Scholars of Late Antiquity have explored rhetorical constructions of the Christian life from many different angles, yet they have not done so in the context of public bathing culture. This article explores the polyvalent ways in which baths and bathing culture were used in rhetorical constructions of the Christian life in Late Antiquity, and how, in turn, this discourse structured Christian communities ideologically and affected the attitudes and practices of the laity. Since bathing culture (...) was intimately associated with the Roman body, self, and personal appearance, it was implicated in rigorist Christian discourse quite commonly. Ultimately, this article demonstrates that Late Antique Christians, especially rigorists, wrote about baths and bathing because it was an important element in constructing a framework for an idealized Christian life and maintaining meaningful divisions within the Christian oikoumene based on ascetic practices and spirituality. But these writings should not be taken as an accurate reflection of social practice or mentalities concerning bathing in Late Antiquity, although certain changes, which reflect the importance of the ideal among the laity, are notable. In the end, Late Antique Christians emerge here as quite Roman in the manner in which they cared for their bodies, personal appearance, and health. And public bathing culture allows us to glimpse the rich social mosaic of Late Antiquity vividly. (shrink)

The Greek gymnasium was replicated in the architecture, art, and activities of the Imperial Roman thermae. This mimēsis was rooted in sincere admiration of traditional Greek paideia – especially the glory of Athens’ Academy and Lyceum – but it did not manage to replicate the gymnasium’s educational impact. This article reconstructs the aesthetics of a visit to the Roman baths, explaining how they evoked a glorious Hellenic past, offering the opportunity to Romans to imagine being «Greek». But true Hellenic paideia (...) was always kept at arm’s length by an assumption of Roman cultural superiority. One may play at being a Greek athlete or philosopher, but one would never dedicate one’s life to it. The experience of the Imperial thermae celebrated Greek athletic culture, but it remained too superficial – too spectatorial – to effect the change of soul demanded by classical gymnastic education. (shrink)

But nathelees, syn I knowe youre delit, / I shal fulfille youre worldly appetit.1 Chaucer’s Wife of Bath centers on a wonderfully fruitful paradox: she claims for women and for herself the right to “maistrie” and “sovereynetee” in marriage, but she does so by articulating the discourse imparted to her by the “auctoritee” of anti-feminism.2 Indeed, this paradoxical challenge to and reiteration of anti-feminist ideas has left Chaucer’s readers debating for decades which way the irony cuts: is the Wife to (...) be understood as a proto-feminist, or is she merely “a delightful buffoon inadvertently lampooning herself for the ironic pleasure of a knowing, male audience”?3 How we choose to answer this question .. (shrink)

Fourteen enjoyable papers, from the Theoretical Archaeology Conference held in Oxford in December 2000, which reflect on the relationship between archaeology and the outside world' and investigate the meaning of archaeology to the general public and the relevance of archaeology to society. Essays examine the development of archaeology as a discipline through the medieval, Romantic and Post-Modern eras, looking, for example, at the treatment of archaeological themes in the works of Mary Shelley and Byron. Contributors also consider the impact of (...) Stonehenge on astronomical studies, the influence of Roman finds and sites, including Bath and Caerleon, on Edwardian jewellery and children's stories and the dramatisation of the Iceman's' discovery in a recent play. (shrink)

Why do certain ethical values and beliefs work within the realities of organisation life, while others do not? Research into corporate culture in its various expressions can provide a means of relating corporate rhetoric to actual performance and provide a deeper understanding of the conditions for practical change. Dr Brigley is a member of the Centre for the Study of Organisational Change in the School of Management, University of Bath, Claverton Down, Bath BA2 7AY. He wishes to acknowledge the (...) benefits received from discussion with his colleagues in the Centre and especially with its Director, Dr Paul Bate. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Ernst Cassirer: The Last Philosopher of CultureSebastian LuftEdward Skidelsky. Ernst Cassirer: The Last Philosopher of Culture. Princeton-Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2008. Pp. ix + 288. Cloth $34.00.This is a curious book, because the soul of its author is torn.On the one hand, the book is a monograph on the philosopher-intellectual Ernst Cassirer. It is scholarly, noticeably well-written (not surprisingly, as the author also writes articles for British (...) and American newspapers), philosophical to the extent that it does not distort its subject matter too much, and a splendid piece of intellectual history, which places its subject, Cassirer, in a rich cultural, historical, and intellectual context. In terms of presenting the gist of Cassirer’s thought in relatively few pages, the author does everything right, disregarding minor quibbles. So far, so good.But already reading the introduction, the author makes a confession that bathes the entire book in a different light. Here we learn that the precursor of the present tome was a “straight-faced” account of the philosopher of culture, Cassirer. But over the course of writing it, Skidelsky admits, doubts crept in. Little by little, he came to see Cassirer as a dinosaur of a past age, his philosophy as a “rearguard action on behalf of a vanishing civilization” (3), which died on the battlefields of the Second World War. The “Olympian” Cassirer had an “enchanting vision” and dreamt a “happy dream” of human culture, all of which went down the drain with the advent of Nazism and has now, in our own age of postmodernism, been completely washed away.Instead, the real hero of the book is Heidegger. It was Heidegger, the existentialist, who rebelled against Western metaphysics, who won the day against Cassirer in the 1929 Davos encounter, and it is to him that we, today, owe our sensibilities. The liberalism of Cassirer—a unified vision, not just some narrowly political manifesto—“lost out to the Existenzphilosophie of Heidegger,” he writes, and, “Such unity of vision [as in Cassirer] is impossible for us. Our political principles find no support in our cultural tastes, religious beliefs, or metaphysical insights. We pay tribute to Cassirer, but Heidegger remains the secret master of our thought” (219). [End Page 116]Hence, the book is written, or rather re-written after the author’s conversion, in an ironic, sometimes melancholy style, looking back at Cassirer as a relic of a different era, his thought being “a stranger to our age” (7). Why read and study him at all then? The argument—the only argument—is weak: “he was the twentieth century’s most accomplished defender of the Humboldtian ideal” (6). Is this all? Yes, and this is how Cassirer is presented: with some sympathy, but at bottom as a creature from a different age that one observes like an exotic animal. Once more, why is this so? Skidelsky explains: “We have inherited Cassirer’s liberal political attitudes, but not the cultural sensibility that underlay them. With our skepticism toward progress, our distaste for ‘bourgeois’ formalities, our fascination with charisma, and our endless talk of commitment, authenticity, and roots, we remain, consciously or not, Heidegger’s children” (8), leaving “us” “with a dilemma” between both sentiments (ibid.).But who is this “we”? This reviewer’s suspicion is that it is first and foremost the author himself. Not denying that this dilemma might ring true to many contemporaries, it seems that the one who is troubled by it is primarily the author, who would like the world to be according to Cassirer, but who has become disenchanted with the latter’s synthetic vision due to the fragmented world around him. He would like to bring himself to believe, but cannot. But why is this? Because he has tacitly bought into the idea of all us being “Heidegger’s children.” There can be no doubt—we simply have to accept this fate.But it is this self-assurance that irks this reviewer about the author’s sentiment. Who is this “we” that he invokes? What right does he have to lump “us” together in this category of Heideggerians and to speak about “us” ex cathedra? That one... (shrink)

This article examines the ways in which contemporary western cultures have attempted to legitimize certain sites of bodily nakedness (such as communal showers, bathing children and other `public' displays) by maintaining a contextual space or frame which attempts to exclude the sexual. Noting the ways in which that legitimacy has broken down in recent decades, the article suggests that the slippage between the sexual and the naked results from both a breakdown in the `heterosexual matrix' as well as a (...) postmodern crisis of `the context'. (shrink)

This is a curious book, because the soul of its author is torn.On the one hand, the book is a monograph on the philosopher-intellectual Ernst Cassirer. It is scholarly, noticeably well-written , philosophical to the extent that it does not distort its subject matter too much, and a splendid piece of intellectual history, which places its subject, Cassirer, in a rich cultural, historical, and intellectual context. In terms of presenting the gist of Cassirer’s thought in relatively few pages, the author (...) does everything right, disregarding minor quibbles. So far, so good.But already reading the introduction, the author makes a confession that bathes the entire book in a different light. Here we learn that the precursor of the present tome was a “straight-faced” account of the philosopher of culture, Cassirer. But over the course of writing it, Skidelsky admits, doubts crept in. Little by little, he came to see Cassirer as a dinosaur of a past age, his philosophy as a “rearguard action on behalf of a vanishing civilization” , which died on the battlefields of the Second World War. The “Olympian” Cassirer had an “enchanting vision” and dreamt a “happy dream” of human culture, all of which went down the drain with the advent of Nazism and has now, in our own age of postmodernism, been. (shrink)

The author of this paper aimed to understand the early Buddhism community in its entirety by examining the individual episodes in the "Mahavagga". There is a remarkable experience of the psychic power between the Buddha and the Brahmins. They are both aware of coming across of psychic forces that entered the way to the Buddhist Community. Using the brahmins mythology as a instrument for missionary work, the early Buddhism brings people close to Buddha's community. The Buddha visited Uruvela-Kassapa and took (...) lodging for the night where the sacred fire was kept, in spite of Kassapa's warning that the spot was inhabited by a fierce Naga. The Buddha, by his magical powers, overcame, first this N ganad then another, both of whom vomited fire and smoke. Kassapabeing pleased with this exhibition of iddhi-power, undertook to provide the Buddha with his daily food. The Buddha spent the whole rainy season there, performing, in all, three thousand five hundred miracles of various kinds, reading the thoughts of kassapa, splitting firewood for the ascetic sacrifices, heating stoves for them to use after bathing in the cold weather, etc. Still Kassapa persisted in the thought, "The great ascetic is of great magic power, but he is not anarahant like me." Finally the Buddha decided to startle him by declaring that he was not an arahant, neither did the way he followed lead to arahantship. Thereon kassapa owned defeat and reverently asked for ordination. The Buddha asked him to consult with his pupils, and they cut off their hair and threw it with their sacrificial utensils into the river and were all ordained. Nadi Kassapa and Gaya Kassapa were ordained with their pupils. At Gay sisa the Buddha preached to them the Fire Sermon, and they all attained arahantship for the early Buddhist Community. The episode of Uruvela Kassaps in the Mahavagga text ultimately idealizes the power of psychic and the start of the community. It is probable, even at the time when the episode were written, that as a matter of fact every one, in ordinary daily life, spoke imply the vernaculars in a much more simple and natural state of society. It is the Mahavagga authors, when addressing a cultured public at a date when the vernaculars had become the paramount literary language. Another point is that though brahmins take part in the religious and philosophical conversations of those early tims, and in the accounts of them are always referred to with respect, and threaten with the same courtesy that they always themselves extended also to others, yet they hold no predominant position. The majority of the ascetic, and the most influential individuals among them, are not brahmins. That is only a matter of course will be the obvious subjection. The Mahavagga texts I quotes, if not the work of bitter opponents, were at leastcomposed under India bramins influence, and are prejudiced against the brahmins. (shrink)

The author of this paper aimed to understand the early Buddhism community in its entirety by examining the individual episodes in the "Mahavagga". There is a remarkable experience of the psychic power between the Buddha and the Brahmins. They are both aware of coming across of psychic forces that entered the way to the Buddhist Community. Using the brahmins mythology as a instrument for missionary work, the early Buddhism brings people close to Buddha's community. The Buddha visited Uruvela-Kassapa and took (...) lodging for the night where the sacred fire was kept, in spite of Kassapa's warning that the spot was inhabited by a fierce Naga. The Buddha, by his magical powers, overcame, first this N ganad then another, both of whom vomited fire and smoke. Kassapabeing pleased with this exhibition of iddhi-power, undertook to provide the Buddha with his daily food. The Buddha spent the whole rainy season there, performing, in all, three thousand five hundred miracles of various kinds, reading the thoughts of kassapa, splitting firewood for the ascetic sacrifices, heating stoves for them to use after bathing in the cold weather, etc. Still Kassapa persisted in the thought, "The great ascetic is of great magic power, but he is not anarahant like me." Finally the Buddha decided to startle him by declaring that he was not an arahant, neither did the way he followed lead to arahantship. Thereon kassapa owned defeat and reverently asked for ordination. The Buddha asked him to consult with his pupils, and they cut off their hair and threw it with their sacrificial utensils into the river and were all ordained. Nadi Kassapa and Gaya Kassapa were ordained with their pupils. At Gay sisa the Buddha preached to them the Fire Sermon, and they all attained arahantship for the early Buddhist Community. The episode of Uruvela Kassaps in the Mahavagga text ultimately idealizes the power of psychic and the start of the community. It is probable, even at the time when the episode were written, that as a matter of fact every one, in ordinary daily life, spoke imply the vernaculars in a much more simple and natural state of society. It is the Mahavagga authors, when addressing a cultured public at a date when the vernaculars had become the paramount literary language. Another point is that though brahmins take part in the religious and philosophical conversations of those early tims, and in the accounts of them are always referred to with respect, and threaten with the same courtesythat they always themselves extended also to others, yet they hold no predominant position. The majority of the ascetic, and the most influential individuals among them, are not brahmins. That is only a matter of course will be the obvious subjection. The Mahavagga texts I quotes, if not the work of bitter opponents, were at least composed under India bramins influence, and are prejudiced against the brahmins. (shrink)

continent. 1.2 (2011): 129-135. Introduction Vincent W.J. van Gerven Oei Successions of words are so agreeable. It is about this. —Gertrude Stein Nachoem Wijnberg (1961) is a Dutch poet and novelist. He also a professor of cultural entrepreneurship and management at the Business School of the University of Amsterdam. Since 1989, he has published thirteen volumes of poetry and four novels, which, in my opinion mark a high point in Dutch contemporary literature. His novels even more than his poetry are (...) criticized for being inaccessible, which I generally take to be a compliment. It would be like saying that Fernando Pessoa is inaccessible, which he is not. Neither is Wijnberg. When we think of the combination economist-poet we are immediately reminded of the American poet Wallace Stevens, who, as the story goes, had two stacks of paper on his desk, one for contracts, one for poems. We also know that Stevens wrote on the economy and that questions of economy and insurance surface at multiple points in his poems. The following text is a very preliminary attempt to point at the intersections between poems, novels, business, and poetry in Wijnberg’s work. On the back cover of his novel De opvolging ( The Succession , 2005), Wijnberg states the following: “[This is] a novel for whomever is interested in the workings of a company as much as in the workings of a poem.” Wijnberg thus claims that the way in which a company “works” may be similar to the way in which a poem “works.” The question is the obvious one, what does this similarity consist in? De opvolging tells the story of company in which bosses and company doctors, secretaries, children, clowns, and beggars have tons of meetings, recite poems, perform plays, tell jokes, and succeed each other, climbing up and down in the company’s hierarchy. De opvolging is a novel in which the career of people follows the career of words. It resonates with Gertrude Stein's sentences, "Grammar. What is it. Who was it" (1975, 50). The words in Wijnberg's poems are like he characters in his novel. And if we keep in mind this allegorical reading of De opvolging , which is obviously only one of the possible readings, we may be able to understand some aspects of Wijnberg’s poetry. A repetition is already a pun. Look, that word is trying it again, as if it is afraid that by not doing it it would give up the hope that it will ever be able to do something. A pun is the opposite of the first word coming to the mind of someone who shouts it when he suddenly discovers something. (104) The repetition, the succession of the same word, is already a pun, a joke. The succession of the father by the son after the revolution is a joke. "Look he's trying it again!" The essence of a joke is a repetition. Archimedes’ “Eureka!” is its opposite. Poems can easily become jokes, depending on the way the words follow and repeat each other. In De opvolging , the careers of the bosses, good and bad secretaries, and company doctors easily become jokes, as they are “afraid that by not doing it [they] would give up the hope that [they] will ever be able to do something.” Not only the repetition, but also the distance and difference between the words in a poem, their cause and effect relations can be read as company relations. This becomes clear when we, for example, read the first lines of the poem “Cause, sign” from Het leven van ( The Life Of , 2009). A sign lets know what is going to happen, a cause lets it happen. If the sign also lets happen there is no reason to isolate it, because then I would isolate some- thing only because it’s different for me. If I didn’t have to write this myself, but would have secretaries to whom I could dictate it, I would be able to say more about it. (49) Upon reading the first two lines we can already conclude that any word may be cause or sign or both. If a sign is also a cause there is no reason to discriminate it, yet to the poet they are still different. This difference only becomes expressible the moment he would have a secretary. Just like in De opvolging , the secretary introduces a distance; not in a company but in a poem. Hence the difference between “good” and “bad” secretaries in a company, where the good secretary of one boss may be the bad secretary of another one. The more we can say about the bosses of the company, or signifiers of the poem, the greater the distance we introduce between them and us. We should take serious the relation between Wijnberg’s novels and poems. Although they operate on different scales, they explain and converse with each other. Another example may be the novel Politiek en liefde ( Politics and Love , 2002), which deals with the relation, precisely, between politics and love. In the novel, Nicolai, a lieutenant in the Dutch army, is sent to Africa on a military mission. Upon leaving a receives a letter from his father. Dear son, Don’t do anything stupid before your father has advised you to do so. Your mother asked me to write a wise letter. I have been looking for wisdom for half a day and haven’t found much. If you borrow a small amount from a bank you become the bank’s slave, but if you borrow a couple of millions and spend them as quickly as possible the bank becomes your slave. What I want to say is that you have to return from Africa in good health, and before you know it the world will be your slave [....] Signed with a kiss from your father. (88) The line, “If you borrow a small amount from a bank you become the bank’s slave, but if you borrow a couple of millions and spend them as quickly as possible the bank becomes your slave,” returns as the title of poem in Het leven van: “If I borrow enough money the bank becomes my slave” (12-3), which elaborates this theme. So both in the way that these poems are structured and in their subject matter, they refer to the structures of our economy, to the ever-continuing line of CEOs succeeding each other like words, to the distance between them introduced by bureaucracy, and giving and receiving as economical and poetical acts. Poem and economy map onto each other, as in another episode from De opvolging : Edward reads two of the beggar’s poems about presents. Of a holiday nothing remains, except for memories, and if some of them are bad I’d rather forget them all; if I get a present I’d rather get something that’s useful to me for a long time. If I may choose, I choose what I can use longest, long enough to partially forget that this was the present, because it feels bad when nothing is left of it. […] Giving away becomes destruction in the stock destruction economy [ voorraadvernie -tigings-economie ], that is a gift economy [ geschenkeneconomie ], encountering for the first time an economy in which there’s selling and buying on markets. Instead of destroying supplies someone can also quickly say that they aren’t worth anything anymore; if someone wants to take them I’d gladly give him something extra. In a stock destruction economy he is someone who each day wants to work more hours than his colleagues. If around a company there is a gift economy in which someone’s rank is determined and made visible by the gifts someone can give someone else, a company will be more often character- ized by an invisible or unclear system of ranks. (152) Two poems about gifts present two different economical models, described by Wijnberg with the terms “stock destruction economy” and “gift economy.” Here we immediately recall the opposition introduced by George Bataille’s work on the concept of expenditure in The Accursed Share , where a “general economy” would surpass the stock destruction economy based on scarcity (capitalism) and become a gift economy (potlatch) and an egalitarian (communist) society. These claims are made both on the level of the poems and in their discursive explanation. They follow each other and on each other. I would like to finish this introduction to Wijnberg’s writing with a translation from his novel De joden ( The Jews , 1999), which develops the story of Hitler abdicating as chancellor of the Third Reich, appointing philosopher Martin Heidegger as his successor. In a conversation with two Russian actor-spies, sent by Stalin to figure out the situation, philosopher Walter Benjamin describes the abdication scene. Maimon: You were there when Hitler resigned? Benjamin: In the room we’re right now. The desk and the chairs are new. After his resignation Hitler would like to take his furniture to his new house. Martin naturally agrees. It is a sunny day. Martin is very nervous and complains about the heat. Martin is wearing his best dark blue suit, not his professor’s robe. Hitler is wearing his uniform. We enter the room and Hitler gets up and embraces Martin. Martin is not very good at embracing. Hitler shakes his hand. Hitler’s cap is on the desk. The cap has a metal lining. Hitler has strong neck muscles. Hitler says: A man is unclean. He takes a bath. Does he make the bath water unclean? I say: a man is unclean. He steps into a river. A little further a man steps into the river; does he become unclean? Hitler nods. I say: a man is standing in music. Another man hears the music but also sees the first man moving on the beat of the music in a way that he is certain that the music would excite different feelings in him if he wouldn’t to see the first man. Hitler says: a man is clean, listens to music, is suddenly touched and he doesn’t know by what. The conversation ends in the way you know it ends. Hitler picks up his cap from the desk and puts it on Martin’s head. (73-4) Aware of the never ending debate on the question of Heidegger’s involvement in the Nazi regime, Wijnberg has the audacity to present the arguments of complicity in the religious terminology of cleanliness and uncleanliness, while at the same time recalling overtones of Hitler’s supposed love for Wagner, suggesting a relation between Benjamin and Hitler, and so on. The space of this introduction is to small to treat a novel like De joden , a reading of which together with passages from Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe's Heidegger, Art, and Politics: The Fiction of the Political , Jacques Derrida's Of Spirit , Christopher Fynsk's Heidegger: Thought and Historicity , and Avital Ronell's The Telephone Book would be extremely elucidating and potentially open new avenues in thinking Heidegger's emphasis on poetry after the fall of the Nazi empire. But at this point we will have to curb our curiosity and follow the poet himself. The themes of the relation between business and poetry, but also Chinese landscape painting, love, Indian and Japanese poetry, and Western philosophy are analyzed and assimilated in Wijnberg’s work without ever losing the clarity of expression. It may be that, according to Alain Badiou, the “Age of the Poets” is over, but its end (Paul Celan) has exactly brought a new balance between philosophy and poetry, and it is this playful, but nonetheless serious balance that makes one hope that one day Wijnberg’s complete oeuvre might become available to readers across the planet. Tiranë, Albania February 15, 2011 English translations (all of them translated by David Colmer, who is preparing an English collection of Wijnberg’s poems entitled Advanced Payment ): Poetry International Words Without Borders Green Integer Review from Het leven van ( The Life of ) THE LIFE OF KANT, OF HEGEL As if every day he takes a decision that is as good as when he’d been able to think about it all his life. The life of Kant, of Hegel, the days of the life of, select three or four of them. Tell what he has discovered during those days as if he were the last one who knew so little. Give me something that I can cancel against then I can prepare myself for it. The reward is that I may continue with what I’m doing, it doesn’t matter how long it takes. This has nothing to do with everything remaining the same if I say that I no longer want anything else. I wouldn’t be able to say in which one and the other occur in a way that I if I knew something to cancel that one against it wouldn’t be possible now. The stars above my head and being able to say what belongs to what if I’ve let them in. FOLLOWING MY HEART WITHOUT BREAKING THE RULES Observing the rules without observing the rules by going where the rules no longer apply. I could also observe the rules there by applying them to what at great distance may resemble what the rules are about. But why would I do that, not to confuse someone who is seeing me from a great distance? Behind this morning the morning prepares itself when the rules are everything I have. IF I BORROW ENOUGH MONEY THE BANK BECOMES MY SLAVE A bank lends me money, if I don’t pay it back they tell my boss that he has to pay them my salary. But they have to leave me enough to eat and sleep and an umbrella when it’s raining. They can also empty my house, the furniture isn’t worth a lot, but every little helps. Each morning I leave for work, if I don’t start early they’ll soon get someone else, no bank will lend me money when the sun is shining. My boss has given me a cat to raise as a dog. Of course I know that it won’t work out, but I’ve asked for a week—maybe the cat gets lucky, maybe I get lucky. My hands around a cup of coffee, before I leave for work, warm-empty, cold-empty, as if hidden in the mist over a lawn. What I make when there’s no work left for me, I’m ashamed to say how little it is. Once I’m outside I check it, if they watch out of the window they can see me doing it. Suppose it is so much that I’d stay counting for hours, it’s getting dark and I’m still there. They stay watching for a while once they’ve finished their work, but have to go home, I get that, sure, I could also go home and continue counting there. If it’s too little running back immediately won’t help, because nobody’s there anymore, and if I come back tomorrow I may have spent what’s missing tonight. Going somewhere where it’s warm enough to walk around without clothes during daytime, it helps me to know that something’s more there than here. For someone like me there’s work anywhere, it shouldn’t take a week to find work for me there. Three times work and a home close to work, I may choose one and try for a week whether I want to stay there. If at the end of the week I don’t want to stay I’m back on the next day, then it was a week’s holiday. RULES If that’s against a rule, it’s yet another one that I cannot observe, or only so briefly that I cannot re- member it later. Anyways the rules are only there to help me remember what I need in order to do better what I do. In that respect there’s no difference between the rules that I find in a book and the rules that I think of early in the morning. I know that because I’ve made a rule just now nothing has yet to observe it. CAUSE, SIGN A sign lets know what is going to happen, a cause lets it happen. If the sign also lets happen there is no reason to isolate it, because then I would isolate something only because it’s different for me. If I didn’t have to write this down myself, but would have secretaries to whom I could dictate it, I could to say more about it. If something is taken away from me I consider how it would be if the opposite had been taken from me. That is what causes or signifies what is farthest away from what is caused or signified by what has been taken away from me. note: For the translations of “The life of Kant, of Hegel” and “If I borrow enough money the bank becomes my slave” I was able to consult David Colmer’s wonderful translations. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Looking Back and Moving ForwardDebbie PittsI started my Nursing Assistant career forty-three years ago and have worked in the same long-term care facility for the past forty years now. Over the years, I have seen many cultural changes being made in the field. Back then everyone was referred to as patients, then residents and more recently elders. As these changes took place, it was difficult for us to change (...) in the sense of calling them patients to residents and now elders but we all manage to accomplish it. Our elders have so many more choices nowadays, which has been a wonderful additive for those who live in a facility.As I look back, I can remember when restraints were used routinely. The good old locked Posey belts, pelvic restraints, vest restraints and how many other types that we used to use. Already many years have passed since we have used these things and that is a blessing as they were nothing more than a pain to use for us and our elders. Sometimes they would be so knotted it was difficult to get them untied. I can remember that many who needed to have these were people that had symptoms of now what we call Alzheimer's or people with some sort of dementia. Back then they were unsure of this disease. These were definitely some challenging times to work in. Taking care of the combative person can be very difficult. At least now, we have much more knowledge through education as to how to handle and deal with these issues. I have been fortunate in my facility that we thrive on education, which helps me learn all the modern techniques and ways of dealing with the many issues we have today with dementias.When I go to work daily, I not only have to take care of my elders, but then I also have to deal with their families as well. This too, can be somewhat difficult at times. Some of them can become quite demanding with the cares needed for their loved one. After dealing with them I often find that they have a guilty feeling for having to place them in a nursing home, but it can still create a problem for you and make it hard to get your cares done for other elders on your daily schedule. As much as I try to reassure them that their family member is getting the best care and attention they need, sometimes it isn't enough to satisfy them. There are times if I feel pressured or frustrated I will talk with my supervisor, or a social worker, and ask them if they could have a talk with the family for me. I find that having [End Page 143] good communication with every department and all supervisors is vitally important in my job. Unlike years ago, today we are all a team and are there for our elders and their every need.On a more personal level, with my daily routine in care, I love when I can take my elder for a walk. Sometimes they may be fearful of falling or something else. Using reassurance and encouragement and getting them going can be a very rewarding situation. It's when they don't believe they are capable of doing this, and then they do, when you realize just how much you have done for them. The smiles, thank yous and hugs I get back can just warm your heart and even put tears in your eyes. The sense of accomplishment provided for them is very rewarding. This is just so true whether it be walking, eating, bathing or dressing. Taking the time to work individually with each elder on whatever levels needed is so important. When they tell their family member about their accomplishment that they achieved today, they are so proud. The smiles, twinkle in their eyes and the excitement shown is just amazing. Sometimes at this point I can develop a relationship with the difficult family member. Normally they will be happy for their loved one's accomplishment and grateful to you for helping them. My personal accomplishment is becoming a... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Musa Lapidaria: A Selection of Latin Verse InscriptionsJane Bailey ThigpenCourtney, E[dward], ed. Musa Lapidaria: A Selection of Latin Verse Inscriptions. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995. Pp. x 1 457. 4 maps. Cloth, $41.95; paper, $27.95. (American Classical Studies, 36)Latin verse inscriptions have often been mined for philological, metrical, grammatical, and socio-historical data, but neglected as poetry worthy of study in and of itself. This oversight limits literary study to (...) the generally upper-class, cultured milieu of literary texts. Epigraphical verse, in contrast, allows the study of material from all levels of society and expertise—from highly literary to barely literate. Musa Lapidaria shows how rewarding in-depth literary study of epigraphical material can be. Although the book was written with graduate students and young professors in mind, it can also be read profitably (and enjoyably) by preparatory-level teachers and advanced undergraduates.Of the nearly twenty-three hundred inscriptions collected by Buecheler and Lommatsch in the Carmina Latina Epigraphica (the verse complement to CIL), most are highly formulaic and lack individuality and intrinsic literary worth. A few of these poems, however, are creative endeavors. In Musa Lapidaria, E. Courtney has picked some of the best from CLE and added thirty-four choice specimens from other epigraphical sources. He translates his collection of 204 inscriptions into literal but elegant prose and adds a commentary which provides bibliography for each inscription as well as a line-by-line analysis of significant linguistic, metrical, literary and historical features. As the commentary is written for literary non-specialists rather than epigraphers, the author only briefly describes the physical characteristics of inscriptions and archaeological features when pertinent and includes no pictures.The collection spans the centuries, running from the early Republic to a [End Page 152] fifth-century inscription on the Golden Gate of Constantinople. Although Courtney includes many inscriptions from late antiquity, he refrains from including those which are openly Christian. Republican inscriptions include Saturnian verse, the Scipio epitaphs, and a few other notable epitaphs. Imperial inscriptions are organized by topic: 1) emperors and notables, matters of state and public buildings; 2) baths and springs, private buildings, works of art, and furniture; 3) literary, educational, and philosophical connections; 4) inns, travel, and tourism; 5) erotic; 6) municipal politics and institutions; 7) games, public performances and performers; 8) trades and professions; 9) religion (mostly Hercules, Hermes, Aesculapius, Athena, the Vestals, Silvanus, and Priapus, hunt trophies to Liber Pater or Diana, and examples of late syncretism); 10) epitaphs, including several for horses and dogs.The resulting melange is a colorful, earthy slice of life. The reader encounters, among other things: graffiti from the pyramids, dinner etiquette from Pompeii, poetic complaints about the lack of chamber pots at an inn, a hash of elegiac “door-poem” cliches actually written on a door, an ad for a snake charmer, a clay theatre ticket, a braggart soldier who could have stepped off the Plautine stage, and lurid descriptions of peculiar deaths—including an accident with a play javelin à la Antiphon and an attack by witches.The inscriptions themselves show a broad range of literary styles and expertise. The offering of Republican verse runs from the austere, well-wrought dignity of upper-class Saturnian and elegiac epitaphs to the chatty wit of a Saturnian dedication by a collegium of cooks, who, as Courtney says, “know their Plautus, and play up to their traditional comic type-casting as pretentious boasters” (205) but are less competent in their handling of meter. The Imperial material runs from the coarse wit and vulgar Latin of obscene Pompeiian graffiti to the highly polished, elusive style of a second-century North African epitaph (199A) which spends most of its 110 verses describing the three-storey mausoleum—complete with weathercock—which it adorned. (If anyone wants to read the longest extant Latin epitaph, this is it.) Five epitaphs are bi-lingual (Greek/Latin): 112, 159, 160, 170b, 180. Courtney omits the famous epitaph of Allia Potestas because it has already received a thorough commentary by N. Horsfall, ZPE 61 (1985) 251.The commentary deals with all of this disparate material thoroughly and well, and is particularly informative regarding material... (shrink)

Dervish lodges and cults were among the important elements of the Ottoman social life and in those times, they had spread to nearly all city centers, towns and villages. Dervish lodges served as non-formal educational institutions for people from all ages and all segments of the society. In addition to education, these structures also played important roles in political, economic, social and military life of the Ottoman Empire. In general, wise people and scholars contributed to the development and dissemination of (...) Islamic sciences in general, and specifically, mystic thought. As a matter of fact, it was determined that there were a great number of Dervish lodges that were founded or supported by shaykh al-Islam (the chief justice), kādī (judge), scholars and mudarrisīn (teachers) in the history of sufism. One of them was Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, which was founded in the 16th Century by Mehmed Vusuli Efendi, who belonged to the Ilmiya class (d. 998/1590). Until today no detailed studies have been conducted on lodges, which continued their existence until 1925. For this reason, this article will be the first study that deals with the dervish lodges in the light of archive sources. In this article, which was written to shed light on the course of our sufi cultural history, the prominent names, shaykhs and physical status of the Dervish lodges, especially Mehmed Vusuli Efendi, who was the founder of these lodges, will be dealt with.Summary: Our country, which hosts scientific moral centers like dervish lodges, school, madrasa and masjids, has a rich historical cultural treasure. As it is already known, the above-mentioned institutions had an important place in the life of Ottoman social life. Dervish lodges and madrassas were considered as science and wisdom centers because there is no distinction between zāhir (exterior) and bātin (interior) in our tradition. Under then-present conditions, the institutions that were needed most were supported. In this sense, the sultans and scholars cared about the dervish lodges, which were the places where sciences were studied contributing to the construction of these structures. One of these was Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, which was founded in the center of Eyupsultan by the Ottoman man of letter, poet and scholar, Mehmed Vusuli Efendi (d. 998/1590).Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge is located in the Debbaghane/Tabakhane (Tannery) district in the center of Eyupsultan. As Suleyman Çelebi stated, “the valiant ones worked in the Tannery”. For this reason, it is possible to say that there were tanners among the disciples and followers of Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge.Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge was built by Mehmed Vusuli Efendi, who belonged to the scholar class in the Ottoman Empire. Mehmed Vusuli Efendi, who served as a professor in various madrasahs, served as a kādī in cities like Konya, Kutahya and Istanbul. Mehmed Vusuli Efendi was called “Mullah” because of his madrasah origin and “Çelebi” because of being a member of the scholar class. For this reason, dervish lodge in question was known as Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge in his honor. Sources mention the religious, knowledgeable and modest personality of Mehmed Vusuli Efendi. In this sense, the establishment of a dervish lodge by someone from the scholar class is important in terms of being a sign of the togetherness of dervish lodges and madrasahs in the Ottoman Empire. In addition to his scientific personality, Mehmed Vusuli Efendi was also an important figure who wrote works both as prose and as poetry, and made some translations into Turkish. In addition to the Dervish Lodges mentioned here, Mehmed Vusuli Efendi also established mosques and public baths in various places in Istanbul and was interested in charity works. Cemaleddin Server Revnakoglu stated that he was given the nickname “FındıklıÇelebi” because he had established a mosque in Fındıklı District.Mehmed Vusuli Efendi was the son-in-law of Aise Hubbi Hatun (d. 997/1589), who was one of the lady poets of the 16th century divan literature. Aise Hubbi Hatun was the granddaughter of Kanuni Sultan Suleyman’s foster brother Yahya Efendi from Beşiktaş. Aise Hubbi Hatun was also the wife of Semsi Çelebi, who was one of the grandchildren of Aksemseddin. In this sense, Aise Hubbi Hatun was a person who served in the palace during the reign of Selim II. According to the sources, Mullah Çelebi was appointed to a post that was as high as being the kādī of Istanbul with the help of Aise Hubbi Hatun, who was one of the prominent figures of the palace. For this reason, Mehmed Vusuli Efendi was also known as “Hubba/Hubbi Mullah”.In the present study of ours on Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, one of the most prominent lady poets was Serife Zubeyde Fitnat Hanım (d. 1194/1780). In the sources, some authors discussed whether Fitnat Hanım’s tomb was in Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge. Since there is no inscription on it, the tomb of Mehmed Vusuli Efendi was assumed to belong to Fitnat Hanım. Actually, in the past, Istanbul Tombs and Museums Directorate hung a plate saying that the tomb in question belonged to Fitnat Hanim. However, Bilgin Turnalı revealed that the tomb of Fitnat Hanım was not in the Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge in his article with the title “The Tomb of the Poet Fitnat Hanım”.The archive sources, which we can examine on Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, generally belong to the 18th century and onwards. For this reason, the information on the establishment years of the Dervish Lodge was not determined fully. However, some of the archive sources reported some revenues of Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge. For example, it was recorded in the archives that payments were made to this Dervish Lodge in Muharramiya activities. As it is known, ceremonies were held in the Ottoman Palace in the month of Muharram, which was the initial month of the Hijri calendar, and a number of people and institutions in Istanbul and its surroundings were paid by the Sultan under the name of “Muharramiyya”.In Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, there were some prominent shaykhs like Mahmud Efendi and Nureddin Efendi. For example, since Mahmud Efendi had a lot of influence on the lodge, it was named after him for a period of time. Another prominent shaykh in the above-mentioned dervish lodge was Nureddin Efendi. As a matter of fact, he was closely interested in the maintenance and repair works of the dervish lodge and the activities related to the cults, and applied to Evkāf-i Humāyūn many times for repair works. Mehmed Esref Sabri Efendi, who was the shaykh before the last one in this dervish lodge, contributed to the training of many people of cult, especially Saadeddin Ceylan, who was the shaykh of Haki Baba Lodge. The last shaykh of Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge was Hafiz Hussein Kamil Efendi, who was the son-in-law of Mehmed Esref Sabri Efendi.When the physical condition of Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge is examined, it is understood that it was ruined in some periods in the history due to erosion; and for this reason, it had renovations. It was determined that Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, which belonged to the Kadiriyye cult, remained until the last period of the Ottoman Empire; however, after the closure of the dervish lodges in 1925, it disappeared rapidly. In our present day, two tombs that belong to Mehmed Vusuli Efendi and Aise Hubbi Hatun and a graveyard where the members of the lodge were buried are left behind from this Dervish Lodge. As it is known, Dervish Lodges had an important place in the religious, scientific, political and economic life of the Ottoman society. In this article, which was planned to examine the Ottoman sufi culture, the historical course of Mullah Çelebi Dervish Lodge, its founder, shaykhs, physical location, etc. were discussed in the light of the archive sources. (shrink)

Some original forms of state emerge from the clan structures in central Africa in the 16th and 17th centuries, beyond the reach of any European influence. The oral epic traditions which echo these events draw from the founts of Bantu mythic thought. The Luba national epic recounts the dramatic origin of its sacred royalty and describes the passage from a primitive culture to a refined civilization, from an uneventful history to one full of movement; but above all it abandons (...) itself to a singular meditation on the ritual usage of fire, on family and death, on time and space, on the rainbow and lightning. If we take the fantastic seriously, symbolic patterns appear which filter the historical tradition and transform it into metaphysics. The reeling King Woot seems to play in reverse the Luba role, on the royal scene of Kuba mythology, where almost Biblical figures could be recognized: the tower of Babel throws its shadow on the adventures of an African Noah who first abandons himself to drunkenness, then to incest, delivering society to the diversity of languages and plunging the universe into primordial chaos. A transition between the myth and the tale, the founding epic of the Lunda state is bathed three times in blood: the blood of the warriors, of the women, and of the beasts who fall prey to a marvelously seductive hunter. Looking closely, we see that this Prince-stranger, initiator of a line of anointed royalty, carries on his shoulders, as does his Luba counterpart, a part of the universe. The cosmogony is veiled in the myth but transparent in the ritual, in the actions and mysterious words of the initiates into mungonge religious society: men with eyes of light are the counterpart of animals with eyes of darkness, as the star of day is opposed to the sinister hyena-moon. The founding epic of the Bemba state tells, like the Kuba myth, of the fascination of the principle of pleasure among a migrating aristocracy, somewhat decadent in comparison with the rude warrior or hunter heroes in the Luba and Lunda epics. But all these narratives, in the final analysis, form one sole myth, which develops its autonomous structures under the turbulence of an historical adventure each time different. More than unfolding the particular story of each kingdom, these legendary chronicles of Zaïre, Zambia and Angola reveal that the powerful political organisations set up by the Bantu to the south of the great forest are not isolated from eacb other: they administrate in common an intellectual patrimony which breaks loose from the ideological role that the kings, whether drunk on palm wine or on military ambition, try to make them play for their own glory: myths and rites obey their own codes, recognize no master but one, which they give themselves in their own kingdom: the Imaginary. The text which follows here is concerned in particular with the epic of the Bemba people, whose dominating aristocracy imposed an anointed royalty on some 100,000 people formerly grouped in matrilinear clans. (shrink)

Quel lien y a-t-il entre le style, qui exprime un rapport au monde, et la théologie qui engage un rapport à Dieu ? Ce lien a été très fort dans le passé. À travers Augustin et le Pseudo-Denys, la pensée néoplatonicienne transmet au Moyen Âge le thème de la lumière intelligible. L’univers médiéval s’appréhende comme un cosmos transfiguré par la lumière de Dieu qui s’irradie sur toutes choses. Les Sommes théologiques baignent dans ce même symbolisme lumineux. Cependant, la pensée scolastique, (...) sous l’influence de l’aristotélisme, prend une orientation divergente : le réalisme tend à séculariser la nature ; la clarté ne vient plus d'en haut, mais d'en bas, de l’objet : l’esthétique se détache du discours théologique, l'allégorie se libère du symbole en direction de l'imaginaire. Quel sens reconnaître à un tel cheminement marqué au sceau de notre modernité ? Un champ esthétique, devenu ainsi autonome, ne risque-t-il pas de se retrouver exclusivement voué aux jeux formels d’une fiction pure sur fond de néant de sens ? Non, car l'imaginaire exerce une « fonction métaphorique » et « ontologique » , qui ouvre vers un supplément de sens. Le style est une structure individualisante qui rend sensible, dans l’art, le jaillissement d'une vérité du monde qui se répète dans les diverses productions esthétiques d'une même aire culturelle. Un style peut donc être un « lieu théologique » porteur d'un certain rapport au sacré, au même titre que « trace séculière » de formes spirituelles les plus diverses. D’où l’éminente leçon de « L'art sacré » contemporain, attentif aux affinités, techniques et défis de la modernité et, partant, promis aux rencontres œcuméniques les plus enrichissantes.What connection is there between style that expresses a relationship with the world, and theology that engages a relationship with God ? This connection was very strong in the past. From Augustine and the Pseudo-Dionysius, Neoplatonic thought transmitted to the Middle Ages the theme of intelligible light. The medieval universe is understood as a cosmos transfigured by God’s light irradiating all things. Theological Summas bathe in the same luminous symbolism. Under Aristotelian influence, Scholastic thought, however, takes a divergent orientation : realism tends to secularize nature ; clarity does net come from on high, but below, from the object ; the aesthetic detaches itself from the theological discourse, allegory frees itself from the symbol in the direction of the imaginary. What meaning can be seen in such a path that is marked with the seal of our modernity ? Does not the aesthetic field, that has become autonomous, take the risk of finding itself exclusively dedicated to formal games of pure fiction on a background of meaninglessness ? No, for the imaginary exercises a « metaphorical » and « ontological » function that opens towards an increase of meaning. The style is a individualizing structure that renders sensitive, in art, the breaking out of a truth of the world that repeats itself in the diverse aesthetic productions of a same cultural space. A style can, therefore, be a « theological site » carrying a certain rapport to the sacred, and at the same time that « secular pathway » of the most diverse spiritual forms. From there comes the eminent lesson of contemporary « Sacred Art », attentive to the affinities, techniques, and challenges of modernity, and consequently, engaged to most enriching ecumenical encounters. (shrink)

The dervish lodge cuisine in the Ottoman lodge structuring has a central importance. The lodge cuisine helped Anatolia turn into a homeland. Travelers took shelter in the lodges in Anatolia. So, these buildings were a safe haven for those who travel. Lodge’s kitchens were always open. These kitchens offered a delightful “Sheikh Baba’s Soup” anytime and these kitchens gave peace and serenity to Anatolia. This article analyzes the Ottoman lodge food culture in the context of a manuscript which belongs (...) to an imaret. This manuscript called Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid was written in between 1240-1250 (1825-1835) in Istanbul. This work belongs to the period of Sultan Mahmud II and the Hudāyī Lodge Foundation. Institution Employees and accounting records were disclosed in this manuscript in which the names of kitchenware are mentioned and recipes are found. This work gives detailed information about foods that are cooked in the Hudāyī Lodge Foundation’s imaret kitchen. -/- SUMMARY Eating is thought always to be important and it is considered worthwhile to eat with guests and travelers in Turkish culture. In the process of Islamization, the dining table was accepted “Halil İbrahim’s Table” and this approach has strengthened further the hospitality. Eating with people, preparing the table for the guests, travelers and the needy were regarded as a factor increasing the fertility of the table. In addition, these movements were considered an act of social cooperation and deepen the collective consciousness. Especially the sufis played a dominant role in the process of Islamization in Anatolia and depending on this, they undertook various social and cultural functions that including catering. In this regard, the lodge was seen as a complex and this structure encompasses different units such as imaret or soup kitchen, mosque, tomb, library, dervish cells, public fountains, bakery and bathhouse. Travelers stay in the imaret and supply their needs, they also nurture themselves spiritually as well. Lodges were a safe haven for these travelers and lodge’s kitchens were open every hour of the day with serving the delicious “Father’s Soup.” Therefore, lodges became a representative of peace. These kitchens take reference the advices of the prophet about eating and serving meals. In addition, the effects of the old Turkish culture and of the Yesevī tradition on these kitchens are witnessed. While many documents related to the food culture in Anatolia could remain to us, regarding the life of lodges especially, information about the kitchens is still limited. Ali Eşref Dede’s cookbook, Yemek Risalesi, is one of the works written about the dishes of Ottoman period. This work is very important in relation to the Mevleviyye as well. This manuscript was written in the 19th century by Sheikh Ali Eşref Dede at Edirne. Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid, one of the other important sources that should be included in the Ottoman lodge food literature. This manuscript is registered in the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality Atatürk Library Muallim Cevdet Yazmaları (number, 224). Two works were written in the same century. In Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid there are some financial and agricultural information concerning to “Hüdâyî Lodge’s Foundation”. This manuscript includes valuable information about accounting records and officers employed in imaret and other institutions. On the other hand, there are various recipes in this manuscript about the imaret meals, also lists of kitchenware and food materials. This record is thirty pages and was written during Mahmud II. period. Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid is related to Aziz Mahmud Hudāyī Lodge that is placed in a high and strategic location in Uskudar that connects Istanbul to Anatolia. This was a complex structure and established in a place of ten thousand square meters. It consisted of imaret, sheikh’s house (haremlik), mosque, tomb, library, dervish cells, bakery and bath. As mentioned above, Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid contains important information about Aziz Mahmud Hudāyī Lodge’s kitchen and recipes. In fact, the manuscript also provides several alternatives to some of the recipes. This record exhibits the structure of the order and the nutritional forms of the Sufis. Thus, to some extent, it is possible to analyze the theoretical and philosophical direction of the order. Because eating in the lodges is not an action just to satisfy a person's stomach. Rather there is a dining ritual in the lodge. In this frame, the importance of the dining table was emphasized in the lodge tradition in the dimension of human education and socialization. In the sense of Sufism, the information about food reveals symbolic and allegorical meanings, sometimes directly or indirectly. Rituals related to food are closely related to the educational process of the dervishes. In this respect, on the sacred journey of dervish it is necessary to eat food permissible in the religion. In this regard, the books about the customs of the order contain considerable information. Giving valuable information about meals Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid contains main course and dessert recipes. It revealed the food habits of the dervishes and the people who were living at that time. The recipes also contain some interesting features applicable in the Turkish kitchen today. In addition, the names of meals and desserts contribute to the richness of the Turkic language. There are soups and salads, meat grills and stew varieties, fish dishes, pastry varieties, dessert varieties, cookies and halvahs. Meals are cooked with butter mainly. Lamb and sheep are preferred in the meals. The use of spices is high. For example, cinnamon is used even when cooking meat and fish. The manuscript seems to have thirty recipes but there are also different cooking methods in the manuscript. Different cooking methods were used together in some meals as frying, boiling and baking. For this reason, the number of recipes in the manuscript increases even more. This article entitled “The Ottoman Dervish Lodge Cuisine and Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid” has been latinized by simplifying the manuscript based on with a single copy. In this article the place and importance of the lodge cuisine in a mystical life has been analyzed in addition to presenting valuable information about the literature that is related to the Anatolian Lodge Cuisine, the Ottoman Cuisine, and recepies cooked in the Ottoman. Furthermore, the work briefly presents some about the lodge because it is related to Aziz Mahmud Hudāyī lodge. Moreover, a dictionary section has been added for understanding the relatively abandoned words in the manuscript. Similarly, measurements and weigh units are briefly given in Majmūʿa al-fawāʾid. (shrink)

Near the conclusion of the so-called marriage group in the Canterbury Tales sits Chaucer's Squire's Tale, a strange, hybrid narrative of love and betrayal located in the Mongol empire. Surprisingly, however, none of the many modern readers of the tale has made a study of how the Squire's Tale's setting in the East is connected to its view of the subject that dominates Fragments IV and V of the Canterbury Tales: love, power, and the negotiation of a settlement in the (...) prolonged war between the sexes. The omission is especially perplexing when the Squire's Tale is read in combination with its companion narrative, the Franklin's Tale. Indeed, the relation of Squire to Franklin is normally seen as old money to new, aristocrat to parvenu without reference either to the question of female power or to the geographical and cultural oppositions upon which the stories also insist. When the Squire is understood as making a contribution to the conversation initiated by the Wife of Bath and carried on at least through the Franklin's Tale, it is generally on the subject of true nobility, chivalry, or gentillesse—not on the “gentle sex.” Donald Baker even goes so far as to rechristen G. L. Kittredge's marriage group a “gentillesse group” in order to include the Squire in its discussion. (shrink)

Hājjī Bayrām Walī’s religious guidance activities that he took over from Somuncu Baba (Ḥamīd al-Dīn Aqsarāyī) were not limited with Ankara and nearby it. These activities continued by expanding with Bayrāmī tekke lodges and zāwiyas which were established by khalīfas trained by him. As a result of this expanding, Shaykh Luṭfullah, one of the khalīfas, led to establishment of waqf and works related to it such as mosque, madrasah and zāwiya in Balıkesir and nearby it. There has not been any (...) detailed study about life of Shaykh Luṭfullah and his services. In this article, the waqf established by Shaykh is analyzed in terms of its trustees, sources of income, in charges, repairs and inspection of zāwiya. Documents analyzed for this article present that Shaykh Luṭfullah contributed to taking shape of religious and cultural structure of Balıkesir and nearby it in the 15th century. His services were not only on spritual bases under the roof of the mosque but he also had an effect on the economic, social and educational life of the region. Thus, Shaykh Luṭfullah and his zāwiya set an important example of the active and dynamic aspect of Anatolian wisdom (irfān) involved in life.Summary: Hājjī Bayrām Walī’s religious guidance activities that he took over from Somuncu Baba (Ḥamīd al-Dīn Aqsarāyī) were not limited with Ankara and nearby it. These activities continued by expanding with Bayrāmī tekke lodges and zāwiyas which were established by khalīfas trained by him. Hājjī Bayrām Walīwas one of the leading sufis who contributed to the formation of sufistic educational tradition. He played a role as an important attraction center in the middle of Anatolia and provided guidance for significant individuals such as Aq Shams al-Dīn (d. 863/1459), Yazıcızāde Muḥammad Bīcān (d. 855/1451) and Eşrefoghlu Rūmī (d. 874/1469-70?). One of such individuals, who completed his spiritual journey under the guidance of Hājjī Bayrām Walīwas Shaykh Luṭfullah from Balıkesir. He became khalīfa at the end of his duty with Hājjī Bayrām Walī. Luṭfullah Efendi descended from Isfendiyarids ancestry. He had left his job, in which he held a high position, and attended to the sect and settled in Balıkesir city. There is limited information about him, but it is known that he went to Ankara in order to help to establish Turkish bath upon the request of some significant figures of the time and there he met his mentor Hājjī Bayrām Walī. As a result of their conversations, the two became close to each other.Shaykh Luṭfullahinvited Hājjī Bayrām Walīto Balıkesir where their relation continued and increased. Luṭfullah Efendi established a beautiful house for his Shaykh Hājjī Bayrām Walīwho stayed in Balıkesir for a while. When he left for Ankara, the Shaykh charged Luṭfullah Efendi with the duty of spreading Bayrāmiyyateachings in Balıkesir and its neighborhood by entitling him as ‘Khalīfa’. Besides the fact that the exact date of his death is not known, it is recorded that Luṭfullah Efendi died at the beginning of the period of Meḥmed II’s (1451-1481) reign. His tomb is located in ahazire(an Ottoman word used for burial area reserved for special people especially in mosques or sufi lodges) in the Mosque called with his name after his death. It is known that Shaykh Luṭfullah had a son named Bahā’ al-Dīn (d. 895/1489-90)and a grandson named Shaykh Muḥyīal-dīn Meḥmed (d. 952/1545-46). Shaykh Luṭfullah carried out significant services in the mosque and zāwiya, which he built with his own budget and he contributed to various important and permanent services that continued throughout centuries. However, as much as we could determine, there is no study about the waqfor service fields of his buildings. In this article, the goal is to analyze some of the tangible surviving heritages of Shaykh Luṭfullah. The analysis is based on the documents in the related archives. In this context, mosque/waqfestablished by Shaykh Luṭfullah Efendi is analyzed under the subtitles of “administrator, resources of income/real properties, his servicemen, renovations-expenses of the mosque and inspection of the zāwiya”. Based on the relevant archive documents, it is understood that after the death of Shaykh, in order to be able to continue the services of the mosque and zāwiya, the authority of ruling his waqfpassed to his son, MawlānāBahā’ al-Dīn. It is known that Bahā’ al-Dīnwas very careful about the distribution of his father’s waqfincomes among the ones in need. He also established a sūfī-hāne building in Balıkesir. After Bahā’ al-Dīn, his son Muḥyīal-dīn Meḥmed (the grandson of Shaykh Luṭfullah) took the charge of the waqf. After his period, this duty continued to be spread among his ancestry until the beginning of the last century. The waqfcontinued to the services through the income obtained from the real estates. Based on the analyzed documents, it is determined that income-expense calculations of the waqfwas inspected from time to time, and the services of zāwiya was controlled occasionally in order to see if they continue to do so. Shaykh Luṭfullah Mosque, one of the most important historical artifacts in Balıkesir, has served Muslims for almost five hundred years and it went through various kinds of repairs. It is deemed suitable to analyze reparations, expansions and renovations in two different groups: Before Balıkesir earthquake in 29 January 1898 and after the earthquake. It is important to know that almost fifty percent of houses and buildings in Balıkesir city center was completely destroyed, many people died or seriously injured in the earthquake. Shaykh LuṭfullahMosque was completely demolished as well. It should be mentioned that the mosque had already been in bad condition before the earthquake. According to a document written one week before the earthquake, the mosque was very old and it could not meet the demands of the community any more as it was so small. After the devastating earthquake, ‘Abd al-Ḥamīd II ordered its renovation. Upon this order, the mosque was rebuilt and expanded. The name of ‘Umar ‘ᾹlīBey, Mutasarrıf(governor of an Ottoman province) of Qarasīis mentioned in the documents about the renovation of various buildings including Shaykh Luṭfullah Mosque after the 1898 Balıkesir earthquake. It is seen that various services in different positions were provided in Shaykh Luṭfullah Mosque where the mosque workers were the ones who mainly carried out these services. These duties were: “Imamate, oratory, muezzin-tutor, ministry and nāsih, children’s teacher, ferrāş, tabbākh and supervision”. These duties show that besides religious services, Shaykh Luṭfullah waqfused to provide educational services as well. On the other hand, based on the analyzed documents, we can assume that the needy could eat in this center, which used to serve like a social aid and solidarity waqf. In this article, specific detailed information is presented about some workers served in the waqf. Information about the name, date and salary of these workers is also included. When the waqfand services of Shaykh Luṭfullah are analyzed, it can be seen that he was a significant figure, carried out important missions just like his mentor Hājjī Bayrām Walī. It should be noted that Luṭfullah Efendi used to conduct sufistic conservations in the mosque he established but did not make religious ceremonies in his zāwiya in Mihaliç (Karacabey); he preferred to transform it into a center in which the needy can be fed and provided for their needs. In this respect, the Zāwiya of ShaykhLuṭfullah sets a significant example, which duly presents the active and dynamic aspect of Anatolian wisdom. (shrink)

Poor ethnology, never where it should be! One could almost believe that in the intellectual comedy it is always condemned to play the role of the incorrigible blundering fool.Take a different view. Thirty years ago it was used for any job going, the indispensable commodity of the cultured milieux of the period. The opinion-shapers perfidiously reduced it to structuralism, which was then running out of steam and scarcely intimidated them any longer. Encouraged by this decline, they affected to believe that (...) ‘structures’ had an empirical existence in society, indeed absolutely anywhere their limitations had made themselves felt for far too long, and that ethnology finally won its freedom at the same time as the various changes in custom and social practice which took place as a result of the huge emancipation movement of May 1968. At once ethnology, the sacred instrument of access — or a smattering of it — was to be found in the media, in the professional training of nurses, the therapies of Bonneuil, the fashion for water-bath deliveries, the electoral campaigns of informed politicians, the ‘spin-offs’ of the Second Vatican Council, and so on. Today, on the other hand, it is to be found nowhere at all, not even among ethnologists, who appear with any intellectual label whatever, but above all not as practitioners of a science. They are the new romantics, the new adventurers, the incredible travellers, all having to do no more than produce a strictly personal experience, or at least states of mind. In short, ethnology passed itself off the first time as a kind of panacea, and the next it was declared no use for anything whatsoever, being at best a pretext for narcissistic effusions and at worst a snare for the naive. The more they would have us believe it can do everything, the more nothing can be done for it. (shrink)

This essay explores the sense and embrace of risk in Clarice Lispector’s writing. Beginning with a newspaper contribution from her Crônicas, the essay foregrounds the dimension of repetitive tracing to transmit the notion that the risk of living is ongoing, inescapably, but that there is a possibility of stepping forward to embrace this risk differently. The essay then turns to a scene that captures this gesture well: the scene of a woman bathing in the sea, which Clarice returned to (...) and published several times. This gesture is compared to philosophical considerations of risk in terms of what escapes reason and calls for a different disposition – of faith (Søren Kierkegaard, Blaise Pascal) or ecstasy (Georges Bataille). The essay examines the particular notions of joy and saber that Clarice insists on as the consequence of risk, and it explores different responses to this joy’s discovery in Clarice’s fiction, showing their relation to what psychoanalysis calls “feminine jouissance.” This joy is a human experience that exceeds cultural formatting. Clarice’s writing, I suggest, is traversed by a nomadic voice beyond meaning whose work bears a striking resemblance to that of drawing and the voice in Willy Apollon’s account of Haitian Vodou. I propose that writing in Clarice Lispector is the field of an ethics of risk insofar as it welcomes, upholds, and gives what has been excluded from language. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:494 HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY in the Haller Zeitung; it will probably not appear at all--it has, among other short, comings, the fault to be too long." In a letter to Schtitz, Niethammer writes from Bamberg on 23 March 1807: "I repeat my urgent demand... to send the review of Salat's book submitted by Prof. Hegel as soon as possible to Jena to hand it in to Hofrat Voigt.... " (...) The volume contains almost 1,000 valuable notes which explain the philosophical and historical background of the newly edited material. HENRY WALTERBRANN Takoma Park, Maryland Peter Yakovlevich Chaadayev: Philosophical Letters and Apology of a Madman. Trans. with Intro. by Mary-Barbara Zeldin. (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1969. Pp. 203. $7.50) Mary-Barbara Zeldin's translation into English of the Philosophical Letters and the Apology of a Madman, by the enigmatic Russian intellectual leader of the early nineteenth century, Peter Yakovlevich Chaadayev makes available in English for the first time the thought of this figure whose small corpus of writings circulated mostly in manuscript during his own lifetime and waited over a hundred years after his death for their complete translation in their original French. Historically Chaadayev is important as a mediator between Westernizers and Slavophiles in this initial period of the nineteenth-century Russian intellectual awakening. Chaadayev himself remained aloof from either of these parties, was appealed to by both of them and became himself a kind of martyr to intellectual freedom. His own view of Russian-Western relationships incorporates this problem most remarkably into a theological vision of the "education of the human race." Philosophically Chaadayev stands as a unique and somewhat eccentric synthesizer of German idealism with the Christian concept of salvation history. Perhaps the most remarkable insight to be gained by reading these long-buried essays is the ease with which an Eastern Orthodox Christian versed in Patristic hellenism could fuse the ideas of a paedagogy of the human race in Lessing, Herder and Schiller and read this as an expression of an Irenaean doctrine of the progressive development of a mankind through the mediation of the primordial Logos; an Alexandrian idea of the paedagogy of Christ in history and a Eusebian doctrine of Christian universal empire. In so doing this Russian thinker also reveals to what an extent the German idealist movement itself was grounded on much older syntheses of Christian thought. In the process, however, Chaadayev also shows that nineteenth-century men could only appropriate this heritage anew by taking the great credal themes of revelation, Christi, the church and the Kingdom of God and reissuing them in a secularized, humanistic dress, as a philosophy of history. Chaadayev's basic thesis is that knowledge is a divinely-given deposit of certain fundamental primordial ideas, which man would not have arrived at through his own unaided powers, but rather possesses as an imprint upon the mind of the first man implanted by the Creator. Chaadayev weds the western philosophical concept of a fundamental a priori with a doctrine of primordial revelation, revealing the foundation of man himself in the divine Logos. This primordial deposit of ideas existed in BOOK REVIEWS 495 the first man only as a rudimentary 'image' of God. It is only through historical development that man grows to full stature in these truths whereby he attains to the completed 'likeness' of God. These truths, together with their historical development, are passed down by a historical succession, which is not an ecclesiastical succession, but a succession of the human family. These truths are periodically renewed by the advent of certain extraordinary individuals who exemplify them to a high degree, and by certain elect nations who are divinely designated as their culture-bearers. The Jews of the Old Testament were that culture-bearer in antiquity, and, since the time of Jesus Christ, it is Christendom which stands for and bears the development of this primordial truth as it has been renewed and set forth in archetypal perfection by Christ. Chaadayev sharply down grades the role of the Greeks in this development, but does so in a manner remarkably similar to the ancient Christian apologists who stole Greek fire in order to bathe the... (shrink)

Artificial intelligence has often been seen as an attempt to reduce the natural mind to informational processes and, consequently, to naturalize philosophy. The many criticisms that were addressed to the so-called “old-fashioned AI” do not concern this attempt itself, but the methods it used, especially the reduction of the mind to a symbolic level of abstraction, which has often appeared to be inadequate to capture the richness of our mental activity. As a consequence, there were many efforts to evacuate the (...) semantical models in favor of elementary physiological mechanisms simulated by information processes. However, these views, and the subsequent criticisms against artificial intelligence that they contain, miss the very nature of artificial intelligence, which is not reducible to a “science of the nature”, but which directly impacts our culture. More precisely, they lead to evacuate the role of the semantic information. In other words, they tend to throw the baby out with the bath-water. This paper tries to revisit the epistemology of artificial intelligence in the light of the opposition between the “sciences of nature” and the “sciences of culture”, which has been introduced by German neo-Kantian philosophers. It then shows how this epistemological view opens on the many contemporary applications of artificial intelligence that have already transformed—and will continue to transform—all our cultural activities and our world. Lastly, it places those perspectives in the context of the philosophy of information and more particularly it emphasizes the role played by the notions of context and level of abstraction in artificial intelligence. (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)

The metaphor of base and superstructure has been one of the most controversial elements in Marxist aesthetics. In this text I discuss some of the many questions it raises. Today, many theorists believe that its problems are so extensive that it has lost all plausibility. I believe, however, that in rejecting the Marxist framework, aesthetics and cultural theory risks throwing out the baby with the bath water and jeopardizes its critical potential. Drawing on the work of Fredric Jameson and Slavoj (...) Žižek, I will propose a heuristic reinterpretation of the metaphor of base and superstructure. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Lessons From my Life's WorkJames BradleyAlmost thirty years ago, I entered the caring profession as an Auxiliary Nurse, on a temporary basis, as a prelude to taking formal training as a Registered Nurse. Since then I have had many titles, held many positions and roles and worked in many different care settings. I never did take that RN training but that temporary job became my life's work!I am a (...) carer. A hands-on, at-the-bedside, hand-holding, bed-bathing, carer. Not only that, I am a male carer. I am not a failed doctor, I am not "hired muscle," nor am I gay and I certainly didn't enter the profession to be amongst so many women, as the stereotypes would suggest.Put simply, I care for people and do for them what they would do for themselves under normal circumstances, were they able to do so. I can cook, clean, sew, iron, and make beds, bathe, toilet and many other things besides. Not only that, I can do more than one simultaneously. Yes, I am a straight, male carer who can multitask, which is perhaps why so many people have difficulty in understanding people like me!?Every day, come rain, hail or shine; morning, noon and night, I care for others, often with as much compassion and love as if they were my own family. Once you have built up a relationship with a client or patient and his or her relatives, they can seem as close as family. The anomaly in nursing these days though, is that most RNs don't get the time to "be" a carer to the same extent that I do. That is the main reason why I made the decision to not pursue RN training, as per my original plan.Internal and external politics, in addition to the "culture of litigation," has created a growing chasm between what nurses should be, what they want to be and what they actually are in fact. Many RNs joined the profession to be what I am now, only to find themselves bogged down in paperwork, mandatory annual education and undertaking tasks which once were the domain of junior medical staff. This is not a criticism of those RNs, but an observation on the nature of care, from the grassroots level. As those RNs are pulled away from providing basic care, who is left to fill the void created? That is where my peers and I come in!There are literally thousands of people like me across the country doing the exact same thing I do every day. Yet, as stated, I am in a minority, for I am a male carer in a female-dominated environment. That brings a whole set of differences in itself, some of which should never exist in a modern care environment and wouldn't, were they pertinent to females rather than males.For example, imagine a male doctor telling an RN to "make the coffee" simply because she is female and used to being in the kitchen. Just consider how much upset that would create, with claims of sex discrimination and lack of professionalism. Quite rightly so, too. Then consider why it seems [End Page 135] acceptable for females to expect certain responsibilities be undertaken by males simply because "men are stronger than women" (not true either, based on some of the people I have worked with over the years!). These double standards rise up infrequently, thankfully, but the fact that they exist at all says much about the nature of formal RN training.I was surprised at the job, initially, at how managers, education departments, etc. failed to recognize males in the profession—Florence Nightingale and her crew have a lot to answer for! It's even worse to see that discrimination against males still exists in some places, and by some people (who would claim to be "professionals") even today. There is no place in the Care Industry for those with such biased perceptions because, if they can hold such views about their colleagues, one wonders how they feel about their patients. Especially patients who may be challenging.Sometimes patients' families can be... (shrink)

Antalya, which is today’s attraction center with its historical and natural beauties, was described as “a city like heaven” since ancient times. This city hosted many civilisations and states until the 13th century and became an important seaport after The Seljuks took over the region. The Seljuks applied civilization and urbanization policy also in Antalya, like other regions they ruled. The mosques, madrasahs (Islamıc theology institutions), schools, baths, caravansearis (hostels), hospices, and water cisterns in this period changed the structure of (...) the city and paved the way for improvements of public life. During the Ottomans some of these social institutions were kept active while the others no longer served to the public. However, with the construction of new social institutions, urbanization was resumed. The madrasas were generally built near or adjacent to the mosques, and had a significant role in developing the society and cultural structure. Although the madrasas in Antalya were mainly the institutions that maintain the education system, the research on these madrasas mostly focuses on their architectural features. The majority of these madrasas that are not comprehensively studied. Therefore, the functioning structures and the problems of Antalya Madrasas (Antalya, Korkuteli and Elmalı), which are reflected in the archive documents between the 17th and 20th centuries and also both individuals and institutions that had influence on these madrasas are going to be investigated in this study. Thus, this paper will shed more light on Antalya Madrasas.Summary: Antalya city, which was completely under the Seljuk sovereignty during the reign of Sultan Alaeddin Keykubat I (1219-1236), was named as Alâiyye dedicated to the Sultan's name and became an important port city of the Seljuk State after then. In the process of the fall of the Seljuk State and the beginning of the Emirates (Beylikler) period, the city became a land of Teke-Oğulları, a part of a Hamid-oğulları, and in 1390 the city became an Ottoman city after the struggle of Yıldırım Bayazid with Teke-oğuları. Antalya was home to the madrasahs, one of the formal education institutions during both the Seljuk and the Ottoman Empire. The madrasahs were built next to the mosque or in a detached area built by sometimes administrators or statesmen, sometimes by members of the dynasty or by the citizens who were wealthy. In Antalya, both single floor and second floor madrasahs were built. This study based on the documents from Prime Ministry Ottoman Archive, the travel books of İbn Bibi and Evliya Çelebi, the works on Antalya Madrasahs to be determine the madrasah in the districts of Antalya as Korkuteli and Elmalı. In addition to the Seljuk madrasahs such as Imaret Madrasah, Atabey Armagan Madrasah and Karatay Madrasah, there are also some madrasahs belonging to the Ottoman period, in Antalya. As a matter of fact, the madrasahs increased in number in the period of the Ottoman. Antalya madrasahs which are reflected in archival documents for any reason are as follows: “Süleyman Madrasah” located in Hatip Süleyman Street, “Madrasah built by Haci Mahmed” located in Elmali Street, “Hacı Abbaszâde Hacı Süleyman Madrasah” in Süleyman Street, “İsmail Efendi Madrasah” in Tahtapazarı Kızılsaray Street, Kasab Hacı Ahmed Madrasah, Hacı Cafer Ağa Madrasah, Murad Ağa Madrasah, Esir Hacı Ali Madrasah, Hacı Hasan Madrasah,“Madrasah built by Hasan Efendi” in Keçiyalar Street, in the Kadılar Street of Gediz County “Madrasah built by Yusuf Efendi”, “Madrasah built by Hızır Efendi” in Cami-i atik Street, Murat Pasha Madrasah, “Sefer Ağa Madrasah” located outside the city wall, “Büyülü Minaret Madrasah, Hatuniye Madrasah, Sheik Sinan Camii Madrasah located outside the city Wall, In addition to these madrasahs mentioned in some studies in Antalya, it is also stated that there are madrasahs such as Müsellim Madrasah, Kesik Minaret Madrasah, Karakas Madrasah, Varsakli Mehmet Efendi Madrasah, Meydan Madrasah, Surmeli Madrasah, Canmülk Madrasah, Ahi Kız Madrasah, Hacı Naim Efendi Madrasah, Susam Madrasah, Çömlekçi Madrasah, Değirmenönü Madrasah, Ak Mescid Madrasah, Âşık Doğan Madrasah and Çukur Madrasah.According to archive documents, in the sub-district of Antalya, which is used as a plateau or plateau area, some madrasahs were recorded as follows: Pınarbaşı Madrasah, Hızır Efendi Madrasah, Mustafa Efendi Madrasah, Emir Sinaneddin Madrasah, Hacı Menlü (Mevlüt) oğlu Ömer Medrese, Abu Bakr Agha Madrasah, Koca Hafız Medrese, Hacı Mollaoğlu El-Hac Ömer Madrasah, Sheikh İsmail Efendi Madrasah. However, Süleyman Fikri Erten, who works on Antalya, stated that the number of madrasahs is eight as: Haci Ahmet Madrasah of Kalkanlı, Sultan Hatun Madrasah, Koparanzade Hacı Hüseyin Madrasah, Karabayırlı Hacı Hüseyin Madrasah, Kaşlı Ali Efendi Madrasah, Hacı Hüseyin Madrasah, Şalaka Ahmet Madrasah and Oyunyeri Madrasah.The madrasahs built in Elmalı, another distict of Antalya, were as follows: Ketenci Ömer Paşa Madrasah, Esbak Mir-i Ahur Hacı Mehmet Bey Madrasah, Haydar Baba Madrasah, Arifî Ahmed Paşa Madrasah, Hüseyin Efendi Madrasah, Debbağ Baba Madrasah, Şeyh Ümmi Sinan Madrasah, Babazade Hacı Abdurrahman Madrasah, Hacı Şeyh Efendi Madrasah, Mustafa Efendi Madrasah, Hasan Efendi Madrasah, Salih Efendi Madrasah, Halil Efendi Madrasah, Çankırlı Madrasah, Osman Efendi Madrasah and “Mehmet Efendi Madrasah in Örtekiz village”. In addition, two madrasahs, except from these, were also found in the archive documents.A madrasah was built almost at every Street of Antalya and the madrasahs were usually named by the name of their builders. Madrasah students were provided with a certain amount of scholarship to continue their education according to the level of the education in the madrasahs and the level of the courses taught, salaries of the scholars, the status of the builder of the madrasah. The scholars who worked in the madrasahs worked with a document called berat-i sharif and in the case of the disappearance of this document a new berat-i sharif would be prepared by the Shaykh al-Islami. Scholars working without this document were also determined. In the scholar appointments foundation, board of trustees, müfti, and the city regents were very influential. There were also some appointments resulted from death, promotion besides leaving job with their own will. There were some problems with the appointments in Antalya and the foundation revenues to which the madrasah was attached were delivered to certain individuals until these problems were resolved.In madrasahs of Antalya, science was given a great importance and all kinds of monetary issues were tired to be eliminated with donations given to both scholars and students. However, it is observed that madrasahs were involved in some events in Antalya. As a matter of fact, among those who participated in the Şah Kulu Rebellion that took place in 1510-1511, there were also madrasah students and education training had therefore been disrupted for a long time. it is known that the state sent orders to the judges (qadi) in the region consecutively in order to prevent the rebellion. Also during this period some madrasahs were used as the activity center of armed students or people who disguised them.One of the issues that negates the education and training in the madrasahs in Antalya is that in 1890 the immigrants started to be hosted in Antalya and the guests visiting were accommodated in madrasahs as there were no other available places. This situation had been continued for a long time and even telegrams have been sent about the students living on the sidewalks.Another important issue that disrupts education was epidemic diseases. It was reported that too many people died in the district of Istanoz because of smallpox, there was no doctor and the health personnel should go to the region urgently. Despite all the problems experienced in madrasahs, they continued their activities in Antalya and while continuing their activities under the control of foundations in 1826, with the establishment of the Ministry of Foundations, they were connected to this institution. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Constructive Criticism: The Human Sciences in the Age of TheoryWilliam BywaterConstructive Criticism: The Human Sciences in the Age of Theory, by Martin Kreiswirth and Thomas Carmichael; 223 pp. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995, $45.00 cloth, $17.95 paper.This book contains twelve essays based on papers presented at “The Human Sciences in the Age of Theory” conference sponsored by the Center for the Study of Theory and Criticism at (...) the University of Western Ontario and held at the University in 1993. Versions of six of the essays are published elsewhere.In After Virtue Alasdair MacIntyre offers the choice of Nietzsche or Aristotle. Authors in these essays offer a far greater variety. For Christopher Norris it’s Nietzsche or (late) Foucault, for Tilottama Rajan its Nietzsche and Lacan or Hegel, for Martin Kreiswirth and Gary Wihl (in separate essays) its Nietzsche or narrative, and for L. M. Findlay its Nietzsche or Ricoeur and narrative. This range of options reveals the extent to which these authors are attempting to escape the cul-de-sac created by the skeptical and nihilistic dimensions of Nietzsche which appear in deconstruction and postmodernism. “Constructive criticism” is an apt title for these essays. As a group they struggle to offer a way of understanding the complexities involved in resisting dominating discourses, while not giving in to despair or skepticism or nihilism.Diane Elam observes that “the age of theory begins when theories fail, when no single theoretical discourse is possible any longer.” The variety of alternatives to Nietzsche listed above is one manifestation of the truth of Elam’s claim. A second is the fact that none of these authors proposes wholesale adoption of the thinker who is being contrasted with Nietzsche. Each is selecting certain specific dimensions of the thinker’s position to be used to maintain contact with the complexity which they sense in the world around them.A third and more profound recognition is that these authors are not proposing their choices in the same spirit as MacIntyre [End Page 268] proposed his. The meaning of “either/or” is shifting. MacIntyre’s opposition between Nietzsche and Aristotle opposes two systems the latter of which represents a way to keep safe from the danger of moral chaos contained in the former. MacIntyre’s either/or contains this sense of opposition which is also a sense of salvation, of protection from having to grapple with things that are confusing, messy, dangerous. In the age of theory when theoretical discourse becomes impossible we can no longer be protected. “Either/or” shifts polarity. It no longer means my position will trump yours: it now means “either closed theoretical discourse or complexity and multiplicity.” The authors in Constructive Criticism choose complexity and multiplicity because to choose closed theoretical discourse is to choose insensitivity to all sorts of injustice.Heterogeneity is the watchword of all the authors in this volume and many of them see narrative as the mode of access to multiplicity. Kreiswirth argues that the meaningfulness of narrative depends on overdetermination and “complex accumulations and conjunctions of desire.” Little narratives, not master ones, are best able to show complexity. Findlay urges the use of metaphor to keep us in a place between the center and the margin. Wihl uses Rorty, Kundera and Nussbaum to underline “the moral significance of detailed, richly descriptive vocabularies” in contrast to the ascetic language of philosophy which does not permit the irony required for “perspicuity in the areas of ethical conflict and competing social agendas.” However, Victor Li is not at all happy about Rorty (or Habermas) both of whom, in criticizing others, appeal to “modernity’s own totalizing view of itself” instead of possessing, as they should, a sense of “the complex cultural logic of the in-between, of cultural hybridity and exchange.”However, there are two authors who—happily, I must say—make it clear that they do not want to throw theory out with the bath water. They are willing, it seems, to take the risk of both preserving what they do (theory) and maintaining a sense of the complexity of competing social agendas, overdetermination and cultural “hybridity.” John Fekete advocates both “utopia (radical... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:Rationality and Religious Experience: The Continuing Relevance of the World's Spiritual TraditionsRonnie LittlejohnRationality and Religious Experience: The Continuing Relevance of the World's Spiritual Traditions. By Henry Rosemont, Jr.Chicago: Open Court, 2001. Pp. vii + 106.In April 2000, Henry Rosemont delivered the first Hsuan Hua Memorial Lecture at the Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley. The following year, this lecture—originally titled "Whither the World's Religions?"—was published by Open Court in (...) this small book, Rationality and Religious Experience: The Continuing Relevance of the World's Spiritual Traditions. The volume is divided into four sections: (1) the lecture itself, which has the new title "Rationality and Religious Experience"; (2) a commentary by Huston Smith; (3) response and discussion, in which Rosemont replies to Smith and takes questions from the audience; and (4) an epilogue, in which Rosemont makes revisions and expansions on the lecture based on the comments and discussion.In section 1, Rosemont makes a bold claim: "By urging everyone to approach their own text tradition afresh, and alongside others, I am assuming what many of you might find implausible, namely, that in many basic respects all sacred texts are saying the same things, and contain the same truths we can all come to believe without in any way surrendering our rationality" (p. 11). Having said this, he nonetheless does not mean that we can accept the statements of religious texts as stating factual truths, much less that they are putting forward identical descriptions of the world.Rosemont faces the epistemological difficulties of religion directly, saying that we cannot accept the statements of religious texts as factual accounts of the world. He reminds us that it is not merely the Abrahamic traditions that pose an epistemological problem for us: "It no less flies in the face of modern science to believe that the preserver god Vishnu once incarnated himself as Krishna, not merely to give counsel to the spiritual warrior Arjuna, but also, among many other exploits, to make love to 20,000 milkmaids in a single day" (p. 5). Even so, he holds that there is much truth in the sacred texts and narratives of the world's religions (pp. 31-32). As will become apparent in my later remarks, it is not altogether clear to me what sort of truth Rosemont is talking about, but it seems to be more a matter of a certain ego-reduction and a sort of mystical feeling than anything else.Rosemont recognizes not only the epistemological objections to religion, but also the moral ones. He understands the violence and suffering that has been directly and indirectly associated with religion in human history. Yet, in this connection, he says:[E]fforts to exorcise religion from the human realm because of the mischief that has been committed in its name is to throw out the baby with the bath water, and equally to suggest a third response, that there is no hope for the cross-cultural dialogues necessary for [End Page 404] the creation and maintenance of a more peaceful and just twenty-first century until and unless everyone can come to understand how an intelligent and thoroughly decent human being might come to be, or remain, a subscriber to one or another of the world's faiths.(p. 10)It is the phenomenon of spiritual experience and not the doctrine or ontology of any tradition that Rosemont finds of philosophical interest. He thinks that instead of focusing on some purported factual knowledge about the world that we are to believe directly, we should instead concentrate on the instructions that the traditions offer about how to live purposively in the world and derive nonmaterial nurturance from it. "The basis of such nurturance is religious experience" (p. 17).Rosemont begins his remarks on religious experience with a critique of Kierkegaard the purpose of which is to show that lived experience is of one piece. Rosemont attributes to Kierkegaard the position that there are distinguishable and autonomously separable spheres of existence such as the aesthetic, ethical, and spiritual. Speaking of Kierkegaard's three stages, he says that "Almost all of the world's religious traditions, especially the Asian, affirm... (shrink)

This paper examines extracts from a daughter’s blog about her father’s time in a care home in the north of England from June 2015 until his death in January 2016. Through these extracts, the author of the paper, who is also the daughter of the title, provokes key ethical issues concerning the identity, agency and voice of an elder in the context of residential care. The wider, rapidly deteriorating, political and economic climate for the care of older people is briefly (...) discussed and the paper makes reference to a feminist ethics of care, in order to both critique and celebrate women’s central place in caring for elders. The paper explores how the ethnographic process of writing about care for another can be considered a route to ethical care practice and it suggests that this blog is part of an autoethnographic analytic tradition [Anderson 2006. “Analytic Autoethnography.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 35 (4): 373–395]. Finally, the paper asks questions about the ethics of blogging about and on behalf of an elder that, in this case, played a significant role in bringing not only the daughter-author but also other family members closer to the life of their father, grandfather and great-grandfather. (shrink)

The case for an unprecedented penetration of life mechanisms into the politics of Western modernity has been a cornerstone of 20th-century social theory. Working with and beyond Foucault, this article challenges established views about the history of biopower by focusing on ancient medical writings and practices of corporeal permeability. Through an analysis of three Roman institutions: a) bathing; b) urban architecture; and c) the military, it shows that technologies aimed at fostering and regulating life did exist in classical antiquity (...) at the population scale. The article highlights zones of indistinction between natural and political processes, zoē and bíos, that are not captured by a view of destructive incorporation of or over life by sovereign power. In conclusion, the article discusses the theoretical potential of this historical evidence for contemporary debates on ‘affirmative biopolitics’ and ‘environmental biopower’. (shrink)

One defining claim that critical phenomenologists make of the critical phenomenological method is that description no longer simply plays the role of detailing the world around the describing phenomenologist, but rather has the potential to transform worlds and persons. The transformative potential of the critical phenomenological enterprise is motivated by aspirations of social and political transformation. Critical phenomenology accordingly takes, as its starting point, descriptions of the oppressive historical social structures and contexts that have shaped our experience and shows how (...) these produce inequitable ways of being in the world (Guenther 2020, 12). For example, critical phenomenologists have provided rich descriptions of marginalized lived experience, particularly racialized experience (Ngo, 2017; Yancy, 2017), dis-abled experience and experiences of illness (Lajoie and Douglas, 2020; Toombs, 1993), gendered experience (Beauvoir, 2009; Salamon, 2010), and so forth. What is common across these accounts is the assumption that these descriptions provide means of enacting political change. First, they illuminate the existence of oppressive structures and their effects upon us, our possibilities, and our relations. Second, through increasing awareness they begin to denaturalize the oppressive historical structures that “privilege, naturalize, and normalize certain experiences of the world while marginalizing, pathologizing, and discrediting others” (Guenther 2020, 15). Third, through strategic responses (e.g., hesitation in Alia Al-Saji’s work), they produce new possibilities of action and experience, which initiates the process of creating different ways of being in the world (Al-Saji 2014).2. (shrink)

In addition to being influenced by hereditary factors, increased blood pressure is closely related to the eating habits of the respondents. Riverside Communities fulfill their daily needs from the river, such as eating, bathing, washing, and so on. How does the life of the riverside community affect hypertension?. This research method used a cross-sectional study with data collection using a questionnaire and observation of the people in the riverside areas. Communities on the outskirts of the river have eating habits (...) that affect the incidence of hypertension. The eating habits of the people in the riverside areas include excessive fat consumption, high salt consumption, meat, and fried foods. Conclusion: the people in the riverside areas have eating habits that pose a risk of hypertension. (shrink)

The present study examines the work of a group of medical scientists as they identify interpretative ‘pitfalls’ – recurrent sources of error – in the use of a new radiographic technique, formulate suggestions on how these pitfalls can be avoided and communicate their findings in the form of a scientific publication. The analysis focuses on a session in which previously diagnosed cases are discussed, and demonstrates the ways in which a certain source of diagnostic error gradually emerges as a taken-for-granted (...) in the interaction. An increased sense of recognition, recurrence and typicality is discernible in the treatment of the cases. Talk characterized by expansions and elaborations, displays of understanding in the form of reformulations, understanding checks, and so on, leave room for brief typifications and reifications of interpretative difficulties in characteristics of the imaging technique. Topical treatment of perception and interpretation, as well as embodied engagement, become decreasingly salient. It is argued that the abstracted formulations in the published text rely on the case-by-case working up of generality from particularity; from individualized accounts of why ‘I’ interpreted the image in a certain way to proffered generalizations achieved through articulated perceptions of a generalized ‘one’. If these proffers are ratified, a potential ground is established for the consensual formulation of a pitfall. The formulation of novel instructions is consequently made relevant, projecting a re-instructed diagnostic practice. (shrink)

Part I. Reflections on the past : a mor et memoria / Ugo Perone -- Givenness, grace, and Marion's Augustinianism / Felix O Murchadha -- Way of being given / Pierre-Jean Renaudie -- On the threshold of distance / Ryan Coyne -- Part II. Present openings : reading textual dramatics / Stephen E. Lewis -- The moving icon / Jodie McNeilly -- Love without bodies / Cassandra Falke -- As an Orpheus of phenomenality -- Part III. Breaching future horizons : (...) discovering human insufficiency with Marion / Jennifer Rosato -- Marion's spirituality of adoration and its implications for a phenomenology of religion / Christina M. Gschwandtner -- From negative theology of hermeneutics / Claudio Tarditi -- An excess of happiness / Jeffrey L. Kosky -- Flight from the flesh / Brian Becker. (shrink)

This volume offers a comprehensive guide to the extensive corpus of Jean-Luc Marion’s ideas, including a discussion of contemporary French phenomenology and critical appraisal of Marion’s ideas by leading scholars in the field. The contributors apply Marion’s thought to various fields of study, including theology, art, literature and psychology.

Die Reihe "Studien interdisziplinäre Geschlechterforschung" präsentiert regelmäßig neuere Untersuchungen über Herausbildungen und Bedeutungen von Geschlecht. Verknüpft werden natur-, technik-, sozial- und kulturwissenschaftliche Sichtweisen. Ebenfalls thematisiert werden hochschulpolitische Entwicklungen und Perspektiven von Geschlechterforschung in und außerhalb der Hochschule. Die Reihe wird herausgegeben vom Zentrum für interdisziplinäre Frauen- und Geschlechterforschung an der Carl von Ossietzky Universität Oldenburg (ZFG) und dem Zentrum für feministische Studien, Universität Bremen (ZFS). In diesem Band: In unserer heutigen Technowissenschaftskultur ist die Frage nach dem Verhältnis von Körper und (...) Maschine zentral. Während Körper denaturalisiert und durch die Life- und Cyberscience als turbulent und dynamisch reformuliert werden, wird Maschinen Sozialität zu- und eingeschrieben. An Beispielen aus der Robotik, Embodied Agents-Forschung und anderen Technowissenschaften, mit Bezug auf Philosophie, Wissenschaftsforschung und Literatur wird gezeigt, wie sich transklassische Maschinen und post-humane Körper herausbilden und geschlechtlich neu kodiert werden. (shrink)

BackgroundBiobanking biospecimens and consent are common practice in paediatric research. We need to explore children and young people’s (CYP) knowledge and perspectives around the use of and consent to biobanking. This will ensure meaningful informed consent can be obtained and improve current consent procedures.MethodsWe designed a survey, in co-production with CYP, collecting demographic data, views on biobanking, and consent using three scenarios: 1) prospective consent, 2) deferred consent, and 3) reconsent and assent at age of capacity. The survey was disseminated (...) via the Young Person’s Advisory Group North England (YPAGne) and participating CYP’s secondary schools. Data were analysed using a qualitative thematic approach by three independent reviewers (including CYP) to identify common themes. Data triangulation occurred independently by a fourth reviewer.ResultsOne hundred two CYP completed the survey. Most were between 16–18 years (63.7%, N = 65) and female (66.7%, N = 68). 72.3% had no prior knowledge of biobanking (N = 73).Acceptability of prospective consent for biobanking was high (91.2%, N = 93) with common themes: ‘altruism’, ‘potential benefits outweigh individual risk’, 'frugality', and ‘(in)convenience’.Deferred consent was also deemed acceptable in the large majority (84.3%, N = 86), with common themes: ‘altruism’, ‘body integrity’ and ‘sample frugality’. 76.5% preferred to reconsent when cognitively mature enough to give assent (N = 78), even if parental consent was previously in place. 79.2% wanted to be informed if their biobanked biospecimen is reused (N = 80).ConclusionProspective and deferred consent acceptability for biobanking is high among CYP in the UK. Altruism, frugality, body integrity, and privacy are the most important themes. Clear communication and justification are paramount to obtain consent. Any CYP with capacity should be part of the consenting procedure, if possible. (shrink)