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)

As Jan Christoph Bublitz (2024) rightly notes, the first international declaration on neurotechnologies and human rights would set the tone for further international and domestic regulations. For t...

An overview on archaeological evidence, provided by Colagè and d’Errico, reveals that the timing, location, and pace of cultural innovations are more consistent with scenarios that take culture, rather than genetic evolutionary processes, as the key driving force for human cognition. The authors elaborate on those mechanisms by which cultural evolution operates, with a specific focus on cultural exaptation and cultural neural reuse.

We present a study of the linguistic output of the German-speaking writer Robert Walser using Natural Language Processing (NLP). We curated a corpus comprising texts written by Walser during periods of sound health, and writings from the year before his hospitalization, and writings from the first year of his stay in a psychiatric clinic, all likely attributed to schizophrenia. Within this corpus, we identified and analyzed a total of 20 linguistic markers encompassing established metrics for lexical diversity, semantic similarity, and (...) syntactic complexity. Additionally, we explored lesser-known markers such as lexical innovation, concreteness, and imageability. Notably, we introduced two additional markers for phonological similarity for the first time within this context. Our findings reveal significant temporal dynamics in these markers closely associated with Walser’s contemporaneous diagnosis of schizophrenia. Furthermore, we investigated the relationship between these markers, leveraging them for classification of the schizophrenic episode. (shrink)

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

Recent theological anthropology emphasizes a dynamic and integral understanding of the human being, which is also related to Karl Rahner's idea of active self-transcendence and to the imago Dei doctrine. The recent neuroscientific discovery of the “visual word form area” for reading, regarded in light of the concept of cultural neural reuse, will produce fresh implications for the interrelation of brain biology and human culture. The theological and neuroscientific parts are shown in their mutual connections thus articulating the notion that (...) human beings shape and transcend themselves both at the biological and at the cultural level. This will have relevant implications for the timely topic of human uniqueness in science and theology, and in proposing a new research perspective in which theology may consider culture along with its biological import, but not necessarily in strictly evolutionary terms alone. (shrink)

Identifying, classifying, and analyzing arguments in legal discourse has been a prominent area of research since the inception of the argument mining field. However, there has been a major discrepancy between the way natural language processing (NLP) researchers model and annotate arguments in court decisions and the way legal experts understand and analyze legal argumentation. While computational approaches typically simplify arguments into generic premises and claims, arguments in legal research usually exhibit a rich typology that is important for gaining insights (...) into the particular case and applications of law in general. We address this problem and make several substantial contributions to move the field forward. First, we design a new annotation scheme for legal arguments in proceedings of the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) that is deeply rooted in the theory and practice of legal argumentation research. Second, we compile and annotate a large corpus of 373 court decisions (2.3M tokens and 15k annotated argument spans). Finally, we train an argument mining model that outperforms state-of-the-art models in the legal NLP domain and provide a thorough expert-based evaluation. All datasets and source codes are available under open lincenses at https://github.com/trusthlt/mining-legal-arguments. (shrink)

The existing scholarship has developed six main explanations to account for the success of the Chinese Revolution, which has been anomalous for major paradigms derived from cross-national comparisons. Methodologically, we use a social geographical approach to test these existing explanations systematically by constructing and analyzing a unique dataset of Communist growth in 93 counties in the three most contested provinces during its most pivotal period of ascendence. Theoretically, we advance and test an alternative perspective, based on the groundwork of Tocqueville (...) and Fei Xiaotong, that integrates the state-centric theory, elite theory, and cultural analysis. Our perspective emphasizes the interplay between state centralization and local elite structure, which leads to intensified state extraction and local elite fracturing, thus creating favorable conditions for revolution. The quantitative analysis strongly supports the importance of the Japanese invasion but provides limited support for many other conventional explanations. The analysis largely confirms the Tocqueville-Fei perspective on state centralization, elite fracturing, cultural change, and revolution. The findings are buttressed by a detailed case study of Lianshui County. The study unveils a common structural challenge that a modernizing state faces in an agrarian status society, to recreate its political legitimacy while disrupting local elite structure. It also sheds historical light on the evolution of state-society relationship through the Chinese Revolution. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Subjective Experiences of Tourette SyndromeBeyond the Premonitory UrgeThe authors report no conflicts of interest.There is an evolving recognition in healthcare that the patient's subjective experience needs to be privileged both in understanding clinical phenomena and also ensuring the salience of outcomes used to evaluate the impact of treatment interventions. This is reflected in the expansion of patient-reported outcome measures to capture a person's perception of their own health, and (...) the increasing requirement of involving people with lived experience in the co-design of research studies (National Health and Medical Research Council, 2016) and care improvement initiatives. In mental health it has been long understood that observable behavioral phenomena can only partially inform clinical understanding of the experience of the patient living with the condition. However, capturing the patient's subjective experience faithfully remains a challenge.Tourette syndrome (TS) is a complex condition in which there are clearly observable behavioral phenomena (vocal and motor tics, compulsive and socially inappropriate behaviors), but also a broad and varied range of subjective phenomena reported by different individuals. These may include sensory phenomena such as the premonitory sensory urge preceding a tic, compulsions to touch things a certain number of times or do something repeatedly until it feels "just right," or bothersome intrusive thoughts or images. To further complicate the picture most patients with TS have one or more co-occurring conditions such as attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, and anxiety, which may actually cause a greater burden of dysfunction and distress than the Tourette symptoms.In their paper, Curtis-Wendlandt et al. (2024) challenge the dependence of current psychiatric diagnostic criteria (e.g., the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th edition) on observable tics, and propose a broader and more dimensional approach to nosology which incorporates sensory, cognitive and affective phenomena. [End Page 47] Data from interviews they conducted identified that premonitory phenomena and urge experiences in tic disorders are more complex and diverse than what is currently reflected in the literature and clinical scales. They also interviewed participants who reported "no urges" or "no premonitory sensations." They commented that the literature generally treats reports of urge absences at face value, and does not address the likelihood that such reports may be ambiguous or problematic. Overall, they concluded that their research suggests that premonitory urges in TS are a complex and diverse phenomenon that requires further study. This reflects with our clinical experience in working with TS patients. Although a large proportion of older patients describe sensory-based premonitory urges, descriptions are not homogenous, with many describing other experiences preceding their tics.When evaluating a patient's response to an intervention (either behavioral or pharmacological) clinicians incorporate a range of information. This includes the severity of their tics (number, type, frequency, intensity, and associated impairment), as well as their mood, participation and performance in study, work, and social activities, and overall quality of life. Standard clinical practice would not typically include assessment of some of the subjective experiences which precede tics. If it was accepted that these subjective phenomena are indeed salient to the patient's well-being, then a challenge would be how to consistently and reliably capture these feelings to operationalize a comprehensive patient-centered assessment.The primary evidence-based treatment for tic disorders, comprehensive behavioral intervention for tics (CBIT), involves training to increase the awareness of premonitory urges (Woods et al., 2008). Furthermore, successful 'blocking' of tics during the course of CBIT requires the patient to be aware of premonitory urges. Clinicians having a better understanding of the complexity and diversity of experiences which precede tics, as well as using open-ended questioning styles, may assist with improving CBIT outcomes. [End Page 48]Related ArticlesFeature Article: Dimensions, Not Types: On the Phenomenology of Premonitory Urges in Tourette SyndromeCommentary: Priming and Narrative Habits in the Phenomenological Interview: Reflections on a Study of Tourette SyndromeCommentary: Subjective Experiences of Tourette Syndrome: Beyond the Premonitory UrgeResponse: Phenomenological Interviews and Tourette’sDaryl EfronThe Royal Children's Hospital MelbourneIvan MathiesonThe Laneway ClinicDaryl Efron Daryl Efron is a Consultant Pediatrician, Royal Children's Hospital Senior Research Fellow, Murdoch... (shrink)

Este ensayo tiene como propósito la interpretación del pasaje 37d5-7 del Timeo de Platón, en el cual se dice que el tiempo es una imagen móvil eónica del aión que permanece en lo uno y que marcha según el número. La tesis central es que el tiempo es entendido por Platón desde la dimensión del lenguaje (lógos) y la dimensión de la necesidad (anánké), que se entrecruzan en el tiempo. Para ello se discuten brevemente estos conceptos, así como la manera (...) en que ambos participan en la determinación de aquello que llamamos tiempo. También se trata de pensar un concepto de aión como vida que esté libre de la connotación de eternidad introducida por la tradición cristiana. Se quiere además mostrar como los conceptos de lógos y anánké, de lenguaje y necesidad, son los conceptos que subyacen a toda su filosofía. (shrink)

This chapter contains sections titled: Schopenhauer on the Inevitability of Suffering Criticisms of Schopenhauer's Thesis that to Desire Is to Suffer The Unattainability of True Satisfaction The Inevitability of Boredom The Negative Nature of Pleasure and Satisfaction Happiness and Well‐Being Degrees of Unhappiness: The Possibility of Amelioration The Paradox of the Suspension or Negation of the Will The Inevitability of Unhappiness References Further Reading.

Reseña del libro de Karl-Otto Apel: Paradigmas de Filosofía Primera, Andrés Crelier y Miguel Mailluquet (Trad.), Buenos Aires, Prometeo, 2013.

Статтю присвячено визначенню ролі цінностей у діалозі культур. Цінності, присутні в міжкультурному діалозі, є важливою складовою культурної ідентичності, здатною об’єднати учасників діалогу. Питання розгляду діалогу культур як діалогу цінностей актуалізується у світлі сучасного глобалізуючого світу та наукових визначень поняття «культура» через цінності. Надзвичайно важливо аналізувати діалог культур, представники яких діють саме з позиції носіїв цінностей, не зосереджуючись на проблемах мовного та етнічного вимірів ідентичності. Зрештою, універсальний характер індивідуальних цінностей має об’єднуючу силу загального прагнення людства до добра, краси, свободи, а отже, (...) сприяє діалогу більше, ніж інші типи спільноти; заохочує до формулювання питань та пошуку відповідей, що сприяють співіснуванню в нових умовах. На думку авторів, діалог уникає ситуації, коли при взаємодії певна культура воліє виступати єдиним носієм певних моральних істин. Сама ситуація діалогу встановлює моральні орієнтири, діючи в межах яких учасники діалогу реалізують принципи рівності, відкритості, відповідальності, ненасильства, толерантності, співучасті. Морально-етичні виміри діалогу не допомагають вирішити проблеми культурного співіснування назавжди. Культурні тенденції трансформуються під впливом змін культурних передумов, дискурсу з усіма соціальними інститутами та процесами. Діалог має на меті стати місцем виникнення відносин, які ґрунтуються на загальнолюдських, надкультурних морально-етичних принципах, що мають силу глобального об’єднання людей. Поряд з цим у статті зазначається, що деякі визначення поняття «культура» розкривають ціннісне ядро ​​самого розуміння феномена культури. Слід розуміти: цінності не є чимось відчуженим від буття, що накопичується в процесі людського розвитку. Історична ретроспектива демонструє нам, що цінності активно взаємодіють, «перевіряються на міцність», трансформуються за допомогою діалогу і, таким чином, сстановлять основу культури. (shrink)

La teología desarrollada en el Timeo de Platón constituye la base del lógos cosmológico. En ese sentido, el discurso mítico que recorre el diálogo intenta esbozar una explicación plausible del predominio de la razón, la belleza y el orden en el mundo (kosmos) por encima del azar y la necesidad. Esta tesis se sustenta en el análisis filosófico de la función que cumple el demiurgo divino, en contraste con el Dios cristiano y con la deidades de la poesía griega. En (...) el primer punto, no se habla de una creación exnihilo, sino del ordenamiento de un material predado; en el segundo punto, no se trata de un dios antropomórfico, sino de un "dios filantrópico", responsable de la existencia de un kosmos cognoscible, que además constituye un modelo de la praxis humana. (shrink)

I propose that the fundamental challenge Berkeley left realists is to account for experiences’ ability to present items as mind-independent, consistent with the claim that experiences always present themselves among the items of awareness. By exploring two ways of responding to this challenge, and ruling out the second, I hope to show that realists aiming to secure a role for experiences in grounding our grasp of mind-independence need to adopt a specific view of perceptual experience. They must take experiences to (...) have translucent aspects, and accord such aspects an essential role in presenting us with a mind-independent world. (shrink)

There are three main types of atonement, namely the ‘classic’ type where Christ is a Victor, the ‘Latin’ type where Christ is satisfaction and the type of ‘humanism’ in which God is Love. These three types contain language of violence. However, the most striking language of violence is the ‘Latin’ type, where God is seen as the Angry one, who is thirsty for blood and asking to be satisfied. The sacrifice of redemption is seen as the idea of ‘bribe to (...) God’. Some theologians reject this idea and look for other alternatives. This article aims to find other alternatives while maintaining the idea of redemption sacrifice. The author uses a Jewish perspective in reading the Bible. From the entire Bible metanarrative, the authors construct the theory of atonement by focusing on the idea of Besorat Hageulah, the Gospel of redemption. On the cross is the sacrifice for redemption that expresses God’s justice and love. The bloodshed on the cross is not to satisfy God, who is angry, but as a sign of God’s love for humans according to the demands of justice ‘life shall go for life’ (KJV, Dt 19:21).Contribution: This article is interdisciplinary in the sense that it touches on issues such as redemption, mercy and peace. In this article, the author has shown how redemption brings peace and love. The implication is in the life of the nation and state as God’s creatures. (shrink)

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

Aunque una filosofía de la esperanza pareciera ser una propuesta del todo contemporánea (Bloch, Fromm, Husserl, Laín, Marcel, Heidegger, Patočka, Stein), sus esbozos tuvieron lugar en el siglo VI a.n.e. El objetivo principal de esta investigación es exponer los ejercicios preliminares en torno a una filosofía de la esperanza en el marco de la controversia de Heráclito con Pitágoras. Desde un enfoque cualitativo, mediante el método histórico hermenéutico, se hizo un análisis de datos. Como muestra tomamos fuentes primarias sobre los (...) Versos dorados de Pitágoras y los Fragmentos de Heráclito y como secundarias las traducciones y comentarios más reconocidos. El instrumento utilizado fue las fichas de trabajo mixtas. Como resultado, se observa que la esperanza es un problema para el pueblo griego, que en los vv. 52-53 de los Versos dorados y en el fragmento 22B 18 DK se encuentra esbozada como problema filosófico, que este se comprende mejor a partir de la crítica de Heráclito a Pitágoras y en relación con otros fragmentos clave del pensamiento del Efesio. La investigación permite concluir que la esperanza no es un tema exclusivo de la teología ni propiamente contemporáneo, sino inicialmente de la filosofía, que encuentra en el debate de Heráclito con Pitágoras sus formulaciones preliminares y un contexto propicio para problematizarla en su comprensión habitual, repensarla a la luz del espíritu del tiempo y resignificarla como forma-de-vida. (shrink)

We prove that the opposite of the category of coalgebras for the Vietoris endofunctor on the category of compact Hausdorff spaces is monadic over $\mathsf {Set}$. We deliver an analogous result for the upper, lower, and convex Vietoris endofunctors acting on the category of stably compact spaces. We provide axiomatizations of the associated (infinitary) varieties. This can be seen as a version of Jónsson–Tarski duality for modal algebras beyond the zero-dimensional setting.

In faith and practice, Pentecostals put emphasis on practical issues as well as spiritual experience in their theological understanding and doctrinal teachings. The Pentecostals take their doctrine from certain empirical events. One of the spiritual experiences often underlined is the baptism of the Holy Spirit. In interpreting the Book of Acts, Pentecostals tend to emphasise the theological character of the narratives and seldom their historical uniqueness. That is why Pentecostals stress the normative theological intent of the historical record for contemporary (...) Christian experience. This article therefore examines critically Pentecostal paradigm of the baptism of the Holy Spirit, deriving examples from the Acts of the Apostles. It is concluded that the practice of the baptism of the Holy Spirit carried out by Christians today, arguably, has no biblical basis. This is because, there is nowhere the Bible commands people to seek baptism in the Holy Spirit. The observation is that, all the events or experiences of Christians baptised in the Holy Spirit in Acts are not necessarily universal normative for every Christian and for this reason, there is no need to be dogmatic.Contribution: This article challenges the practice of the baptism of the Holy Spirit in church today. This study supports the fact that the baptism of the Holy Spirit is not a universal experience for every Christians and there is no need to be dogmatised. (shrink)

ABSTRACT In this article I confront and criticize the widespread tendency to ignore, marginalize, or dismiss without serious consideration Nietzsche's psychological hypothesis that a “will to power” is the major motivator of human behavior. I begin by separating Nietzsche's psychological hypothesis from both his occasional cosmological extension of it into an account of all processes in the world and from his power-based theory of value. And I argue that, since the psychological thesis does not depend on the cosmological extension, is (...) more fundamental to Nietzsche's overall project, and is much better supported by Nietzsche's argument, it deserves to be seriously considered on its own merits. Then, I critically consider Robert Solomon's attempts to deny any value at all to the will to power as a general motivational hypothesis and to reinterpret Nietzsche's theory of the will to power in a way that ignores what Nietzsche actually says about it and, moreover, radically undermines its significance. (shrink)

This paper outlines the key points of the debate concerning theoretical perspectives on knowledge which had unfolded in the time of the most prominent epicurean and skeptical thinkers. The research begins with a few historical indications about Epicurusʼ contribution to the establishment of the aforementioned disputes and his motivation to assign crucial importance to the problem of the criteria of knowledge. At the same time, to some extent, it will become clear how a rival, skeptical school of thought developed under (...) the influence of that teaching. The intention is not to depict these two philosophical approaches in full, nor to capture their main features, but to offer some insight into specific areas of their mutual influence that have contributed to their unexpected convergence. As a result, we will see that, although quite diverse, these two Hellenistic positions reflect certain similarities, above all when it comes to the understanding of the nature and goal of philosophical research, the illustration of a happy life, as well as the answer to the question of what criteria we should follow in order to lead such a life. (shrink)

The article reveals the essential features and conditions of the long-term process of development of competitive innovation economy - knowledge economy on the example of Ukraine, where the dialogue of late postmodernism and early post-industrialism create special regional conditions. The article characterizes education as not just a form of social consciousness and practice, but as a social and cultural engine and simultaneously marker of civilization development level; considers higher education system from the point of view of society request to form (...) specialists of high qualification level and as a result powerful factor of regional economic growth; offers the directions of Ukraine higher education reforming, which still has signs of late postmodernism. The authors of this article have proved that the synergy of the economic and educational-scientific spheres is capable of changing the global laws of society's existence and returning the course of history to a truly humanistic, technological and divinely attentive course. The development of innovative activities, the introduction of new technologies, which in the long term to overcome the negative trends, primarily related to the need for structural reform of the educational sector in Ukraine and other regions, which are attractors of world change. In particular, cardinal changes require higher education as the most important resource potential that determines the direction of sustainable economic development. (shrink)

This paper investigates a limitation of the model of belief and knowledge prevailing in mainstream economics, namely the state-space model. Because of its set-theoretic nature, this model has difficulties in capturing the difference between expressions that designate the same object but have different meanings, i.e., expressions with the same extension but different intensions. This limitation generates puzzling results concerning what individuals believe or know about the world as well as what individuals believe or know about what other individuals believe or (...) know about the world. The paper connects these puzzling results to two issues that are relevant for economic theory beyond the state-space model, namely, framing effects and the distinction between the model-maker and agents that appear in the model. Finally, the paper discusses three possible solutions to the limitations of the state-space model, and concludes that the two alternatives that appear practicable also have significant drawbacks. (shrink)

El eikôs-lógos es un concepto central del Timeo. Este ensayo se propone mostrar que con este concepto Platón recoge y resume sus reflexiones anteriores sobre el lógos, que se pueden sintetizar diciendo que al lógos en general le es inherente un momento de imagen y que la dialéctica platónica se realiza en la tensión entre imagen y concepto. Por esto, el eikôs-lógos no es algo propio únicamente de la cosmología, sino principalmente de la filosofía. Eikoôs señala a la dimensión finita, (...) terrena, del lógos filosófico. Por último, se quiere mostrar que el eikôs-lógos tiene sus raíces en el lenguaje y el número y que en las imágenes que nos hacemos del cosmos participan lenguaje y número. (shrink)

El presente artículo tiene por objeto realizar una descripción de la represión dictatorial en la comuna de Pichilemu durante los años 1973-1977. Para ello, este trabajo se centra en su primera parte en contextualizar, de manera breve, a Chile en su contexto político desde las elecciones del año 1969 hasta el golpe de Estado en 1973. En esta parte también encontramos los datos fundamentales de Pichilemu y un breve resumen de su Historia Política. La segunda parte de este artículo se (...) basa derechamente en una categoría de análisis cualitativo a partir de un análisis de discurso. Por un lado, se presentan los datos de la represión en Chile de manera general, y por otro, se presentan los datos de represión tanto en la región de O’Higgins como de Pichilemu, para finalmente dar paso al análisis de los relatos y esbozar la represión en la comuna. Finalmente, la tercera parte de este artículo se centra en analizar la tortura y sus implicancias tanto físicas como psicológicas. En esta investigación se utilizaron relatos y testimonios de pobladores de la comuna de Pichilemu durante la época señalada y que participaron desde la militancia en el gobierno de la Unidad Popular. Además, se analizaron fuentes tanto primarias como bibliográficas para dar sustento teórico como histórico a la investigación. Palabras clave: Memoria; dictadura; Chile; Pichilemu; historia local; terrorismo de Estado. Coastal Stories: Dictatorial Repression in Pichilemu 1973-1977 El presente artículo tiene por objeto realizar una descripción de la represión dictatorial en la comuna de Pichilemu durante los años 1973-1977. Para ello, este trabajo se centra en su primera parte en contextualizar, de manera breve, a Chile en su contexto político desde las elecciones del año 1969 hasta el golpe de Estado en 1973. En esta parte también encontramos los datos fundamentales de Pichilemu y un breve resumen de su Historia Política. La segunda parte de este artículo se basa derechamente en una categoría de análisis cualitativo a partir de un análisis de discurso. Por un lado, se presentan los datos de la represión en Chile de manera general, y por otro, se presentan los datos de represión tanto en la región de O’Higgins como de Pichilemu, para finalmente dar paso al análisis de los relatos y esbozar la represión en la comuna. Finalmente, la tercera parte de este artículo se centra en analizar la tortura y sus implicancias tanto físicas como psicológicas. En esta investigación se utilizaron relatos y testimonios de pobladores de la comuna de Pichilemu durante la época señalada y que participaron desde la militancia en el gobierno de la Unidad Popular. Además, se analizaron fuentes tanto primarias como bibliográficas para dar sustento teórico como histórico a la investigación. (shrink)

Dans sa thèse de médecine de 1943 sur le normal et le pathologique, Georges Canguilhem se sert largement des idées de Kurt Goldstein lorsqu’il définit la normalité comme la capacité de l’organisme à créer de nouvelles normes de vie dans un débat polarisé avec son milieu. Pourtant, il déclara ensuite que les conceptions de Goldstein avaient constitué pour lui un « encouragement et non une inspiration ». Les archives personnelles de Canguilhem nous permettent effectivement de considérer le rapport de Canguilhem (...) à Goldstein comme une convergence plutôt que comme une influence mais surtout, l’usage que Canguilhem fait de Goldstein nous permet de mieux saisir la portée de ses propres idées. Nous interrogeons dans une première partie la conception holiste de l’organisme de Goldstein, dans ses rapports à la gestalt-théorie et à Kant, conception qui se réfère au processus d’actualisation de l’essence de l’organisme dans son rapport avec le milieu. Ceci nous permet d’appréhender l’usage que fait Canguilhem de certains concepts et idées de Goldstein pour élaborer son propre concept de normativité vitale. Dans une deuxième partie, nous nous proposons de comprendre la manière dont Canguilhem pose le problème du rapport de la connaissance à la normativité vitale à partir de sa lecture des textes du neurologue allemand. (shrink)

Positive reappraisal strategies have been found to reduce negative affect following the recall of negative personal events. This study examined the restorative effect of two mood-repair instructions (self-compassion vs benefit-focused reappraisal) and a control condition with no instructions following a negative Mood Induction Procedure by using the guided recall of a negative autobiographical event. A total of 112 university students participated in the online study (81% women, Mage: 21.0 years). Immediately following the negative memory recall, participants were randomised to each (...) condition [(self-compassion: n = 36, benefit-focused: n = 39) or a control condition (n = 37)]. Repeated measures ANOVAs 3 (Repair condition) × 3 (Time of mood assessment: pre-recall, post-recall, post-regulation) showed that, as expected, negative mood (sadness, shame, and guilt) worsened significantly after the guided recall in all groups (p <.001). After the mood-repair intervention, participants in the self-compassion and benefit-focused conditions showed a significant reduction in negative mood (p <.019), while such improvement was not observed in the control group. Self-compassion and benefit-focused reappraisal functioned similarly as mood repair strategies after experiencing negative affect induced by the recall of negative personal memories. Implications in the context of autobiographical memory biases are discussed. (shrink)

The main goal of this essay is to provide an in-depth analysis of the trajectory of the Colourful Revolution in North Macedonia as a social movement. From a more general perspective, the paper engages with the growing interest in the literature that explores the correlation between social movements and democratisation processes, especially in societies that fall into the category of hybrid regimes. The Colourful Revolution is a good example of a protest movement that has created effective regime change. It presented (...) a complex social movement encompassing many fragmented social and political groups gathered around the idea of a common adversary. Additionally, the Colourful Revolution has one particularity: it is a social movement that has undergone a full developmental circle - formation through utilization of political opportunity frameworks, a period of activity and success and dissolution. Drawing on literature of the political process, opportunity frameworks and cycles of social movements, the paper argues that social movements such as the Colourful Revolution are not just temporary and unstable structures but are also highly dependent on the existence of a common target of the social activism in question. The removal from power of political actors that have been the reason for mobilisation of a complex and diverse network of social and political activism resulted in an absence of an adhesive factor holding together all the parts of this complex system. The absence initiated gradual discord and dissolution of different factions within the social movement and reveals its true nature - temporary, ideologically diverse, conflictual, and even undemocratic in some respects. (shrink)

Višestoljetni model Crkve kao zajednice laika i klerika koji ju inspiriraju i vode, ulazi u funkcionalnu krizu. U doba revolucija i liberalizma laici se nalaze u novim, često oprečnim ulogama: vjernika odanih Crkvi i građana lojalnih sekularnom društvu. Tražeći izlaz iz krize, Crkva se oslanja na sposobnost demokratskog djelovanja laika koji svojim društvenim nastupom promiču kršćanske vrijednosti, ali se i bore za politička prava Crkve. Uz političke stranke katoličke inspiracije posebnu ulogu ima organizirani katolički laikat, kulturno i moralno oblikujući laičke (...) staleže. Pretpovijest nastanka katoličkoga laičkog pokreta (Katoličke akcije) daje uvide u složenost društava druge polovice XIX. i početka XX. st., ali i zavidnu razinu inventivnosti i laika i hijerarhije u aktiviranju laika, što će postati epohalni uspjeh Crkve XX. stoljeća. (shrink)

This study aims to apply self-congruity theory to examine the relationship between self-congruity of tourists and their perceived image of a gambling destination. This study employs the Euclidean distance model and extends Malhotra's pars of adjectives with five new items about gambling motives. A face-to-face questionnaire survey was used, and a total of 152 samples were collected from tourists in Macau. The results show that the actual self-image of tourists is more related to their perception of Macau image. For actual (...) congruence, tourists exhibit a greater tendency to match the informal, liberal, and emotional image of Macau. For ideal congruence, they have a tendency to match the contemporary, organized, and pleasant image of Macau. This study makes up for the deficiency of self-congruity theory in tourism research. This study helps tourism departments to develop appropriate strategies to promote gambling tourism and disseminate relevant information that can bring gambling destinations closer to tourists. (shrink)

We study 944 shareholder proposals submitted to 343 U.S. firms on climate change issues during 2009–2022. We use logistic and two-stage regression to estimate the propensity for a firm to be targeted or subjected to a vote at the annual general meeting and, for voted proposals, the determinants of that vote. We also examine whether climate-related proposals affect investor returns and how they relate to firms’ future environmental performance and greenhouse gas emissions. Compared to a matched sample, we first find (...) that activists target larger, more carbon-intensive, and less R&D-active firms. Second, voting likelihood is higher for firms with repeated and operations-related proposals and lower pre-proposal environmental ratings. By contrast, disclosure-related proposals are likelier to be negotiated and withdrawn. Third, repeated and operations-related proposals receive higher votes in favor, whereas votes on carbon-intensive firms do not. Fourth, building on the theory that investors act as if they distinguish among the different shareholder proposals based on the expected cost to the firm, we find evidence to support this idea. We find that investors respond negatively to ex-ante costlier proposals, such as those that relate to emissions reduction and target carbon-intensive firms. Fifth, targets’ future environmental performance rating is almost twenty percent higher after a proposal than before compared to the matched sample, whereas emissions do not budge appreciably. (shrink)