, led to the emergence of nationalist ideas and intelligentsia among the ethnic groups exposed to this system The nationalist ideas spread among the ethnic groups exposed to the policy of Russification have enabled the establishment of new educational systems and the emergence of national liberation movements. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Virgil and the ModernsMichael L. HallVirgil and the Moderns, by Theodore Ziolkowski; xv & 274 pp. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993, $35.00.Theodore Ziolkowski’s Virgil and the Moderns is a wonderful book. Everyone interested in modern literature and the western cultural heritage should read it. Ziolkowski does much more than tell us about Virgil and his influence on modern authors and readers; he traces the Latin poet’s appeal from (...) the nineteenth century forward, focusing on different national trends and responses to the Roman past. His book is a veritable education in modern literature and cultural history.In the introductory chapter Ziolkowski situates Virgil in the twentieth century, with references to the Virgilian epigraph on the title page of Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams (1900) and the Virgilian motto to the first volume of Toynbee’s A Study of History (1934). Ziolkowski concentrates attention, in fact, on the appeal to Roman history in many early twentieth-century historians, and he explores the various European and American reactions to the bimillennial celebrations in 1930 of Virgil’s birth. Like the Bible, the Roman past seems to speak directly to a great variety of points of view: “Roman history, properly comprehended in its broad outlines, is and remains the best teacher not only for today, but indeed for all times”; thus opined the author of Mein Kampf.Ziolkowski’s second chapter, “The Ideological Lives,” begins by observing that “every biography is ideological” and quoting Duane Reed Stuart’s comment that “Every age has tended to fashion a Virgil after its own image.” Ziolkowski tests this proposition against the many “modern” biographies of Virgil that appeared in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, especially during the bimillennial celebrations. In Italy he finds Virgil described as “a Latin nationalist with conservative messages for the present on government and agriculture”; in France he discovers “a protofascist emerging from the bohemian life of the rive gauche of ancient Rome”; in Germany he encounters “an agrarian anima naturaliter christiana destined to become Father of the West in opposition to the rise of Nazism”; and in Latin America he sees that Virgil has become “an apostle of peace among the pagans with the providential mission to serve the generations as a pedagogue for Christ.”In the five chapters that follow, Ziolkowski shows that these various versions of Virgil’s life and influence resulted in a similar diversity of literary manifestations. In Europe, each country found a Virgil suited to its own preoccupations and prejudices. A rich and indeed overwhelming curriculum in modern literature could be constructed from the authors and texts Ziolkowski discusses in these brief surveys of works influenced by Virgil’s poetry. But although he is a deft literary critic, Ziolkowski goes further, to trace biographical and cultural influences. We discover, for example, that Gide was obsessed with the Eclogues, that it was the Georgics that Mr. Carmichael “liked to lie awake a little reading” in Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and that Joe Paterno’s first and most enduring hero [End Page 175] was Virgil’s Aeneas, “to whom he was introduced by his high school Latin teacher at Brooklyn Prep.”I confess that my favorite parts of the book were the chapters on Virgil in Britain and the “New World.” I thought I was a pretty good student of the classics and of British and American literature, but I am ashamed to admit how much I learned from Ziolkowski’s discussions of Virgil’s influence on Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, and Cyril Connolly, on Willa Cather and Robert Frost, on Archibald MacLeish, Allen Tate, and Robert Lowell. Ziolkowski is a treasure, and he has given us a rare treat in this very thoughtful study of the way our cultural inheritance is passed on and reaffirmed. As he himself remarks in the book’s final sentences on the ties that bind us to Virgil and our common past: “This reaffirmation, attained at the cost of great spiritual engagement by our intellectual predecessors, we neglect today at our peril.”Michael L. HallAlexandria, VirginiaCopyright © 1995 The Johns Hopkins University Press... (shrink)

A philosopher and a cognitive neuroscientist conversed with Buddhist lama Tilmann Lhündrup Borghardt (TLB) about the unresolved phenomenological concerns and logical questions surrounding “pure” consciousness or minimal phenomenal experience (MPE), a quasi-contentless, non-dual state whose phenomenology of “emptiness” is often described in terms of the phenomenal quality of luminosity that experienced meditators have reported occurs in deep meditative states. Here, we present the excerpts of the conversation that relate to the question of how it is possible to first have and (...) later retrieve such non-dual states of selflessness and timelessness that are unrelated to sensory input. According to TLB, a “pure” experience of consciousness contains the phenomenal quality of luminous clarity, which is experienced solely in the transitional phase from the non-dual state of absolute emptiness to the state of minimal emptiness, when the person gradually returns to duality. However, this quality of luminous clarity can also be experienced in non-minimal states as in the experiential mode of being awakened. TLB describes this transition as a kind of ephemeral afterglow in the form of a maximally abstract phenomenal quality, i.e., luminosity, which justifies the conclusion of having been in a state of “pure” consciousness. (shrink)

This paper is concerned with the relationship between paradigms of explication and the practice of conceptual engineering. It defends three interrelated claims: First, the predominant functionalist attitude in the present debate on conceptual engineering is due to its roots in Carnapian explication, which identifies the explicandum with a precursor concept. Second, alternative metaphysical paradigms of explication locate the explicandum in a part of a concept-independent reality (‘field explication‘, as I will call it). Third, field explication may be a better paradigm (...) than Carnapian functionalism for certain instances of socio-political conceptual engineering. In these instances, we adjust our concepts to more adequately capture differences in our concept-independent (felt) reality. To demonstrate this, I will contrast the metaphysical to the functionalist paradigm concerning the example of Heimat. [in German]. (shrink)

The Neo-Fregean view individuates concepts at the level of Fregean senses. It is an internalist view according to which concepts can be described as ways of thinking that imply classifications and epistemic/normative inferences. In this paper, I argue that the Neo-Fregean view of concepts adequately characterises the targets of conceptual engineering (CE), which I depict as the activity of purposefully changing our concepts in order to change classifications and/or concept-implicit inferences. I discuss and reject rival views that either reduce the (...) targets of CE to linguistic meanings or classification procedures or characterise concepts in a psychological or concept-externalist manner. I argue that the Neo-Fregean view is a more encompassing and adequate characterisation of the targets of CE. (shrink)

Cyril Smith shows that Marx developed a far richer and liberatory vision of humanity and the alternative to capital than that which has characterized his followers, and he makes a powerful argument that it is essential to return to Marx's original body of thought in order to reconstitute a viable critique of existing capitalist society.

La « théorie des deux noms », qui assigne la même fonction sémantique au sujet et au prédicat, est souvent considérée comme caractéristique de l'analyse occamiste de la prédication, et du nominalisme en général. On l'oppose à la doctrine de l'asymétrie du sujet et du prédicat, telle qu'elle a été formulée par Frege, et qui paraît caractéristique d'une forme de réalisme, ainsi qu'en témoignent Frege lui-même et les versions préfrégéennes de cette doctrine chez les Médiévaux, comme Thomas d'Aquin. L'examen des (...) analyses de la prédication de Thomas d'Aquin et de Guillaume d'Occam montre que le second, comme le premier, a soutenu une forme d'asymétrie sémantique. Les options ontologiques ne déterminent pas, sur ce point, leur philosophie du langage. The so-called « two names theory » which attributes the same semantic function to both subject and predicate, is frequently considered as reflecting the occamist analysis of predication, and as characteristic of nominalism in general. It has been opposed to the fregean doctrine of the asymmetry of subject and predicate, which seems connected with realism, as it can be seen in Frege's work, and in the medieval and pre-fregean versions of that same doctrine, for which Aquinas is a good example. But Thomas Aquinas and William of Ockham's analysis of predication do not show such an opposition. On the contrary, both have formulated a kind of semantical asymmetry, which is not undermined by their ontological commitments. (shrink)