En la t eoría de la acción comunicat iva habermasiana nos enf rentamos al problema de la validez de cat egorías del ent endimiento comunicativo, que est án fácticamente enormemente cuestionadas. Es decir, Habermas ha definido al in terior del apart ado “Desacoplamiento de sistema y mundo de la vida” una sist emática de las f ormas de entendimiento. Allí aparecen doce f ormas de entendimiento que art iculan la di ferenciación de esf eras de validez con á mbitos de (...) acción que evolucionan socialmente desde f ormas de ent endimiento primitivas preconvencionales hacia las má s avanzadas postconvencionales, llegando así hasta las dos últimas categorías (11 y 12) que Haberma s denomina forma moderna de entendimiento y que es el punto de partida de su teoría de la modernidad. Sin embargo, a este sistema categorial, debe hoy enfrentar una realidad completamente distinta a la del mundo moderno t ardo-capitalismo, que opera como ref erente fáctico de la t eoría. La nueva realidad consiste en una globalización sist émica que ha puest o en espacios nacio nales específicos a una pluralidad de mundos de la vida que van desde el preconvencional al postconvencional. Es decir, hoy, en el cuadro de la figura 28 presentado por Habermas en TAC 1981, II, todas las categorías aparecerían juntas, aunque diferenciadas en grados de evolución, y en un espacio y tiempo presente y continuo. Por tanto, hoy, cuando Habermas habla de Europa y del Estado de derecho democrático habla d esde el principio del discurso, o desde presupuestos teóricos comunicativos; cuando aborda temáticas referidas a integración social intercultural lo hace de sde una racionalidad del sentido común democrático (common sense) al que deben subordinarse esas otras tradiciones culturales. Cómo opera este common sense en la raciona lidad comunicativa de J. Habermas es el t ema de nuest ra exposición. Es de cir, nuestro objetivo será determinar génesis y estructura de la categoría de common sense en la obra de Habermas, y sus implicancias e pistemológicas y socio-éticas para pensar sistemáticamente una integración social int ercultural. Y con ello evaluar críticamente si t anto, la t eoría de la acción comunicativa como el discurso int ercultural de Habermas basa do en este common s ense, son apropiados o no, para pensar las patologías de exclusión social presentes hoy en América Latina. (shrink)

En la filosofía y la psicología moral existe una discusión actualmente de vital importancia, esto es la relación entre moral y emociones. Después de una larga tradición de pensamiento en donde los procesos de justificación moral se asociaron con el valor normativo de la razón, hoy en día asistimos a una nueva orientación que defiende la integración de aspectos cognitivos y emocionales dentro del análisis de la acción moral y los compromisos ciudadanos. En este contexto, Martha Nussbaum, con su teoría (...) cognitivo-evaluadora de las emociones, aporta una original reflexión ética centrada en lo que ha denominado el juicio eudaimonista ligado al florecimiento de la persona y la comprensión de una vida humana buena. Esta visión posibilita entender las emociones como advertidores de vulnerabilidad, sufrimiento y dignidad humana menoscabada, en momentos en que miles de hombres y mujeres se sumergen en lo infrahumano. In moral philosophy and psychology there is currently discussion of vital importance, this is the relationship between morality and emotions. After a long tradition of thought in which the processes of moral justification were associated with the normative value of reason, today we are witnessing a new orientation that defends the integration of cognitive and emotional aspects within the analysis of moral action and citizen commitments. In this context, Martha Nussbaum, with her cognitive appraisal theory of emotions, contributes an original ethical reflection focused on what has been called the eudaimonist judgment linked to the flowering of the person and understanding of a good human life. This vision makes it possible to understand the emotions as warners of vulnerability, suffering and human dignity undermined, at a time when thousands of men and women are immersed in the subhuman. (shrink)

Recientes innovaciones en la teoría social están abocadas a desarrollar puntos de encuentro y colaboración con la teoría de la complejidad. Por supuesto, tal aproximación conlleva una reconceptualizacion profunda de la noción de sistema y de diversas dinámicas y procesos asociados. En el artículo se mostrará cómo la síntesis constructiva entre teoría social y teoría de la complejidad hace posible avanzar en el estudio e investigación de ciertos problemas teóricos sociológicos y de la “complejidad global”.

Martha Nussbaum es fundamentalmente una filósofa política y moral que, cimentada en la tradición aristotélica, ha logrado integrar en unapostura teórica una visión de la justicia social con una perspectiva sobre la naturaleza y el cultivo de ciertas emociones morales que resultan apropiadas para edificar una nueva ciudadanía democrática. Para nuestra autora, la justicia no puede estar desligada del accionar de las personas en la vida cotidiana, por tanto, considera que este vínculo se puede materializar mediante el cultivo de las (...) emociones, las cuales se entienden como elementos claves de la vida moral que afinan nuestra percepción del mundo y orientan nuestras elecciones. Guiados por esta noción, en este artículo presentamos algunos aspectos fundamentales del pensamiento político de Nussbaum, mostrando la transición que la autora experimenta en sus teorías desde las posturas del liberalismo de Rawls hasta consolidar su propia visión de la “justicia compasiva”, la cual es unaforma concreta de apuntalar la norma pública que defiende cómo todas las personas merecen igual respeto y dignidad. En este recorrido igualmente reflexionaremos sobre la influencia de las posturas comunitaristas de finales del siglo XX en los ideales de ciudadanía de la filósofa de Chicago. (shrink)

La imaginación literaria y su relación con la vida moral ocupa un lugar destacado dentro del proyecto filosófico de Martha Nussbaum. Desde sus años de estudios doctorales en Harvard, la filósofa encontró importantes eslabonamientos entre las tramas narrativas y un sentido normativo de la vida que emerge al contemplar diversos personajes que actúan en la contingencia, y que ponen al descubierto nuestra radical vulnerabilidad. De acuerdo con esto, en este artículo se reconstruyen aspectos importantes de la herencia cultural que Martha (...) Nussbaum recibe de la literatura y la filosofía griega antiguas, haciendo un énfasis en la manera como la autora establece innovadoras conexiones entre la imaginación literaria y la filosofía práctica de Aristóteles para cimentar un proyecto filosófico que hoy en día brinda luces para comprender aspectos de nuestra vida emocional, y de nuestra aspiración a construir sociedades más justas y solidarias. (shrink)

Aunque las emociones se encuentran en el núcleo de quienes somos, su naturaleza y estructura continúa siendo hoy en día un amplio campo de investigación para diferentes disciplinas científicas. No obstante, como muchos otros temas de investigación actual, las emociones tienen unos antecedentes, una historia que conviene tener presente para ubicar los conceptos, los debates y las diversas aproximaciones teóricas en el marco cultural y las tradiciones de pensamiento que les dieron origen. En este artículo, realizaremos un breve recorrido por (...) la historia de las emociones en la época antigua de tal manera que el lector pueda reconocer, a grandes rasgos, las interpretaciones y posturas originales que desencadenaron diversas comprensiones teóricas en torno a estos fenómenos físicos y mentales que conforman nuestra existencia. (shrink)

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

This paper defines and analyzes the processes of “othering” as they manifest in the practice and praxis of nursing education. Othering is bound up in the establishment and reinforcement of norms, and shores up power inequities that negatively impact faculty, students, and patients. While previous analyses have addressed othering in nursing more broadly, this paper adds a consideration of the multiple processes of othering that operate within the context of nursing education spaces. Cases from recent nursing education literature are interpreted (...) through the frameworks of exclusionary, inclusionary, and structural othering, and provide specific illustrations of the concepts described. The paper concludes by arguing for an application of norm‐critical pedagogical practice to counteract, disrupt and dismantle othering processes within nursing education. (shrink)

This paper deals with one of the first attempts to measure simple reactions in humans. The Swiss astronomer Adolph Hirsch investigated personal differences in the speed of sensory transmission in order to achieve accuracy in astronomy. His controversial results, however, started an intense debate among both physiologists and astronomers who disagreed on the nature of these differences. Were they due to different eyes or brains, or to differences in skill and education? Furthermore, they debated how to eliminate them. Some, for (...) example, wanted to eliminate the observer, and prescribed the use of new technologies like the electro-chronograph or photography, while others believed in discipline and education. By debating the nature of these differences, astronomers and physiologists sketched both different conceptions of ‘man’ and different paths to objectivity. These diverse conceptions, moreover, were tied to current nineteenth-century debates, such as the benefits or disadvantages of railroads, telegraphy and the standardization of time and longitudes. By focusing on the debates surrounding the speed of sensory transmission, this paper reevaluates the history of astronomy, physiology and experimental psychology. Furthermore, in investigating astronomy's relation to the human sciences, it uncovers profound connections in the traditionally separate histories of objectivity and the body.L'heure sera distribuée dans les maisons,comme l'eau ou le gaz.Adolph Hirsch. (shrink)

ArgumentIn 1895 when the Lumière brothers unveiled their cinematographic camera, many scientists were elated. Scientists hoped that the machine would fulfill a desire that had driven research for nearly half a century: that of capturing the world in its own image. But their elation was surprisingly short-lived, and many researchers quickly distanced themselves from the new medium. The cinematographic camera was soon split into two machines, one for recording and one for projecting, enabling it to further escape from the laboratory. (...) The philosopher Henri Bergson joined scientists, such as Etienne-Jules Marey, who found problems with the new cinematographic order. Those who had worked to make the dream come true found that their efforts had been subverted. This essay focuses on the desire to build a cinematographic camera, with the purpose of elucidating how dreams and reality mix in the development of science and technology. It is about desired machines and their often unexpected results. The interplay between what “is” (the technical), what “ought” (the ethical), and what “could” be (the fantastical) drives scientific research. (shrink)

During the late nineteenth century, scientists around the world disagreed as to the types of instruments and methods that should be used for determining the most important constant of celestial mechanics: the solar parallax. Venus’s 1874 transit across the sun was seen as the best opportunity for ending decades of debate. However, a mysterious “black drop” that appeared between Venus and the sun and individual differences in observations of the phenomenon brought traditional methods into disrepute. To combat these difficulties, the (...) astronomer Jules Janssen devised a controversial new instrument, the “photographic revolver,” that photographed Venus at regular intervals. Another solution came from physicists, who rivaled the astronomers’ dominance in precision measurements by deducing the solar parallax from physical measurements of the speed of light. Yet other astronomers relied on drawings and well‐trained observers. The new space emerging from this debate was characterized by a decline in faith in photography and in geometry and by the growing realization of the importance of alternative elements needed for establishing scientific truths: power and authority, skill and discipline, standardization, mechanical reproducibility, and theatricality. By examining the “cinematographic turn” in science and its alternatives, this essay brings to light unexplored multidisciplinary connections that contribute to the histories of psychology, philosophy, physics, and film studies. (shrink)

This paper offers several new insights into the epistemology of immunity to error through misidentification, by refining James Pryor’s distinction between de re misidentification and wh-misidentification. This is crucial for identifying exactly what is at issue in debates over the Immunity thesis that, roughly, all introspection-based beliefs about one’s own occurrent psychological states are immune to error through misidentification. I contend that the debate between John Campbell and Annalisa Coliva over whether the phenomenon of thought insertion provides empirical evidence against (...) claims like Immunity has wrongly focused on de re misidentification and largely overlooked the role of wh-misidentification. I argue that, once we properly distinguish the two notions, subjects of thought insertion can be seen to make an error of wh-misidentification in their judgments. I argue that this disproves the Immunity thesis, properly understood, and show what broader implications this has for our understanding of IEM and the first person. (shrink)

Nesse artigo temos como objetivo analisar a representação do conceito de liberdade na primeira temporada da série “Merli”, veiculada no canal de streaming Netflix. Nela, pretendemos verificar como o professor de Filosofia Merli Bergeron trabalha conceitos libertários e suscita reflexões críticas em seus alunos sobre os padrões de convívio socialmente impostos pelas instituições primárias e secundárias. Ao mesmo tempo, pretendemos abordar a personalidade do professor, discutindo sobre o convívio que ele mantém com os colegas de trabalho e seus alunos, assim (...) como em sua vida particular, para visualizarmos se, de fato, ele pratica aquilo que discursa aos estudantes durante suas aulas. Haverá um foco maior na relação dele com o aluno Ivan Basco, que sofre com agorafobia e recebe aulas particulares de Merli para superar sua situação de isolamento. Em um primeiro momento, com caráter introdutório, iremos discutir sobre a importância da discussão de liberdade na contemporaneidade. A seguir, exporemos conceitos formulados por diversos pensadores acerca do que é a liberdade e sua importância para a emancipação humana. A partir disso, serão abordadas informações básicas sobre a produção da série, como os diretores, veiculadores e atores envolvidos para, por fim, executarmos a análise dos capítulos do seriado e apresentarmos nossas considerações finais. Diversos teóricos pertinentes a esse trabalho serão utilizados na revisão bibliográfica. Como metodologias de análise fílmica usaremos, para verificação estrutural do filme, a metodologia de análise fílmica de Manuela Penafria e, para visualização das formas simbólicas, a Hermenêutica de Profundidade, proposta por John Thompson em “Ideologia e Cultura Moderna”. (shrink)

Al aplicar la ética en la política se desvela un problema fundamental consistente entre su supuesta relación, llegando a entenderse como saberes opuestos, es preciso, pues, reflexionar en torno a su posible aplicación, o si, por el contrario, normatizar éticamente la política es imposible, utilizando la ayuda de métodos analíticos, deductivos e histórico-comparativos que sirvan de marco teórico. A causa de la negación ética en los procederes políticos surge una práctica política amoral, que mediante el sometimiento y la costumbre se (...) termina aceptando como algo políticamente normal, degenerando en una serie de problemas y creencias que imposibilitan cada vez más la aplicación de juicios morales a actuares políticos, es por ello que en la actualidad es normal pensar que lo único importante en la política es únicamente el fin, ignorando el daño que se pueda generar en el proceso. Sin embargo, la ética y política son acciones humanas, por lo tanto, se debe reflexionar sobre ellas con las herramientas brindadas por la ética política, aplicando juicios éticos y morales a los actuares inmediatos y prácticos encontrados en la política. (shrink)

Stewart Shapiro has objected to the epistemicist theory of vagueness on grounds that it gives counterintuitive predictions about cases involving conditional obligation. This paper details a response on the epistemicist’s behalf. I first argue that Shapiro’s own presentation of the objection is unsuccessful as an argument against epistemicism. I then reconstruct and offer two alternative arguments inspired by Shapiro’s considerations, and argue that these fail too, given the information-sensitive nature of conditional obligations.

Epistemicists claim that if it is vague whether p, it is unknowable whether p. Some contest this on epistemic grounds: vague intuitions about vague matters need not fully preclude knowledge, if those intuitions are response-dependent in some special sense of enabling vague knowledge. This paper defends the epistemicist principle that vagueness entails ignorance against such objections. I argue that not only is response-dependence an implausible characterization of actual vague matters, its mere possibility poses no threat to epistemicism and is properly (...) accounted for by the epistemicist’s own principles. (shrink)

Conversation analysts have noted that, in psychotherapy, formulations of the client's talk can be a vehicle for offering a psychological interpretation of the client's circumstances. But we notice that not all formulations in psychotherapy offer interpretations. We offer an analysis of formulations that are diagnostic: that is, used by the professional to sharpen, clarify or refine the client's account and make it better able to provide what the professional needs to know about the client's history and symptoms. In doing so, (...) these formulations also have the effect of shepherding the client's account towards subsequent therapeutic interpretation. In a coda, we notice that sometimes the formulations are designed discreetly. We examine one such discreet formulation in detail, and show how its very ambiguity can lead to its failure as a diagnostic probe. (shrink)

Sorensen has argued that one can exploit the vagueness of an ordinary predicate like ‘small’ to induce a sort of vagueness in ‘vague’, by constructing a series of predicates of the form ‘n-small’, where x is n- small if and only if x is small or x n. The resulting ‘Sorensen’ed’ predicates present a Sorites case for ‘vague’ ; hence the vagueness of ‘vague’. Hyde argues that this demonstrates that all vague predicates are higher-order vague. Others doubt whether Sorensen’s series (...) really delivers such a result, claiming Hyde’s argument to be either: unsound, because it misidentifies the true source of vagueness in Sorensen’s Sorites ; invalid, because it fails to generalize to all vague predicates ; or circular, because it presupposes the very thing it tries to prove, namely, higher-order vagueness. This paper contributes to the Sorensen-Hyde vs. Tye-Deas-Hull-Varzi debate by clarifying the relations between vague vagueness and higher-order vagueness. I show how claims of higher-order vagueness are derivable from claims of vague vagueness. This is the missing piece needed to complete Hyde’s argument and overcome the objections presented by Deas, Hull, Tye, and Varzi. I then show how Sorensen’s considerations, once properly generalized, pose more far-reaching consequences about the vagueness of ‘vague’ than either defenders or critics of Hyde’s argument have appreciated. (shrink)

Multiple selves is a conventional assumption in behavioural welfare economics for modelling intrapersonal well-being. Yet an important question is which self has normative authority over others. In this paper, we advance an argument for what we call the ‘ontological approach’ to personal identity in behavioural welfare economics. According to this approach, ethical questions – such as which preference should be granted normative authority over another – can be informed by the ontological criterion of personal persistence, which aims at determining what (...) it takes for an individual to persist from one time to another. (shrink)

Resumen: Se discute las consecuencias de ajustar el diseño de investigaciones sociales al formato de las ciencias naturales. Se propone que el costo es la esterilidad de los intentos. Siendo la sociedad un sistema en desarrollo, la observación de hechos según las reglas del laboratorio o del experimento conducen a la invisibilidad del objeto y a un extravío del observador; lo que se escurre es el sentido de la investigación y en su reemplazo queda solo un hábito de precisión técnica. (...) En vez, se sugiere volver a la ciencia social según su impronta historicista y totalista: el contexto es todo y origen de las preguntas. El método son los caminos para producir las respuestas. La ciencia comienza antes y sigue después de este, en la relación sociología/sociedad. Ahí es cuando la investigación toma su sentido, que lleva a esa sociedad a esa pregunta: a investigarse.: This essay discusses the consequences of fitting social research designs to the format of natural sciences. It argues that the cost is null for trying. Being society a system in development, the observation of facts according to lab rules or experiments lead to the invisibility of the subject matter and loosing track to the observer; what is lost is the sense of research and its replacement is just technical precision habits. Instead it suggests going back the social science based on historical and totality roots: the context is everything and the origin of questions. The method is the road to produce answers. Science began before and continues after it, in the relationship between sociology and society. There is when research acquires its meaning, that leads that society to that question: to question itself. (shrink)

Con la publicación de En torno a lo político, Mouffe instala su lectura de lo político y la democracia en la problemática de la política mundial del nuevo milenio. Preocupada principalmente por las posibilidades abiertas para la estructuración de un orden mundial único –posibilidades celebradas por una vasta corriente intelectual de corte liberal y progresista– y por la emergencia de una derecha populista en varios países europeos, se propone hacer una crítica a la base política que ha propic..

La modernización del agro chileno ha generado nuevos patrones de asentamiento y movilidad de la población tanto en ámbitos locales y regionales, como a nivel nacional. El tradicional modelo de desarrollo urbano-metropolitano, ha sido sustituido por un modelo de desarrollo agropolitano, el cual ya no se sustenta en el crecimiento y metropolización del país, sino en el crecimiento de un amplio abanico de ciudades agrarias. En este artículo se analiza la dinámica demográfica de estas ciudades agrarias. Proponemos el concepto de (...) agrópolis, el cual lo definimos como aquellos espacios en los que la actividad económica predominante está vinculada directamente al agro, ya sea como actividad primaria (agricultura), como actividad secundaria (agroindustria) o terciaria (comercio y servicios orientados a la agricultura y/o la agroindustria). Este concepto de agrópolis nos permite superar los vacíos de la dicotomía rural-urbana, proponiendo una oposición conceptual más amplia y compleja, entre lo que serían las agrópolis y las metrópolis. (shrink)

Within the field of didactics of second language teaching, it is believed that phonic errors cannot be completely corrected due to the significant influence of L1. However, improving the processes of acquisition of an L2 implies learning pronunciation properly. Given the importance of pronunciation for communication, it is necessary to deeply know the nature of phonic errors, which requires a specific classification aimed to describe, classify and categorize them. This article is intended to test the validity and efficiency of the (...) taxonomy developed in the project AACFELE. To accomplish our objective we: a) collected the most significant phonic errors made by learners of Spanish from nine different nationalities and b) categorized those errors. As a result, we found that the classification entails plenty of trouble caused by the impossibility of marking the boundaries of the numerous phenomena involved in the pronunciation of a sound; that is why we considered the need of redefining some of the suggested categories and assessed the adequacy of maintaining other ones less useful. Despite these circumstances, the most significant outcome was the reliable proof that the taxonomy AACFELE allowed us to label and describe diverse phonic errors using common criteria, which represents the first step to accurately study phonic acquisition of a foreign language. (shrink)

This paper situates Einstein’s theory of relativity within broader networks of communication.The speed of light, explained Einstein, was an unsurpassable velocity if, and only if, it was considered in terms of »arbitrary« and »voluntary« signals. Light signals in physics belong within a broader set of signs and symbols that include communication and military signals, understood by reference to Helmholtz, Saussure, media philosophies from WWII to ‘68 (Lavelle, Ong, McLuhan) and Derrida. Once light signals in physics are considered in relation to (...) semaphore, print, telegraph, radio, computers and tape recorders, Kittler and Habermas provide us with conflicting ways for understanding science and technology, rationality and consensus.We conclude with a study of »flash and bang« in popular accounts of relativity theory to understand the role of theoretical science in the transmission of information and violence. (shrink)

El presente trabajo aborda los procesos de construcción social histórica de los “intelectuales indígenas”, en una de las etapas más relevantes y complejas para los movimientos étnicos en América Latina: redemocratización, apertura de los mercados y alta participación de las bases en procesos de movilización. De este modo, la presente proposición desarrolla dos grandes puntos de análisis: por un lado, la definición y autodefinición que hace de sí un “intelectual indígena”; y por otro lado, las problemáticas que enfrenta este etnointelectual (...) en un entramado semántico cientificista y occidental. This paper studies the processes of historical social construction of “indigenous intellectuals”, one of the most important and complex stages for ethnic movements in Latin America: redemocratization, the opening of markets and high participation of the grassroots mobilization processes. Thus, this proposition develops a two-point analysis: firstly, the definition and selfdefinition which is made by an indigenous intellectual and, on the other hand, the problems facing this etnointellectual in a scientific and Western semantic framework. (shrink)

El culto a la diosa Isis, de origen egipcio aunque helenizado a partir del dominio macedónico, se expande por el mundo grecorromano hasta abarcar un espacio geográfico muy amplio, como nunca antes había conocido. Los testimonios literarios que se refieren a él en época altoimperial son abundantes y de distinta naturaleza, desde descripciones precisas de elementos clave hasta escritos hostiles por parte de autores cristianos con una intencionalidad muy clara. El análisis pormenorizado de estos textos se antoja necesario si se (...) quiere llegar a conocer el estado en el que se encuentra el culto isíaco en un período como el Alto Imperio. (shrink)

As consequence to the coronavirus outbreak, governments around the world imposed drastic mitigation measures such as nationwide lockdowns. These measures included the closures of schools, hence, putting parents into the position of juggling school and work from home. In the present study, we investigated the well-being of parents with school-aged children and its connection to mitigation measures with particular focus on parental roles “caregiver,” “worker,” and “assistant teacher” as stressors. In addition to direct effects, we expected indirect effects on well-being (...) through changes in household dynamics. Data were collected via an online survey (N= 1313, 85.5% female; 53.2% university degree) conducted during the first wave of school closures in Germany. We observed that during the early COVID-19 pandemic, parental well-being in general was quite positive. Comparing the positive and negative PANAS subscales, parents agreed significantly more with the positive than with the negative items,t(1299) = 28.55,p< 0.001. Parents also reported an increase in positive family activities during the lockdown,t(1272) = 43.96,p< 0.001. Although a significant increase in negative household dynamics, such as disputes, was also observed to a lower extent,t(1295) = 7.78,p< 0.001. Using structural equation modeling, we observed that “homeoffice” was not significantly related to parents’ well-being, but positively affected household dynamics. Taking on the role of “assistant teacher” was negatively related to household dynamics. Additionally, we found a significant direct effect on negative affect for “assistant teacher.” We conclude that parents of school-aged children have mostly been able to establish positive dynamics in their households during the lockdown given the extra time they got to spend with their children by working from home. However, our results identify the role of “assistant teacher” as a potential stressor for parents. Bridging the gap between teachers and parents seems warranted especially if (some) distance-learning continues, in order to avoid long-term consequences for the students. (shrink)

El debate sobre la relación entre migración y desarrollo ha estado hegemonizado por la visión que los países receptores y organismos internacionales tienen de ella. En la última década se ha consolidado el análisis de la migración internacional desde el enfoque de la seguridad nacional de los países receptores. En estos años ha tomado fuerza las posiciones políticas conservadoras que sustentan la criminalización de la migración indocumentada, y que impulsan diversas políticas de control inmigratorio. Frente a esta mirada, se plantea (...) pasar del enfoque del llamado “management of migration”, a uno de la así llamada “gobernanza de la migración”, que busca incluir los derechos e intereses de los migrantes en el centro del debate. Lo que nos interesa mostrar en este trabajo, es que la perspectiva hegemónica ha llevado a invisibilizar tanto las condiciones económicas y demográficas de los países de destino que sustentan y dan espacio a la inmigración, así como el aporte de estos inmigrantes a la dinámica de la economía y de la reproducción de estas sociedades. Nos interesa mostrar estimaciones sobre el aporte de los inmigrantes latinoamericanos a la dinámica económica y social de los Estados Unidos y España, principales destino de este flujo migratorio. Para ello, nos sustentaremos en el análisis de datos cuantitativos e información proveniente de estadísticas oficiales de ambos países y la elaboración de un modelo de análisis que busca ofrecer una visión comprehensiva del papel de la migración internacional en la reproducción social, demográfica y económica en las sociedades avanzadas. (shrink)

Social research techniques are a set of devices that contribute to the observation and knowledge of the social. Such devices are the subject of analysis in this article. The main argument that we hold is that increasingly innovation in design and use is required to better understand the complexity contained in social processes we studied, not succumbing to the formalization and crystallization of the same, but opening to movements that blur boundaries and open up new possibilities increasingly filled with everyday (...) observation. The youth as a metaphor for the social contains a good opportunity for the deployment of these ideas, especially in the possibility of addressing the confluence of biography and structure, when these individuals reflect on their future. With a qualitative method we investigate how young people from different social sectors are experiencing the output of secondary education in Chile. Further analysis on the technique used in this research allows us to offer the following thoughts. Las técnicas de investigación social constituyen un conjunto de dispositivos que contribuyen a la observación y conocimiento de lo social. Dichos dispositivos son el objeto de análisis del presente artículo. El argumento principal que sostenemos es que se requiere cada vez más innovación en su diseño y uso, para dar mejor cuenta de la complejidad contenida en los procesos sociales que estudiamos, no sucumbiendo ante la formalización y cristalización de las mismas, sino abriendo a movimientos que diluyan los límites y abran nuevas posibilidades cada vez más llenas de la cotidianidad del fenómeno en observación. Lo juvenil como metáfora de lo social, contiene una buena oportunidad para el despliegue de estas ideas, sobre todo en la posibilidad de provocar la confluencia de biografía y estructura, cuando estos sujetos reflexionan sobre su futuro. Con un método cualitativo indagamos sobre cómo jóvenes de diversos sectores sociales están experimentando la salida de la enseñanza media en Chile. Un análisis posterior sobre la técnica utilizada en dicha investigación, las decisiones que evidencian nuestras lógicas y prácticas investigativas, nos permite ofrecer las siguientes reflexiones. (shrink)

In virtue of what does a linguistic act count as an insult? I discuss five main approaches to this question, according to which an insult is determined by (i) the semantic properties of the expression used; (ii) the insulter, her intention, or attitudes; (iii) the addressee and her personal standard; (iv) the features of the speech act performed; and (v) the standard of the relevant social group. I endorse the last, objectivist account, according to which an act x counts as (...) an insult if and only if x is assessed as demeaning when addressed at A by the standard of the relevant social group at t. (shrink)

Two contributions from Dr Ivan Illich follow. The first, in which he sets out his primary thesis of the medicalization of life, is a section from Dr Illich's book `Medical Nemesis'. (It is reprinted with the permission of the author and his publishers, Messrs Calder and Boyars.) The second is a transcript of the paper which Dr Illich read at the conference organized by the London Medical Group on iatrogenic disease. Both are ultimately addressed to the recipients of medical care, (...) the general public, although the second paper is specifically addressed to young doctors and medical students. For Dr Illich the world is suffering from too much medical interference, and a medical edifice has been built which is one of the threats to the real life of human beings - a threat which so far has been disguised as care. (shrink)

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

The paper offers a semantic and pragmatic analysis of statements of the form ‘x is beautiful’ as involving a double speech act: first, a report that x is beautiful relative to the speaker’s aesthetic standard, along the lines of naive contextualism; second, the speaker’s recommendation that her audience comes to share her appraisal of x as beautiful. We suggest that attributions of beauty tend to convey such a recommendation due to the role that aesthetic practices play in fostering and enhancing (...) interpersonal coordination. Aesthetic practices are driven by a disposition towards the attunement of attitudes and aesthetic recommendations contribute to forwarding such attunement. Our view is motivated by an attempt to satisfy the following set of desiderata: to account for the experiential nature of aesthetic judgments, disagreements in aesthetic debates, and the normative aspirations of aesthetic discourse, as well as to avoid appealing to error theory and realist ontological commitments. (shrink)