https://revistes.uab.cat/enrahonar/article/view/v57-quepons.

This article traces the career path and personality of a chancery official or secretary in the service of the Gonzaga, the ruling dynasty of Mantua, in the middle years of the fifteenth century. It relates Giovanni Arrivabene to the contemporary social, political and cultural context of this secondary northern Italian power or signoria but touches the wider Italian world at many points, particularly the papal court, whether in Rome or other locations, where Giovanni’s talented younger brother served first as the (...) secretary of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga and later as an apostolic secretary. The comparison between the two brothers and their interdependence as property owners is a recurring theme. Giovanni emerges with evident limitations which hampered the succession to his father’s superior role in the chancery, where other privileged families also tended to prevail. Humanist educated and efficient, he seems to have been a bureaucrat of routine abilities, not quite astute enough to outpace certain departmental rivals or to avoid being tainted by association with some possibly corrupt practice which caused loss of favour. His later rehabilitation, first as a provincial magistrate concerned with criminal jurisdiction and later as an estate management official, illustrates that private relationships within the narrow world of a civic quasi despotic government were all important. (shrink)

Merleau-Ponty spent the summer of 1960 in the small French village of Le Tholonet writing Eye and Mind. His choice of location was no accident. Le Tholonet was the physical and emotional epicenter of Paul Cezanne’s late painting, the ultimate proving ground of his relentless quest to reveal the truth of landscape in art.It makes perfect sense that Merleau-Ponty wrote Eye and Mind in Le Tholonet. The essay is a philosophical meditation on vision and painting. But it also is a (...) meditation on place, in the deeply saturated sense that encompasses the landscape, its natural and human history, and the history of the painter who brought this part of Provence to universal visibility in his art. Le Tholonet is the terroir of Eye and Mind, the site and soil of this final, extraordinary expression of Merleau-Ponty’s thinking. Merleau-Ponty passa l’été 1960 dans le petit village français de Le Tholonet en écrivant L’OEil et l’Esprit. Le choix de ce lieu n’est pas accidentel. Le Tholonet était l’épicentre physique et émotionnel de la dernière peinture de Paul Cézanne, le terrain d’essai final de sa quête incessante pour arriver à révéler la vérité du paysage dans l’art. C’est tout à fait sensé que Merleau-Ponty ait écrit L’OEil et l’Esprit à Le Tholonet. L’essai est une méditation philosophique sur la vision et sur la peinture. Mais c’est aussi une méditation sur le lieu, sur le sens profondément saturé qui entoure le paysage, sur son histoire naturelle et humaine, et sur l’histoire du peintre qui porta, par son art, ce coin de la Provence à la visibilité universelle. On pourrait alors dire que Le Tholonet est le terroir de L’OEil et l’Esprit, le site et le sol de cette expression finale et extraordinaire de la réflexion de Merleau-Ponty. Merleau-Ponty trascorse l’estate del 1960 nel piccolo villaggio francese di Le Tholonet, dedicandosi alla scrittura de L’occhio e lo spirito. La scelta di questo luogo non fu casuale. Le Tholonet fu infatti l’epicentro fisico ed emotivo della pittura dell’ultimo Cézanne, il campo di prova finale del suo tentativo instancabile di rivelare la verità del paesaggio nell’arte. È del tutto coerente che Merleau-Ponty abbia scritto L’occhio e lo spirito a Le Tholonet. Il saggio costituisce una riflessione filosofica sulla visione e sulla pittura, ma rappresenta anche una meditazione sul senso di un luogo, secondo un’accezione densa che comprende il paesaggio, la sua storia naturale e umana, e la storia del pittore che attraverso la sua arte ha portato questa parte della Provenza a una visibilità universale. Le Tholonet è il terroir de L’occhio e lo spirito, il sito che ospita e il terreno che nutre quest’ultima straordinaria espressione del pensiero di Merleau-Ponty. (shrink)

By the end of the Republic the Bay of Naples had become a preferred setting for the pleasure villas of wealthy Romans, a centre of fashion and of cultivated ease. The villa of C. Marius at Misenum, though not the first of which we hear, is the earliest coastal Campanian estate whose appointments are explicitly described as having been luxurious. In an epistle of Seneca Marius is said to have built the villa, and on a height; of the location Seneca (...) says, vaguely, in regione Baiana, for the subject of the epistle is the depravity of Baiae, and the author took pleasure in contrasting the character of the early villas in the area with the moral decadence of the imperial resort; the elder Pliny locates the site of Marius' villa more precisely: in Misenensi. From Plutarch's somewhat fuller account come a first indication of date, a different impression of architectural character, and the names of two subsequent owners of the property. He states that after the Social War, when Sulpicius proposed Marius, others Sulla, for command in the Mithridatic War, the detractors of Marius urged him to look after his failing health and to go to the warm baths at Baiae. (shrink)

By the end of the Republic the Bay of Naples had become a preferred setting for the pleasure villas of wealthy Romans, a centre of fashion and of cultivated ease. The villa of C. Marius at Misenum, though not the first of which we hear, is the earliest coastal Campanian estate whose appointments are explicitly described as having been luxurious. In an epistle of Seneca Marius is said to have built the villa, and on a height; of the location Seneca (...) says, vaguely, in regione Baiana, for the subject of the epistle is the depravity of Baiae, and the author took pleasure in contrasting the character of the early villas in the area with the moral decadence of the imperial resort; the elder Pliny locates the site of Marius' villa more precisely: in Misenensi. From Plutarch's somewhat fuller account come a first indication of date, a different impression of architectural character, and the names of two subsequent owners of the property. He states that after the Social War, when Sulpicius proposed Marius, others Sulla, for command in the Mithridatic War, the detractors of Marius urged him to look after his failing health and to go to the warm baths at Baiae. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Beyond the Ethics of Wealth and a World of Economic InequalityMark D. WoodAnalyzing the ethics of wealth and the relationship between the dominant ethics of wealth and economic inequality is vital to creating a humane mode of global life. We are living during a period in which the unequal concentration of wealth—which is to say, the unequal concentration of the resources that make human existence, development, and fulfillment possible—has (...) never been greater.1 The World Bank reports that almost “1.3 billion people remain below the extreme poverty line with an income of US $1.25 or less a day. Close to 2.5 billion—more than one-third of the world’s population—live on less than US $2 a day, another common measurement of deep deprivation,”2 and a staggering 80 percent of the world’s population struggles to survive on less than US $10 dollars a day.3 Credit Suisse’s 2012 Global Wealth Report indicates “the bottom half of the global population [or more than 3.5 billion persons] possess barely 1 percent of total wealth... In sharp contrast, the richest 10 percent own 86 percent of the world’s wealth, with the top 1 percent alone accounting for 46 percent of global assets.”4 Given the history of international colonial and neocolonial relations, it comes as no surprise that wealth is highly concentrated in Western Europe and North America, while the overwhelming majority of individuals living in poverty are concentrated in Africa, India, Asia, and Central and South America.5The wealth gap between the top 10 percent and the bottom 90 percent is, however, also reaching record levels in developed nations. While in 2012, the United States had the seventh highest average wealth holdings per adult in the world, “among nations with at least a quarter-million adults, only Russia, Ukraine, and Lebanon are more unequal” than the United States.6 A Reuters investigative report published in 2012 reveals that “inequality has risen not just in plutocratic hubs such as Wall Street and Silicon Valley, but also in virtually every corner of the world’s richest nation: Inequality has increased in 49 of 50 states since 1989,” with Mississippi being the only exception, even as it still “ranks worst in the nation on both counts.”7 In 2010, “the top 1 percent of households (the upper class) owned 35.4 percent of all privately held wealth, and the next 19 percent (the managerial, professional, and small business stratum) had 53.5 percent, which means that just 20 percent of the people owned a remarkable 89 percent, leaving only 11 percent of the wealth for the bottom 80 percent [End Page 125] (wage and salary workers).”8 In The Price of Inequality (2012), Nobel Prize–winning economist Joseph E. Stiglitz indicates that the “six heirs to the Walmart empire command wealth of $69.7 billion dollars, which is equivalent to the entire wealth of the bottom 30 percent of U.S. society.”9 In short, six individuals possess more wealth than do ninety-six million individuals—though this figure is misleading inasmuch as most of the ninety-six million own almost nothing but mounting debt. Most significantly, the top 10 percent own between 81 percent and 94 percent of all stocks, bonds, trust funds, and business equity, and almost 80 percent of non-home real estate.10 G. William Domhoff makes the vital point that inasmuch as “financial wealth is what counts as far as the control of income-producing assets,” that is, control of the means of producing wealth, “we can say that just 10 percent of the people own the United States of America.”11 Meanwhile, according to the latest census, fifty million Americans qualify as poor and another 100 million qualify as low income.12The concentration of the lion’s share of wealth in the hands of a tiny fraction of humanity is devastating for the majority of people living on the planet and ultimately for everyone. On the ground, capitalism’s champagne glass–shaped distribution of wealth means that hundreds of millions of persons have barely enough of the basics necessary to exist. Between 24,000... (shrink)

Supporting Hamilton’s inclusive fitness theory, archival analyses of inheritance patterns in wills have revealed that people invest more of their estates in kin of closer genetic relatedness. Recent classroom experiments have shown that this genetic relatedness effect is stronger for relatives of direct lineage (children, grandchildren) than for relatives of collateral lineage (siblings, nieces, nephews). In the present research, multilevel modeling of more than 1,000 British Columbian wills revealed a positive effect of genetic relatedness on proportions of estates allocated to (...) relatives. This effect was qualified by an interaction with lineage, such that it was stronger for direct than for collateral relatives. Exploratory analyses of the moderating role of benefactors’ sex and estate values showed the genetic relatedness effect was stronger among female and wealthier benefactors. The importance of these moderators to understanding kin investment in modern humans is discussed. (shrink)

To study the L shi chunqiu (or L -shih ch'un-ch'iu. Master L 's Spring and Autumn Annals is to enter into the tumultuous but progressive times of the Warring States period (403-221 BCE). 1 This period is commonly referred to as 'the pre-Qin period' because of the fundamental changes that occurred after the Qin unification. Liishi chunqiu was probably completed, in 241 BCE, by various scholars at the estate of L Buwei (L Pu-wei) the prime minister of Qin and tutor (...) to the Qin child King, Zheng. 2 It is one of the few pre-Qin texts that dates itself; the date, though not precise, is given in the xuyi chapter. 3 A decade after the completion of the L shi chunqiu, King Zheng began the ensuing 9 years of fervent warfare that led to his unification of the empire in 221 BCE. Before the political unification, L shi chunqiu created a philosophical consolidation. 4 The Liishi chunqiu performed an important function in the literary and political education of the young King Zheng. More importantly, it provided a philosophical understanding of and justification for a unified empire which left its mark on the young King, and subsequent Han philosophy. After the unification of the empire, King Zheng took the title Qin shihuangdi (First-generation Emperor of Qin), and he established the insignia of water for the imperial emblems, employing concepts from Liishi chunqiu's yingtong (responding and identifying) chapter which describe the succession of dynasties according to the timely cycle of the five phases (wuxing) to justify his new dynasty. 5. (shrink)

Lawyers and the legal system have been much criticized in recent years. Despite popular perceptions, the legal system contains numerous mechanisms and rules designed to ensure fair results. This paper shows how the legal system tries to implement, in commercial transactions, the ethical principles of truthfulness and fairness. The Anglo-American development of Equity Courts is reviewed briefly. Several examples of the Law's enforcement of ethical principles are presented, in four different legal areas: Contracts, Securities, Goods, and Real Estate. The intent (...) here is to present an overview of the problem, with area-specific illustrations, rather than a comprehenisve examination of the cases in just one area. (shrink)

For much of the 20th century, brewers owned the majority of British public houses. In 1989, the Monopoly and Mergers Commission brought about the dissolution of the brewers' estates, and two types of pub‐owning companies emerged. One employed managers, and the other leased their outlets to individual operators. In the present climate of opposition to excessive drinking, their approach to retailing is being brought into question, with public demands for a responsible approach. This article examines the different responses of the (...) major firms within the industry. (shrink)

For much of the 20th century, brewers owned the majority of British public houses. In 1989, the Monopoly and Mergers Commission brought about the dissolution of the brewers' estates, and two types of pub‐owning companies emerged. One employed managers, and the other leased their outlets to individual operators. In the present climate of opposition to excessive drinking, their approach to retailing is being brought into question, with public demands for a responsible approach. This article examines the different responses of the (...) major firms within the industry. (shrink)

Cutting a cake, dividing up the property in an estate, determining the borders in an international dispute - such problems of fair division are ubiquitous. Fair Division treats all these problems and many more through a rigorous analysis of a variety of procedures for allocating goods, or deciding who wins on what issues, when there are disputes. Starting with an analysis of the well-known cake-cutting procedure, 'I cut, you choose', the authors show how it has been adapted in a number (...) of fields and then analyze fair-division procedures applicable to situations in which there are more than two parties, or there is more than one good to be divided. In particular they focus on procedures which provide 'envy-free' allocations, in which everybody thinks he or she has received the largest portion and hence does not envy anybody else. They also discuss the fairness of different auction and election procedures. (shrink)

Le Conseiller d'Etat ou Recueil général de la politique moderne est l'un des grands traités politiques du XVIIe siècle. Son auteur, Philippe de Béthune, diplomate réputé et fin connaisseur de la vie publique, a écrit un livre étonnant de philosophie politique, de stratégie, d'économie et d'urbanisme. Œuvre d 'un homme de cour, habitué à côtoyer les princes, il est le produit de la réflexion et de l'expérience d'un personnage singulier, mais aussi d'une époque insolite de mutation entre deux mondes, - (...) celui de la Renaissance, des guerres de religion et des troubles de la Ligue, et celui de l'absolutisme monarchique et de l'État moderne, - marquée par une transformation profonde des valeurs politiques et morales. Personnalité peu commune, qui a voyagé à travers toute l'Europe, qui par deux fois a été ambassadeur à Rome et qui a bénéficié d'une longévité remarquable, Philippe de Béthune est le frère puîné de Sully Il naît sous Charles IX, commence sa carrière comme mignon, dans l'entourage de Joyeuse, l'archi-favori d'Henri III, sert Henri lV Louis XIII, Richelieu et termine sa vie sous le ministériat de Mazarin. Publié en 1633, avec l'accord du cardinal ministre, Le Conseiller d'Etat n 'a jamais été réédité depuis 1684. Cette nouvelle édition est précédée d'une longue introduction sur l'art politique de la première moitié du XVlle siècle et le paysage mental de l'époque. (shrink)

ABSTRACT This article explores the reflections on economic issues underlying the French political treatise Le Conseiller d’Estat (1632). Its aim is to add a piece to the puzzle of early seventeenth-century economic culture by examining a specific source that is especially significant on account of the importance it assigns to the economic dimension, within the framework of reflections on the raison d'État, paying particular attention to the connection between economics and politics. At the same time, from a more general (...) perspective, the article aims to highlight the significance of the reflections on economics to be found in seventeenth-century political treatises. These remain to be reconstructed in all of their complexity, and yet they constitute a genuine legacy of the European economic culture of the Early Modern Age, and one which only partly found its way into eighteenth-century thought. (shrink)

Revisión del libro Violencia, espionaje y represión estatal. Seis estudios de caso sobre el pasado reciente argentino por D. D´Antonio (comp.).

Research into the work of UK estate agents reveals a love‐hate attitude on the part of the public and profound ethical ambivalences. Dr Clarke is a member of the Department of Sociology, Social Policy and Social Work Studies, The University of Liverpool, POB 147, Liverpool L69 3BX. This article draws on his study Slippery Customers: Estate Agents, The Public and Regulation, Blackstone Press 1994, co‐authored with D. Smith and M. McConville.

This case study chronicles the entrepreneurial and real estate investment activities of a recent Ph.D. graduate in business administration. The protagonist learns that clear focus is necessary for entrepreneurial success and that trust does not mix with entrepreneurship and negotiation. Ethics are sometimes problematic for entrepreneurs.

La découverte d’un nouveau mois à Ténos et l’identification d’un graveur à Paros conduisent à formuler de nouvelles hypothèses sur le problème des sûretés réelles en droit grec. L’examen du registre de Ténos (IG XII 5, 872) en vue de sa réédition a fait apparaître une erreur de découpage entre les actes 17 et 18 chez les éditeurs antérieurs, qui n’ont pas reconnu le nom d’un mois, Èrès[iôn], équivalent du mois délien Arèsiôn attesté depuis peu à Andros, l’île voisine. En (...) faisant disparaître une clause obscure de ce document, cette découverte invite à réexaminer le fonctionnement d’un gage hypothécaire d’un type particulier, l’apotimèma dotal, auquel l’un des actes du registre fait allusion. Ce point acquis, on aborde ce qui fait par contraste la spécificité de la vente avec faculté de rachat (prasis épi lysei) : à Ténos comme à Athènes, elle se caractérise par un transfert de propriété immédiat au profit du créancier, au moyen d’un acte de vente complété le cas échéant par un contrat de location. Le rapprochement entre une borne récemment découverte à Paros (SEG 54, 794) et une célèbre loi sur les archives, gravée par le même lapicide, permet en dernier lieu de préciser la relation entre la prasis épi lysei et les pratiques d’archivage public à l’époque hellénistique. (shrink)

Qualsevol que es llegeixi aquest llibre s'adonarà que molts d'aquests mites amb els quals ens han promès la felicitat no són ni tan sòlids, ni tan certs, ni tan "progres" com sembla. Amb lúcida ironia, Ignasi Riera reflexiona sobre algunes de les qüestions que actualment saturen els mitjans de comunicació i que, com a polític i periodista, l'han preocupat al llarg de la seva vida: la idealització del món rural, l'obsessió per la salut, però també el maniqueisme de certes actituds (...) pseudodemocràtiques, les paradoxes de la societat del benestar o el fals esquerrisme. La crítica de fons és doblement interessant: marcada pel to satíric i desenfadat que el caracteritza, Riera ens proposa la deconstrucció d'un concepte viciat com és el de la felicitat, enganyós, mercantil i utilitari, i d'aquestes formes de pensament dirigit que, segons ens diuen alguns, són el camí per arribar-hi. La conclusió és clara: els que pretenem lluitar contra la felicitat, hem de canviar de sentit tota la nostra vida així com el conjunt de les nostres creences: tirar al foc moltes de les que semblen veritats eternes.IGNASI RIERA, escriptor, articulista, comentarista radiofònic i polític, ha conreat tots els gèneres literaris. Ha estat guardonat amb els premis Octubre, Ramon Llull i Pere Quart d'Humor i Sàtira. És autor de llibres de narrativa breu, de novel·les, de pamflets, dels llibres de no ficció: El meu oncle Pere Quart, Un patriota exemplar, Els catalans de Franco, Viatgers de Barcelona, Jordi Pujol. Llums i ombres ; de la biografia, Lluís Llach: companys no és això i de Llibre d'hores del ben menjar. A Edicions 62 ha publicat: Pàries, sindicalistes, demagogs, Diccionari de la Cuina Catalana i Un català a Madrid. (shrink)

En aquest article pretenem fer una crítica, des de postulats ètics de caràcter republicà, al mode actual d’entendre i, per tant, posar en pràctica el principi d'autonomia de la bioètica. Pretenem mostrar que, en l’estat actual d’aplicació d'aquest principi, emprant una definició liberal de llibertat i de la natura humana, aquest idea de llibertat i autonomia que es pretén protegir, no es compleix en deixar fora de l’equació tot un seguit de circumstàncies socials, polítiques o econòmiques que poden dificultar (...) al pacient prendre una veritable decisió sobirana sobre quin ha de ser el fet d'actuar dels professionals sanitaris sobre el seu cos en cada cas. (shrink)

Dans le cadre d’une recherche plus vaste sur les origines françaises du débat italien sur la raison d’État à la fin du XVIe siècle, Enzo Baldini étudie les liens étroits des deux livres de Giovanni Botero et de René de Lucinge. L’auteur montre comment le dialogue que les deux hommes entretinrent durant les années 1580 fut décisif non seulement pour le traité que Lucinge consacra à la Naissance, durée et chute des Estats, mais aussi pour la réflexion de Botero sur (...) la « raison par laquelle on gouverne un État ». (shrink)

Research into the work of UK estate agents reveals a love‐hate attitude on the part of the public and profound ethical ambivalences. Dr Clarke is a member of the Department of Sociology, Social Policy and Social Work Studies, The University of Liverpool, POB 147, Liverpool L69 3BX. This article draws on his study Slippery Customers: Estate Agents, The Public and Regulation, Blackstone Press 1994, co‐authored with D. Smith and M. McConville.

https://revistes.uab.cat/enrahonar/article/view/v25-menke.

https://revistes.uab.cat/enrahonar/article/view/v27-habermas.

Depuis 2007, Marina Caffiero et Manola Ida Venzo réjouissent lectrices et lecteurs passionnés d’écrits féminins avec la collection qu’elles dirigent chez l’éditeur romain Viella, intitulée « La memoria restituita. Fonti per la storia delle donne » (La mémoire restituée, sources pour l’histoire des femmes). Pour la première fois en Italie, cette collection déjà forte de six volumes présente des écrits féminins rédigés de la fin du Moyen Âge à l’époque contemporaine. Les chercheur-e-s ont donc...

Isma‘īl b. ‘Ali, who is referred to as Abū Sa‘d as-Sammān, was born in Ray, Iran, between 981 and 983 and he devoted most of his life to educational travels, especially for hadith and he returned to his city of birth towards the end of his life and died there in 1053. Isma‘īl b. ‘Ali is well-known with the name of as- Sammān, meaning butter trader, because of he was grew up in a family of butter traders. The movables and (...) real estates in his inheretence show that he belongs to a wealthy family. As-Sammān, who seems to be in the twelfth generation of Muʻtazilite tradition, approve the thoughts of Abū Hāshim al-Jubbā’ī (ö. 321/933) and Abu'l-Ḥusayn al-Baṣrī (ö. 436/1044) and he was accepted as the leader of the Muʻtazila in his own period. He had education from scholars such as Abū Tāhir al-Muḫallis, Ibn Abū Nasr at-Tamīmī and Abkasī (ö. 405/1014-15) in the discipline of hadith. As-Sammān, was an authoritative figure both in the fiqh of Hanafi and disagreements between thoughts of Hanafism and Shafi'ism as well as in the fiqh of Zaydism. In addition, he educated himself in the topic of Qur’anic recitation, scholars of narrators, genealogy, law of inheritence and arithmetic. Among the works of as-Sammān, who are stated as many, only one record seem to be extant until today: “Kitāb al-Muvāfaqa bayn ahl al-bayt wa's-sahāba wa mā ravāhu kullu farīqin fī haqq al-āḫar”, which was written to point out the fondness and respect between the first three caliphs and ‘Ali. Thus, it is not possible for us to have a detailed knowledge about his thoughts in kalam and fiqh. However, Ibn al-‘Adīm (ö. 660/1262) gives us some ideas about thoughts of al-Sammān through his will narrates in his “Bughyat aṭ-Ṭalab fī tārīḫi Ḥalab”. As-Sammān states that his thoughts of kalam and fiqh are formed on the school of Ahl al-‘adl wa't-tawḥīd, in particular parallel with Muʻtazila-Zaydiyya and he designed his will, which he gave about two years before his death, according to the Muʻtazilite theological paradigm. In this context, according to as-Sammān, Allah is one and eternal. Attributes of Allah such as Power, Knowledge, Life, Hearing, Sight and Wealth are by virtue of His essence. Allah does not resemble anything, nor a body or an accident. All actions of Allah are good, and He never do evil. Allah does not wish for a sin nor have any consent to sin. Allah does not test people with what they cannot afford. Allah does not oppress people nor punish anyone with no justice. Allah is faithful to his promise that he will reward people who are good and will punish people who do evil. Voluntarily actions are created by people themselves. Revelation regarding the doomsday and the hereafter are true. Also, worships performed by the living on behalf of the dead such as hajj, ‘umrah, charity, reciting the the Qur'an and visiting the graves of them are useful for the dead. Repentance which is the forgiveness of sins is the decisiveness of not to commit it again with regret. As-Sammān has been criticized because of his Muʻtazilite thoughts, but his credibility, his intellectual effort and his abilities have been appreciated even by his opponents. The combative and dynamic nature of his life was reflected in his will are analysed in this work and it is concluded that he expressed his thoughts on belief and deeds in his will as a true Mu‘tazilite manifesto. (shrink)

Este trabajo se inserta en un proyecto mayor consistente en la evaluación moral de las políticas de seguridad a la luz del ideal político republicano de libertad como no dominación. Los razonamientos en torno al poder punitivo desde la Ilustración hasta nuestros días han tomado mayoritariamente como punto de partida la concepción de libertad hobbesiana. Según esta concepción un individuo es libre sí y sólo sí no padece interferencias provocadas por otros individuos. La interferencia es entendida aquí como una intervención (...) más o menos intencional. El Estado aparece como una institución que causa la libertad y, en particular, el derecho penal es una interferencia tan mala en sí misma como la coerción procedente de otras direcciones, pero justificada en la medida que disminuye el nivel general de coerción.• Si el nivel de interferencia producido por el derecho es menor que el nivel de interferencia privada que el aparato estatal evita que se produzca, entonces los individuos son más libres. La concepción hobbesiana de libertad se presenta así, utilizando la distinción introducida por Isaiah Berlin3 como un tipo de libertad negativa. A diferencia de la concepción clásica de libertad, presente por ejemplo en Aristóteles, no requiere de la existencia de autodominio o control -ya sea personal o político- por parte del individuo. (shrink)

Situándose desde un cuestionamiento acerca de las “políticas de Estado”, el artículo busca contribuir al conocimiento de la transformación estatal y la sociedad en países periféricos. Esta preocupación metodológica se enfoca desde la filosofía del derecho y de la política mediante la perspectiva sociológica del “análisis de políticas públicas”. Aborda el trabajo las sociedades que recientemente han accedido a instituciones modernas de control y que las han adaptado de formas diversas. El hilo conductor supone que la “norma básica”, la “regla (...) de reconocimiento” y los “principios morales”, constituyen “ideas” complementarias que están a la base de la acción y la comprensión estatal, o de la “dinámica jurídica” o de las “políticas institucionales de control político. (shrink)

Ce texte est issu d'un atelier transdisciplinaire tenu à l'Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore – Dipartimento di Sociologia – Gruppo Interstizi & Intersezioni – Milano – 22/04/2010. Il a déjà paru dans NewsMAGAZINE, n° 18, estate 2010. On en trouvera également une version un peu différente dans le fichier ci-joint. Nous remercions Giovanni Gasparini de nous avoir autorisé à le reproduire ici. Quella valanga d'avvenimenti simultanei che chiamiamo l'universo non travolge il fortunato che sa (...) - Sociologie – Nouvel article.

2Un grup d'experts, majoritàriament membres de l'Institut d'Estudis Catalans, coordinat per Pere Lluís Font, es proposa en aquest llibre fer un balanç del que ha estat la contribució catalana en el camp de la filosofia i de les divers.

Les pràctiques d’okupació que sorgeixen a mitjans dels 80 al nostre país son considerades un moviment social per múltiples autors (Calle, 2005; Pruijt, 2004; Martínez, 2002). L’any 2006 apareix arreu de l’Estat un nou moviment social diferenciat, el moviment per l’habitatge. Aquest moviment organitzà joves d’arreu de l’Estat espanyol i, els anys posteriors, consolidà centenars de plataformes d’afectats per les hipoteques de totes les edats. Les seves propostes i demandes han estat un full de ruta en l’aterratge (...) pràctic del moviment del 15-M. L’objectiu d’aquest article és comparar aquests dos moviments urbans que es poden entendre també com a pràctiques emancipadores de la joventut i noves formes de participació dels joves en la societat civil.The practical of squatting that arrived to our country in the 80’s is considered a social movement by multiple authors (Calle, 2004; Pruijt, 2004; Martínez, 2002). The year 2006 appears a new and differentiated social movement, the housing movement. This movement organized young people of all over the country, and therefore consolidated hundreds of platforms of affected by the mortgages of different ages. Their proposals and demands have been a rate routing coming from the 15-M movement. The aim of this article is to compare these two urban movements that could be also understood as emancipation practices and new shapes of participation of the civil society. (shrink)

Introduction Paul Boshears The following excerpt from Paul Amitai's In Between States: Field notes and speculations on postwar landscapes (2012) confounds its reader. Presenting an alternate history of the State of Israel as a space station orbiting Earth, the excitement of possibilities crackles across the texts and images. Like Chris Marker's La Jeteé , the accompanying static images distort the viewer's temporality: are these archaeological items, images from a past, or a future? Why isn't this our future? In Between States (...) can also be seen as complementing Larissa Sansour's provocative science fiction works, Space Exodus (2009) which "documents" the Palestinian space program, and her Nation Estate (2012), in which Palestine is relocated into a skyscraper. Amitai's vision opens onto an intergalactic diaspora, wherein the refugees of World War II are given the stars as Western Europe continues to fight over terrestial colonies. —PFB Auditorium, Hoechst AG headquarters, Industriepark-Höchst, 2011. In 1941 an investigation by the US Justice Department exposed a marriage cartel between John D. Rockefeller’s Standard Oil (now ExxonMobil) and I.G. Farben. The two corporations had formed a joint operation in 1927 called Standard IG Farben. It was revealed that the two had shared patents in order to control prices and markets in their respective regions. Standard was accused of hiding patents from the US Navy and supplying fuel to German submarines, which lead to charges of criminal conspiracy. The Pentagon intervened, requesting that President Roosevelt stop the investigation in order to protect war production and oil supply. Roosevelt agreed, and the Senate committee investigating the matter, headed by Senator Harry Truman, was halted. Standard Oil paid a fine of $5000 and promised to stop supplying fuel to the enemies. Auditorium, Hoechst AG headquarters, Industriepark-Höchst, 2011. Furious at the decision to terminate the investigation of acts he considered treason, Truman initiated a new inquiry into Standard Oil’s war-time practices after succeeding Roosevelt as president in 1945. With the chief executives of I.G Farben simultaneously on trial at Nuremburg, Truman brokered a deal with the Allies that reduced or withdrew criminal charges leveled against both corporations in exchange for Standard Oil and I.G. Farben’s sponsorship of one of Truman’s most ambitious postwar projects—the relocation of the Jewish people. Detail, Sanofi-Aventis advertisement, 2011. The third critical player in this bold experiment was the nascent North Atlantic Space Agency. Formed by Allied forces using the seized assets and engineering expertise of Hitler’s hitherto classified space program (conquer Earth, then the stars), the North Atlantic Space Agency was a pre-NATO foray into interstellar nation building, with orbital occupation as the first point of order. By 1947, NASA was nearly ready to deploy the first manned space station. Standard Oil and I.G. Farben’s advanced fuel refinement capacities and deep, war-enriched financial resources allowed NASA to speed up their launch schedule significantly. Detail, Sanofi-Aventis advertisement, 2011. Diplomatic efforts to establish a Jewish homeland in Palestine were failing to gain traction, while post-colonial England held its ground on immigration restrictions and bands of Jews and Arabs battled over territory on the ground. More immediate was the issue of temporarily housing Holocaust survivors and refugees across scorched Europe. Leaders of the continental nations demonstrated, at best, reluctance to accommodate the Jews, who in turn were, at the least, resistant to returning to the same bloody cocktail from which they had fled. Truman used the impasse to advance a plan for NASA’s space station to be put to use as a temporary Jewish outpost, an orbital displaced persons camp, to be operated by the US Army. Detail, Infaserv Höchst advertisement, 2011. Final preparations advanced rapidly. Viewing the orbital displaced persons (ODP) camp as a solution to their immigration problem both at home and abroad, England came on board as a willing partner. Spaceship Exodus was positioned for takeoff on German farmland 20 kilometers southwest of Frankfurt. On December 30, 1947, one month after the UN General Assembly voted down the separation plan for Palestine, Exodus rocketed into the atmosphere hauling the first module of barracks designed to house 1,500 refugees. Transport vehicles arrived shortly thereafter, loaded down with leftover wartime military rations and 3,000 Jews of Russian and Polish origin. Detail, Infaserv Höchst advertisement, 2011. "The camp is the space that is opened when the state of exception begins to become the rule."—Giorgio Agamben, Homo Sacer , trans. Daniel Heller-Roazen, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995), 96. Detail, Infaserv Höchst advertisement, 2011. The ODP camp proved to be a longer-term solution than originally envisioned. Additional installations were positioned to form swollen clusters of interlocking units – sleeping quarters, schools, clinics, canteens. The UN was brought in to monitor the camp following two chaotic years of US Army control in which food shortages, pandemic diseases, and rampant black market trade had brought the camp to near total collapse. No less bureaucratic or ineffectual, the UN relief agency at least had prior experience facilitating contexts of a similar magnitude and could potentially predict outcomes. Detail, Infaserv Höchst advertisement, 2011. What had been unexpected was the degree to which the camp would evolve into its own self-regulated, hive-like ecosystem where previously accepted rules of conduct were not applicable. The ODP camp was an exceptional space, a riverboat casino, an offshore research lab of social experimentation and entrepreneurial innovation. No longer Earth-bound, touching soil knotted by prescripts of Talmudic law, the camp residents were able to rationalize loopholes and detonate barriers standing in the way of absolute production. The Jewish archipelago was renamed Israel after the ancient homeland. If the temple couldn’t be rebuilt in the motherland, a post-national rhizome would sprout up in its stead. Eyes everywhere, beyond all borders. More information on the project at the author's site. (shrink)

1 Il primo inganno Tu non nascesti per la morte, immortale Uccello!le affannate generazioni non ti calpestano;la voce ch’io odo in questa fuggevole notte fu uditain antichi giorni dall’imperatore e dal villano. Questi versi dall’ Ode a un usignolo di John Keats, del 1819, ripropongono la domanda retorica che già Kant aveva posto nel 1790: «Che cosa c’è di più celebrato dai poeti dell’affascinante bel canto dell’usignolo, in cespugli solitari, in una calma sera d’estate, sotto la dolce luce de...

Esta investigação histórica e documental enquadra-se no âmbito da História d Educação em Portugal. Trata-se de uma temática pouco usual, mas serve para uma melhor compreensão da criança nas sua problemáticas educativas, sociais, assistenciais e de reeducação no período entre 1871 - altura da primeira fundação da primeira Casa de Correção e Detenção de Lisboa ocupando-se a partir desse momento o Estado destas. Problemáticas infantis e juvenis da marginalidade, abandono, desamparo e delinquência até 1962. Neste estudo admitimos a existência especial (...) de uma pedagogia social portuguesa que integra contributos das várias ciências da época: jurídico-penais, ciências médicopedagógicas, sociológicas, psicopedagógicas, filosofia do direito, etc. Todas estas influências permitiram a reflexão sobre aquelas situações da criança o que originou a criação de vários estabelecimentos especiais de correção e de reeducação, ao nivel estatal e ao nível particular. Houve a aplicação de métodos inovadores no diagnóstico e na orientação dessas crianças. Demos, assim, um contributo valioso para a elaboração de uma História da Assistência à Infância Inadaptada em Portugal. (shrink)

In his Bibliographia politica Naudé reviews in about one hundred pages authors and works that have dealt with politics, from the Antiquity to the first decades of the Seventeenth Century. In few enlightened pages on the ordinary and extraordinary administration of the State, Naudé elaborates his own idea of Reason of State, including the use of an extraordinary administration in the name of the public benefit. We can find a continuity between his Bibliographia politica and his Considérations politiques sur les (...) coups d’Estat. In both his political works Naudé gives to the category of wisdom, derived from Aristotle, a new practical and political value, which goes back to authors such as Machiavelli or Cardano, Lipsius or Charron. Naudé’s political wisdom uses dissimulation and any form of justice, also against common law, to act in extraordinary administration of the State or to carry out “coups d’État.”. (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)

Des que Ramon Llull va morir fa més de set-cents anys, sempre ha estat present, d’una manera o altra, en la cultura occidental. Fi­lòsofs, teòlegs, historiadors o, fins i tot, arquitectes i científics han partit del seu pensament per a construir noves teories i proveir-se d’eines de treball. Malgrat això, com tot gran personatge, també ha tingut detractors que s’han oposat amb vehemència a la divul­gació dels seus llibres i han arribat a demanar-ne la prohibició. Les aportacions aplegades en (...) El llegat de Ramon Llull mostren vessants diferents tant de l’obra del pensador mallorquí com de la difusió del lul·lisme, en una visió que comprèn múltiples discipli­nes i que obre noves perspectives d’anàlisi. (shrink)

El pensament català proposa un petit tast del que ha estat el pensament filosòfic a Catalunya i la seva àrea d’influència cultural —País Valencià i les Illes Balears—, des dels grans mestres medievals Ramon Llull i Ramon Martí fins als contemporanis Eugenio Trías i Josep Maria Terricabras tot passant per les grans figures del segle xix com Jaume Balmes i Josep Torras i Bages. Diem «pensador català» a tot el qui ha treballat amb les idees i que ho ha (...) fet en el català del Principat, o en el seu bessó el valencià, o en el bessó mallorquí, o també en castellà, o en el llunyà àrab o en el remot llatí… Però al capdavall, i sobretot, des d’un mateix punt d’origen geogràfic i cultural: la Mediterrània occidental. (shrink)

Résumé — Hegel refuse qu’une représentation politique des individus puisse donner lieu à un État concret, et lui préfère une représentation des divers « états » sociaux, dont la fonction serait d’assurer la médiation entre État et société. Dans sa Critique du droit politique hégélien, Marx dénonce ce qu’il considère comme une dénégation de leur radicale déliaison moderne. Cet article commence par analyser cette scission, dont la politique est le nom. Il étudie ensuite le détail de la critique marxienne. Il (...) montre enfin que Marx rejette ici la conception hégélienne de la dialectique, au motif que l’abstraction de l’effectivité exige celle de la conceptualité.— Hegel refuses that the political representation of individuals could produce a concrete State, and prefers a representation of the different social « estates », which provides the mediation between State and society. In his Critique of Hegelian Public Law, Marx denounces what he considers as a denial of their modern radical separation. This paper starts with an analysis of this division, the name of which is « politics ». It then studies the detail of Marx’s critique. It finally shows that Marx rejects here the Hegelian conception of dialectics, on the grounds that abstract actuality requires abstract conceptuality. (shrink)

_Real Time II_ extends and evolves DH Mellor's classic exploration of the philosophy of time,_Real Time._ This new book answers such basic metaphysical questions about time as: how do past, present and future differ, how are time and space related, what is change, is time travel possible? His _Real Time_ dominated the philosophy of time for fifteen years. _Real TIme II_ will do the same for the next twenty. GET /english/edu/Studying_at_SU/History_of_Literature.html HTTP/1.0.