In this article, I want to show that the concept “rationality”, which is important for the French school of epistemology of science, has a dual content and is not very successful. This is the main point of my polemic with Tatyana Sokolova. On the one hand, there seems to be general rationality in it, understood as a preference (in the broad sense) for benefits over costs. Benefits include true knowledge. On the other hand, there is a historical socio-cultural context in (...) which scientific knowledge arises and in which the parameters of practice are determined, which serves as the final instance for testing knowledge. At the same time, there are many such contexts in society, which I call human interfaces. The world, for its part, offers many of its interfaces as collections of interaction tools. When some interface of a person and some interface of the world assimilate each other, knowledge arises, that is confirmed by practice. It can be considered rational. But with a change in the sociocultural context, the human interface also changes, so that a search for new assimilation takes place. It is carried out by science. I agree with Tatyana Sokolova’s characterization of the progress of science, but I suggest at least differentiating the levels of rationality. One operates in the historical sociocultural locus, the other ensures the change of such loci and the adaptation of knowledge to them. I consider the progress of science to be an evaluative characteristic; no objectively recorded phenomenon corresponds to it. The disciplinary distinction of science is derived from the concepts of “object” and “method”, which have a performative content. (shrink)

I connect the idea of an existential turn in philosophical science, presented by Ilya Kasavin and Vladimir Porus in their recent article, with the problem of rationality and culture crisis, as well as the opposition of profession and vocation in Max Weber’s famous speech on politics. I offer an analysis of the structure of vocation to politics and to science as affects of a special kind. To do this, I draw on Jacques Lacan’s analysis of hysteria. My conclusions are that (...) the structure of a target affect coincides to that of hysteria. This means that scientist tries to show that the truth exists, seeks to force other people to recognize this fact and submit to science as an only acceptable form of worldview. Until this can be done, the scientist gives his relationship to the community the character of service to the highest entity. At the same time, he waits for the inversion of this service, i.e. a transition to power through acknowledgement. It should be noted that scientific research is never limited by the science itself, no matter how dangerous it may be. The existential choice in science is a choice between the pursuit of truth in natural sciences and exact sciences and maintaining the sustainability of culture in social and humanitarian knowledge. The latter, contrary to Weber, is always intertwined with politics. The first is not political, but affective. This allows me to see the definition of the vocation to the science that Kasavin gives in a new way. At the center of the “cognitive-existential mood” in the search for truth, affect dominates, the engine of which is hysteria, and in its basic attitudes truth and the scientist are opposed to the plausible and the profane. (shrink)

In the article, I discuss some ideas of the type theoretical grammar of Aarne Ranta and the analysis of the problem of Quine (Ralph and Ortcutt), which Oleg Domanov implemented by means of this theory. There are more similarities than differences in TT grammar with well-known ideas, including “fine grinding” of meanings, counterparts, procedural understanding of – intensions. The main problem, which, in my opinion, exists in the TT grammar, consists in understanding how another agent’s epistemic attitudes can be justified (...) for me. Ranta proceeds from the metaphor of the agent as a calculator, which for the general case is unacceptable. I believe that the interpretation of the epistemic attitudes of another agent must be externalistic, that is, referring not to the agent’s worlds, but to his actions in the actual world: “agent X believes that A” is true when the interpreter sees the behavior of the agent in situations that the interpreter would consider adequate for himself if he believed A and would be “in place” of X. To formalize here, it would take complicated tools which are used for describing actions. I’ve come to the conclusion that an understanding of the type in TT grammar makes it intensional in some extended sense, since the working with the naming relation is already an element of a specific pragmatics. (shrink)

BackgroundResearch proactively and deliberately aims to bring about specific changes to how societies function and individual lives fare. However, in the ever-expanding field of ethical regulations and guidance for researchers, one ethical consideration seems to have passed under the radar: How should researchers act when pursuing actual, societal changes based on their academic work?Main textWhen researchers engage in the process of bringing about societal impact to tackle local or global challenges important concerns arise: cultural, social and political values and institutions (...) can be put at risk, transformed or even hampered if researchers lack awareness of how their ‘acting to impact’ influences the social world. With today’s strong focus on research impacts, addressing such ethical challenges has become urgent within in all fields of research involved in finding solutions to the challenges societies are facing. Due to the overall goal of doing something good that is often inherent in ethical approaches, boundaries to researchers’ impact of something good is neither obvious, nor easy to detect. We suggest that it is time for the field of bioethics to explore normative boundaries for researchers’ pursuit of impact and to consider, in detail, the ethical obligations that ought to shape this process, and we provide a four-step framework of fair conditions for such an approach. Our suggested approach within this field can be useful for other fields of research as well.ConclusionWith this paper, we draw attention to how the transition from pursuing impact within the Academy to trying to initiate and achieve impact beyond the Academy ought to be configured, and the ethical challenges inherent in this transition. We suggest a stepwise strategy to identify, discuss and constitute consensus-based boundaries to this academic activity. This strategy calls for efforts from a multi-disciplinary team of researchers, advisors from the humanities and social sciences, as well as discussants from funding institutions, ethical committees, politics and the society in general. Such efforts should be able to offer new and useful assistance to researchers, as well as research funding agencies, in choosing ethically acceptable, impact-pursuing projects. (shrink)

Background: In spite of a national strategy for reducing coercion in the mental health services, Norway still has a high rate of involuntary treatment compared to other European countries. It is therefore crucial to study various parties involved in involuntary treatment in order to reduce coercion. Research question: How do patients and staff in a Norwegian locked psychiatric ward experience coercion? Research design: Participant observation and interviews. Participants: A total of 12 patients and 22 employees participated in this study. Ethical (...) considerations: This study is accepted by the National Committee for Medical Health Research Ethics. Findings: The participants experienced coercion in different ways. Patients often felt inferior, while many of the staff felt guilty for violating patients’ dignity, although they ascribed responsibility for their actions to the “system.” The main themes are (1) corrections and house rules, (2) coercion is perceived as necessary, (3) the significance of material surroundings, and (4) being treated as a human being. Discussion: The discussion draws upon the concepts of vulnerability, guilty conscience, and ethical sensitivity, related to the staffs’ divergent views on coercion. Conclusion: Especially among staff, there are divergent views of coercion. Professionals being physically and emotionally close to the patient are more likely to understand him or her as a unique person with individual needs. If patients are kept at a distance, professionals as a group change to understand patients as members of a group with common needs and common restrictions. (shrink)

In this paper we analyse how risk factors in highly industrialised agriculture are connected to animal neglect. With Danish agriculture as a case study, we use two types of data. First, we use register data from Statistics Denmark to map how risk factors such as farmers’ financial and social troubles are connected to convictions of neglect. Second, we analyse narratives where interviewed farmers, involved in cases of neglect, describe how they themselves experienced the incidents. We find that while livestock farmers (...) in general have a low risk of animal neglect problems, a small percentage of them face severe financial difficulties, divorce and psychiatric problems, which are connected to an increased risk of being convicted for the neglect of farm animals. The narratives bring forward themes of pressure related to financial trouble, technological break down, family problems, stress and a growing concern among the farmers towards the governmental control in farm animal production. We discuss how these factors can be used to identify and help farmers with a high risk of being convicted of livestock neglect. (shrink)

In recent years the formerly quite strong interest in patient compliance has been questioned for being too paternalistic and oriented towards overly narrow biomedical goals as the basis for treatment recommendations. In line with this there has been a shift towards using the notion of adherence to signal an increased weight for patients’ preferences and autonomy in decision making around treatments. This ‘adherence-paradigm’ thus encompasses shared decision-making as an ideal and patient perspective and autonomy as guiding goals of care. What (...) this implies in terms of the importance that we have reason to attach to (non-)adherence and how has, however, not been explained. In this article, we explore the relationship between different forms of shared decision-making, patient autonomy and adherence. Distinguishing between dynamically and statically framed adherence we show how the version of shared decision-making advocated will have consequences for whether one should be interested in a dynamically or statically framed adherence and in what way patient adherence should be assessed. In contrast to the former compliance paradigm (where non-compliance was necessarily seen as a problem), using observations about (non-)adherence to assess the success of health care decision making and professional-patient interaction turns out to be a much less straightforward matter. (shrink)

Con este artículo queremos mostrar que si bien los modelos democráticos liberal y republicano pretenden defender la libertad, y la igualdad de los hombres, sus prácticas generan gran marginalidad. Aunque desde el siglo XX se ha intentado corregir la marginalidad que generan, tal como se observa en los esfuerzos por mostrar que tanto liberalismo como republicanismo no son modelos tajantemente opuesto, reflexión desde la cual se ha propuesto un tercer modelo; Democracia Deliberativa, ese esfuerzo aún no logra su cometido. De (...) hecho en las críticas a este tercer modelo se observa que mientras se siga exigiendo condiciones de universalidad, especialmente de la razón como parámetro universal de argumentación, seguirá existiendo marginalidad, y en consecuencia necesidad de emancipación. (shrink)

In this conversation, American philosopher Robert Brandom talks about the historical background of his inferentialism, reconstructing the influence of his teachers Wilfrid Sellars and Richard Rorty.

Some philosophers have recently argued that luck at the time of decision is a problem for compatibilists and libertarians alike. But conceptual ambiguity regarding deterministic luck at the time of decision – henceforth C-luck – has obscured recognition of the problem C-luck poses to compatibilism. This paper clarifies C-luck and distinguishes it from present luck, showing that the former arises from contingent factors at the time of decision instead of presupposed free will requirements. We then argue that empirical findings confirm (...) the existence of C-luck thereby raising a fundamental challenge to compatibilist accounts of moral responsibility. (shrink)

ABSTRACTRecent years have seen an increase in the influx of asylum-seekers in Scandinavia, and in Denmark this has led to ever-tighter immigration control. This article discusses emerging practices of refugee solidarity and resistance to migration policy in Danish civil society in the wake of what has been referred to as the European refugee crisis. To accomplish this purpose, I analyse how participants in Facebook discussions construe topoi and attitudes when facing the ethical dilemma of respecting the law versus showing concern (...) for humans in need, in line with what Foucault, Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press) has referred to as ‘ethical self-formation’. This is illustrated through a case study of an incident from September 2015, when a member of a Danish City Council offered private shelter to immigrants on their way to Norway. The incident led to legal proceedings in August 2016 for what the defendant referred to as ‘the offense of helping fellow human beings in need’. The study is informed by Critical Discourse Analysis. Analysing Discourse. Textual analysis for social research. London and New York: Routledge; Wodak, R.. The politics of fear. London and New York: Sage) and governmentality theory. The subject and Power. In H. Dreyfus & P. Rabinow, Michel Foucault: Beyond Structuralism and Hermeneutics. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press; Foucault, M.. Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France 1977–78.. New York: Palgrave Macmillan; McIlvenny, P., Klausen, J. Z., & Lindegaard, L. B.. Studies of Discourse and Governmentality. Amsterdam and Philadelphia: Benjamins). Data include media representations and facebook comments published during 2016. The analytical approach combines topos analysis.. Methods of Critical Discourse Analysis. London: Sage; Wodak, R.. The politics of fear. London and New York: Sage) and appraisal analysis to tease out evaluative meaning. (shrink)

An agent A blames B hypocritically for violating a moral norm N if and only if: A is likewise blameworthy for violating N, and A is not disposed to blame herself for violating N. Normally, an assertion involving blame is retracted following the objection that and hold. I discuss two prima facie explanations for such a withdrawal: that the objection hampers the speaker’s assertoric authority, rendering and the necessary condition to assert, and that the joint condition is, instead, merely a (...) regulative rule. Having shown that the former option is too revisory as it requires reformulation of all normative accounts of assertion on the table, and the latter false, I proceed to argue that and do not target assertions to begin with. An assertion involving blame is, instead, a clear case of a double speech act: after arguing for this claim, I proceed to show that qua assertion, the act is correct given one’s preferred normative account, whereas it is incorrect qua blaming, as in order to perform such an act, the speaker needs to satisfy the conditions and. (shrink)

The article is devoted to the analysis of two dominant security concepts in the modern world. Given the long bipolarity of the world, due to the dominance of the Horde and Westphalian concepts of security, the question arises about the place of Ukraine in this coordinate system. In the process of research, a historical analysis of the emergence, formation and dissemination of two, alternative concepts of security, which are characteristic of countries with different governance models. The article argues that at (...) present two concepts of state security are dominant in the world, namely the Westphalian and the Horde. The conducted analysis allows us to state that the strategic partnership between these two concepts of security is illusory, given the great differences in the principles of concept construction. (shrink)

Gatchel, R. H. The evolution of the concept.--Wilson, J. Indoctrination and rationality.--Green, T. F. Indoctrination and beliefs.--Kilpatrick, W. H. Indoctrination and respect for persons.--Atkinson, R. F. Indoctrination and moral education.--Flew, A. Indoctrination and doctrines.--Moore, W. Indoctrination and democratic method.--Wilson, J. Indoctrination and freedom.--Flew, A. Indoctrination and religion.-- White, J. P. Indoctrination and intentions.--Crittenden, B. S. Indoctrination as mis-education.--Snook, I. A. Indoctrination and moral responsibility.--Gregory, I. M. M. and Woods, R. G. Indoctrination: inculcating doctrines.-- White, J. P. Indoctrination without doctrines?

Background: Fear and aggression are often reported among professionals working in locked psychiatric wards and also among the patients in the same wards. Such situations often lead to coercive intervention. In order to prevent coercion, we need to understand what happens in dangerous situations and how patients and professionals interpret them. Research questions: What happens when dangerous situations occur in a ward? How do professionals and patients interpret these situations and what is ethically at stake? Research design: Participant observation and (...) interviews. Participants: A total of 12 patients and 22 professionals participated. Ethical considerations: This study has been accepted by the Regional Committee for Medical and Health Research Ethics in Norway. Findings: (a) Both atmosphere and material surroundings were interweaved within dangerous situations, (b) the professionals applied stereotypes when interpreting dangerous situations and (c) the professionals and the patients had different interpretations of what triggered dangerous situations. Discussion: The discussion centres on how care ethics and a dialogical practice might contribute towards combating difficult situations and the ways in which change is an ongoing ethical process of becoming. Conclusion: The ethics of care and a dialogical approach are suggested as ethical frameworks for preventing fear, danger and aggression in psychiatric wards. Both frameworks can be understood as patient-driven, including the relational and contextual perspectives. It means a shift from professionally driven processes to patient-driven dialogue. (shrink)

The article examines the essays dedicated to the philosophy of the late Fichte, specifically to the concept of the image and the absolute (Netrebiak, 2022 and 2024). It demonstrates the issues arising, on the one hand, from neglecting the context of Fichte’s philosophy in attempts to interpret his late philosophy and, on the other hand, from misinterpreting Fichte’s terminology and incorrect translations of his texts. Additionally, it refutes the claim regarding the theological context of Fichte’s philosophy, which consistently developed Kant’s (...) program of transcendental philosophy. This program aimed at reforming Christian epistemology and ethics by considering knowledge as the source of faith. The article also deals with Kant’s thesis on the setting aside (aufheben) of knowledge in order to make room for faith (KrV, B XXX) in the context of Luther’s translation of the biblical verb καταργεῖν (Rom. 3:31) as Kant’s claim for a reformation of Christianity. The path of Christianity (and the Christian philosopher) is the justification of knowledge (law, norms) through faith. Kant, however, radically rethinks this stance by justifying faith through knowledge. At bottom, Kant revises Christianity by rejecting transcendence, the supposed source of epistemic and practical world relations, leading to his critique of Christian ethics and its golden rule of morality whithin his doctrine of categorical imperatives. From this perspective, Fichte merely continues Kant’s program of transcendental philosophy, offering a path from knowledge to faith. Attempts to put forward a theological interpretation of Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre fundamentally contradict both the early and later versions of the Wissenschaftslehre, as they disregard the epistemological context in which Fichte consistently developed Kant’s revolutionary equating of objective validity with objective reality, even though he employed his own original theoretical vocabulary. (shrink)

L’influenza dell’ideologia risorgimentale si indirizza a rendere centrale, nell’Italia di fine Ottocento, le tematiche della costruzione dello stato e dell’educazione dei cittadini, e stimola lo stesso Giovanni Vailati, seguito dall’allievo Mario Calderoni, a imbastire un discorso sulla valenza educativa del fare cultura e ad attribuire all’uomo di cultura ufficio di sommo educatore. Il dibattito vailatiano sull’«educazione liberale» verte su tre aree di discussione: a] «unità del sapere» come ideale educativo; b] definizione di filosofia; c] definizione di storia delle scienze.

Promatrani s kulturalnoga i religijskog motrišta, europski korijeni su mnogovrsni: helenističko- rimski, »barbarski«, židovski, kršćanski, pa na neki način i islamski. Dakako, kršćanski korijeni i tradicija bili su i ostaju temeljni za razvoj europskog identiteta kakvoga danas poznajemo. Ne odnosi se to samo na religijski i moralni identitet nego i na općekulturalni, socijalno-ekonomski i estetsko-umjetnički. Doduše, ova tvrdnja često dovodi do raznih reakcija i diskusija u raznim europskim okruženjima te »zavodi« i odvodi ljude, njihove zajednice i njihove potencijale više u (...) prošlost nego u sadašnjost i budućnost. Temeljni doprinos kojega kršćanske crkve mogu ponuditi u današnjem i sutrašnjem europskom kontekstu ne odnosi se toliko na priznavanje i »pomirenje« oko povijesnih nesuglasica koliko na suradnju u izgrađivanju europske budućnosti. Doprinos toj izgradnji mogao bi se temeljiti ne samo na priznavanju identiteta nego i na otvorenosti drugome i na dijalog s njime, koji pak dovode do suživota u multietničkom, multikulturalnom i multireligijskom okružju. Otvorenost, dijalog i suživot imaju ipak neke nužne pretpostavke: a) pomirenje čovjeka sa samim sobom; b) pomirenje čovjeka sa sebi sličnima; c) pomirenje čovjeka sa svim stvorenim.Von kulturellen und religiösen Gesichtspunkten aus betrachtet, sind die europäischen Wurzeln vielfältig: hellenistisch-römisch, „barbarisch“, jüdisch, christlich und in gewisser Weise auch islamisch. Sicher bleiben die christlichen Ursprünge und Tradition grundlegend für die Entwicklung der europäischen Identität, wie sie uns heute bekannt ist. Dies betrifft nicht nur die religiöse und moralische Identität, sondern auch jene kulturelle, sozial-ökonomische und ästhetisch- künstlerische. Jedoch leitet diese These des Öfteren zu mannigfaltigen Reaktionen und Diskussionen in verschiedenen europäischen Umfeldern, „verführt“ und wegführt Menschen, ihre Gemeinden und ihre Potentiale eher in die Vergangenheit als in die Gegenwart und die Zukunft. Den hauptsächlichen Beitrag, den die christlichen Kirchen im heutigen und morgigen europäischen Kontext leisten können, betrifft nicht so sehr das Eingeständnis und die „Versöhnung“ bezüglich der geschichtlichen Uneinstimmigkeiten, sondern vielmehr die Zusammenarbeit in der Gestaltung einer europäischen Zukunft. Der Beitrag zu dieser Zusammenarbeit könnte nicht nur in der Kenntnis der Identität gründen, sondern auch in einer Offenheit zum Anderen und im Dialog mit ihm, die dann zu einem Zusammenleben im multiethnischen, -kulturellen, und -religiösen Umfeld führen. Offenheit, Dialog und Zusammenleben benötigen aber auch einige Voraussetzungen: Versöhnung des Menschen a) mit sich selber; b) mit seinesgleichen; c) mit der ganzen Schöpfung. (shrink)

When commenting on Aristotle Ph. 1.3, 187a1, Simplicius in Ph. 1.3, 146, 29–147,2 establishes an equivalence between the shining «silver egg» (ὤεον ἀργύφεον) of Orpheus (fr. 70 Kern) and the Parmenidean being or, rather, one of the determinations with which Parmenides, in the section of his Poem devoted to the so-called Way of Truth, indicates the ἐόν, i.e., «resembling the mass of a well-rounded sphere» (εὐκύκλου σφαίρης ἐναλίγκιον ὄγκωι – DK 28 B 8.43). The equivalence established here is found in (...) the great digression about Parmenides (in Ph. 142, 28–148, 24), where Simplicius puts forward an interpretation of Parmenides that identifies the Parmenidean being-one (τὸ ἓν ὄν) with the intelligible (τὸ νοητόν), which, in another passages of the same commentary, is also qualified with the metaphysical concept of “unified” (τὸ ἡνωμένον) that is taken from Damascius. The aim of the present paper is to trace back the Neo-Platonic assumptions of this identification. In particular, we will focus on Damascius Pr. 2.55.40, 14–19 and 3.123.160, 1–3 Westerink, since these passages contain insights into the Orphic theology that is referred to as “usual”, “common” or “rhapsodic”, as well as a contextual “translation” of various Orphic concepts (e.g. ὤεον ἀργύφεον) in terms of Neo-Platonic metaphysics. The metaphysical transposition of the mythical image of the silver egg goes back, however, to Proclus (in Ti. 1.428, 8–9), who assumes the identity between Plato’s being (“being in the primary sense”, τὸ πρώτως [...] ὄν) and the Orphic egg (ταὐτὸν τό τε Πλάτωνος ὂν καὶ τὸ Ὀρφικὸν ὠόν). One cannot, at the same time, exclude a priori the possibility that the Orphic motif of the silver egg circulated in the Magna Graecia of Parmenides already from at least the 6th century BC. It is possible, as Colli hypothesised, that already Ibycus (who certainly knew Orpheus, fr. 25 Page) betrays a certain knowledge of it in fr. 4.4–5 Page, where we find the expression ἐν ὠέωι ἀργυρέωι. This article demonstrates that Proclus and Damascius embedded the Orphic concept of ὤεον ἀργύφεον into their Neo-Platonic metaphysics by showing its potential for speculative order. (shrink)

As result of the ongoing doctoral research, this paper composes the Communication delivered at the First National Post-Graduate Meeting in Philosophy of the University of Brasilia. The thesis relates to the real political action arising from liberty and immanent power. Structured in two moments of the Gramscian thought, that is: a) the juvenile phase (1914-1919), correspondent to the initial period of political engagement towards adherence to the Turin labor movement; and b) the analysis of the 48th § of Volume 3 (...) Prison Notebooks (Q 3, 48, 197) about the real political action. The whole problematic of the research relies in the investigation about Gramscian philosophical demands of the real political action that distinguishes it from the utopian idealism. In this sense, which are Gramscian´s contributions towards the Philosophy of praxis? The research indicates that the praxis requires a critical consciousness – passed through intellectual action in the formation of the people –, since the historical conditions are already given. (shrink)

The purpose of this article is to clarify whether congruence between espoused and attributed organizational values (CEAOV) in contemporary business circumstances is a necessity or just ‘nice to have’. Accordingly, two objectives are formulated: (a) to investigate whether CEAOV has a direct impact on organizational effectiveness and (b) to assess the mediating effect of organizational commitment between CEAOV and organizational effectiveness. The research was conducted within 15 Croatian companies ( n = 523). Data were collected through content analysis of the (...) official websites of the companies, surveys of employees, semi-structured interviews with the members of top management and analysis of publicly available financial reports. A conceptual model is proposed regarding the mediating effect of organizational commitment on the impact of the espoused–attributed value fit on effectiveness. Structural equation modelling (SEM) was used for the analysis. The results show that CEAOV positively affects organizational effectiveness through the mediation of organizational commitment. The only path to attaining effectiveness is through commitment. No direct effect is found. Our research sheds light on the relevant role of authenticity, in the light of value congruence, in every organization. When employees and organizations live their values to the same degree, there is an impact on organizational commitment and hence on organizational effectiveness. (shrink)

In 2004 Orlando Florida was hit with an almost unprecedented series of storms and hurricanes. Within two months, Hurricanes Charley, Frances, and Jeanne hit, and Hurricane Ivan made a near miss. Billions of dollars of damage resulted from these disasters, and several dozen lives were lost. It is tempting, in the case of extreme events, to either regard them as having no need of interpretation (that is, as simply given, material events shared by everyone), or as a kind of (...) rare window on the workings of a community.1 In this paper I want to examine the public construction of the meaning of the hurricane in Orlando, particularly as represented in reports at the time in the major newspaper, the Orlando Sentinel. I am especially interested in placemaking, that is, the ways in which places gain or fail to gain meaning in times of stress. I will suggest that opportunities for place-making were lost in Orlando because of the frame the events around Hurricane Charley were given. Hurricane Frances, though, was treated differently in the Orlando press, and the discourse around the hurricanes of 2004 provides a contrast to the kind of rhetorical response that circulated during the disastrous hurricane season of 2005. In the case of some disasters, community is reinforced, and the skills of place-making are exercised. The reaction to Hurricane Charley in Orlando, on the other hand, tended not to reinforce community, and tended not to contribute to place-making. While it is extremely difficult to measure sense of place or sense of community quantitatively, it is possible to make sense out of the interpretive tools people have at their disposal in a disaster. What comes out of all this, I think, is something I want to call “place-making imagination”. This is analogous to the 1 concept of “moral imagination” in ethics (Johnson). Our moral options extend as far as our imagination will allow. A person might boil the moral universe down to polarized options – fight or flight, kill or be killed, choose A or B – when in fact a more cultivated and aware imagination may have afforded other options, perhaps better ones than either polarized one.. (shrink)

Are Turgenev's novels "Rudin", "A Nest o f the Gentry", "On the Eve" and "Fathers and Sons" social chronicles or are they more celebrations of life and love? Are they paens to the nobility of the human spirit or ironic comments on human folly? These questions are addressed in this study, but is mainly concerned is that of the novels' essential character.

Why was Ivan Pavlevich Pavlov so widely celebrated in the decades after 1900? As his story of the 'freedom reflex' illustrates, Pavlov often overstated his observations. By calling all innate behaviour a reflex and all learned behaviour a conditional reflex, he meant to eliminate consciousness and volition from science. Pavlov's universal reflex explanation became the prototype for behaviourism.

Many scholars have already considered the interpretation of the Bible in the works of I. Franko, including Vera Sulim, Larisa Bondar, Oksana Zabuzhko and others. However, these studies touch upon some aspects of Frank's vision of the Bible, or consider individual works of thinkers written on biblical subjects, such as "Moses," "The Death of Cain," "The Legend of Pilate," etc. Let us try here to show that the work of Ivan Franko demonstrates not only a deep philosophical understanding of (...) the Bible, a new, not dogmatic reading of its ancient stories, but also an objective and scientific analysis of the knowledge about it that has accumulated in its time by world scientific criticism. (shrink)

The Franco-religious scholar and Franco-philosopher still remains little known, despite the fact that his works on such issues have long been published. If in Soviet times he was considered a materialist, revolutionary-democrat, atheist, and anti-clerical, nowadays such topics are simply avoided. One of the most recent fundamental studies in the field of religious studies is the ethnology of religion. The author of the monograph and a number of publications on this topic, Lyudmila Fylypovych, states that Ivan Franko's contribution to (...) the study of ethno-religious problems is determined not only by the fact that he gave general theoretical definitions of religion, ethnicity, nation, ethno-confessionality, examined the history of ethno-confessional relations, and analysis, but also offered new methodological approaches to understanding the content and meaning of the historical process. (shrink)

Ivan Boh affirms and Robert Pasnau denies that William Heytesbury holds merely true belief to be sufficient for knowledge in the broad sense. I argue that Boh is correct and Pasnau is mistaken, and that there is a long-running orthodox medieval tradition agreeing with Heytesbury about the conditions for knowledge. I offer a hypothesis about the origins, continuance and demise of that medieval tradition, and some remarks about the tradition's significance.

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)

During the past decade scientists, public policy analysts, politicians, and laypeople, have become increasingly aware of the importance of ethical conduct in scientific research. In this timely book, David B. Resnik introduces the reader to the ethical dilemmas and questions that arise in scientific research. Some of the issues addressed in the book include ethical decision-making, the goals and methods of science, and misconduct in science. The Ethics of Science also discusses significant case studies such as human and animal cloning, (...) the Challenger accident and Tobacco research. This is essential reading for anyone who wishes to understand the importance of ethics in science. (shrink)

Patients in specialist mental healthcare services who are at risk of suicide may experience their struggles as existential in nature. Yet, research on meaning in life has been relatively scarce in suicidology. This qualitative study aimed to explore how patients at risk of suicide perceived their encounters with specialist healthcare professionals after a suicide attempt (SA), with special reference to meaning in life experiences. The study was conducted in specialised mental healthcare services in Norway. Data were collected via individual interviews (...) with eight patients aged 20–75 years. Using a four-step procedure, the interviews were analysed by systematic text condensation. The participants understood their feelings of shame, self-contempt and challenging life experiences as contributing factors to their SA. They perceived that existential themes in relation to financial difficulties, shame and trauma were resolved, while issues associated with the SA, such as death, loss and beliefs, were given less attention. The participants were either ambivalent about continuing to live or wished to rebuild a meaningful life. Overall, their experiences of meaningfulness were hampered. Assisting patients with meaning in life experiences may help them alter their life interpretations and increase their ability to rebuild their lives as meaningful. The present study should be seen as a contribution to meaning-informed approaches in specialist mental healthcare services. More research is needed to equip healthcare personnel in their overall aims of preventing suicide and supporting patients at risk in their efforts to live a meaningful life. (shrink)

Background Non-technical skills are cognitive and interpersonal skills underpinning technical proficiency. Ethical values and respect for human dignity make operating room nurses responsible for nursing decisions that are clinically and technically sound and morally appropriate. Aim To learn what ethical issues operating room nurses perceive as important regarding non-technical skills. Research design Qualitative individual in-depth interviews were conducted. The interviews were analysed using Braun and Clarke’s six phases for thematic analysis. Participants and research context Eleven experienced perioperative/operating room nurses working (...) in an operating unit at a Norwegian university hospital. Ethical considerations Approval was given by The Norwegian Social Science Data Service in care of the hospital’s Data Protection Officer. Findings Three main themes were found: respect and care for the patient, making the patient feel safe, and respect within the perioperative team. These features or themes, which incorporate collaboration and communication, are closely connected to patient safety. Discussion Defending the patient’s dignity is part of caring for and respecting the patient. The manner in which the operating room team collaborates is important for the patient to feel safe and secure. Poor teamwork may have dire consequences. Reciprocal respect within the team includes respect for each other’s tasks and responsibilities and to talk to one another in a friendly manner. Conclusion Being respectful and contributing to a caring atmosphere are central ethical skills in the operating room. To patients, harmonious teamwork translates into a feeling of safety and being cared for. The nurses see respect and patient safety, and respect and reciprocal politeness among the members of the perioperative team as central ethical non-technical skills. Lack of respect influences the team negatively and is detrimental for patient safety. Good communication is an important safety measure during surgery and creates a feeling of good ‘flow’ within the operating room team. (shrink)

An increase in the scale of modern science is associated with the proliferation of a new kind of research formation: collaborations involving teams of researchers from several organizations. Historical and sociological studies indicate substantial variation in such formations, but no general classification scheme exists. The authors provide the outline of a scheme through a systematic analysis of multi-institutional collaborations that span a variety of fields in physical science. First, general dimensions of scientific collaborations were identified through a qualitative, historical analysis (...) of collaborations in high energy physics, space science, and geophysics. Next, the authors used informants in five new areas to collect systematic information on twenty-three recent collaborations. Finally, cluster analysis was employed to develop a variety of classification schemes and examine their relationships with outcome dimensions. Results show that a classification based on a broad conception of technological practice is superior to others in its ability to predict perceived success, trust, stress, conflict, and documentary routines. (shrink)

Este artículo se ubica en el ámbito de la formación jurídica y expone tres macro estrategias del aprendizaje, que bien pueden, como aquí se afirma, interactuar y complementarse entre sí. En primer lugar, se representa el modelo educativo centrado en la transmisión de conceptos, sin duda el más arraigado y tradicional en el contexto europeo-continental. En segundo lugar, se procede examinando el paradigma formativo por problemas, enfocado en el desarrollo de la capacidad analítica. En tercer lugar, se ilustra el método (...) educativo que entrena el discernimiento, impulsando la capacidad de elección, entre una multitud de opciones posibles, y empoderando la toma de decisiones racionalmente motivadas. En conclusión, se presenta una teoría formativa unitaria que pone en valor la relación funcional, potencialmente existente, entre estas diferentes metodologías formativas. (shrink)

This paper proposes a comparison between the myth of Prometheus and Pliny the Elder’s account of the origins of painting to assess the technical characterof images. Such a character is seen as a precondition for understanding their epistemological value, as well as for supporting the need for hermeneutics at any level of artificial intervention. Finally, part of Horst Bredekamp’s work will be presented as an example of a methodology that combines hermeneutics and iconology based on such a technical character.