This paper gives a philosophical assessment of the Montevideo interpretation of quantum theory, advocated by Gambini, Pullin and co-authors. This interpretation has the merit of linking its proposal about how to solve the measurement problem to the search for quantum gravity: namely by suggesting that quantum gravity makes for fundamental limitations on the accuracy of clocks, which imply a type of decoherence that “collapses the wave-packet”. I begin by sketching the topics of decoherence, and quantum clocks, on which the (...) interpretation depends. Then I expound the interpretation, from a philosopher's perspective. Finally, in Section 6, I argue that the interpretation, at least as developed so far, is best seen as a form of the Everett interpretation: namely with an effective or approximate branching, that is induced by environmental decoherence of the familiar kind, and by the Montevideans’ “temporal decoherence”. (shrink)

We make a first attempt to axiomatically formulate the Montevideo interpretation of quantum mechanics. In this interpretation environmental decoherence is supplemented with loss of coherence due to the use of realistic clocks to measure time to solve the measurement problem. The resulting formulation is framed entirely in terms of quantum objects without having to invoke the existence of measurable classical quantities like the time in ordinary quantum mechanics. The formulation eliminates any privileged role to the measurement process giving an (...) objective definition of when an event occurs in a system. (shrink)

Este artículo sintetiza algunos aspectos del proyecto “Hierro y bronce. Criterios para la valoración y conservación de la herrería artística en el patrimonio arquitectónico del Uruguay”[i], cuyo objetivo es establecer los atributos patrimoniales de los elementos ornamentales metálicos asociados a fachadas del patrimonio arquitectónico nacional y contribuir a su difusión, puesta en valor y conservación. A lo largo de la investigación se abordan los aspectos socioculturales, artísticos, formales, técnicos y, por último, los relativos al deterioro de estos elementos y las (...) pautas para su preservación y restauración. La metodología se basa en el estudio de fuentes primarias, éditas e inéditas, en la revisión de bibliografía especializada y en el trabajo de campo sobre una muestra representativa de elementos ornamentales metálicos aplicados a las fachadas de la arquitectura montevideana. Fue relevado un total de 250 edificios, correspondientes a los distintos períodos que distinguimos en la evolución de la herrería local entre finales del siglo XVIII y mediados del siglo XX. Se trata de un aporte inicial que profundiza en un campo escasamente abordado en nuestro medio acerca del conocimiento y difusión de los trabajos de herrería en el marco del patrimonio arquitectónico y artístico uruguayo, proporcionando información útil a la academia, las instituciones vinculadas a la valoración y conservación patrimonial y el público general. Notas [i] Proyecto concursado y financiado en la modalidad Investigación y Desarrollo (I+D), Comisión Sectorial de Investigación científica (CSIC), Universidad de la República, a realizarse entre marzo de 2018 y marzo de 2020, por un equipo interdisciplinario integrado por docentes e investigadores de las facultades de Arquitectura, Diseño y Urbanismo: Miriam Hojman, Valentina Marchese y Tatiana Rimbaud (Instituto de Historia), Gianella Mussio, Leticia Olivera, Carola Romay y Verónica Ulfe (Instituto de Tecnologías); de la Facultad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación: Ernesto Beretta (Instituto de Ciencias Históricas-Historia del Arte); y de la Facultad de Ingeniería: Sofía Aguiar (Instituto de Ensayo de Materiales). El presente artículo fue elaborado por todos los integrantes del equipo. (shrink)

This article analyzes the decentralization/participation program implemented by the Frente Amplio in the municipal government of Montevideo. Based on original surveys, interviews, and direct observation, the article argues that the DP program contributed to improvements in city services by providing the government with better information about citizens' needs and preferences, but failed to boost civic engagement among city residents because the channels of participation offered did not convince average citizens that their input in public forums would have a significant (...) impact on governmental decisions. (shrink)

Reseña del último libro del filósofo argentino Guillermo Lariguet.

No livro “As vozes da igualdade” (“Las voces de la igualdad. Bases para una teoría crítica de la justicia”. Ed. Proteus, 2010. 288 páginas – Ainda sem tradução para o português), o Prof. Dr. Gustavo Pereira, da Universidad de la Republica, Uruguai, procura analisar estas questões investigando as principais teorias de justiça contemporâneas que pretendem respondê-las e apresenta sua proposta de um caminho para a fundamentação de uma teoria crítica de justiça renovada, mais abrangente, que ofereça meios mais adequados e (...) eficazes para promover a justiça social e desenvolver as capacidades humanas necessárias para a construção de uma “eticidade democrática”. (shrink)

Programa en Comunicación, Arquitectura, Ciudad y Territorio (ACTCom), del Laboratorio Transdisciplinario de Etnografía Experimental (Labtee), Facultad de Información y Comunicación (FIC), Universidad de la República (Udelar).

What should maximin egalitarians think about seniority privileges? We contrast a good-specific and an all-things-considered perspective. As to the former, inertia and erasing effects of a seniority-based allocation of benefits from employment are identified, allowing us to spot the categories of workers and job-seekers made involuntarily worse off by such a practice. What matters however is to find out whether abolishing seniority privileges will bring about a society in which the all-things-considered worst off people are better off than in the (...) seniority rule's presence. An assessment of the latter's cost-reduction potential is thus needed, enabling us to bridge a practice taking place within a firm with its impact on who the least well off members of society are likely to be. Three accounts of the profitability of seniority privileges are discussed: the “(firm specific) human capital”, the “deferred compensation” and the “knowledge transfer” ones. The respective relevance of “good-specific” and “all-things-considered” analysis is discussed. It turns out that under certain circumstances, a maximin egalitarian case for seniority privileges could be made. Senior: Do you know that they are planning layoffs? Of course, it is only fair that they lay-off the newcomers first! After all, I have been loyal to the company for many years. Junior: Did I choose to be a newcomer? Footnotes1 Many thanks to two anonymous referees, to P.-M. Boulanger, B. Cockx, C. Fabre, L. Jacquet, E. Lazear, I. Robeyns, G. Vallée, Y. Vanderborght, Ph. Van Parijs, V. Vansteenberghe and J. de Wispelaere for their help and critical comments. Earlier versions of this paper were presented in Louvain-la-Neuve, Ghent, Montevideo and London. I am very grateful to these audiences. Special thanks to G. Brennan for his extensive and extremely valuable comments on earlier drafts of this paper. The usual disclaimers apply. (shrink)

Esta entrevista se hizo con el propósito de polemizar sobre el nuevo uso al que se está adecuando el lenguaje a partir de los avances informáticos, los cuales están en constante evolución y tienen diversos soportes tecnológicos que permiten su desarrollo, como las computadoras, las tabletas o los celulares. Desde este avance consuetudinario, Juan Grompone considera que distintos métodos de estudio o aprendizaje de antaño ya no son compatibles en esta era; es decir, han perdido vigencia por su falta de (...) utilidad y por la existencia de otros modelos que facilitan el accionar humano. Polémicamente, el académico afirma que los diccionarios físicos publicados en tomos han sido reemplazados por la inmediatez con la que uno encuentra la información por internet. Asimismo, destaca el uso beneficioso de la página web de Wikipedia, la cual siempre ha tenido muchas críticas. De igual manera, muestra su desacuerdo con la dinámica de muchas de las publicaciones digitales que se hacen hoy en día. Estas y otras diatribas del entrevistado hacen que la lectura de este manuscrito sea interesante para quien desee contar con un conocimiento panorámico de la escritura en estos dos últimos siglos. Juan Arturo Grompone Carbonell 1 nació el 26 de agosto de 1939 en Montevideo (Uruguay). Es miembro de número de la Academia Nacional de Letras del Uruguay desde 1996, fecha en la que expuso su discurso titulado “Jitanjáforas, neologismos y computadoras”. Estudió la carrera de Ingeniería en la Universidad de la República. En la actualidad, labora en las áreas de telecomunicaciones e informática y ha publicado textos de esa materia. También ha incursionado en la creación literaria, como lo demuestra con sus novelas Asesinato en el hotel de Baños (1992) o Rosa del tercer milenio (2002). Ha obtenido los siguientes reconocimientos: Premio Ingeniero Eminente por la Región Latinoamericana (1991), Premio de Narrativa del Ministerio de Educación y Cultura (1991) y Maimónides (2002). (shrink)

This article, based on grandparents' narratives collected in a doctoral research project, aims to weave together reflections on childhood, intergenerational bonding, and love. Seven grandmothers and three grandfathers, between fifty-one and seventy-one years old, participated in the research; nine residents of the city of Rio de Janeiro and one of Niterói, Brazil. In addition, narratives were collected from six of their grandchildren, all of them between five and twelve years old, and residents of Rio de Janeiro, Niterói, Brasília and (...) class='Hi'>Montevideo, Uruguay. Conducted during the Covid-19 pandemic, our methodological strategy involved interviews conducted on Zoom. Interviews with the adults were conducted individually, and collectively with the children. The themes that emerged in the grandparents' narratives led to reflections on the relationship between adults and children that are emblematic of the conception of childhood found in Walter Benjamin's work, as well as the philosophical anthropology of Martin Buber and the psychoanalysis of Donald Winnicott. The emphasis of the research participants was on affective security, built on the basis of small, everyday gestures, which result in an atmosphere of mutual support between children and adults. From these affectionate encounters between the youngest and the oldest, what we characterize as a “childlike force” is established—an energy field that produces new existential possibilities. The narratives collected here teach us new ways of being adult through our relationships with children: in our encounter with the lifeworlds of the youngest among us, we re-encounter our own deeper sensibilities, and regain the ability to play, to create, and to reinvent ourselves in relearning the joy of beginnings. (shrink)

El artículo analiza el problema de la expulsión de extranjeros sospechosos de ser delincuentes o anarquistas, tomando como marco temporal la acción de la policía de Buenos Aires durante la jefatura de Francisco Beazley (1896-1904). A partir del cruce de dos tradiciones historiográficas diferentes —aquella que toma como objeto a la institución policial y el mundo del delito y la que se ha preocupado por el surgimiento del anarquismo—, busca reflexionar sobre los mecanismos de deportación de inmigrantes antes y después (...) de la aprobación de la Ley de Residencia en 1902. Si bien el foco está puesto en el accionar de la policía de Buenos Aires, una de las ideasvertebradoras del análisis es que la comprensiónde la acción policial frente a la expulsión de extranjeros requiere un estudio detenido en los enlaces entre las ciudades portuarias del litoral atlántico sudamericano y europeo. De esta manera, el artículo se propone reconstruir una cartografía de la actuación transnacional de la policía,conectando a Buenos Aires con Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo y la costa española. Para ello, se ha consultado un heterogéneo conjunto de fuentes que van desde informes consulares y prensa policial, hasta periódicos de Brasil y Argentina, pasando por escritos anarquistas y socialistas. (shrink)

In the 21st century, the screen - the Internet screen, the television screen, the video screen and all sorts of combinations thereof - will be booming in our visual and infotechno culture. Screen-based art, already a prominent and topical part of visual culture in the 1990s, will expand even more. In this volume, digital art - the new media - as well as its connectedness to cinema will be the subject of investigation. The starting point is a two-day symposium organized (...) by the Netherlands Media Art Institute Montevideo/TBA, in collaboration with the _L&B _ series and the Amsterdam School of Cultural Analysis. Issues which emerged during the course of investigation deal with questions such as: How could screen-based art be distinguished from other art forms? Could screen-based art theoretically be understood in one definite model or should one search for various possibilities and/or models? Could screen-based art be canonized? What are the physical and theoretical forms of representation for screen-based art? What are the idiosyncratic concepts geared towards screen-based art? This volume includes various arguments, positions, and statements by artists, curators, philosophers, and theorists. The participants are Marie-Luise Angerer, Annette W. Balkema, René Beekman, Raymond Bellour, Peter Bogers, Joost Bolten, Noël Carroll, Sean Cubitt, Cãlin Dan, Chris Dercon, Honoré d'O, Anne-Marie Duquet, Ken Feingold, Ursula Frohne, hARTware curators, Heiner Holtappels, Aernout Mik, Patricia Pisters, Nicolaus Schafhausen, Jeffrey Shaw, Peter Sloterdijk, Ed S. Tan, Barbara Visser and Siegfried Zielinski. (shrink)

Expanded edition with new chapters and updates to the translation and bibliography. Borges cites innumerable authors in the pages making up his life’s work, and innumerable authors have cited and continue to cite him. More than a figure, then, the quotation is an integral part of the fabric of his writing, a fabric made anew by each reading and each re-citation it undergoes, in the never-ending throes of a work-in-progress. Block de Behar makes of this reading a plea for the (...) very art of communication; a practice that takes community not in the totalized and totalizable soil of pre-established definitions or essences, but on the ineluctable repetitions that constitute language as such, and that guarantee the expansiveness—through etymological coincidences of meaning, through historical contagions, through translinguistic sharings of particular experiences—of a certain index of universality. This edition includes a new introduction by the author and three entirely new chapters, as well as updated images and corrections to the original translation. Lisa Block de Behar is Professor of Communications at the Universidad de la República in Montevideo, Uruguay and is a renowned Jorge Luis Borges scholar. William Egginton is Andrew W. Mellon Professor in the Humanities and Chair of the Department of German and Romance Languages and Literatures at Johns Hopkins University. He is the author of several books, including In Defense of Religious Moderation. Christopher RayAlexander is a graduate student and language instructor in the Department of German and Romance Languages and Literatures at Johns Hopkins University. (shrink)

Traduçáo: Normal 0 21 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 Retirado de Carlos E. Caorsi (Ed.). Ensayos sobre Strawson . Universidad de la República/Faculdad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación, Montevidéo,1992, p. 55-71.

ABSTRACT This paper is intended as a contribution to the study of science and religion in late modern Catholic societies. I explore the treatment of natural philosophy vis-à-vis religious authority, the teaching of Biblical geology, and the use of natural theology in texts from Río de la Plata in the transition from late colonial to early independent times. After reviewing the assimilation of modern science into scholastic teaching and the articulation of reason and religious authority, the article considers the handling (...) of the early history of the Earth in the theses of scholastic teachers and in the geological memoirs of the naturalist priest from Montevideo Dámaso Larrañaga. The core of the paper is devoted to the treatment of natural theology in Larrañaga’s Diary of Natural History and in the speeches and documents of enlightened crown bureaucrats. The conclusion is reached that the harmonious character of the relationships between science and religion in this period and location harboured tensions which could be accounted for in terms of the inherent inconsistencies in the programme of Catholic Enlightenment. (shrink)

La mirada del envejecimiento, desde una visión de derechos, tiene como antecedente la Segunda Asamblea Mundial sobre Envejecimiento, de la cual se derivó el Plan Internacional de Acción en Envejecimiento de Madrid, que ha sido un documento clave de seguimiento en las reuniones regionales intergubernamentales y no gubernamentales sobre envejecimiento en la región latinoamericana. Adicionalmente, existen dos instrumentos claves a considerar en las políticas de envejecimiento de la región: el Consenso de Montevideo y la Convención Interamericana para la Protección (...) de los Derechos de las Personas Mayores. En todos estos documentos, se abordan las siguientes áreas prioritarias: la situación económica de las personas mayores; salud y bienestar; y entornos sociales y físicos favorables. En este artículo, se analiza cómo ha sido el tratamiento, en las distintas reuniones regionales, del tema de cuidados, el cual se inserta en el área sobre salud y bienestar, además de discutir cómo se han traducido los distintos señalamientos sobre cuidados en la normativa de México. (shrink)

El tema de esta investigación se refiere a la participación de los catedráticos rioplatenses de Derecho en la construcción de los criterios públicos de justicia. Tiene que ver, por lo tanto, con contenidos teóricos vinculados a la teoría de la Justicia y a la teoría del Derecho y del Estado, y con una situación histórica en que el debate de los juristas se orienta hacia un proyecto de reforma social. Estos contenidos, particulares e irrepetibles por ser históricos y característicos de (...) ciertas coyunturas del proceso temporal, son el resultado de una particular sensibilidad pública en que se mezclan las ideologías, con su pureza doctrinaria, con los prejuicios, con las condiciones necesarias para el equilibrio institucional, con el problema social, con la diversidad cultural de los inmigrantes y con las opuestas tendencias hacia la integración y la exclusión al ofrecer y negar la democracia. El universo de estudios específico es lo que denominamos comunidad rioplatense de juristas, comprendiendo a los catedráticos de Montevideo, Buenos Aires, La Plata y Córdoba, ya que de las fuentes relevadas surgen pruebas de la existencia de una comunidad intelectual y de su protagonismo en el debate ideológico de hace un siglo. Estos doctores aportaron una carga simbólica a la comunicación de ideas, pues su papel asignado socialmente y en gran medida auto atribuido es el de crear y difundir conocimientos, el de tener la última palabra sobre un asunto en discusión, para lo que pueden recurrir a fuentes que sólo están a su alcance. Su papel social es imprescindible. Forjan ideología al mismo tiempo que plasman y critican el orden social. (shrink)

This monograph revisits Uruguay’s remarkable transformation from a volatile product of ‘balkanisation’ in the River Plate area into Latin America’s first welfare-state democracy, associated with President José Batlle y Ordóñez (1903–7, 1911–15). Central to the country’s belated polity formation and nation-building was its school reform. The author investigates this, for the first time, from its start in 1868 under José Pedro Varela to the end of Batlle’s second term and argues that continuities in change prevailed over the alleged rupture of (...) 1903, including at the level of normative ideas. Moreover, by placing Uruguay into the broader context of what scholars have called the “Corridor of Ideas” from Santiago de Chile through Buenos Aires and Montevideo to Porto Alegre, this pioneering study also shows how Uruguay acted as a crossroads of intellectuals and a laboratory for the contestation, assimilation, and merger of global and autochthonous political and pedagogical philosophies. Jens R Hentschke is Professor of Latin American History and Politics at Newcastle University in the UK. (shrink)

A major study of Futurist movement of Marinetti in the Rio de la Plata region (Argentina, Uruguay and the qualities that unite two cultures, in this case, beween Italian Futurism, and the vanguard of the Rio de la Plata (Buenos Aires and Montevideo). With a wide variety of reproductions of photographs, paintings, magazine covers and books and documents in general, the author shows what was meant in this movement and what were their influences and impacts on the Rio de (...) la Plata. (shrink)

Crítica de la pasión pura fue escrito en su gran mayoría en Mozambique en 1997 y publicado por primera vez al año siguiente, en Uruguay. Está compuesto de 358 “compactos”, cada uno de los cuales pretende ser una unidad en sí misma. No obstante, este conjunto de ensayos gira entorno a pocos temas básicos: la formación de la ética y la moral a partir de los miedos y las angustias persistentes en la historia —la renuncia—; las formas de comprender y (...) representar el mundo, la vida y la muerte, la historia y el presente, la evolución humanística y las reacciones autistas de los poderes tradicionales. Según el diario La República de Montevideo, “en esta nueva entrega Majfud confirma su indudable vocación por filosofar en tiempos de indiferencias y vacuidad, desafiando al lector a meditar en torno a su destino y sus seguramente más estre-mecedoras incertidumbres”. (shrink)

El problema del maltrato de las personas mayores o del comportamiento negligente hacia ellos ha llevado que sea abordado en diferentes instrumentos de derechos humanos; entre ellos, el Consenso de Montevideo sobre Población y Desarrollo y la Convención Interamericana sobre la Protección de los Derechos Humanos de las Personas Mayores. Teniendo en cuenta este marco jurídico, y como primer paso para abordar la problemática de la mortalidad como consecuencia del maltrato o del comportamiento negligente hacia las personas mayores en (...) nuestro país, el objetivo de este estudio es analizar las tendencias en la mortalidad por causas externas en personas mayores (60 años y más) en Argentina entre 2000 y 2014. Se calcularon tasas de mortalidad por estas causas (por 100.000 habitantes) entre personas de 60 años y más, por sexo, ajustadas por edad por el método directo, utilizando la población estándar de la Organización Mundial de la Salud. Para explorar las tendencias en las tasas de mortalidad por causas externas estandarizadas por edad, utilizaremos modelos de regresión de Jointpoint. Los análisis de Joinpoint se realizan utilizando el Programa de Regresión de Joinpoint v. 4.0.4 del US National Cancer Institute. Se espera que los resultados de este estudio permitan establecer una primera visibilización de la problemática de las causas externas en este grupo poblacional. (shrink)

Reseña de: Filosofía, educación y sociedad global compilado por Manuel Bernales Alvarado y Marcelo Lobosco, Buenos Aires, Asociación Olimpíada Argentina de Filosofía, UNESCO Montevideo, Ediciones del Signo, 2005, 163 págs.

Traduçáo. texto Normal 0 21 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tabela normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} retirado de Carlos E. Caorsi (Ed.). Ensayos sobre Strawson . Universidad de la República/Faculdad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación, Montevidéo,1992, p. 55-71.

El objetivo del artículo es analizar las formas de articulación entre el presupuesto participativo y las instituciones político-representativas locales (gobierno y partidos) en las experiencias de las ciudades de Córdoba, Gualeguaychú, Paysandú y Montevideo. En primera instancia, se presenta un modelo teórico de análisis con tipos ideales, que expresan formas posibles de relacionamiento. Seguidamente, utilizando el modelo planteado, se analizan los cuatro casos, en dos momentos diferentes, separados por una elección de gobierno local. Finalmente, se señala, en función de (...) los casos estudiados, cómo en escenarios de participación plural y alcance restringido la mayor institucionalización generaría un estímulo para ir paulatinamente ampliando el alcance.The aim of the article is to analyze the forms of articulation between the participatory budget and the local political-representative institutions (government and parties) in the experiences of the cities of Córdoba, Gualeguaychú, Paysandú and Montevideo. A theoretical analysis model with ideal types expressing possible forms of articulation is presented in the first instance. Then, using the model presented, the four cases are analyzed in two moments of time separated by a local government election. Finally, it is pointed out how in scenarios of plural participation and restricted scope greater institutionalization could generate an incentive to gradually expand the scope. (shrink)

Excerpt from Moral para Intelectuales Este libro es la vers1on taquigráfica en bruto, de algunas (pocas lecciones del curso ¡de Moral que di en la Universidad de Montevideo (enseñanza Secundaria) en el año de 1908. Iusta mal escrito, o, mejor, mal hablado, hasta más allá de los límites permitidos aún en las obras que no tienen ningún fin literario, lo mal se debe a que, absorbido por ocupaciones múltiples y abrumado-ras, no... dispongo del tiempo neceseario para ¡corregir la forma, (...) dándole, ya que no la galanura y brillo que no están a mi alcance, ¡por lo menos la concisión y jus teza que el lector puede reclamar como por derecho. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works. (shrink)

La injusticia epistémica significa desacreditar a alguien en su capacidad de sujeto de conocimiento. En las instituciones psiquiátricas se filtran los sesgos y prejuicios, las injusticias e inequidades del conjunto de la sociedad. Las personas diagnosticadas con problemas de « salud mental» suelen ser estereotipadas negativamente y desacreditadas cognoscitivamente. En este artículo analizamos este tema a través del documental uruguayo Locura al aire (2018), basado en una experiencia radial que surgió en una institución psiquiátrica de Montevideo liderada por un (...) grupo de pacientes ambulatorios y de psicólogos con autonomía de la institución. La invitación a participar en el primer encuentro de «radios locas» en México es la excusa para la realización de este documental donde exploramos las injusticias testimoniales y hermenéuticas y visibilizamos el ineludible lugar del cuerpo y las emociones en la producción de conocimiento. La experiencia de la radio Vilardevoz expresa un modo de contrarrestar y resistir al estigma y la agencia disminuida que suelen experimentar los pacientes psiquiátricos, reivindicando así un espacio epistémico alternativo. En primer lugar, nos detendremos en la injusticia como norma del sistema médico, luego en la radio Vilardevoz como espacio de resistencia epistémica y finalizamos con algunas reflexiones sobre este espacio comunitario. Palabras clave: Injusticia epistémica, emociones, resistencia, Vilardevoz. (shrink)

Texto de la conferencia presentada en la mesa “Lecturas argentinas de Proust” en el marco del Coloquio Internacional Montevideana IV “A la recherche du temps perdu y Ulysses en ámbitos rioplatenses: lecturas, traducciones, traslaciones, diálogos”, organizado por Instituto de Letras de la Facultad de Humanidades y Ciencias de la Educación. Universidad de la República (Uruguay) - Museo Nacional de Artes Visuales (Uruguay) - Universidad de Picardie (Francia). Montevideo, 6 de julio de 2006. Las referencias bibliográficas fueron agregadas para la (...) presente publicación. (shrink)

Este trabajo surge a partir de la investigación general de las técnicas hidropónicas teniendo en cuenta sus ventajas y desventajas para de esta forma poder encontrar aquel factor determinante a través de una comparación de técnicas hidropónicas que permitan clasificarlas y escoger la mejor opción que genere menos impacto ambiental negativo y demuestre ser más productivo en los entornos urbanos. Adicionalmente, un factor determinante en las ciudades es su espacio limitado por lo que la mejor opción también deberá incluir un (...) óptimo manejo del espacio que permita a casi cualquier individuo poder aplicarlos desde su entorno sin recurrir a excesivas modificaciones. Como principal resultado se escogió a la Hidroponía recirculante como método predominante por los excelentes resultados que se obtienen con relación a los demás, adicionalmente, este puede ser fácilmente aplicado en los ambientes urbanos por su versatilidad y buen manejo de recursos. Palabras Clave: Hidroponia, ambiente, urbano, comparativa, técnicas, cultivo. Referencias [1]J. López, «La producción hidropónica de cultivos,» IDESIA, vol. 36, nº 2, pp. 139-141, 2018. [2]J. Lee, A. Rahman, J. Behrens, C. Brennan, B. Ham, H. Seok Kim, C. Won, S. Yun, H. Azam y M. Kwon, «Nutrient removal from hydroponic wastewater by a microbial consortium,» New Biotechnology, vol. 41, pp. 15-24, 2018. [3]H. Ku, C. Tiong, A. Suresh y B. Ong, «“Active” hydroponic greenhouse system to kick-start and augment reforestation program through carbon sequestration e an experimental and theoretical feasibility study,» Journal of Cleaner Production, vol. 129, pp. 637-646, 2016. [4]J. Beltrano y D. Gimenez, Cultivo en hidroponía, Buenos Aires: Universidad de la Plata, 2015. [5]L. Ramírez, M. Pérez, P. Jiménez, H. Giraldo y E. Gómez, «Evaluación preliminar de sistemas acuapónicos e hidropónicos en cama flotante para el cultivo de orégano,» Revista Facultad de Ciencias Básicas, vol. 7, nº 2, pp. 242-259, 2011. [6]S. Hosseinzadeh, D. Testai, M. BKheet y J. De Graeve, «Degradation of root exudates in closed hydroponic systems using UV/H2O2: Kinetic investigation, reaction pathways and cost analysis,» Science of the Total Environment, vol. 1, pp. 1-9, 2019. [7]N. Camarena, A. Rojas y M. Santos, «Fluoride bioaccumulation by hydroponic cultures of camellia,» Chemosphere, vol. 136, pp. 56-62, 2015. [8]W. Wang, Y. Ma, L. Fu, Y. Cui y M. Yaqoob, «Physical an mechanical properties of hydroponic lettuce for automatic harvesting,» Informatión processing in agriculture, vol. 1, pp. 2214-3173, 2020. [9]M. Zárate, Manual de Hidroponia, Coyoacán: Universidad Autónoma de Mexico, 2014. [10]S. Magwaza, L. Magwaza, A. Odindo y C. Buckley, «Partially treated domestic wastewater as a nutrient source for tomatoes grown in a hydroponic system: effect on nutrientabsorption and yield,» Heliyon, vol. 6, nº 12, pp. 2405-8440, 2020. [11]C. ARANO, «Hidroponía: Algunas paginas de historia,» Tecnología de Producción, nº 58, pp. 24-32, 2007. [12]G. Guzmán, Hidroponia en Casa: Una actividad familiar, Costa Rica: Ministerio de Agricultura y ganaderia, 2004. [13]J. Gilsanz, HIDROPONIA, Montevideo : Unidad de Comunicación y Transferencia de Tecnología, 2007. [14]C. Miller, «El debate de hidroponia orgánica: Perspectivas norteamericanas sobre si la producción hidropónica merece ser certificada como orgánica.,» Productores de Hortalizas, nº 6, pp. 36-38, 2017. [15]A. Herrera, «Manejo de la solución nutritiva en la producción de tomate en hidroponía,» Terra Latinoamericana, vol. 17, nº 3, pp. 221-229, 1999. [16]C. Espinal y D. Matulić, «Recirculating Aquaculture Technologies,» Biomedical and Life Sciences, pp. 35-76, 2020. [17]H. Resh, «Técnicas de cultivo con flujo laminar de nutrientes,» de Cultivos Hidroponicos, España, Mundi-Prensa, 2001, pp. 35-37. [18]P. Blanca y L. Teresa, «Sistemas recirculantes y su interés en el cutlivo de ornamentales,» Tecnología de producción, nº 35, pp. 34-36, 2006. [19]C. Magán, «Recirculación de las soluciones nutritivas, Manejo y Control Microbiologico,» InfoAgro, nº 2, pp. 1-2, 2016. [20]S. Goddek, A. Joyce, B. Kotzen y M. Dos-Santos, «Aquaponics and Global Food Challenges,» Aquaponics Food Production Systems. Springer, vol. 1, nº 1, pp. 3-17, 2019. [21]S. G. Verdoliva, D. Gwyn Jones, A. Detheridge y P. Robson, «Controlled comparisons between soil and hydroponic systems reveal increased water use efficiency and higher lycopene and β-carotene contents in hydroponically grown tomatoes,» Scientia Horticulturae, pp. 3002-4238, 2020. [22]A. Chaudhry y V. Mishra, «A Comparative Analysis of Vertical Agriculture Systems in Residential Apartments, » de 2019 Advances in Science and Engineering Technology International Conferences, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, United Arab Emirates, 2019. [23]T. Mazhar, G. Jianmin, L. Imran, S. Kashif, Q. Waqar, S. Sher y C. Jiedong, «Modern plant cultivation technologies in agriculture under controlled nvironment: a review on aeroponics,» Journal of Plant Interactions, vol. 13, nº 1, pp. 338-352, 2012. [24]K. Janiak, A. Jurga, J. Kuźma, W. Breś y M. Muszyński, «Surfactants effect on aeroponics and important mass balances of regenerative life support system – Lettuce case study,» Science of the Total Environment, vol. 718, nº137324, pp. 1-12, 2020. [25]F. Rahman, I. Jahan, R. Biplob, N. Farhin y J. Uddin, «Automated Aeroponics System for Indoor Farming using Arduino,» de 2018 Joint 7th International Conference on Informatics, Electronics & Vision and 2018 2nd International Conference on Imaging, Vision & Pattern Recognition, Kitakyushu, Japan, 2018. [26]M. Caldeyro Stajano, «La Hidroponía Simplificada como Tecnología apropiada, para implementar la Seguridad Alimentaria en la Agricultura Urbana.,» Cuadernos del CEAgro, nº 8, pp. 71-76, 2006. (shrink)

This paper aims at analyzing the main findings of a research on sex-affective experiences of cis heterosexual adult men from the cities of Montevideo and Maldonado in Uruguay. In the approach of their discourses from an ethnographic perspective, we see that their experiences and subjectivities are traversed by the mandate of compulsive heterosexuality that, even if it is not actively subscribed, it appears as a permanent background that configures their masculine identities. Furthermore, it acquires different discursive characteristics according to (...) the social sector to which the individuals belong to. It is observed that in men’s sex-affective trajectories, they assign different meanings to their ties with women, moving between the affective, sexual and rational dimensions. This "three-dimensionality" is configured according to their vital projects and the place men assign to certain female identities. (shrink)

El inmigrante italiano Luigi Bona publica, en 1960 en Montevideo, I racconti dell´ombú, una recopilación de tres cuentos que describen historias y costumbres del ambiente rural uruguayo. Esta original obra narrativa está marcada por la intención del autor de explicarle al lector italiano algunos datos lingüísticos necesarios para la comprensión del texto. Para ello, Bona apela a diferentes recursos lexicográficos, cuyo análisis son el objetivo de este artículo. En este sentido, y a través de una metodología propia de la (...) lexicografía actual, identificamos dos mecanismos utilizados por el autor: la inserción en la propia narración de algunas explicaciones lingüísticas de tenor lexicográfico y la confección de un vocabulario que se anexa al final de los cuentos, en el que selecciona voces regionales de origen español e indígena. Logramos establecer que las 75 voces recogidas por Bona se vinculan fuertemente con lo local y lo rural, lo que se explica por las características temáticas de los cuentos. Observamos también que los lemas se definen a través de traducciones literales, de ser posible, o de explicaciones de corte enciclopédico, en las que abundan los detalles geográficos, históricos, económicos, etc. Bona respalda sus definiciones a través de diferentes autores que, en la tradición lexicográfica, funcionarían como “autoridades”. El autor da también información sobre de dónde derivan algunas voces. Así, el inmigrante italiano se convierte en lexicógrafo amateur del español de la región y genera un producto lexicográfico bilingüe de particulares características. (shrink)

El presente de la Filosofía del Derecho es un libro concebido para mostrar la vitalidad actual de la Filosofía Jurídica. Está escrito en la madurez de su autora, y por lo mismo huye de cualquier extremismo más propio de la juventud. Como ella misma dice, no busca una sola respuesta correcta para las preguntas que en él se formulan, ni para las posiciones que en este libro se defienden. Muy al contrario, simplemente ofrece un punto de vista personal, sobre los (...) principales problemas que tiene planteados en la actualidad la Filosofía del Derecho. A través de sus páginas, se ofrece un relato, sobre el ser de la Filosofía del Derecho, la esencia del Derecho, y el pensamiento filosófico jurídico de los siglos XIX, XX y XXI visto con los ojos de algunos de sus principales protagonistas. También muestra un panorama de las relaciones entre el Derecho y la lógica, especialmente referidas a la interpretación, a la argumentación, y a la metodología jurídicas. Tampoco olvida la importancia del estudio de la relación del Derecho con los valores, especialmente con la justicia, que es el primero y más importante de todos ellos. Por último, reflexiona sobre la deontología profesional, estudiando de forma más concreta, las particularidades deontológicas de los principales operadores jurídicos. Los temas elegidos forman parte de algunos de los más debatidos dentro de la Filosofía del Derecho actual. Reflexionar sobre estos problemas es una labor propia de todo jurista, en realidad lo es, de todo ser humano preocupado por entender y mejorar si es posible, el mundo que le rodea. Este libro modestamente pretende ayudar en ese intento. Milagros Otero Parga, nació en Santiago de Compostela en 1960. Es doctora en Derecho (1987) por la misma Universidad. En la actualidad y desde 2011, es Catedrática de Filosofía del Derecho. Ha publicado 16 libros y 138 artículos en revistas nacionales e internacionales. Los temas a los que presta mayor atención son Axiología Jurídica, Derechos Humanos, Historia del pensamiento Jurídico, Argumentación Jurídica y Mediación. Es profesora invitada en algunas de las más prestigiosas universidades de Bue­nos Aires, Santiago de Chile, Sao Paulo y Montevideo. Asidua visitante de México ha sido conferenciante en las universidades Iberoamericana, Panamericana, Ana­huac, Intercontinental, Autónoma del Estado de México, Instituto Tecnológico de Monterrey, Universidad Judicial de Durango y Universidad Popular Autónoma del Estado de Puebla. Es asesora académica de la Comisión de Derechos Humanos del Estado de México y de la Escuela Judicial del mismo Estado. Este último orga­nismo la nombró también Magister Honoris Causa. Es académica numeraria de la Real Academia Gallega de Jurisprudencia y Legislación. Fue decana de la Facultad de Derecho de la Universidad de Santiago de Com­postela y secretaria de la Comisión de Doctorado y Tercer Ciclo de la Universidad. Tiene en su poder la Medalla de Plata de Galicia, la Insignia de Oro de la Facultad de Derecho, y la Insignia de Oro de la Universidad de Santiago. Ha sido Valedora do Pobo de Galicia (2015-2019). (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Revolutionary Christianity: The 1966 South American Lectures by John Howard Yoder, and: John Howard Yoder: Spiritual Writings by John Howard YoderJohn C. ShelleyRevolutionary Christianity: The 1966 South American Lectures John Howard Yoder. Edited by Paul Martens, Mark Thiessen Nation, Matthew Porter, and Myles Werntz eugene, or: cascade books, 2011. 193 pp. $18.00John Howard Yoder: Spiritual Writings John Howard Yoder. Selected with an Introduction by Paul Martens and Jenny (...) Howell. Modern Spiritual Masters Series maryknoll, ny: orbis, 2011. 172 pp. $20.00For more than sixteen years after his death in late 1997, John Howard Yoder has provoked, challenged, and inspired a new generation of theologians, ethicists, and pastors—including the editors of these two volumes—many of whom never met Yoder nor heard him speak. Now, just as this new generation prepares to preserve and enlarge his legacy, a series of revelations detailing Yoder’s repugnant behavior against women and against administrators of the Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary (AMBS) in Elkhart, Indiana, compromises that legacy. It has been widely known that in 1992, after some initial resistance, Yoder submitted to a disciplining process initiated by his home congregation for inappropriate advances to women and that he had been reconciled and reunited in worship shortly before his death.1 The new allegations, which have become broadly public only since 2013, are considerably more serious and include coercive—indeed, “violent”—advances toward a number of women over three decades, including many students and others in subordinate positions. Further, Yoder abused the power of his reputation by intimidating the president and other administrators of AMBS, compelling them to keep the matter quiet as he slipped away to a more prestigious appointment at Notre Dame in 1984.2 According to some witnesses, this inappropriate behavior continued at Notre Dame. [End Page 210]These revelations have complicated the process of writing even a simple review.3 Were Yoder an astrophysicist with groundbreaking discoveries regarding dark matter, we would be disappointed with his behavior, but we would not challenge on those grounds the veracity of his discovery. With Christian ethics, the issue is more complicated, especially for someone of Yoder’s stature whose persona suggested that he was committed to and embodied, however imperfectly, what he proclaimed. Reading these volumes a second time has brought several jarring moments. For example, in both volumes, Yoder defines in almost identical language the temptation of “egocentric altruism”:The real temptation of good people like us is not the crude, the crass, and the carnal as those traits are defined in Puritanism. The real refined temptation, with which Jesus himself was tried, was that of egocentric altruism, of being oneself the incarnation of a good and righteous cause for which others are to suffer, of stating our self-justification in the form of a duty to others.(Revolutionary Christianity, 83; Essential Writings, 144)Consider also the following statement on religious liberty, which is certainly prescient in view of the current conflicts being played out in the courts: “Religious liberty is not only a necessary limitation upon the power of the state; it also marks a voluntary renunciation by the church of any capacity to coerce” (Revolutionary Christianity, 11). At the very least, then, perhaps we should read Yoder’s misdeeds as a warning: even we may be tempted by the crude and the carnal as well as by egocentric altruism; when threatened, even we may resort to coercion.The fourteen lectures in Revolutionary Christianity, published here for the first time, are organized into three sections—“The Believers Church,” “Peace,” and “Church in a Revolutionary World”—roughly the order of presentation to predominantly Mennonite and Anabaptist groups in Montevideo and Buenos Aires in May–June 1966. Written and delivered when Yoder was only thirty-eight and not yet a full-time faculty member, it is remarkable how fully they anticipate his later work. Clearly he mined them for later writings. The four lectures titled “The Believers Church” may be the best theological introduction available to the Anabaptist/Mennonite tradition. Yoder’s description of the church as a community of forgiveness, discernment, grace; of the mandate to share; and of a morality of participation and community... (shrink)

From my flat on the eighth floor, I enjoy the panoramic view of the bay and beaches of Montevideo. Except for days of rain and stormy weather—which happen often in these months of winter—the beach is frequented by dogs and their masters and mistresses. I have a passion for dogs, and every morning and afternoon I take short breaks to watch from my window the playfulness of my four-feeted soulmates. They differ in race, color, and size, but from a (...) bird’s-eye view, these differences are negligible, as are the differences in their behavior: they all stop to sniff and deposit their “biological fingerprints” at exactly the same places, they leap and jump around, they move back and forward in different directions, always close to water—a few of them even risk brief visits into the water—and always ahead of their guardians, though not too far away from them. Only occasionally do I observe barking confrontations. Often, however, I see them joined in ceremonial acts aimed at repeatedly outshining each other with regard to “depositional” pace and outreach. (shrink)

José Hugo Burel Guerra nació el 23 de marzo de 1951 en Montevideo (Uruguay). Desde 2017 es miembro de número de la Academia Nacional de Letras del Uruguay (ANL), institución a la cual ingresó con su discurso titulado «Ismael». Es licenciado en Letras por el Instituto de Filosofía, Ciencias y Letras (que se conoce en la actualidad como UCUDAL) y la Pontificia Universidad Católica de Río Grande do Sul. Aparte de ser escritor, se ha desempeñado como músico, publicista, diseñador (...) gráfico, profesor y periodista. Dentro del ámbito literario, ha publicado cuentos, novelas y ensayos. Entre su producción, algunos títulos son los siguientes: Esperando a la pianista y otros cuentos (1983), Tampoco la pena dura (1989), Los dados de Dios (1997) El autor de mis días (1999), El guerrero del crepúsculo (2001), Tijeras de plata (2003), Los inmortales (2004), El corredor nocturno (2005), El desfile salvaje (2007), El caso Bonapelch (2014) y La misteriosa muerte de Eleanor Rigby (2019). Asimismo, ha sido merecedor de múltiples distinciones. Algunas de ellas fueron el segundo premio del concurso literario de Radio Carve (1975), el Premio Juan Rulfo de Radio Francia Internacional (1995), el Premio de Inéditos del MEC-Ministerio de Educación y Cultura (1995), el VII Premio Lengua de Trapo de Narrativa (2001), el Premio Bartolomé Hidalgo (2004), el Premio Alas (2008) y el Premio Libro de Oro (2014). (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)

Using a standard trust game, we elicit trust and reciprocity measures in a representative sample of adult players in Montevideo, the capital city of Uruguay, a country that received a sizeable influx of Venezuelan and Cuban migrants, has lower internal disparities than other Latin American countries and exhibits relatively better levels of tolerance towards migrants. We find no statistically significant differences in trust levels of Uruguayans towards countrymen versus migrants and mixed results regarding reciprocity, with migrants exhibiting a flatter (...) response to trust than their local counterparts. (shrink)

Se trata de una reseña del libro de Inés Moreno. La autonomía de la experiencia estética y su problemática aplicación al arte. Montevideo: Ediciones Universitarias-Unidad de Comunicación de la Universidad de la República, 184 páginas.