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)

In July 2002, I had the honour to be invited to give a 15 minute presentation on behalf of my country, Taiwan, on the topic of “Current system of national guidance on human subject protection in medical research” in a panel discussion of the Forum for Ethical Review Committees in Asia and the Western Pacific , World Health Organization international conference held in Chin-Mai, Thailand. In that conference, four delegates from Taiwan had a rare and therefore very precious opportunity (...) to share Taiwan’s experience in establishing and promoting “human subject protection system” with delegates from 27 WHO member countries of the region. Through the vigorous exchanges of opinion in those four …. (shrink)

"This is one of the few books on Montaigne that fuses analytical skill with humane awareness of why Montaigne matters."—Harold Bloom, Sterling Professor of Humanities, Yale University "In this exhilarating and learned book on Montaigne's essays, Lawrence D. Kritzman _contemporizes_ the great writer. Reading him from today's deconstructive America, Kritzman discovers Montaigne always already deep into a dialogue with Jacques Derrida and psychoanalysis. One cannot but admire this fabulous act of translation."—Hélène Cixous "Throughout his career, Lawrence D. Kritzman has demonstrated (...) an intimate knowledge of Montaigne's essays and an engagement with French philosophy and critical theory. _The Fabulous Imagination_ sheds precious new light on one of the founders of modern individualism and on his crucial quest for self-knowledge."—Jean Starobinski, professor emeritus of French literature, University of Geneva Michel de Montaigne's _Essais_ was a profound study of human subjectivity. More than three hundred years before the advent of psychoanalysis, Montaigne embarked on a remarkable quest to see and imagine the self from a variety of vantages. Through the questions How shall I live? How can I know myself? he explored the significance of monsters, nightmares, and traumatic memories; the fear of impotence; the fragility of gender; and the act of anticipating and coping with death. In this book, Lawrence D. Kritzman traces Montaigne's development of the Western concept of the self. For Montaigne, imagination lies at the core of an internal universe that influences both the body and the mind. Imagination is essential to human experience. Although Montaigne recognized that the imagination can confuse the individual, "the fabulous imagination" can be curative, enabling the mind's "I" to sustain itself in the face of hardship. Kritzman begins with Montaigne's study of the fragility of gender and its relationship to the peripatetic movement of a fabulous imagination. He then follows with the essayist's examination of the act of mourning and the power of the imagination to overcome the fear of death. Kritzman concludes with Montaigne's views on philosophy, experience, and the connection between self-portraiture, ethics, and oblivion. His reading demonstrates that the mind's I, as Montaigne envisioned it, sees by imagining that which is not visible, thus offering an alternative to the logical positivism of our age. (shrink)

"This is one of the few books on Montaigne that fuses analytical skill with humane awareness of why Montaigne matters."—Harold Bloom, Sterling Professor of Humanities, Yale University "In this exhilarating and learned book on Montaigne's essays, Lawrence D. Kritzman _contemporizes_ the great writer. Reading him from today's deconstructive America, Kritzman discovers Montaigne always already deep into a dialogue with Jacques Derrida and psychoanalysis. One cannot but admire this fabulous act of translation."—Hélène Cixous "Throughout his career, Lawrence D. Kritzman has demonstrated (...) an intimate knowledge of Montaigne's essays and an engagement with French philosophy and critical theory. _The Fabulous Imagination_ sheds precious new light on one of the founders of modern individualism and on his crucial quest for self-knowledge."—Jean Starobinski, professor emeritus of French literature, University of Geneva Michel de Montaigne's (1533-1592) _Essais_ was a profound study of human subjectivity. More than three hundred years before the advent of psychoanalysis, Montaigne embarked on a remarkable quest to see and imagine the self from a variety of vantages. Through the questions How shall I live? How can I know myself? he explored the significance of monsters, nightmares, and traumatic memories; the fear of impotence; the fragility of gender; and the act of anticipating and coping with death. In this book, Lawrence D. Kritzman traces Montaigne's development of the Western concept of the self. For Montaigne, imagination lies at the core of an internal universe that influences both the body and the mind. Imagination is essential to human experience. Although Montaigne recognized that the imagination can confuse the individual, "the fabulous imagination" can be curative, enabling the mind's "I" to sustain itself in the face of hardship. Kritzman begins with Montaigne's study of the fragility of gender and its relationship to the peripatetic movement of a fabulous imagination. He then follows with the essayist's examination of the act of mourning and the power of the imagination to overcome the fear of death. Kritzman concludes with Montaigne's views on philosophy, experience, and the connection between self-portraiture, ethics, and oblivion. His reading demonstrates that the mind's I, as Montaigne envisioned it, sees by imagining that which is not visible, thus offering an alternative to the logical positivism of our age. (shrink)

Human reproductive cloning aims to produce duplicates, i.e., people who are phenotypically and genetically identical to those already in existence. This might appear to actually threaten human dignity, because it calls into question our much-vaunted, precious uniqueness. This is precisely what this book sets out to explore: Whether, in what sense, and to what extent human reproductive cloning can threaten human uniqueness and dignity, particularly by either promoting or violating certain human rights or moral rights.

Les princesses participaient pleinement à la mobilité qui caractérisait le mode de vie et l'habitus de la haute noblesse à l'époque moderne. La plupart du temps délaissés par les études sur le voyage ou considérés comme de simples “ affaires de famille ” dépourvues de toute importance sociale ou politique, les voyages de princesses revêtaient, au contraire, un caractère hautement politique. Dans la haute noblesse, les femmes qui visitaient des cours différentes, jouaient un rôle clé pour les relations extérieures d'une (...) maison au même titre que les voyageurs hommes. La fonction politique du voyage allait souvent de pair avec de nombreux transferts culturels, destinés à augmenter le prestige et le rang d'une cour. Les voyages de princesses laissaient ainsi des marques durables sur la vie de cour et, au-delà, sur la société de leur pays d'origine. (shrink)

Hagfishes have long held a key place in discussions of early vertebrate evolution. Frustratingly, one basis for such discussions—namely hagfish embryology—is very incompletely known, because the embryos of these animals are notoriously difficult to obtain.1,2 Fortunately, a recent publication on a Far Eastern hagfish3 describes a workable procedure for obtaining embryos and then uses this precious material to show that the hagfish neural crest arises by cell delamination as in other vertebrates—and not by epithelial outpouchings from the wall of (...) the neural tube as previously claimed.4 Importantly, because hagfish embryos should now be available on a regular basis, the way is open for additional morphological and developmental genetic investigations to help evaluate existing evolutionary scenarios and perhaps suggest new ones. BioEssays 29:833–836, 2007. © 2007 Wiley Periodicals, Inc. (shrink)

Clinical psychologist Richard Ryder approaches three iconic celebrities -- Horatio Nelson, Adolph Hitler, and Diana Princess of Wales -- as though they were his patients and presents a short psycho-biography of each. Beneath their obvious differences he finds striking similarities in their backgrounds and early experience, especially being deprived of their mothers' love. In a short Epilogue the author asks what lessons might be learned for the future from these three famous figures of the past.

Les princesses participaient pleinement à la mobilité qui caractérisait le mode de vie et l'habitus de la haute noblesse à l'époque moderne. La plupart du temps délaissés par les études sur le voyage ou considérés comme de simples “ affaires de famille ” dépourvues de toute importance sociale ou politique, les voyages de princesses revêtaient, au contraire, un caractère hautement politique. Dans la haute noblesse, les femmes qui visitaient des cours différentes, jouaient un rôle clé pour les relations extérieures d'une (...) maison au même titre que les voyageurs hommes. La fonction politique du voyage allait souvent de pair avec de nombreux transferts culturels, destinés à augmenter le prestige et le rang d'une cour. Les voyages de princesses laissaient ainsi des marques durables sur la vie de cour et, au-delà, sur la société de leur pays d'origine. (shrink)

Himbert of Garda was a little-known Franciscan theologian who studied at Paris around 1320 and probably served as Francis of Meyronnes’ secretary. His commentary on the Sentences provides precious insights on the development of Franciscan thought at Paris, connecting Francis of Meyronnes’ refined presentations of doctrine with raw academic debates between bachelors and masters in the Faculty of Theology. An appendix presents Himbert’s discussion of intrinsic degrees in Book I d.36, and both redactions of his treatment of the formal (...) distinction in the context of the divine attributes in Book I d.8, as well as parallel texts from Francis of Meyronnes. A second appendix provides a full question- and citation-list for Himbert’s commentary on the Sentences. (shrink)

Policies and position statements regarding decision-making for extremely premature babies exist in many countries and are often directive, focusing on parental choice and expected outcomes. These recommendations often state survival and handicap as reasons for optional intervention. The fact that such outcome statistics would not justify such approaches in other populations suggests that some other powerful factors are at work. The value of neonatal intensive care has been scrutinized far more than intensive care for older patients and suggests that neonatal (...) care is held to a higher standard of justification. The relative value placed on the life of newborns, in particular the preterm, is less than expected by any objective medical data or any prevailing moral frameworks about the value of individual lives. Why do we feel less obligated to treat the premature baby? Do we put newborns in a special and lesser moral category? We explore this question from a legal and ethical perspective and offer several hypotheses pertaining to personhood, reproductive choices, “precious children,” and probable evolutionary and anthropological factors. (shrink)

« Un livre de plus sur les princesses! », ne manquera-t-on pas de s’écrier en découvrant cette synthèse qui s’est, de plus, parée d’une couverture mi-partie rose vif, accentuant à l’envi l’effet « paillettes » de son sujet! Le thème est effectivement à la mode depuis quelque temps, avec une floraison d’ouvrages signés Fanny Cosandey, Bartolomé Bennassar, Denis Crouzet ou Thierry Wanegffelen, pour ne citer que les plus récents. Ces « oubliées de l’Histoire » resurgissent à la faveur d’une hi...

Since its inception in 1926 the American Catholic philosophical Association has furthered the collective research of Catholic philosophers and has greatly stimulated their influence and individual competence in the process. It now reflects an independent thoroughness of thinking among American Christians, which respects philosophy as an autonomous study while fruitfully exemplifying its open relation to divine revelation for a fuller understanding of man and his life. Since December 1930 Doctor Hart has been the responsible secretary, who unselfishly dedicates his (...) class='Hi'>precious time and talents to organizing the Association on both national and regional bases, the indefatigable editor of its annual Proceedings and special Studies and a constant contributor to its official quarterly journal. He has thus reared a full generation within the Association—apart from his thirty-four years of professorial service in Washington and elsewhere, and many other academic and religious activities. (shrink)

Since its inception in 1926 the American Catholic philosophical Association has furthered the collective research of Catholic philosophers and has greatly stimulated their influence and individual competence in the process. It now reflects an independent thoroughness of thinking among American Christians, which respects philosophy as an autonomous study while fruitfully exemplifying its open relation to divine revelation for a fuller understanding of man and his life. Since December 1930 Doctor Hart has been the responsible secretary, who unselfishly dedicates his (...) class='Hi'>precious time and talents to organizing the Association on both national and regional bases, the indefatigable editor of its annual Proceedings and special Studies and a constant contributor to its official quarterly journal. He has thus reared a full generation within the Association—apart from his thirty-four years of professorial service in Washington and elsewhere, and many other academic and religious activities. (shrink)

In the past decades, an enormous amount of precious information has been collected about molecular and genetic characteristics of cancer. This knowledge is mainly based on a reductionistic approach, meanwhile cancer is widely recognized to be a ‘system biology disease’. The behavior of complex physiological processes cannot be understood simply by knowing how the parts work in isolation. There is not solely a matter how to integrate all available knowledge in such a way that we can still deal with (...) complexity, but we must be aware that a deeply transformation of the currently accepted oncologic paradigm is urgently needed. We have to think in terms of biological networks: understanding of complex functions may in fact be impossible without taking into consideration influences outside of the genome. Systems Biology involves connecting experimental unsupervised multivariate data to mathematical and computational approach than can simulate biologic systems for hypothesis testing or that can account for what it is not known from high-throughput data sets. Metabolomics could establish the requested link between genotype and phenotype, providing informations that ensure an integrated understanding of pathogenic mechanisms and metabolic phenotypes and provide a screening tool for new targeted drug. (shrink)

Aborde la question de l'image chrétienne face à la révolution de la modernité, en montrant comment la nature spécifique de l'image conduit à l'exigence d'un discernement en engageant le spectateur à dépasser ses propres limites. Démontre également que le modernisme de la représentation iconographique n'a rien perdu de son actualité.

Information on the factors influencing parents’ decision-making process following a lethal, life-limiting or severely debilitating prenatal diagnosis remains deficient. A comprehensive systematic review and meta-synthesis was conducted to explore the influencing factors for parents considering termination or continuation of pregnancy following identification of lethal, life-limiting or severely debilitating fetal abnormalities. Electronic searches of 13 databases were conducted. These searches were supplemented by hand-searching Google Scholar and bibliographies and citation tracing. Thomas and Harden’s thematic synthesis method was used to synthesise data (...) from identified studies. Twenty-four papers were identified and reviewed, but two papers were removed following quality assessment. Three main themes were identified through systematic synthesis. Theme 1, entitled ‘all life is precious’, described parents’ perception of the importance of the fetus’ life, a fatalistic view of their situation alongside moral implications as well as the implications decisions would have on their own life, in consideration of previous life experiences. Theme 2 contained two sub-themes which considered the parent’s own imagined future and the influence of other people’s experiences. Finally, Theme 3 presented three sub-themes which may influence their parental decision-making: These described parental consideration of the quality of life for their unborn child, the possibility of waiting to try for another pregnancy, and their own responsibilities and commitments. The first review to fully explore parental decision-making process following lethal, life-limiting, or severely debilitating prenatal diagnosis provided novel findings and insight into which factors influenced parents’ decision-making process. This comprehensive and systematic review provides greater understanding of the factors influential on decision-making, such as hope, morality and potential implications on their own and other’s quality of life, will enable professionals to facilitate supported decision-making, including greater knowledge of the variables likely to influence parental choices. (shrink)

Journal Name: Semiotica Issue: Ahead of print.

Historians of natural history have shown that the study of plants, animals, and minerals was a form of connoisseurship in the eighteenth century. Historians of early modern experiments have linked scientific knowledge to the manual skills of artisans. I combine these two insights, arguing that connoisseurship in the sciences meant learning to touch, not just learning to look. The focus is on gems and mineralogy in eighteenth-century France. I show, firstly, that the study of gems was linked to the connoisseurship (...) (“connoissance”) of paintings. Next, books on gems were closely related to the new mineralogical treatises that emerged in the middle of the eighteenth century. These treatises formalized a distinction between “Oriental” and “Occidental” gems that was also a distinction between hard and soft gems. The best judges of hardness were gem cutters, a group that participated in mineralogy through the culture of collecting. Finally, the knowledge of cutters contributed to the quantification of hardness in the form of the hardness scale and the scratch sclerometer. (shrink)

Resumé Dans cette étude, nous nous proposons d’analyser de la perspective sémiotique de la traduction l’œuvre intitulée De la part de la princesse morte de Kenizé Mourad, écrivaine francophone, qui a une identité multiculturelle étant donné qu’elle est princesse ottomane du côté de sa mère et princesse indienne du côté de son père. Née à Paris dans des conditions de la Deuxième guerre mondiale, et orpheline de mère à l’âge d’un an et demi, Kenizé Mourad a été élevée dans le (...) contexte culturel français car son père en Inde ignorait qu’elle était vivante. Dans cette œuvre, elle raconte l’histoire tragique de sa mère en exil, la Princesse Selma, petite-fille du Sultan Mourad V, padischah ottoman. Nous abordons le texte et ses deux traductions turques intitulées toutes les deux Saraydan Sürgüne pour étudier les conséquences de la transformation des expressions neutres en français en des locutions idiomatiques en turc. Nous menons à bien cette interrogation au prisme de la notion de surinterprétation conçue dans le cadre de la Systématique de la désignification en traduction comme « un commentaire excessif du sens de l’original » tout en analysant en quoi les expressions idiomatiques constituent la surinterprétation et de quelle manière elles naturalisent le discours original. (shrink)

Cet ouvrage analyse la dimension therapeutique qui sous-tend l ensemble de la Correspondance entre Descartes et la princesse Elisabeth, fille ainee du roi dechu Frederic V de Boheme aussi surnomme - roi d un hiver -. Sur fond d exil aux Pays-Bas, l un pour se liberer de tout carcan social, l autre a cause de la guerre de trente ans, Descartes et Elisabeth cherchent ensemble quelles reactions avoir face aux evenements traumatiques de l existence et comment se les approprier (...) en tant que sujets. Descartes met en pratique sa theorie du - contentement -, et va jusqu a devoiler a la princesse les secrets de son equilibre physique et psychique. Quant a Elisabeth, c est une femme qui a le courage d affronter ses symptomes en tachant de les connaitre, d en comprendre le sens et les enjeux profonds. Sa sensibilite la pousse a une exigence intellectuelle accrue, qu elle satisfait en partie grace a sa rencontre avec Descartes a qui elle demande de l aider a se guerir. Descartes lui permet d acceder a elle-meme, explicitant dans ses lettres non plus la notion de dualisme mais celle d union de l ame avec le corps, montrant dans quel registre penser le - vrai homme -.Par leur honnetete intellectuelle et le lien transferentiel qui s etablit, ils donnent acces a certains mecanismes des passions, abordent la complexite des liens intersubjectifs.Elisabeth va conduire Descartes a elaborer sa theorie des passions en prenant appui sur le vecu; leur union epistolaire donnera naissance au traite des "Passions de l ame."". (shrink)

This paper aims to study the perception of color (representations, synesthesia, denominations, uses and classification) in specific writings such as recipe treatises written from 1520 to 1689. These treatises deal with the manufacture and stages of color in various objects (remedies, blushes and mainly gems). They reveals that color is not only an apparent surface but also a sensitive substance, in particular white and red colors. Although color is a principle of unity for diverse materials, it sometimes becomes contradictory when (...) it is associated with variable signified and signifiers, so that color also offers a play on naming: meaning is sometimes clear, sometimes obscure, and in any case mobile (azure, vermilion). The contemporary reader does not perceive color in the same way as the Renaissance craftsman. Finally, as a principle of classification, it shows an imbalance and hierarchy of colors which, while providing structure to recipes: it gives mainly a place of choice to red and its shades. (shrink)

On ne peut trouver une trace, dans les écrits de Proust, d’une lecture de Schelling, dont la philosophie pourtant peut expliquer les structures les plus énigmatiques de la Recherche. Le Système de l’idéalisme transcendantal est confronté au cycle romanesque à trois points de vue successifs : pourquoi retracer dans un roman long une odyssée de l’esprit, pourquoi l’instance narrative anonyme se dédouble en un héros et un narrateur, pourquoi enfin le cycle romanesque évolue entre les deux pôles du temps perdu (...) et du temps retrouvé (essentiellement la finalité et l’atmosphère de la « Matinée chez la princesse de Guermantes »). (shrink)

In her own lifetime Isabelle of France was a crucial figure in the formation of female Franciscan identity and the crystallization of Capetian sanctity.2 Rejecting several proposed marriages and dedicating herself to a life of saintly virginity in the world, she was founder of the abbey of Longchamp 3 and co-author of the rule for the Order of Sorores minores, adopted by communities throughout France, England and elsewhere.4 Her life and miracles were recorded in the Vie d’Isabelle written by Agnes (...) of Harcourt, third abbess of Longchamp, around 1283.5 Although Isabelle’s memory was overshadowed by the 1297 canonization of her brother Louis IX, her cult began a comeback of... (shrink)

... writing to the Princess Dashkofï in, thus analysee! the spirit of his century: Chaque siècle a son esprit qui le caractérise. L'esprit du nôtre semble ...

Inscriptions of Amathous IX. A dispatch from the Vogüé mission (1862) rediscovered at the Louvre. An inscription found in 1862 by de Vogüé’s archaeological mission in the village of Aghios Tychonas (coming so from the site of Amathous) has been rediscovered in the Louvre in 2009. This was only known through Waddington’s old publication (1870). The text, dating probably of the early Hellenistic period, mentions a trees plantation and the offering of a naos by a certain Simos. This plot, which (...) should have been a small sacred grove (alsos), was situated between the Heraion and a pavement. Even it is not possible to determinate the location of this certainly private consecration, the inscription gives a precious evidence on the religious topography of Amathous at the beginning of the Ptolemaic era, and in particular on the presence of a sanctuary dedicated to Hera, whose cult is very rarely attested in Cyprus. (shrink)

La publication des lettres d’Isabelle de Bourbon-Parme à sa belle-sœur l’archiduchesse Marie-Christine est un événement important. Pas seulement parce que nous avons affaire à un écrit intime d’une « princesse philosophe », dont l’intelligence et l’ouverture d’esprit sont en soi dignes de notre intérêt. Mais parce qu’il s’agit de lettres d’amour à une femme, comme nous en avons peu d’exemples au xviiie siècle, et même après. Il se pourrait même que nous ayons affaire au premier écrit de cette...

Stamnos no. 5898 of the 3rd Ephorate of Prehistoric and Classical Antiquities has been restored from fragments which were found in an ancient well together with a large number of other broken vases during the course of an excavation on the site of no. 12 Ayiou Georgiou Karytsi at the corner of Praxitelous street. The foot and a number of fragments are missing, but the main décoration is complète. A meander encircles the vase, marking the line of the ground in (...) the scenes of the principal décoration. There is a tongue motive on the shoulder, a frieze of ovoli on the outside bevel of the lip, and a plant ornament on the handles. Both sides of the vase carry the representation of a warrior. The one on the principal side is turned to the left; he wears an Attic helmet and greaves and holds a lance in his right hand and a shield in his left; to the right of the shield a meaningless inscription can be read: MNONE. The second warrior is turned to the right; he wears a himation and holds a lance in his left hand and a Corinthian helmet in his right; he is accompanied by a dog who precedes him; to the right of the lance can be read: Ν Ο EN Δ Ν Ι. The drawing of the two scenes is carefully executed, with great attention to detail. On the principal side of the vase, the painter has depicted a warrior leaving for battle determined to win, and the second side shows the hero of the Median Wars. In view of the proportions of the vase, we would assign it to the class of the Louvre Kaineus Stamnos. The artistry and style of the drawing has similarities with the work of the Brygos Painter. The meaningless inscriptions, found on other works by the painter and probably serving as commercial brand marks, lend added support to this identification. The proportions, plant decoration and above ail the drawing, date the vase to 480 BC, between the artist's middle and final periods. The Athens stamnos no. 5898 is ail the more precious since Greek museums possess only a limited number of stamnoi, few works by the Brygos Painter and to date no other stamnos that has been attributed to this painter. (shrink)

This paper examines the philosophical debate on Seng Zhao ’s Thesis on No-Motion of Things, a debate which took place approximately at the turn of the late sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries. Without doubt the Zhao Treatise is the most precious gem in the early Chinese Madhyamaka legacy. The sterling reputation of this seminal treatise had never been challenged until Zhencheng published the Logical Investigation of the Thesis of No-Motion of Things during 1588–1589. The following focuses on Zhencheng’s (...) WBQZLL to see how he applied hetu-vidyā in his hermeneutical project. How did Zhencheng employ the syllogism in his critique of the Zhao Treatise? Is his critique justifiable? How is the role of syllogism employed as a hermeneutic tool to understand classical Buddhist texts? In highlighting the innovative features in the application of hetu-vidyā in the late Ming Chinese Buddhist scholasticism as showcased in Zhencheng’s WBQZLL, The controversies swirling around Zhencheng’s challenge to traditional doctrinal authority reveal the distinctive contrast between two forms of Buddhist hermeneutics in the late Ming Buddhist scholasticism: experiential hermeneutics and analytical hermeneutics. While the former has long been practiced in the mainstream of Chinese Buddhism, the latter has received little attention. (shrink)

"Hountondji... writes not as an 'African' philosopher but as a philosopher on Africa.... Hountondji's deep understanding of any civilization as necessarily pluralistic, and often even self-contradicting as it evolves, is simply magisterial.... This is a precious gem of a book for anyone who wishes to reflect on civilization and culture." —Choice In this incisive, original exploration of the nature and future of African philosophy, Paulin J. Hountondji attacks a myth popularized by ethnophilosophers such as Placide Tempels and Alexis Kagame (...) that there is an indigenous, collective African philosophy separate and distinct from the Western philosophical tradition. Hountondji contends that ideological manifestations of this view that stress the uniqueness of the African experience are protonationalist reactions against colonialism conducted, paradoxically, in the terms of colonialist discourse. Hountondji argues that a genuine African philosophy must assimilate and transcend the theoretical heritage of Western philosophy and must reflect a rigorous process of independent scientific inquiry. This edition is updated with a new preface in which Hountondji responds to his critics and clarifies misunderstandings about the book's conceptual framework. (shrink)

This paper examines the philosophical debate on Seng Zhao ’s Thesis on No-Motion of Things, a debate which took place approximately at the turn of the late sixteenth and the early seventeenth centuries. Without doubt the Zhao Treatise is the most precious gem in the early Chinese Madhyamaka legacy. The sterling reputation of this seminal treatise had never been challenged until Zhencheng published the Logical Investigation of the Thesis of No-Motion of Things during 1588–1589. The following focuses on Zhencheng’s (...) WBQZLL to see how he applied hetu-vidyā in his hermeneutical project. How did Zhencheng employ the syllogism in his critique of the Zhao Treatise? Is his critique justifiable? How is the role of syllogism employed as a hermeneutic tool to understand classical Buddhist texts? In highlighting the innovative features in the application of hetu-vidyā in the late Ming Chinese Buddhist scholasticism as showcased in Zhencheng’s WBQZLL, The controversies swirling around Zhencheng’s challenge to traditional doctrinal authority reveal the distinctive contrast between two forms of Buddhist hermeneutics in the late Ming Buddhist scholasticism: experiential hermeneutics and analytical hermeneutics. While the former has long been practiced in the mainstream of Chinese Buddhism, the latter has received little attention. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:There are only three surviving biographical notices regarding Marcus of Orvieto: two as colophons of Vatican manuscripts and a third as an entry in a catalog of the papal library in Avignon where we read: "Item, liber de mortalitatibus septem Martini de Urbevetani Ordinis Minorum." While the spelling of the book title and its author can be attributed to scribal errors or misreadings, the 'seven,' place of origin, and (...) religious order affiliation are accurate. Marcus's Liber de Moralitatibus is indeed divided into seven treatises: On the celestial bodies, On the elements, On the birds, On the fish, On the animals, On trees and plants and On precious gems. The colophons of the two Vatican manuscripts attest to his being a Friar Minor: Ego frater Marcus Urbis Veteris Fratrum Minorum Ordinis pauperculus. The prooemium of the Liber de Moralitatibus attests to the fact that Marcus's patron was Benedict Gaetani cardinal of St. Nicholas in carcere Tulliano,' the future pope Boniface VIII. This would put the time of composition circa 1290. Several allusions in Marcus's work to Paris, viz. the Parisian masters, its patron Ste. Genevieve, indicate that Marcus was at one time a student there and it is conceivable that Benedict commissioned the work while he was a papal legate there. Marcus's opus falls into the category of exempla literature, i.e. a source book for preachers.We offer the English translation of the chapter on pelicans as typical of Marcus's way of proceeding which, generally speaking, is threefold. First a physical description, which was generally copied from Bartholomew of England's 'On the Properties of Things,' secondly its spiritual signification attested to by pertinent passages from Scripture and bolstered by citations from the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, and thirdly examples of persons who exemplify the spiritual lesson either supportively or adversely. The legend of the pelican piercing its breast in order to revivify its dead chicks was familiar in Christian literature and art signifying analogously Christ's salvific blood redeeming the human race from its fallen state. The following is the English translation of Marcus's treatise 3, 'De avibus,' chapter 31.Chapter 31: On the pelicanThe pelican is seen to possess the following conditions or properties according to the doctors.1. First of all, as Isidore says, it is a "bird dwelling in solitude along the banks of the Nile." This signifies preachers and contemplative persons who flee the vanities of the world and occupy themselves with heavenly consolations or delightful and re-creative consolations of Sacred Scripture, Psalm 54, 8-9: Far away I would flee; I would lodge in the wilderness. I would hasten to find shelter from the violent storm and the tempest. Bernard, On the Canticle of Canticles and in his sermons: "Divine consolation is delicate, it is not given to those preoccupied with what is alien to it." Ambrose, On Luke: "Those preoccupied with secular vanities cannot know what is divine."2. Secondly, as Isidore says, whatever it eats, it first dips in water with its foot and having done so, using the foot as a hand as it were, puts it [the morsel] in its mouth. This signifies doctors [i. e. teachers] and preachers who practice what they teach or preach after the example of the Apostle, Romans 15, 18: I will not dare to speak of anything except what Christ has accomplished through me. Jerome, To Nepotian: "Make sure your deeds do not 'confound' your words, lest when you speak in the assembly someone might say to himself: 'Physician, cure yourself'."3. Thirdly, as Isidore says, of all the birds, with the exception of the phylargum, only the pelican uses its foot as a hand. This signifies a devout religious who frequently, motivated by holy desires and affections, prefers holy meditations rather than manual labor. 1Tim. 4: 7-8: Train yourself for devotion, for while physical training is of.. (shrink)

Skyphoi with painted dedications from the Artemision of Epidamnos-Dyrrhachion Among the most abundant material collected in 1970-1971 on the hill of Dautë at Dürres, ancient Epidamnos-Dyrrhachion, there has recently been recognized two inscribed sherds : rims of large skyphoi, carrying dedications respectively to Artemis and to Hekate, painted in a monumental way in an original technique – red figure emphasized in red outline. These inscriptions confirm the recently proposed identification of the sanctuary on the Dautë hill as the Artemision situated (...) at the gates of the city mentio<< ned by Appian (II. 60), a major fix-point for the topography of Epidamnos-Dyrrhachion. To these sherds are compared some further examples of dedications painted in an ostentatious manner, a very rare practice, but which provides precious indications regarding the commissioning of vases destined to be offered as ex-votos. (shrink)

This paper updates, with revisions, corrections and new additions, the “Liste des Bénédictins de Beuron” and the list of James W. Wiles as well as the CD-ROM Corpus Augustinianum Gissense II, Patrologia latina et Corpus Christianorum with regard to the scriptural citation of Ex 3:14 in the works of Augustine. We present a cumulative index of the citations of Ex 3:14 by Augustine together with pertinent notes on his objectives when mentioning the Name of God in his works. We think (...) that this update, with its sound additions and corrections, provides a precious tool for those studying the question of the Name of God in Augustine’s works. (shrink)

From their early history, Persians have always been charmed by jewelry and whenever a powerful dynasty came to power, economy of the country would become more dynamic and a collection of the most precious gems and jewels would be accumulated. The glorious age of the Safavids was not an exception to this. In the reign of Shah Abbas as the greatest Safavid king, the importance of possessing a treasury full of jewels, gold and silver for king’s own person made (...) him expand his treasury and jewelry collection more than ever and use it in achieving other political ends during his reign. Using existing resources, this study aims to investigate the role and importance of crown jewels in the economic and political developments in the reign of Shah Abbas I. Library research method and comparison and analysis of existing resources, especially the original resources are used in this article. After necessary data are collected, they are organized and then analyzed and finally conclusions are drawn. (shrink)

Villeneuve d’Ascq, Presses universitaires du Septentrion, 2018, 404 p. Cette collection d’essais commence avec une question provocatrice : d’autres cours d’Europe offrent-elles une place « aussi éminente » aux femmes que la cour de France à l’époque moderne? Les études réunies ici montrent de façon évidente l’importance et la centralité des femmes à la cour de France, des reines et princesses au sommet du pouvoir jusqu’aux demoiselles de musique, nourrices, femmes d’officiels et autres. Cet...

"While it is true that Yves R. Simon did not intend this to be a history book, __The Ethiopian Campaign and French Political Thought __is an important historical work well deserving of a close reading by students of twentieth-century European history and international relations. This book, which finds a worthy English translation after too many years, was Simon's first serious foray into the public square on the side of justice and the common good. Simon's analysis is wide-ranging, incisive, and brimming (...) with far-sighted political acumen." --_Robert Ventresca, King's University College_ "The Italian invasion of Ethiopia in 1935 led to the memorable plea of Emperor Haile Selassie before the League of Nations as his country's freedom died. Easier to forget is that it also sparked a surprisingly familiar intellectual dispute over the legitimacy of the bombing and the relevance of international law, as depressingly many European intellectuals rallied behind Benito Mussolini's campaign as a defense of the West and the cause of 'civilization.' The unsparing critique leveled against these frequently religious apologists for imperialism by Yves Simon, French Catholic thinker and later American university professor, is an eye-opening reminder of the terms of debate, and the larger constellation of forces of the turbulent era. Anthony Simon and his colleagues deserve thanks for making this precious and moving document available, since its ethical kernel, like its model of Catholic intellectualism, remain highly relevant." --_Samuel Moyn, Columbia University_ "__The Ethiopian Campaign and French Political Thought_ _offers a very important discussion grounded in traditional metaphysics and in a sound sense of historical circumstances. This little book is a gem. --_George Anastaplo, Loyola University of Chicago_ Yves Simon was one of the preeminent Thomistic philosophers and political theorists of the twentieth century. He saw it as a moral duty to understand human reality and to use philosophical analysis to examine contemporary politics when they embodied philosophical errors or vicious ideologies. In __The Ethiopian Campaign and French Political Thought__, Simon extracts principles from the 1894 Dreyfus Affair in France and applies them to Italy's 1935 invasion of Ethopia. As Simon's analysis shows, the relatively obscure events leading up to the Italian invasion had larger implications for Europe and the world, perhaps even paving the way for Vichy France's collaboration with Hitler's German New Order. This book, available for the first time in English, offers an interesting case study of such ethical concerns as just war theory and pre-emptive war, and is of particular relevance in our modern political climate. (shrink)

This article announces the discovery of a Sinhalese version of the traditional meditation ( borān yogāvacara kammaṭṭhāna ) text in which the Consciousness or Mind, personified as a Princess living in a five-branched tree (the body), must understand the nature of death and seek the four gems that are the four noble truths. To do this she must overcome the cravings of the five senses, represented as five birds in the tree. Only in this way will she permanently avoid (...) the attentions of Death, Māra, and his three female servants, Birth, Sickness and Old Age. In this version of the text, when the Princess manages not to succumb to these three, Māra comes and snatches her from her tree and rapes her. The Buddha then appears to her to explain the path to liberation. The text provides a commentary, padārtha , which explains the details of the symbolism of the fruit in terms of rebirth and being born, the tree in terms of the body, etc. The text also offers interpretations of signs of impending death and prognostications regarding the next rebirth. Previously the existence of Khmer and Lānnā versions of this text have been recorded by Francois Bizot and Francois Lagirarde, the former publishing the text as Le Figuier a cinq branches (Le figuier à cinq branches, 1976). The Sinhalese version was redacted for one of the wives of King Kīrti Śrī Rājasiṅha of Kandy by the monk Varañāṇa Mahāthera of Ayutthayā. This confirms earlier speculation that this form of borān/dhammakāya meditation was brought to Sri Lanka with the introduction of the Siyam Nikāya in the mid-eighteenth century. It also shows that in Sri Lanka, as in Ayutthayā, this form of meditation—which in the modern period was to be rejected as ‘unorthodox’—was promoted at the highest levels of court and Saṅgha. (shrink)

For the first two years of my daughter's life, I was scheduled to teach an Introductory Logic course. While I had taught Critical Thinking courses in the past, having to steep myself in categorical and propositional logic left a lasting impression on my own thinking. More importantly, though, these courses influenced my speech-habits during the early years of my child's development. By no means do I intend to assert that my child somehow gained some cognitive benefit from my communication with (...) her during these early stages of her life. Rather, it seems that she acquired the particular virtue of tolerating her father's habit of voicing strangely worded utterances. As she has passed the three and half year mark, her own communication skills and means of expression are well on their way towards developing into her own distinct styles. This I know because we talk a lot. Often times these dialogues are about day care, her friends, or princesses and lots of pink stuff. But sometimes a gem of an argument develops. (shrink)