A survey of consanguineous marriages in Japan was conducted on 1 September 1983, by questionnaires. The total number of couples surveyed was 9225. They were chosen from six widely different areas and the inbreeding coefficients from isonymy and pedigrees were estimated for each area. Random inbreeding remained constant with the marriage year whereas total (F) and non-random (Fn) inbreeding from isonymy and inbreeding from pedigrees ([alpha]) decreased with the marriage year in each area. Estimates of genetic microdifferentiation from surnames were (...) obtained; estimates of the reduced variance indicated low microdifferentiation (0·000014-0·000081) in five areas and a higher value in Fukue City (0·0004). The ratio of FST (the average within-group apriori kinship) to [alpha]-value ranged from 0·42 in Kawanishi City to 3·9 in Minobu-Cho. (shrink)

This study examines the influence of auditor-CEO surname sharing on financial misstatement and further investigates whether the above effect depends on hometown relationship and the rarity of surnames, respectively. Using hand-collected data from China, the findings show that ACSS is significantly positively related to financial misstatement, suggesting that the auditor-CEO ancestry membership elicits the collusion and increases the likelihood of financial misstatement. Moreover, ACSS based upon hometown relationship leads to significantly higher likelihood of financial misstatement, compared with ACSS without hometown (...) relationship. Furthermore, the positive relation between ACSS and financial misstatement is more pronounced for rare surnames than for common surnames. The above findings are robust to sensitivity tests on the basis of different measures of ACSS and financial misstatement, and my conclusions are still valid after using the propensity score matching approach to address the endogeneity concerns. (shrink)

Despite major advances in gender equality, patrilineal naming—children being granted their father’s surname—persists as a largely unquestioned norm in those Western countries with predominantly Anglo traditions, even in families where mothers retain their birth names. In Australia, when parents cannot agree on the child’s surname, the issue will go to a court or tribunal, to be decided by a judicial decision-maker. Apart from Jonathan Herring’s work in the UK, such cases have been little examined by scholars. This paper explores the (...) question of whether child surnames chosen by Australian courts—a supposedly neutral and objective third party—uphold patriarchal logic or provide more equitable outcomes. Using a feminist critical discourse framework, we examine five recent court judgments about child surname disputes, and six news articles about these types of cases. While these cases are not a representative sample, we find that, despite the existence of specific legal principles relating to children’s surnames, decision-makers’ judgments were inconsistent and subjective. Furthermore, mothers’ names tended to be granted to children when fathers were deemed to be ‘bad dads.’. (shrink)

À partir d’une enquête par entretiens menée dans la région nantaise avec des femmes mariées d’âges différents, on a pu mettre en évidence les évolutions qui se sont produites en l’espace de deux à trois générations dans la pratique du nom marital et le sens qui lui est donné par les femmes mariées. Il montre comment l’adoption du nom marital, autrefois automatique et vécue dans une relative indifférence, tend à devenir aujourd’hui un choix réfléchi et investi de sens pour les (...) femmes qui l’adoptent. (shrink)

La loi 2002-304 du 4 mars 2002, entrée en application en 2005 et portant réforme du nom de famille, permet aux parents de choisir, lors de la déclaration de naissance, de transmettre à leurs enfants soit le nom du père, soit celui de la mère, soit encore un « double nom », c’est-à-dire un nom constitué des noms de chacun des parents « accolés dans l’ordre choisi par eux dans la limite toutefois d’un nom de famille pour chacun ». Ces (...) nouvelles dispositions modifient le régime de pérennité du nom des femmes. Issu d’une enquête qualitative auprès d’une cinquantaine de personnes ayant opté pour le dispositif du double nom, cet article montre comment l’usage de cette nouvelle loi permet aux femmes d’éviter, dans le cadre du mariage, de choisir entre abandon de l’usage de leur nom de naissance et communauté de nom avec leurs enfants à laquelle elles sont généralement attachées. L’article étudie cette double pérennité onomastique non pas sous l’angle d’une possibilité juridique mais à partir de la situation de femmes qui la mettent en œuvre. (shrink)

Integrating the behavioral theory of the firm and agency theory, this study is the first to examine the antecedents of firms' choice to disclose low-quality accounting information from the perspective of performance persistence below aspirations. Based on empirical data of 31,326 firm-annual observations involving 3584 listed companies for the 2007–2021 period, we find that firms actively reduce accounting information reliability and comparability in the presence of performance persistence below aspirations. Furthermore, we find that CEO-CFO surname ties enhance the negative effect (...) of performance persistence below aspirations on accounting information comparability. Finally, we find that agency costs play a mediating role in the relationship that performance persistence below aspirations has with accounting information reliability and comparability. This study is the first to examine performance persistence below aspirations and accounting information reliability and comparability. Meanwhile, this study provides important insights for policymakers to improve the quality of capital market information and for shareholders to improve the quality of corporate governance. (shrink)

[Author note: There is a video explainer of this paper on youtube at the new work in philosophy channel (search for surname+deepfakes).] -/- It is widely thought that deepfake videos are a significant and unprecedented threat to our epistemic practices. In some writing about deepfakes, manipulated videos appear as the harbingers of an unprecedented _epistemic apocalypse_. In this paper I want to take a critical look at some of the more catastrophic predictions about deepfake videos. I will argue for three (...) claims: (1) that once we recognise the role of social norms in the epistemology of recordings, deepfakes are much less concerning, (2) that the history of photographic manipulation reveals some important precedents, correcting claims about the novelty of deepfakes, and (3) that proposed solutions to deepfakes have been overly focused on technological interventions. My overall goal is not so much to argue that deepfakes are not a problem, but to argue that behind concerns around deepfakes lie a more general class of social problems about the organisation of our epistemic practices. (shrink)

Le Code civil français, depuis juin 2013, permet aux couples de même sexe de se marier, d’adopter conjointement, et de recourir à l’adoption de l’enfant du conjoint. Malgré ces changements juridiques considérables, nombre de situations parentales sont difficilement prises en considération. Tel est le cas, par exemple, lorsque des couples de femmes recourent à une reproduction assistée avec don de sperme ou lorsque des couples d’hommes recourent à une gestation pour autrui, tous ces couples ayant élaboré conjointement le projet de (...) fonder une famille. Le choix du nom de famille et du prénom de leur enfant est alors une occasion d’affirmer le statut parental des deux membres du couple de même sexe. L’examen précis de quelques situations laisse entrevoir les pratiques spécifiques de ces couples mais aussi les différences entre couples de pères et couples de mères. Si les enquêtes disponibles montrent qu’en France les mères se soucient rarement de transmettre leur nom à leur enfant, les mères lesbiennes y portent au contraire une grande attention et vont même jusqu’à quelquefois donner en premier le nom de la mère non biologique. Les familles qu’elles composent ont ceci de particulier qu’à condition que l’état civil le leur permette, elles favorisent la transmission des noms féminins. (shrink)

The take-over of the philosophy of mathematics by mathematical logic is not complete. The central problems examined in this book lie in the fringe area between the two, and by their very nature will no doubt continue to fall partly within the philosophical re mainder. In seeking to treat these problems with a properly sober mixture of rhyme and reason, I have tried to keep philosophical jargon to a minimum and to avoid excessive mathematical compli cation. The reader with a (...) philosophical background should be familiar with the formal syntactico-semantical explications of proof and truth, especially if he wishes to linger on Chapter 1, after which it is easier philosophical sailing; while the mathematician need only know that to "explicate" a concept consists in clarifying a heretofore vague notion by proposing a clearer (sometimes formal) definition or formulation for it. More seriously, the interested mathematician will find occasional recourse to EDWARD'S Encyclopedia of Philos ophy (cf. bibliography) highly rewarding. Sections 2. 5 and 2. 7 are of interest mainly to philosophers. The bibliography only contains works referred to in the text. References are made by giving the author's surname followed by the year of publication, the latter enclosed in parentheses. When the author referred to is obvious from the context, the surname is dropped, and even the year of publication or "ibid. " may be dropped when the same publication is referred to exclusively over the course of several paragraphs. (shrink)

Le Code civil français, depuis juin 2013, permet aux couples de même sexe de se marier, d’adopter conjointement, et de recourir à l’adoption de l’enfant du conjoint. Malgré ces changements juridiques considérables, nombre de situations parentales sont difficilement prises en considération. Tel est le cas, par exemple, lorsque des couples de femmes recourent à une reproduction assistée avec don de sperme ou lorsque des couples d’hommes recourent à une gestation pour autrui, tous ces couples ayant élaboré conjointement le projet de (...) fonder une famille. Le choix du nom de famille et du prénom de leur enfant est alors une occasion d’affirmer le statut parental des deux membres du couple de même sexe. L’examen précis de quelques situations laisse entrevoir les pratiques spécifiques de ces couples mais aussi les différences entre couples de pères et couples de mères. Si les enquêtes disponibles montrent qu’en France les mères se soucient rarement de transmettre leur nom à leur enfant, les mères lesbiennes y portent au contraire une grande attention et vont même jusqu’à quelquefois donner en premier le nom de la mère non biologique. Les familles qu’elles composent ont ceci de particulier qu’à condition que l’état civil le leur permette, elles favorisent la transmission des noms féminins. (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)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Mechanisms of Violent Retribution in Chinese Hell Narratives Charles D. Orzech University ofNorth Carolina Greensboro Ai! The criminals in this hell have all had their eyes dug out and the fresh blood flows [from them], and each of them cries out, their two hands pressing their bloody eye-sockets—truly pitiful! To the left a middle-aged person is just having an eye pulled out by one of the shades; he struggles (...) unceasingly, screaming; his left eye has already been extracted... (56b) Ai-yah!... Each of the criminals is bound to a an iron pillar and the ox-headed demons are in the process of administering punishment—using iron or copper blades they peel the skin of the person's face, just as a butcher kills a pig and then flays it. Each of the criminal ghosts screams in pain... (59b) The criminal ghost's hands are bound about an iron pillar which is entirely red [with heat] and the criminal ghost's two hands are entirely cooked and it is unbearable... (126a) Record ofA Journey to Hell These passages are found, not in some medieval description of hell, nor in a work for sadists, but in a modern and quite popular Chinese "good book" (shan-shu) titled Record ofA Journey to Hell (Ti-yu yu-chi). Record ofA Journey to Hell is the most recent work of a genre which emerged in tenthcentury China and which may be found throughout Asia from Vietnam to Japan. This persistent fascination with gruesome scenes of torture stands in striking contrast to Michel Foucault's observations that by the first quarter of the nineteenth century "punishment had gradually ceased to be a spectacle" in Europe (9). In Record ofA Journey to Hell we are not faced with a seachange in the discourse and practice of a society. Rather, we must come to 112Charles D. Orzech grips with and seek to understand the persistence of images oftorture as well as actual torture and public execution in some modern Chinese societies. The Chinese hells—more properly purgatories, as punishment there is not eternal—are a product of cultural adaptation and interaction. Before the first century of our era we have evidence of only the most attenuated notions of the underworld, a "yellow springs" (huang-yiian) where "all, good and bad, huddled together in darkness being guarded jealously by the god of the Soil who ended by devouring them" (Thompson 29). The ruling elite avoided this fate through elaborate ancestral ritual indexed by the possession of a surname. Social status was, from the earliest times, "inscribed" on tablets which gave visible form to both social and cosmological hierarchies (Li 247-54). However, the rise of the Taoist Celestial Masters movement (T'ien-shih tao, second century) with its heavenly and infernal bureaucracies soon coupled with newly imported Indian Buddhist descriptions of the workings of karma and the hells. The result of this amalgam is the popular Chinese vision of the underworld as a vast bureaucracy centered on ten "courts," and headed by Yama, the South Asian lord of the dead (Seidel). At death the soul is summoned before the lords of hell who administer punishments appropriate to the misdeeds of the soul. After almost interminable periods of suffering, often in all of the hells in succession, the soul is reborn as a human, an animal, or even an insect, to start the whole process again. By the tenth century this distinctly Chinese version ofthe underworld had found wide dissemination and was the framework for worship and ritual directed to the recently dead.18 Unlike the South Asian prototypes, Chinese hells appear to be modeled on the imperial bureaucracy and administered by a hellish staff. The "court" layout often major and numerous subsidiary hells mimics Chinese palace and temple architecture and is quite distinct from the mandala-like layout found in "orthodox" Buddhist prototypes. Taoist priests, Buddhist monks and nuns, and a variety of folk practitioners and mediums act as intermediaries between this world and the other. They grease the wheels of the bureaucracy with their ritual knowledge and with community offerings to obtain release for imprisoned souls. Knowledge of the workings of the underworld is, according... (shrink)

Starting from the various ways in which the name of James Joyce is evoked in Cixous's critical books and essays, I sketch her unique position as a writer between psychoanalysis and philosophy. If James Joyce's last name can be translated as ‘Freud’ in German, if his first name can be variously Jim, James or even Jacques, then we may translate him into French as Jacques Joyeux. Taking my cue from varying strategies of address deployed in The (...) Exile of James Joyce, I conclude by calling upon my own father, another Jacques, to provide a vignette that aims at replacing Joyce's gnomon between the psychoanalytic symptom and the deconstruction of the letter by the postcard. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:XY/XOLianne SimonAs a boy child I might once have thrived, but the loss of a Y chromosome in one of the first few cell divisions left me a faie half–girl struggling for life—like some changeling left in place of a human baby. My genetic mosaic of XY and XO cell lines created a fetal legacy of Turner Syndrome medical issues. Among these were delayed growth, a largely absent puberty, (...) and micrognathia—a small jaw that feminized my face. [End Page E11]At two I weighed just eighteen pounds. My parents worried they might lose their little boy, I was that frail. All I knew was I was the smallest of my peer group and had a cute pixie face. I imagined myself a high–spirited elfin princess, but was in truth shy—almost timid—and prone to tears.I first responded to the Gospel at vacation Bible school. One of the women there read me Bible stories. I didn’t understand them all, but I wanted to love Jesus and be a good girl.At nine I was the size of a 6–year–old. By then I’d started growing faster, so my mother stopped taking me to the doctors. I didn’t see one again until an emergency appendectomy in college.Fifth grade brought surprises. Jim melted my heart with his Beatles love songs and cute smile. I dreamed of being his bride. Karen was the first classmate ever shorter than me. We were best friends, but one day the principal said I should play softball with the boys instead of hopscotch with her.My parents allowed me dolls and tea sets, even an Easy–Bake oven. But wearing my sister’s clothes triggered a sad–eyed lecture—boys didn’t do such things. No dresses. No talking with my hands. No long hair. And no crushes on boys.If I prayed hard enough, if I was really good, maybe God would make me a real boy—tall and strong, fast and agile—like my older brother. Two years later, puberty cracked my high–pitched squeal of a voice and sent it sliding down to a mellower soprano. I grew taller, but didn’t get muscles or body hair, and I remained hopelessly uncoordinated. An inguinal hernia kept me from running very far.High school turned my prayers into pleas for mercy. I despaired of ever fitting in. Some Christians might not have welcomed a feminine boy, but the pastor of our Southern Baptist mission considered me one more sinner in need of the saving grace of a forgiving God. He led me to faith in Christ. As a new believer, I assumed I could be a boy for real. Maybe even find a girlfriend. Instead, the mask that allowed me to function socially crumbled, leaving me no place to hide.In the spring of 1970, I registered for the draft. Me fighting in Vietnam seemed a real possibility. Or at least spending time in prison for refusing induction. Except that a delicate intersex kid would never have passed the physical. Nearly perfect SAT scores won me a scholarship to Miami, so I left a supportive home in Illinois for a boys’ dorm in south Florida.My surname then was Klett. The worst of the guys called me Clit, or sometimes Clitoris. Others derided my small size and lack of virility. One propositioned me. Another used to pin me to my bed and lie on top of me until I quit struggling. Though he stopped each time I surrendered, my defenses lay in ruin.A few of the boys were nice. David took me for long rides on his motorcycle, with my arms wrapped tight around his waist. He treated me with gentle kindness and asked nothing in return.To escape the dorm, I studied in the library stacks, where only honors and graduate students were allowed. The next year I found a derelict building where the university stored old theatrical sets. It even had a quiet place to sit in the sun. Best of all—nobody ever went there.One day my imagination wandered through the wardrobe. What would I have worn... (shrink)

An important challenge in bilingualism research is to understand the mechanisms underlying sentence processing in a second language and whether they are comparable to those underlying native processing. Here, we focus on verb-particle constructions (VPCs) that are among the most difficult elements to acquire in L2 English. The verb and the particle form a unit, which often has a non-compositional meaning (e.g., look up or chew out), making the combined structure semantically opaque. However, bilinguals with higher levels of English proficiency (...) can develop a good knowledge of the semantic properties of verb-particle constructions (Blais and Gonnerman, 2013). A second difficulty is that in a sentence context, the particle can be shifted after the direct object of the verb, (e.g., The professor looked it up). The processing is more challenging when the object is long (e.g. The professor looked the student’s last name up.). This shifted structure favors syntactic processing at the expense of VPC semantic processing. We sought to determine whether or not bilinguals’ reading time (RT) patterns would be similar to those observed for native monolinguals (Gonnerman and Hayes, 2005) when reading VPCs in sentential contexts. French-English bilinguals were tested for English language proficiency, working memory and explicit VPC semantic knowledge. During a self-paced reading task, participants read 78 sentences with verb-particle constructions that varied according to parameters that influence native speakers’ reading dynamics: verb-particle transparency, particle adjacency and length of the object noun phrase (NP; 2, 3, or 5 words). RTs in a critical region that included verbs, NPs and particles were measured. Results revealed that RTs were modulated by participants’ English proficiency, with higher proficiency associated with shorter RTs. Examining participants’ explicit semantic knowledge of VPCs and working memory, only readers with more native-like knowledge of VPCs and a high working memory presented RT patterns that were similar to those of monolinguals. Therefore, given the necessary lexical and computational resources, bilingual processing of novel structures at the syntax-semantics interface follows the principles influencing native processing. The findings are in keeping with theories that postulate similar representations and processing in L1 and L2 modulated by processing difficulty. (shrink)

Ludwig Wittgenstein was born on 26 April 1889, the eighth and youngest child of one of the wealthiest and most remarkable families of Habsburg Vienna. Though Karl Wittgenstein was brought up in the Protestant faith, and though, by the time Ludwig was born, the family had long ceased to identify themselves as members of the Jewish community, the family was originally Jewish. The founder of the family fortunes was Moses Maier, Karl's grandfather and Ludwig's great‐grandfather, who was a land agent (...) for the aristocratic Wittgenstein family. After the Napoleonic decree of 1808, which demanded that Jews adopt a surname, Moses Maier took the name of his employer. Wittgenstein may well have been led to read Hertz by reading Boltzmann's Populare Schriften, a collection of his more popular lectures that was published in 1905. From 1926 to 1928 Wittgenstein lived in Vienna and worked, astonishingly, as an architect. (shrink)

According to a well-established opinion, the theological writer Niketas Stethatos († ca 1090) had received his surname “the Brave” due to his courageous criticism of the amorous adventures of Constantine IX. In fact, Stethatos is a family name and means “with a broad chest”.

Stanislav Orikhovsky - one of the most prominent Latin-speaking Ukrainian-Polish humanists of the first half of the 16th century. For a long time he was known almost exclusively as a Polish figure. We now have every reason to include him in our culture, above all because he was a conscious Ukrainian - he invariably added the term "Ukrainian" to his last name. this is frankly stated ". In Western Europe it was called "Ukrainian Demosthenes" and "modern Cicero." His (...) teachers were famous figures of the time: the German humanist Melanchthon and the reformer Martin Luther - in the latter's house he even lived during his studies. Many prominent people of that time in Italy and Poland also had the honor of communicating with him. (shrink)

When I first began to study philosophy I was introduced to the discipline in that magically traditional way by being assured that what lay before me was the love of wisdom. Why this had any adolescent appeal still puzzles me, but, like many others, I joined in as spectator to and occasionally as a removed participant in all the rough and tumble of a Socratic sparring match in the Athenian marketplace. There was some talk of wisdom, to be sure, which (...) seemed to link it with a humble admission of ignorance or a pitch against yielding to temptation, but neither was ever deeply revealing. I waited for more. My next encounter a few years later turned up little more than the surname of an English disciple of Wittgenstein. Somehow the trail had gone to brush, despite the apparent health and energy of philosophy. (shrink)

This study aims to identify various meanings of the expression (name) “dignity”, with particular emphasis on the meanings of this expression as it appears in the text of the Constitution of the Republic of Poland. The meaning of the name “dignity” is the concept of dignity; in turn, the different concepts of dignity encompass dignity of particular types. Twelve different meanings of the expression “dignity” are indicated – twelve different concepts of dignity, and thus twelve types of dignity. (...) Half of them are meanings (concepts) that recognize dignity as something belonging to a human being as a subject of law. They were considered in the essay Godność jako właściwość osoby. Typy godności – propozycja systematyzacji [Dignity as a Quality of Person – a Proposed Systematisation]. This group of meanings includes three concepts of dignity which recognize dignity as something constitutive of being a person: (1) inherent dignity of the person, (2) dignity established by qualities specific to a thinking being, and (3) dignity as a historically emergent social status of all human beings. The second group of meanings, treating dignity as something with which the human being (the person) is endowed, includes concepts which encompass (4) personal dignity (honour and good reputation), (5) dignity as moral excellence, and (6) dignity as appropriateness of attitude or behaviour. -/- Dignity as an attribute of collective entities and dignity as an institutionally grounded attribute are a subject of this paper. The Constitution of the Republic of Poland speaks of (1) the dignity of the Nation, (2) the dignity of office or function, and (3) public dignity. The expression “the dignity of the Nation” can be understood in four different ways: (i) analogously to the understanding of dignity of the person, (ii) of personal dignity, (iii) of dignity as moral excellence, and (iv) of dignity as appropriateness of attitude or behaviour. The expression “dignity” when designating something institutionally grounded can designate (4) the dignity of social roles, (5) the dignity of a profession, and – specifically to the Polish language – (6) dignity meaning a surname. -/- The author argues that it is unacceptable to ascribe different concepts of dignity to the expression “dignity” appearing in a specific legal provision. (shrink)

An article by Melissa Gymrek and colleagues, published this January in Science, described how the researchers used surname inferences from commercial genealogy databases and Internet searches to deduce the identity of nearly fifty research participants whose supposedly private data were stored in large, publicly available datasets. This news comes just months after the Presidential Commission for the Study of Bioethical Issues published a report that expressed serious concerns about personal privacy and security in whole genome sequencing. The bioethics commission (on (...) which we serve as chair and vice‐chair) highlighted the importance of reconciling the enormous public benefits anticipated from research in this area with the potential risks to individuals’ privacy, and it offered several policy proposals to help balance the potential of scientific progress with privacy and respect for persons. The human subjects research protections laid out in the federal regulations are triggered by the identifiability of data. The participants in the Gymrek et al. study were not “readily identifiable”; however, the data proved far more easily identifiable than expected. With rapidly evolving technology, a precise definition of that notion may be impossible. But if we move the debate from the rhetoric of identifiability to the ethical principles of public beneficence and the centrality of respecting all persons, we find that the real ethical focus must be on promoting generalizable progress while at all times respecting individual privacy. (shrink)

"Dignity as a Quality of Person: Types of Dignity – a Proposed Systematisation" This study aims to identify various meanings of the expression (name) “dignity”, with particular emphasis on the meanings of the expression as it appears in the text of the Constitution of the Republic of Poland. The meaning of the name “dignity” is the concept of dignity; in turn, the concept of dignity encompasses dignity of particular types. Twelve different meanings of the expression “dignity” are indicated (...) – twelve different concepts of dignity, and thus twelve types of dignity. Half of them are meanings (concepts) that recognize dignity as something belonging to a human being as a subject of law, and this essay is devoted to this group of meanings. This group of meanings includes three concepts of dignity which encompass dignity as something constitutive of being a person: (1) inherent dignity of the person, (2) dignity established by qualities specific to a thinking being, and (3) dignity as a historically emergent social status of all human beings. Only the first of these three concepts of dignity is adequate to the interpretation of the preamble and art. 30 of the Polish Constitution. The second group of meanings, treating dignity as something with which the human being is endowed, includes concepts which encompass (4) personal dignity (honour and good reputation), (5) dignity as moral excellence, and (6) dignity as appropriateness of attitude or behaviour. The other half of the meanings take dignity as something that belongs to something. These meanings will be considered in the forthcoming essay Godność jako cecha podmiotów zbiorowych i godność jako cecha ugruntowana instytucjonalnie. Typy godności – propozycja systematyzacji [Dignity as an Attribute of Collective Entities and Dignity as an Institutionally Grounded Attribute: Types of Dignity – a Proposed Systematisation]. The Constitution of the Republic of Poland speaks of (1) the dignity of the Nation, (2) the dignity of office or function, and (3) public dignity. The expression “dignity” when designating something belonging to something can also designate (4) the dignity of social status based on belonging to a social group, (5) the dignity of a profession, and – specifically to the Polish language – (6) dignity meaning a surname. The author argues that it is unacceptable to ascribe different concepts of dignity to the expression “dignity” appearing in a specific legal provision. STRESZCZENIE Opracowanie zmierza do identyfikacji różnych znaczeń wyrażenia (nazwy) „godność”, ze szczególnym uwzględnieniem znaczeń tego wyrażenia występującego w tekście Konstytucji RP. Znaczeniem nazwy „godność” jest pojęcie godności; z kolei pojęcie godności ujmuje samą godność danego typu. Wskazanych zostaje dwanaście różnych znaczeń wyrażenia „godność” – dwanaście różnych pojęć godności, zatem i dwanaście jej typów. Połowa z nich to znaczenia (pojęcia), które ujmują godność jako coś przynależnego człowiekowi jako podmiotowi i tym znaczeniom (i odpowiadającym im typom godności) poświęcone jest niniejsze opracowanie. W tej grupie znaczeń odróżnione zostają trzy pojęcia godności, które ujmują godność jako coś konstytutywnego dla bycia osobą – (1) przyrodzoną i niezbywalną godność osobową, (2) godność opartą na obserwowalnych i zmiennych cechach specyficznych dla istoty rozumnej i (3) godność opartą na historycznie ukształtowanym statusie społecznym przypisanym wszystkim ludziom. Jedynie pierwsze z tych pojęć jest adekwatne do interpretacji preambuły i art. 30 Konstytucji RP. W drugiej grupie znaczeń ujmujących godność jako coś przysługującego człowiekowi są pojęcia ujmujące godność jako cechę osoby – (4) godność osobistą (cześć i dobre imię), (5) godność osobowościową (poziom moralny) oraz (6) godność jako dyspozycja do stosownego sposobu bycia. Druga połowa znaczeń ujmuje godność jako coś przynależnego czemuś lub jako coś o charakterze konwencjonalnym, instytucjonalnym. Te znaczenia będą omawiane w kolejnym opracowaniu Godność jako cecha podmiotów zbiorowych lub cecha ugruntowana instytucjonalnie. Typy godności – Propozycja systematyzacji – Część 2. Konstytucja RP mówi o (1) godności Narodu, (2) godności urzędu lub funkcji, oraz o (3) godności publicznej (godnościach publicznych. Wyrażenie „godność” jako desygnujące coś przynależnego czemuś może także desygnować (4) godność statusu społecznego opartego na przynależności do jakiejś grupy społecznej, (5) godność zawodu oraz – co specyficzne dla języka polskiego – (6) godność jako nazwisko. Autor argumentuje, że niedopuszczalne jest przypisywanie wyrażeniu „dignity” występującym w danym przepisie prawnym, różnych pojęć godności. (shrink)

Information on social and family aspects of marriage was obtained from a sample of over a thousand marriages solemnised in England and Wales in 1979. The data include the standard demographic variables concerning the couple and their marriage and also: the day of the week the marriage was celebrated; whether the fathers or relatives of similar surname to the spouses acted as witnesses; the patterns of name usage by brides; the numbers of forenames of the marriage partners and their (...) fathers; and the frequency of bridegrooms having one or more forenames in common with their fathers. The factors are analysed in terms of social class differences as well as in relation to the distance over which marriages range and other demographic characteristics of the partners and their marriage. (shrink)

SummaryThe present analysis compares the distribution of surnames by means of spatial autocorrelation analysis in the Spain–Portugal border region. The Spanish National Institute of Statistics provides a database of surnames of residents in the western Spanish provinces of Zamora, Salamanca, Cáceres, Badajoz and Huelva. The Spanish and Portuguese patterns of surname distribution were established according to various geographic axes. The results obtained show a low diversity of surnames in this region – especially in the centre – which can be explained (...) by the absence of any major geographic barriers, with the exception of the mountain ranges between hydrographic basins, and by the presence of traditional roads that have existed since Roman times. The latter have resulted in a constant migratory flow over short–median distances, which, as can be deduced from the surnames, fits two north/south territorial axes running parallel to the border between Spain and Portugal. The distribution patterns of Portuguese and Spanish surnames differ with regard to their frequencies in the five provinces studied, which can be attributed to their respective historical, economic and social conditions. It is concluded that the border delimiting these two countries has affected the migratory flow, thereby conditioning the demographic and genetic structure of the western Spanish regions. (shrink)

In contemporary onomastics the usage of the full name – given name and surname – lends a certain formality or seriousness to an utterance. It is often assumed that such pragmatics in the employment of names may be easily transferred to the ancient world, but we should none the less confirm our assumptions with textual evidence. This paper will present evidence from the letters between Marcus Aurelius and Marcus Cornelius Fronto which demonstrates not only that the fuller Roman (...) name was used for formal occasions, but also that it could, as in the contemporary world, be employed in an ironic, mock-formal manner to intimate rather the opposite of formality, friendship. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Journal of Aesthetic Education 37.2 (2003) 80-98 [Access article in PDF] Musical Spirituality:Reflections on Identity and the Ethics of Embodied Aesthetic Experience in/and the Academy Deanne Bogdan Music in/and My Life Several years ago, I attended a Pontifical High Mass at St. Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna. It was the feast of the Epiphany, a public holiday in the predominantly Roman Catholic country of Austria. 1 A "lapsed" Catholic (...) myself, my intention as part of the congregation that day was not primarily one of worship as it was to listen to a performance of the Pauckenmesse of Joseph Haydn, complete with soloists, full choir, and orchestra (in overcoats), including, of course, timpani.As I stepped from the brilliant winter morning into the narthex of that gothic splendor, the pungency of the incense propelled me into Proustian recollections of growing up female, Catholic, and Italian-Canadian in the cathedral parish in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada's steel town. My mother and father, first generation Italian-Canadians, whose own parents had emigrated as teen-agers, had been partners in a corner grocery located in another part of the city that was largely professional and white-Anglo-Saxon Protestant. Eager to assimilate (they never spoke Italian to my sister or me, and we never learned the language), my parents realized early on that their most valuable legacy to their two daughters would be the advantages of a solid education, religious and secular. For them that meant enrolling us in the local co-educational Catholic elementary school. Later we attended a convent secondary school as day students, and were the only members of our extended family, male or female, to attend university.It was memories of those elementary school years that were conjured up for me that crisp January morning at St. Stephen's. (In hindsight, I am struck by the synchronicity 2 of the fact that my original surname is Di Stefano, or rather "Distefan," as it had become in its anglicized form). 3 For a [End Page 80] whole complex of reasons, I identified strongly with my parochial school and the church that sheltered/shadowed it — a soaring pseudo-gothic structure reputed to have been replicated, stone by stone, wood carving by hand wood carving, from some European cathedral. The romance of that basilica — The Cathedral of Christ the King — its "daughter" school, and the priests and nuns who were our guides and teachers became my second family for the whole of my grade school education. For me, being at school was like a recognition scene. As Italian-American literary theorist Marianna de Marco Torgovnick writes: When I was a child, school was...a light-filled, wide awake world in which fear did not erupt except on rare occasions. I saw school as a place where I was valued for my intelligence, even though I was female — and this probably had something to do with my absence of fear there. I quite naturally chose to stay in school through college and into graduate school. It's in these relatively late years that I first became fully conscious of how even within the world of school I was and always would be female. 4My identification with my church/school centered around my musical development, which began at age four when the piano I grew up on arrived like a beacon in our home. Coterminous with my eager entry into first grade, piano lessons were begun with Sister Cecile, a somewhat nervous, gentle nun predisposed to mystical experience, who shepherded me through exams and recitals until high school. Because I could sight-read fairly well, I was regularly pulled out of class to accompany soloists and dancing groups rehearsing for annual Christmas and St. Patrick's Day concerts. Something about this made me feel special; I both reveled in and felt isolated by my difference from my classmates. I had found a sense of community through my music, and enjoyed a feeling of security in the knowledge that my schoolwork was strong enough... (shrink)

Erratum to: Metascience DOI 10.1007/s11016-014-9881-zIn the version of this essay review initially published, in the final paragraph and in the reference list, the last name of the author H. Floris Cohen was incorrectly written as Cohen Floris.

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Five Poems AMIT MAJMUDAR Observing Orpheus I hear the meaning turn back in his throat like Eurydice on the way up from the darkness. Music’s meaning is its making. As for me, I am one more animal in his entourage, learning a new thirst, finding a new south. None of us knew we had this instinct in us. If deserts hide wildflowers until first rain, bright ears are blossoming (...) out of our skulls. He doesn’t have much longer. I know this myth. A God douses the fire with a beehive. The Maenads smear their faces with a warpaint made of stoneground fireflies and pine sap. Hands—hands like his, that drew music through lyre strings into our forest like pieces of bread through a prison fence— are reaching for his body now, his lyre. Their weapons are hands, nothing but hands. They are infinite. They are enough. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Her Metamorphoses First a beetle, body armor forged of chitin, exoskeleton he’ll never bruise, Undiscovered, unapologetically hermetic on her own Galapagos. Next a fruit bat, echolocating tangerines like a blind woman singing up at stars. Then a patio lizard, sunning herself for as long as she needs, A better place for keeping warm than bed with him. Next a sleek water moccasin, quick to make out another woman’s heat signature on his neck, Even quicker to strike. A caterpillar to poke holes in his lying roses And from that destruction to fashion two beautiful wings for herself. A buzzard, to clean up the roadside pile he left of her. A woman in full with no more soft blind pupa stages of her life cycle left, No more forms to force herself to fit for the sake of his pleasure, No more shapeshifts, no more slimming stripes, no more abdominal crunches: Just this body, just this last name, just this apartment, just this bowl of midnight cereal. Just her. 106 five poems Sisyphus Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your boulder goes weightless and races ahead in descent. Force its dark door open inch by grim inch, Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent, Heels dug deep in hell’s steep hillside, teeth clenched. What gravity strips from you, gravity grants you again. Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your body goes weightless and races ahead in ascent. Amit Majmudar 107 A Trinket for Persephone A deathwatch beetle burrows in the pale hall of your marrow, your underground, your tube of bone on which you’re riding home alone. This blackwinged locket with your soul emerges rattling from a hole, a rattle in your emptied throat, the diva’s final, graceless notes, a clicking echoed in the rafters, this bugbear insect coming after to scuttle across the marshy chest, sinkhole navel, and pubic nest out to the yard, below the porch untrackable by any torch until this bug with you inside has burrowed to the other side. It drops into the underworld, as if from some cocoon unfurled, to scale a queenly wrist and rest your brooch of black upon her breast. 108 five poems Four Ways of Looking at Argus 1. His Vigil These hundred eyes, these hundred balloons Tied to the boy-small wrist of my mind Are down to ninety-nine. I lost one to a bee sting late last June— I never thought of them as fragile Until that pinprick broke my vigil. I’m slowing down. I didn’t blink in time. I have no inkling why I keep This vigil—surely not to watch, Panoptic from this mountaintop, A heifer drifting off to sleep? I’m here, I must be here, to see A signal fire from the east That warns of Olympus under siege And Ares gory from a rout, Athena’s owl’s eyes gouged out, The naiads naked in a pen, The whole world given up to men. The Gods will need a monster then. 2. After Martial Hermes was in a fix: He needed lullabies To shutter Argus’s one hundred eyes And get the tethered heifer—coal-eyed Io—free Of Hera’s... (shrink)

This erratum is published as name was misspelt in references in original publication. “In James Malazita’s ‘Astrobiology’s Cosmopolitics and the Search for an Origin Myth for the Anthropocene’, Daniel Coren’s last name is misspelled as ‘Cohen’ in the references. The correct entry should be ‘Coren D Anthropocentric biocentrism in a hybrid. Ethics Environ 20:48–60’.”.

Two exam thesauri De corpore universim by Josip Franjo Domin, composed of 25 theses in the field of “experimental physics”, the last published in Györ in 1785 and the first published in Pecs in 1786, saw light soon after the printing of his treatise Dissertatio physica de aeris factitii genesi, natura, et utilitatibus, and expounded the core of natural philosophy in the form of a doctrine of the structure of matter, fundamental forces in nature, and general properties of physical (...) bodies, then mechanics and doctrine of gravitation, along with the basis of chemistry and astronomy. Being published in April 1785 and April 1786, they represent a turning­point in Domin’s views in natural philosophy. In the 1785 thesaurus, Domin for the first time mentions Bošković by name, and also for the first time proposes a thesis on chemistry as science. The first mention of Bošković’s surname corresponds with Domin’s transformation from a strict Boscovichian, as confirmed in the the sauri from 1778 to 1784, into a natural philosopher who comes forth with his own insights. The thesis on chemistry as “a science subordinated to experimental physics” is the fruit of Domin’s compendium on the chemistry of gases, yet, at the same time, is a programmatic step forward: Domin refers to “the simplest principles” of the bodies as molecules. In the 1786 thesaurus Domin introduces the thesis on inertia, touchstone of the then discussions in the field of natural philosophy. Therefore, “experimental physics” suggested in the thesauri title does not imply that Domin excluded natural philosophy from his considerations. Quite the reverse: as a “professor of theoretical and experimental physics, mechanics, and agriculture”, Domin is challenged by the legacy of the natural philosophy of the epoch, notably by Newton, Bošković and two Boscovichians – Leopold Biwald in Graz and Ivan Krstitelj Horvath in Tyrnau, Buda and Pest. Thus Domin either tends to mould his views in accordance with Bošković’s natural philosophy, or departs from Bošković or Boscovichians significantly, or shifts towards the natural philosophy of Newton. (shrink)

This special dissertation forum, the first of its type to be published in this journal, reports the outcome and process for the 2010 annual Dissertation Award Competition for the Social Issues in Management Division of the Academy of Management. The special forum comprises this introductory essay by the chair of the award committee and three dissertation abstracts by the award finalists. In addition, each finalist has provided a thoughtful essay reflecting on their experiences of the research process as junior scholars. (...) The dissertation abstracts, with reflection essays, are in alphabetical order by last name of award finalist. (shrink)

The text is taken from the edition of D. E. Hill, Mnemosyne Supplement 79 . The following works are referred to by author's surname only: H. W. Garrod, P. Papini Stati Thebais et Achilleis ; L. Håkanson, Statins Thebaid ; A. Klotz, P. Papini Stati Thebais ; R. Kühner, C. Stegmann, and A. Thierfelder, Ausführliche Grammatik der lateinischen Sprache ; R. Lesueur, Stace Thébaïde ; J. H. Mozley, Statius ; E. C. Woodcock, A New Latin Syntax.

There was a spelling error in the second author’s last name in the original publication. The name is correct in this erratum.

The following works are referred to by author's surname only: H. W. Garrod, P. Papini Stati Thebais et Achilleis ; D. E. Hill, P. Papini Stati Thebaidos Libri XII [Mnemosyne Supplement 79 ]; A. Klotz, P. Papini Stati Thebais ; R. Lesueur, Stace Thébaïde ; J. H. Mozley, Statius ; J. J. Smolenaars, Statius, Thebaid VII [Mnemosyne Supplement 134 ]; P. Venini, P. Papini Stati Thebaidos Liber XI.

Zusammenfassung The 18th century philosopher Salomon Maimon, who originated from a small village in Eastern Europe and who, despite having been destined to become a rabbi at a young age, emigrated to Berlin and other German locations to study philosophy, showed a strong bond to the medieval philosopher Moses Maimonides, most obviously by his self selected surname. Besides this, Maimon’s philosophical works have been significantly influenced by the rationalistic philosophy and theology of Maimonides. Most importantly, Maimonides’ theory of divine reason, (...) which in turn refers to Aristotle’s Metaphysics, is incorporated into the philosophy of Maimon, who decisively transformed this conception into his own notion of an infinite intellect. In this article, it shall be demonstrated that Maimon uses this concept, derived from Maimonides’ thought to a large extent, yet significantly differing from it in important aspects, to argue against Immanuel Kant’s critical philosophy: At first by rejecting the Kantian dualism of sensibility and intellect, then by trying to uncover Kant’s notion of the thing in itself as meaningless and eventually by trying to eliminate this notion from the system of transcendental philosophy in general. To present this specific constellation of argumentation, at first Maimon’s reception of central Maimonidean thoughts shall be examined in a strongly selective manner. In a second step, the application of these thoughts to the difficulties of Kant’s philosophy by Maimon has to be drafted. By inquiring the multifaceted relation of Maimon to the medieval philosopher in these important aspects, Maimonides’ particular relevance for German philosophy in the late 18th century shall be revealed. (shrink)

In 1995 Walker & Company published a small book authored by the professional writer Dava Sobel entitled Longitude: The Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem of His Time. Not only did the book sell exceptionally well; it also spawned a three‐hour film, Longitude, starring Jeremy Irons and Michael Gambon, and a new, lavishly illustrated work, The Illustrated Longitude, by Sobel and Harvard's William J. H. Andrewes. It is difficult to think of another book in the (...) history of science that has attained comparable success. Yet it seems that history of science journals have taken scant notice of the book; my efforts to locate reviews of Sobel's volume in history of science journals have turned up only a single review, that being in Italian. This is all the more distressing because the book and film present a very controversial view of Astronomer Royal Nevil Maskelyne. This is not the place to examine Sobel's recipe for success, but it seems relevant background in reviewing a book also written by a professional journalist, also published by Walker, and fairly comparable in format to Sobel's.The history of science is rich in fascinating stories that could delight a variety of readers. The story of the search for longitude in the eighteenth century is certainly one of these; the dramatic quest to discover Neptune in the mid nineteenth century is another. Put overly briefly, the latter is the story of the frustrated efforts of a young, personally diffident but intellectually bold Cambridge graduate, John Couch Adams, to convince either the director of the Cambridge Observatory or England's Astronomer Royal to look for a planet that Adams's calculations had told him must be located at a specific position. It is also the story of the brilliant and arrogant Urbain J. J. Leverrier, who had independently completed comparable calculations and who beat Adams to the discovery by persuading not one of his French colleagues but an astronomer at the Berlin Observatory to launch a search, which within a few hours had located Neptune. It is also the story of the immense controversy that followed and that has in the last few years been given a new twist with the recovery of key documents carried off to Chile from the Royal Greenwich Observatory.Tom Standage, science correspondent for the Economist and author of The Victorian Internet, has taken up the challenge of retelling the Neptune story, which had previously been treated in dozens of articles and in book‐length studies by John Pringle Nichol, Albert Glodin, Morton Grosser, and Patrick Moore. Moreover, Standage presents the Neptune narrative as the centerpiece in a story that stretches from William Herschel's discovery of Uranus to the discovery of Pluto in 1930 and even to the spectroscopic detection in the last few years of dozens of extra–solar system planets. Standage's clear and engaging prose is based on extensive reading in English and French sources, some manuscript work, and interviews with a number of the discoverers of extra–solar system planets. Although the book is bereft of footnotes, an annotated bibliography at its end partially fulfills their function. Numerous illustrations appear, but these tend to be rather dark and small.Although the book is generally reliable, some significant errors appear. For example, whereas Standage reports that William Herschel did not see Uranus alter in size, Herschel observed its diameter nearly double in the two months after his first observation of it. It is John, not William, Herschel who is buried in Westminster Abbey. Benjamin Peirce's last name is misspelled , as is Christiaan Huygens's first name , and it is incorrect to say that Huygens “considered it was unlikely that there was life elsewhere in the solar system” . Also, because Lowell Observatory director Vesto Slipher played such a major role in the discovery of the planet Pluto by creating and directing the research program that enabled a recent high school graduate, Clyde Tombaugh, to be the first to recognize the planet on a photographic plate, it seems inappropriate that Standage makes no mention of Slipher in recounting the discovery of Pluto.Overall this is a highly engaging story, well told and based on good sources. One would hope that it may follow Longitude into film, at least a documentary, and that other authors and publishers will recognize the market for such exciting stories from the history of science. (shrink)

This is a well written, clear, instructive, erudite book. The author begins with what he calls Ancient Catholicism, which reaches until the Alliance of Church and State under Constantine. Careful attention is given to Patristics, including of course the tremendous achievement of Augustine, the emergence of monasticism, the conflict of the Papacy with the Holy Empire and the East-West Schism. A special section is devoted to what Professor Burkill calls Medieval Developments in which he includes ecclesiastical structures and their political (...) involvements as well as the academic achievements of Scholasticism in its different forms. The analysis of the complexity of the Renaissance, from a humanistic, religious and political point of view, is in the opinion of this reviewer, impressively presented. Indeed these pages, with their factual and ideological content, are among the best. From this heap of facts and ideas arise certain common features which we would do well to remember, as for example, the frequency with which men have been willing to die for their convictions, whatever these happen to be. Every belief has its martyrs, and to hold this as a criterion of truth would be presumptuous. What strikes the reader furthermore in Burkill’s unbiased analysis is the tendency for the persecuted, once triumphant, to become in turn the persecutors. Persecution, religious no less than political, has unfortunately appeared to most if not to all, to be a means of survival. In the last section of his book, where Burkill deals with the last three hundred years, religious pluralism has become overwhelming. Burkill strives to do justice to all and yet to keep some form of unity. The book reaches unto modern times and the last name mentioned is that of Teilhard de Chardin. I should add one more remark. This book is not an apologetics. The author, partial to no one particular brand of Christianity, treats all with respect and objectivity. It is the work of an observer. If he does not reveal the beauty of religion "from within," neither does he deny it. This is not his purpose. Furthermore, although his historical approach is laced with philosophical observations, the book is not what might be called a philosophy of religion either, at least not explicitly. It is a survey written by a man who is both a philosopher and a theologican [[sic]], and in my opinion a very good one.—W. D. (shrink)