To the Editor:

What an extraordinarily interesting issue (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”)! And so many new translations, which I always enjoy.

Irina, Sacramento

 

To the Editor:

I read “Wallace Stevens’ Thirteen Blackbirds” by Vladimir Verov (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) several times, trying to decide which version of “blackbirds” I like best. In the end, I think the original is the best because it’s so unique, while the other versions, although interesting, feel more like a conversation about it.

I. Komleva, Vermont

 

To the Editor:

“Because They’re People” by Tom Cobbe (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) is wonderfully written, with a nice touch of humor. Impressive efforts! It’s great that he is translating lesser-known Baroque music into modern notation. Each measure is packed with information and creative thought. Cobbe’s passion for his work is inspiring. Everyone should have that kind of calling.

It’s sad to think that some treasures from composers like Krebs were lost to war. But I want to believe that, like “The Master and Margarita” says, manuscripts don’t burn. Cobbe’s work gives hope that we can still discover more of our musical heritage.

Gratefully,

K.I.

 

To the Editor:

I’m curious about “Knowing Whispers in a New Poetry Collection by Gjekë Marinaj” (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”). I looked him up on Wikipedia, but I couldn’t find any translations of his poems into Russian. Has anyone translated him? Maybe I just didn’t look hard enough? Do you know him personally?

Olga R., St. Petersburg

 

To the Editor:

…I was touched by “You Know Where They Are” by John P. Rogers (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”). It has a simple and sincere quality that feels genuine. It reminds me of the mood of rainy days outside my window… Life is what it is, and I am who I am. I like reading Western poets.

Olga Meir, Moscow

 

To the Editor:

…The link between ancient Buddhist stories and specific places (“Eight Cemeteries” by Sempa Dordzhe, translated by V. Ragimov, AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) opens a fresh perspective on Asia and its myths. As the translator says, “Reality is myth, myth is reality.” That’s inspired some amazing poetry. Lines like “His consciousness transformed into the syllable HUNG,/Blessed and wondrously sent to the point of conjunction” make us think and appreciate aesthetics in new ways. I’ll give it all more thought, and I’m happy about that victory over Rudra!!!

Leonid N.

 

To the Editor:

Anton Kiselyov’s interesting material in the last issue (“The Mind Finds Russia…,” AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) includes a single translator’s several versions of a classic Russian poem: in Japanese, Persian, Hebrew, Arabic, French, Romanian, and Turkish! I’ve never seen someone express themselves poetically in so many languages.

When I reread the introduction to this issue (Tatyana Apraksina, “Tower (Blues Mondo),” AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”), the line about “reflection within a reflection, time within time” made me think of the Tyutchev poem’s mirror-like reflections. Humans shouldn’t have to unify our “Babel.” Unity and variety are both part of the “multilingual nature of creation.”

Herbert Sanders, Vermont

 

To the Editor:

I’m glad to see rock ‘n’ roll’s still alive! And not just in English. “Spanish Rock. The Beginning” by Olga Romanova (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) shows that while we were discovering local underground bands, that was happening in Spain, too. I might not like all the styles equally, but the lyrics translations and bios help me understand the music better. The bands really broke new ground.

Ivan from Vyborg

 

To the Editor:

“Car Stories” by Bill Yake (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”) is fantastic. When I got my first car, I couldn’t talk about anything else either. My life turned into road adventures, but I never thought of writing about that.

Kirill

 

To the Editor:

What a great issue (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”)! The most interesting part is definitely about cars (“Car Stories” by Bill Yake).

 

To the Editor:

I thoroughly enjoyed “Car Stories” by Bill Yake in the last issue (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”). Magnificent. A whole life story as auto-narrative. It’s a surprising point of view, but easy to relate to. While the author and I were living on opposite ends of the world, in different societies and under different political systems, we shared the same concern: could our cars keep driving? Anything could break down at any moment, so we always kept tools handy and knew how to fix things ourselves. That’s a lot to contemplate—including for poets.

V.V., St. Petersburg

 

To the Editor:

It was a pleasure to read your interview with Svetlana Ayupova about the theater studio “Alter Ego” and their play in “Because They’re People” (Ella Molochkovetskaya, Olga Romanova, AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”). Both the interview and review are interesting. The fairy tale and play carry a serious message about the dangers of ambition and losing our humanity for wealth. I love the theater and try to keep up with all the new productions. I think this is a better time for theater than ever, especially for serious plays.

L.V.

 

To the Editor:

When I read the article about “An Old Novel’s Insights and Predictions” by Ekaterina Ovcharova (AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”), I found myself thinking that the book itself is probably too dark for me. But I appreciated the depth and engaging analysis. The questions about the authorship of “Night Vigils” are fascinating and highlight remarkable figures from Romantic circles. The context helps explain why the ideals of progress had left many people feeling disappointed then, which may have influenced the literature.

P., New York

 

To the Editor:

Thank you for the report on Martin Luther King Day and the comic festival (“Heeding the Calling. At the Black & Brown Comics Festival (Blues Report),” AB No. 33 “Transcription of Multitudes”). The detailed descriptions really capture the atmosphere of the event and its surroundings. I have to admit, I didn’t even know there was a special category of comics focused on Black culture. I don’t know much about comics in general. I remember you published something about them before (N. Yarygin, “Literature and Comics—Conflict or Partnership?,” “The Living Organism of Comics, or How to Rise to a Low Genre,” AB No. 28 “Reefs of Conflict”). I can see why people create comics, even if I probably won’t ever start reading them myself.

Your magazine always makes me think in new ways.

I.V., Kazan

 

To the Editor:

I always pay attention to the original-minded articles by V. Liubeznov (“Positive Curvature Tensor,” AB No. 32 “Worldly Aspect”). However, I can’t figure out if he’s a scientist or a theologian? And is he joking or being serious? As they say, either trust or verify. Otherwise you wind up with a split consciousness.

Eduard Z.

 

To the Editor:

Your interview is very good (“Stages of Formation in the Verbist Order,” AB No. 32 “Worldly Aspect”). Keep up the good work.

Russia is such an immense country, a spiritual continent. Of course, the Roman Catholic Church has a very small presence in that land, but it would be wonderful someday, if the Russian Orthodox communion could come into communion with Rome, without losing any of her spiritual treasures. In the meantime, perhaps influences like yours can do some real good.

+Abbot Philip Anderson

 

To the Editor:

Thank you for letting us know about the Verbist path through these young men’s comments (“Stages of Formation in the Verbist Order,” AB No. 32 “Worldly Aspect”).

Roberta Tiffany Bruce

Willard Huntington Wright’s book The Creative Will, published in New York in 1916, made a sensational, revelatory impression on American artistic circles in a period of excitement over ideas heralding a great new turning point in art. The book was read, reread, discussed and learned by heart, and often circulated among art students, groups, courses, departments, professionals and amateurs, as well as collectors and lay admirers of new trends. Describing her feelings upon rereading The Creative Will, Anita Pollitzer, a colleague and confidante of Georgia O’Keeffe, also an ardent admirer of The Creative Will, enthusiastically calls Wright’s work “the naked truth.” The author, who described himself as an “aesthetic expert and psychological shark” and predicted the advent of an era in which abstractionism would replace realism, indeed managed to exert a huge influence on the further development not only of American visual art, but even literature.

 

 

Excerpts from “The Creative Will: Studies in the Philosophy, and the Syntax of Aesthetics” by Willard Huntington Wright, 1916

 

15.

 

Two Elements of Art. — Just as man is the result of the conjunction of the male and the female, so is art the offspring of the abstract medium (colour, sound, document) in conjunction with the concrete symbol (objects, notes, actions). Art can never be wholly abstract any more than it can be wholly imitative. Its mission is certainly not to make us think: life with its infinite variations and manifestations presents a richer field for posing problems. Nor is its mission that of imitation: such a procedure would be useless and sterile of emotional results. The middle ground between abstract thinking and imitation must, then, be its terrain. Here the abstract comes into harmonic conjunction with the concrete: — these are the outermost limits of thought and sensation. Neither one can create alone. Both must be present, like cause and effect. The cause is, of necessity, an abstract force: this is the medium. Out of it must come a recognisable world — not in the sense of life, but of art.

 

16.

 

False Exteriors. — Fantastic and eccentric surfaces are often the disguises of spurious and worthless works. The greatness of true art, like aristocracy in the individual, is easily recognised beneath the most commonplace integuments.

 

17.

 

Evolution of Intensity in Art Media. — A desire for greater emotional intensity has much to do with the progress of art and especially with the strides taken by it in the last forty years. These developmental strides are undoubtedly due to the increased intensity of modern life as evidenced in mechanics, densely populated areas, the flooding of the mind with a vast amount of knowledge of events through the perfecting of means for collecting news, the rapidity of travel, the clangour and noise of modern commerce, the swiftly moving panorama of life, the discoveries in brilliant artificial lights, etc. These complexities and intensifications of modern life tend to deaden the mind (through the senses) to the subtleties of minute variations of greys, the monotonies of simple melodies and rhythms, the unadorned verbiage of the 250,000-word novel, and similar manifestations of a day when febrile living had not blunted the sensitivities. All art must dominate life; and this is as true to-day as it was in the Middle Ages. The modern artist has come to realise that the media of art have never been fully sounded, and that only by perfecting the purely mechanical side of his art can he achieve that new intensity which today is so needed. To be sure, great art will always remain great so long as the human organisms remain unchanged; yet the demands of human evolution must be met. Consequently the means of art have been greatly developed through research and experimentation. A painter of to-day, with genius equal to that of a Rubens, could, because of the new colour knowledge, create compositions far more emotional and intense than those of the Flemish master. If Richard Strauss, with his knowledge of the modern orchestra, possessed the magistral creative vision of Beethoven, he could double the effect of the latter’s music. Joseph Conrad (whom few have recognised for his significant anarchy), with the colossal gifts of a Balzac, could transcend anything yet accomplished in literature. Imagine Beethoven’s C-Minor Symphony played behind a partition which would deaden the vibration and neutralise the sound after the manner of a xylophone. The formal basis, the genius of its construction, would remain unchanged; but its effect on us would be infinitely weakened. A Cezanne or a Renoir reproduced in black and white is merely the skeleton of the original. Read a short condensation of “Madame Bovary”, and you have only a commonplace and not extraordinary idea. Retell Swinburne in prose, and the effect is lost. Thus can be realised the tremendous importance of the purely mechanical side of art. For, after all, art can be judged only by its effect upon the individual. It is for this reason that the prescient modern artists are experimenting, some with new instruments and methods of orchestration, some with the functionings of pure colour, and some (though fewer, alas! than in the other media) with new word combinations and documentary rhythms.

 

28.

 

Enduring Vitality of Great Art. — Why is it that, as a general rule, the really great art of the past has come down to us to-day with a halo upon it? It is not because the world has understood this great art, — the reasons the world gives for reverencing it are irrelevant. But it is because all exalted creative expression has a power of unity which is capable of pushing through the barriers of aesthetic ignorance and of making its vitality felt.

 

29.

 

Harmony of Thought and Emotion the Test of Great Art. — What man could say that great constructive thinking which results in beauty as rich and palpable as Greek, Italian and Gothic architecture and as sequentially lyrical as Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is not as keen a joy as physical ecstasy? The ultimate effect of great art lies in the mind where it has been introduced by way of the senses. And the acid test of art’s puissance is that the heart and mind — the male and female elements of human life — vibrate in harmony, forming a perfect conjunction.

 

34.

 

Analogies Between Creative Impulses. — The character is to literature and the motif is to music what the line or form is to painting. A literary character is arbitrarily chosen by the writer; and, in a general way, the character’s individual traits and temperament are conceived in the writer’s mind before the work of projecting him through the numerous influences of his life is undertaken. Thus, in the parlance of the painter, a literary character is a form with individual outlines, weight and colour. Every force with which he comes in contact during the unfolding of the narrative will in some way modify his disposition, as well as change the trend of his environment. In like manner, the painter arbitrarily chooses, as the noyau of his canvas, a certain form whose influence is imprinted over the whole work; and upon this form the sequential lines, colours and rhythms will have a determining and directing influence. Likewise, a musical composer chooses a motif — a small musical phrase that he has fixed upon; and out of this simple motif will grow a great edifice of musical form constructed by succeeding themes, counterstatements, development sections and recapitulations— all influencing the original motif, creating a sound environment, and finally bringing about a consummation in the coda. Thus the methods of all great art (no matter what its medium) have the same mental problems with which to deal. For the painter there is the shifting of directions and masses: for the musician there are the natural re-adjustments of succeeding sounds: for the writer there is the re-creation, from ideas and actions, of a new and vital ground-plan. In all the arts the creative impulse begins with an arbitrary selection, passes through a natural development of the chosen motif, line or idea, and terminates in a formal climax. The vicissitudes of a literary character amid good and bad environments are identical with those undergone by a line or a motif. In each case the initial shape passes through the calm and turbulence of a complete existence before it comes to rest. Any great work of art is, therefore, the psychological history of an individual.

 

48.

 

Result of Democracy on Art. — Once the principles which are necessary to aesthetic expression are known, there will be a minimum of chaotic variation in the conceptions of different artists. During all great creative periods there has been a general homogeneous trend toward certain results, because then artists had a definite conception of composition, and possessed, in certain conventions of methods, a definite vehicle of expression. Today the great disintegration of effort is almost wholly the result of a widespread ignorance of art laws. In an age of research each man becomes a law unto himself, and regards one idea as just as valuable as another, provided it is novel or personal. He therefore proclaims himself the equal of all others because he is “expressing himself.” Are not his responses to objective stimuli as genuine as those of any one else? This may be true; but a recorded reaction to stimuli is not necessarily art. The inadequacy of such a man’s work is due to the fact that he has never been taught the basis on which creative effort must be built, and, as a result, his “expression” is of no more aesthetic importance than his personality.

 

54.

 

Greatness and Nationality. — There is no nationality in art. Those who plead for a national art are ignorant of art’s primary significance. Only in the most superficial qualities can the traits of a nation be expressed; and these qualities are aesthetically negligible. The germ of genius, which lies at the bottom of all high creative expression, is changeless and eternal; and for this reason a great man belongs to all countries and to all times. He embraces every struggle that has gone before.

 

55.

 

National Types of Art and the Influences Which Dictate Them. — When trying to sound the reason why one nation creates one kind of art and brings it to its highest perfection, why another excels in a different art and brings forth only mediocre or imitative works of the first kind, and why yet another nation reaches its highest level in a third kind of art, we must go deep into their organisms and influences. Superficial characteristics will never reveal the true source of aesthetic variation. Taine has brought together the salient characteristics of nationality, and by stating their sources has explained their relation to art production. From these can be deduced the specific kinds of art which each nation has given birth to and the reasons which underly them. In ancient times the Greeks seemed to combine all the art impulses of the various modern temperaments: they produced philosophy, music, poetry, prose, sculpture, dancing and painting. This versatility was a result of their wonderfully balanced mental and physical forces. The separate traits of these inclusively intelligent people are to be found, exaggerated, developed or weakened, in all the Germanic and Latin races and their descendants to-day. Their philosophic attributes have passed somewhat vulgarised and systematised, to the modern Germans. Their subtleties, undergoing a similar metamorphosis, have lodged in the French temperament. And their nobility and pride of race are to be found, converted into a sentimental fetish, in the Spaniard. It is in these traits, disintegrated among many peoples and given an acuteness or complexity in answer to the needs of modern life, that form the matrices out of which modern plastic art has issued. The genius of the ancient Greek was eminently pictorial; his imagination encompassed all life by way of images. This is explainable by the fact that he understood man and studied him more deeply than he did nature. His conclusions were dictated by the functioning of the human body to which he turned because in it he found something tangible, absolute, concrete. By keeping himself before his own eyes as an important entity he conceived a precise, formal idea of life. This attitude led to generalising and to an utter indifference toward useless details. With the Italians of the Renaissance we have the Greek conditions over again. Between these two nations there existed temperamental similarities despite the feudalism and asceticism of the Middle Ages. Like the Greeks, the Italians preferred symmetry and proportion to comfort, the joy of the senses to celestial pleasures after death. In the religion of the Italians was that toleration which is necessary to art production; and there were courts where intellectual attainments were placed above all else. The greatest difference between the Greeks and the Italians was that whereas the Greek mind and body, exquisitely balanced and wholly harmonious, constituted a unified and conjoined whole, the Italian mind and body were separate developments. The Greeks cultivated sound, rhythm, poetry and movement simultaneously in their theatres and dances. The Italians laid stress on these various impulses at different periods and, instead of welding them into one impulse, cultivated and intensified them individually. Just as sculpture was the leading art of the Greeks, so it was the leading art of the Renaissance, for the Italian painting was primarily sculpturesque, inspired by form and line, not by tone and gradation as was the painting of the Netherlands. The colour that the Italian painters used was purely decorative, never realistic: it was an ornament superimposed on perfect sculptural forms, just as the figures and designs of the Gothic cathedrals were superimpositions on an unstable, tortured science. In Germany to the north we find other conditions at work, and, as a result, other types of mental and creative endeavour. The temperamental difference between the Germans, and the Greeks and Italians is due in large measure to climate. In the greater part of Greece and Italy the light is so luminous that the colour is sucked from nature, and all that remains is line and hard-cut, precise silhouette. Therefore the Greeks’ and Italians’ perception is formally sculptural, for it is silhouette which inspires to sculpture. With such a vision ever before their eyes it follows that their thought — the life of their minds — should be general and, though specific, conventionalised. The Germanic races are the offspring of an opposite environment. Their climate is damper and more overcast. Cold and mist are far more general than to the southward. Hence we see no sculpture among the Germans; and since their environment is the opposite of clear-cut and incisive, they deal in metaphysical terms, naked symbols devoid of images, precise ideas and abstract systems of life. As a result the German is patient, researchful, metaphysical, whereas the Italian is mercurial, seeing the metaphysical only in terms of the pictorial. The Germans have had to clothe themselves, and thus have not lived with, as it were, and glorified the human body. In their paintings the idea is the highest consideration. The German is methodical, and the consequent slowness of his mental processes protects him against quick and distracting reactions, and permits him a greater capacity for sequential thinking. But with all his abstract philosophical reasoning he is a realist, for he never conceives idealised forms, as did the Renaissance Italians. He penetrates to the foundations even when those foundations are ugly, his ideal being internal, rather than external, truth. The German rests all his thoughts on a definite basis of science and observation, and all his thinking must lead to an absolute result. Here we have an explanation for his music. In it he expresses the abstract conceptions of life; and his ability to create it rests on his infinite patience in deciphering the enormous mass of requisite technical knowledge necessary to its successful birth. The Dutch and the Belgians — both stemming from Germanic stock — represent once more the influence which climate and religion and methods of life have on aesthetic creation. The Dutch chose Protestantism, a form of religion from which external and sensuous beauty had been eliminated. They adopted the settled’ contentment of mere animal comforts, and, as a result, grew torpid and flaccid through good living and the gratification of heavy appetites. The ease of their existence brought about a tolerance which created an art appreciation; and appreciation is the soil in which art production always flourishes. The result was an art which was an added comfort to the home — an art with a sensuality of vision which reflected the sensuality of life. The Dutch, comfortable and disliking effort, lived in a land which was all colour and blurs. Man was pictured as he appeared, neither idealised nor degraded, with little parti pris, as great masses of substance, with misty outlines, emerging from a tenebrous climatic environment. The Belgians, on the other hand, were Catholics. They were more sensuous, more joyous than the Dutch. They saw images through the eyes of Catholicism. Their lives were filled with pomp and show and parade : even their form of worship was external and decorative. Consequently their art, while realistic, was more exalted and sensuous, filled with a spirit of freedom and infused with philosophic thought. These two types of realism are represented in Rubens and Rembrandt. France received all its permanent impetus to plastic creation from the north. There was a short period when the art was a political mélange of classic ideas, and another period when the Venetian admiration resuscitated composition (as in Delacroix); but the permanent contributions came in the form of Flemish realism with its delicacy of tonal subtleties. The seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Dutchmen were echoed in the Barbizon school; and this salutary reaction to nature from Graeco-Roman academism gave an added impetus to realism. The mercurial quality of the French mind, now classically philosophical, now naturalistic, now stiffly moral, taking on all the colours of all influences, demands strong emotions. Two centuries of inventions and complex life, added to the adopted culture of the Dutch and the Italians, created an art which was novel, colourful and at times even sensational. The individualism of the Renaissance found a new home in the French intellect. That love of life and the reversion to a more joyous existence (which came after the Revolution) cast the Church out and drove the intellectuals back to the worship of nature. The French then had time to enjoy the complexities of composition; and the elegance of their cultivation resurrected an insistence upon style. They wrote no philosophies; they were not interested in detailed research; but they lived febrilely, and the records of their lives, subordinated to general philosophic plans which, were created by style, produced great literature. Like children they received the half-completed flowers of the Renaissance and the partial realism of their forebears, and these bequests were a source of wonder and delight to them. They continued both quickly on a wave of reaction by expressing the one by means of the other. They combined the Germanic and the Latin impulses; and from this perfectly poised combination issued the excellence of their painting and literature. Their work in the other arts was merely an aside, as was poetry in Flanders, and painting in Germany. They lacked the German meticulousness and preoccupation with abstractions which are necessary to the highest musical composition; and their plasticity of mind made possible intenser images in painting than in poetry. In England few outside influences have taken hold. Its geographical isolation has resulted in a self-contented provincialism. The British mind, like the American mind, is, and always has been, unsympathetic to art. Art is regarded as a curiosity, an appanage of the higher education. Intelligence, as such, is not believed in. With the English all thought must be bent toward a utilitarian end, just as Latin thought is turned toward form and German thought toward philosophy. In the stress of affairs Englishmen have little time for so exotic a flower as art. Their minds are rigid and immobile, largely because of their form of religion. They are aggressively Protestant. In their religion there are absolute punishments and rewards untempered by circumstances or individual cases. There are fixed emotional values and absolute foci of the mind; and, as a consequence, the race is without plastic expression. Their minds, groping after beyond-world comforts, have become static and out of touch with the actualities of existence. They harbour Utopian schemes, and consider life as they deem it should be lived, not in accord with nature’s intention. Even in their rare painters of landscape, like Turner and Constable, the spirit of the subject is hunted above form; and when this is not the case, their pictures are, in essence, moral and anecdotal. Because the English are primarily busy, constantly occupied with practical, commercial accomplishments, they have no leisure for an art which is a compounding of subtleties, like the painting of the Dutch and the music of the Germans. Their tastes naturally resolve themselves into a desire for a simple image — that is, for an art entirely free from the complex intricacies of organisation. Their pleasures must be of a quick variety so that the appreciation may be instantaneous. And since their lives are neither physical nor mental but merely material, like the Americans’, it is natural that they should react to trivial transcendentalism and sentimentality. They produce no ‘art which is either philosophical or plastically formal. But in the art of poetry they lead the world. Poetry presents an image quickly, and it has a sensual side in its rhythm as well as a vague and transcendental side in its content. Poetry is the lyricism of the spirit, even as sculpture is the lyricism of form. Both are arts which represent quick reactions, the one sentimental and spiritualised, the other tangible and absolute. Even English style is more a matter of diction than of underlying rhythm. The conditions, religion, temperament and pursuits of America are similar to those of England, and American art is patterned largely on that of its mother country. Poetry is the chief, as well as the most highly developed, aesthetic occupation of Americans. Everywhere to-day, however, national conditions have less influence than formerly. The cosmopolitanism of individuals is fast breaking down national boundaries. The modern complex mind, encrusted by 2,000 years of diverse forms of culture, is becoming more a result of what has gone before than a result of that which lies about it. We of to-day easily assimilate influences from all sides, and while some of the arts are still the property of temperamentally kindred nations, the admixture of nationalities and the changes of regime are constantly reversing the old abilities.

 

61.

 

The Emotion of Form in Nature and in Art. — If a work of graphic art fails to give us, either objectively or subjectively, a greater sensation of form than we can get direct from nature, its compositional order, though rhythmically perfect, cannot make it vital or attractive. The complex organisation of a picture reveals itself only after prolonged contemplation; and if there is not a plenitude of full form to inspire the spectator to this contemplation he turns away: the emotional element is lacking. A sensitive person, seeing the flesh-like and tactile nudes of Rubens or Renoir, is astonished by their almost super-lifelike solidity; and the subjective emotion of form produced by Cezanne, once experienced, is never forgotten. It is these formal qualities in Rubens, Renoir and Cezanne which halt us and lead us into the intellectual order of the picture. Thus in music. The score dominates and moves us more when we hear it played than when we merely read it.

 

62.

 

Conception of the Great Idea. — Every idea, from infancy to old age, is motivated by man’s contact with the objective world. A conscious effort toward great thought ends either in chaos or in an abstract triviality. Great ideas, like all significant achievements in life, come only as a result of certain perfect conditions; and these perfect conditions are what give birth to one’s ability to separate ideas which are sterile from ideas pregnant with possibility. The artist’s process of thought is like an arithmetical progression. He conceives a trivial idea from his contact with exterior nature. Something in this trivial idea, after a period of analysis, calls up another idea which, in turn, develops, through volitional association, into a group of ideas. And this group becomes, for him, the basis of constructive thinking, replacing, as it were, the original basis of objectivity. From his segregation and arrangement of these ideas, which are no longer directly inspired by nature, there springs the great idea. It is the golden link in a chain of trivial ideas — the heritor of an intrinsically worthless thought. An artist’s intellectual significance lies in his power to presage instinctively the future importance of seemingly inconsequential reactions, for a great thought, like a great mind or epoch, is not an isolated phenomenon, the result of an accident. It is subject to the same laws of evolution and growth as is the human body. That is why one can never consciously force great thinking; it is impossible to call up that particular group of trivial objective ideas which, when analysed and augmented, will generate the great idea. This is true also of those creative processes which result in concrete manifestations. A musician cannot force himself to play impromptu a masterpiece, even though he be a master. Here again the combination of circumstances must be au point before his creative faculties are in their highest state of fluency. But when he recognises a pregnant musical form which casually results from idle improvisation, he may develop and continue it, add to it and take from it, until, at last, the final form of the composition appears. The generation of great ideas is analogous to the generation of great forms. In lesser men the beginnings of a great idea are passed over unnoticed.

 

63.

 

Art’s Indirect Progress. — The evolution of art is no more mechanical than the development of the individual. In it there are irregularities, retrogressions, forward spurts, divagations, distractions. At one time it goes ahead rapidly; at another, it seems to halt. There are periods of darkness and stagnation as well as periods of swift and splendid development. Some men carry forward the spirit of research; others, employing the qualities which have been handed down to them, breathe into old inspirations the flame of individual idiosyncrasy. During one era there will be a progress in principles; during another era progress will have to do entirely with means. Every new movement has about it a certain isolation of ambition and aspiration. The first innovators push out the boundary on one side; their followers, on another; and the final exponents of an epoch, having fully assimilated what has preceded them, combine the endeavours and accomplishments of their forerunners and create new and lasting forms.

 

65.

 

The Universal in Art. — Not until the facts of art are dissociated from the individual — that is, are separated from all personal considerations — has the intellect been brought to bear on aesthetics. Only the impersonal can attain to immortality : it belongs to no cult, no period, no one body of men: it reflects the whole of life, and its vision is the universal vision of mankind. Art is the mouthpiece of the will of nature, namely, the complete, unified intelligence of life — that intelligence of which each individual is only an offshoot, or, rather, a minute part. An artist’s mind, in the act of creating, is only an outlet of that intelligence. Art is the restatement of life — a glimpse, brought to a small focus, of the creative laws of nature. It reveals the universal will, the machinery, as it were, of the human drama; and in our appreciation of it we are exalted because in it we experience, not a segment of life, but the entire significance of life. Thus can be accounted for art’s philosophic, as well as its humanly concrete, side.

 

66.

 

Art and Nature. — Art does not show man the way to nature. Rather does it lead him via nature to knowledge.

 

78.

 

The Esthetic Rationale. — Do not consider the arts as isolated and independent, each governed by its own laws. The laws which apply to one art will apply with equal fitness to any other art. What is basically true of one art is true of all the others: seek for the aesthetic analogy. Precisely the same reactions are expressed by painting, music and literature; and these reactions are expressed in the same aesthetic manner. Only the media differ. You cannot know one art a fond without knowing all the others; or, to state the proposition conversely, it is necessary to know all the arts fundamentally before you can truly grasp one of them. The emotional effects of the various arts are superficially dissimilar; but the principles do not vary.

 

79.

 

Analogies Between the Arts. — There is no abstract quality of a rhythmic nature in any one art which does not have an analogy in the other arts. Because music was the first art to become abstract, we have an aesthetic musical nomenclature; and generally it is necessary to use musical terms in describing corresponding qualities in literature, drawing, painting and sculpture.

 

80.

 

Melody. — Melody is the simplest form of art which has passed beyond mere primitive rhythm. It is common to all the arts, for though it has a definite musical connotation, it may be applied figuratively to the other arts. Melody is merely rhythm applied to two-dimensional form — auditory, visual or documentary. The form-essence of pure melody is linear. In drawing or painting it is commonly called decoration or design. In literature it is the simple tale which has been delicately composed. Pure musical melody exists without accompaniment: it is a series of single notes. Its parallel in the graphic arts is a line drawing in which the linear cadence is the final effect sought for. In literature it is the episodic story.

 

81.

 

Homophony. — Homophony is the structural augmentation of melody, or melody resting on its bases of chord sequences : melody with an accompaniment. The analogy of homophony in the graphic arts would be a linear drawing, or painting, to which were added masses or volumes of tonality — light and dark or coloured patches which sustained and accorded with the linear directions. The chords, or bases, on which a melody rests — or, more accurately, the remainders of the broken-up chords from which the melody was lifted — correspond to the tonal masses in two-dimensional drawing or painting. In literature the effect of homophony is obtained in a more arbitrary manner. If to the simple episodic story, such as a folk tale or a Boccaccio novella, should be added a foundation of descriptive or historical material which augmented and filled out the narrative without altering its formal development, the result would correspond to musical homophony.

 

82.

 

Polyphony. — Polyphony is three-dimensional auditory form into which has been introduced rhythm. During the interweaving of two or more melodies, the musical form is multilinear and moves in depth as well as laterally or “vertically.” Here the masses and volumes are made up of the extensional relationships of the numerous melodic lines, and are an integral part of the aesthetic structure. The dominant melody represents merely that surface of the form which is most evident to the ear, in the same way that a certain aspect of a painted form is most apparent to the eye. There are parallels for polyphony in literature and painting. A book which possesses documentary solidity and which has been composed rhythmically in accord with aesthetic development, is — figuratively — polyphonic. The plot is merely the dominant melody, and bears the same relation to the whole that the dominant melody bears to the complete form of a polyphonic piece of music. In drawing there can be no polyphony because black and white cannot give the emotion of depth. But in painting where the linear forms relate themselves rhythmically to one another in three dimensions we have an exact analogy to musical polyphony. Here, too, there may be a dominant linear melody.

 

83.

 

Simultaneity in Art. —Although the perception of beauty — that is, of form — is never simultaneous, since it requires a series of movements and necessitates a process of comparison and adjustments which can be made only by the act of memory and shape-projection, nevertheless the effect of beauty is simultaneous. It may take us an hour or more to absorb or to find the aesthetic form, as in listening to a symphony, or in reading a book, or in studying the ramifications of a picture’s composition; but when we have followed the lines of the form to their completion and are conscious of the unity of their direction and interrelations, we receive, in an immeasurably brief instant of time, the unified effect of the whole. It is like a sudden flash: our memory has retained and built up accumulatively all that has taken place during our long process of absorption or comprehension. If, while we are listening to a perfectly constructed sonata, it should suddenly cease at the beginning of the coda, let us say, we would be left with a feeling of incompleteness: we would fail to react to its form. The same sensation or feeling of incompleteness would be ours if we closed a book when part way through it, or if we regarded a picture which was partially concealed. In all such cases we would have curtailed our contemplation during the process of absorption; and our aesthetic reaction would not fully take place. That which is necessary for our complete satisfaction is the very last note or chord of a piece of music, the final episode in a book, and the ultimate curve or volume in a picture’s organisational scheme. When we have reached this final point in a work of art, our memory, which has retained every step through which our consciousness has passed in the contemplative process, reconstructs the whole. We then have an instantaneous vision of the entire form which may have taken hours to unroll. In that instant of realisation we receive our keenest sense of beauty, for in that instant we react to a formal unity. This sudden coalescence of memory constitutes the simultaneity which characterises all aesthetically constructed art works.

 

84.

 

The Primitive Demand for Symmetry.— In the perception of form we always relate that form to ourselves — that is, to the conditions of our own bodily consciousness. Perceiving form necessitates certain muscular, auditory or optical activities on our part; and the character of the form regulates those activities. Thus, in looking at a flagpole, our eyes must travel up and down: we cannot perceive the flagpole by moving our eyes to the right or left. All forms therefore produce in us certain corresponding movements; or rather, our movements, since they are voluntary and active, determine the form. Now, since our consciousness of bodily existence is based on an ever-present sense of balance (our ability to stand without falling), it is our instinct, when making a muscular movement which would tend to destroy that balance, to make a counter-movement for the purpose of preserving our equilibrium. The involuntary adjustments of the body have for their purpose a balance of weights which will be equal on either side of our centre of gravity. In the contemplation of form the same process takes place, since it is our movements which determine form perception. For example, draw a heavy line to the left of the centre of a piece of paper. We feel an incompleteness when viewing it: we are not at ease. Then draw a similar line to the right of the paper’s centre. At once we feel a completion, a sense of satisfaction. This is because we relate all perceived form to a centre of gravity; and if this form is not balanced by another form, we undergo a process of mental adjustment (analogous to physical adjustment) by desiring the other form. In other words, we feel a need of a counter-form. It is our internal and involuntary demand for balance. Hence the static and primitive satisfaction we experience in the presence of symmetry, or symmetrical designs; and the dissatisfaction we experience before an unseen metrical or lop-sided design.

 

85.

 

Auditory Symmetry. — Sound-forms are perceived in the same manner that visual forms are perceived. There are auditory adjustments analogous to optical adjustments; and, at bottom, they are, no doubt, muscular, since we vocalise sounds while listening to them, although this vocalisation may be silent. In short, sound-forms are determined by our own physical movements. And in the same manner that we relate visual forms to a centre of gravity, and consider the extension of those forms as so far to the right or left, so we relate tone-masses to a centre of musical gravity. This centre is the vocal mean of the human voice. Thus we have standardised middle C (the C on the first line below the treble); and all other notes are either upper or lower notes. Middle C, the centre of musical gravity, is that point where the bass clef runs into the treble clef. For clarity, let us say that all notes (save middle C) are either to the right or left of this musical centre. Unconsciously, we relate all notes to this centre, (their height or depth is judged by their distance from middle C); and if the sound- forms are not balanced on either side of it (like visual forms on either side of a centre of gravity), we feel a dissatisfaction similar to the physical sensation of being unbalanced. Thus a chord or a note (a sound-form) struck in the treble or bass calls up in us at once a need for a chord or note in the opposite clef. This, again, is our primitive demand for balance based on physical consciousness. When the seen forms on either side of a centre of gravity counterbalance each other in the static sense, we have visual symmetry. And when the heard forms on either side of middle C — the centre of musical gravity — counterbalance each other statically, we have auditory symmetry. The felt need for both is due, first, to the fact that equilibrium is our basis of physical consciousness, and, secondly, to the further fact that our perception of form — whether visual or auditory — is the result of physical movements which, when they take place either to the right or left of a pivotal centre, demand corresponding movements on the other side in order that the balance be maintained.

LYRICAL INTRODUCTION

 

I was introduced to Javier Andreu and the band La Frontera through Nino Bravo. Nino Bravo (real name Luis Manuel Ferri Llopis) was the “number one voice” in Spain during the late 1960s and early 1970s. The life of this talented performer of popular songs and ballads was tragically cut short in April 1973 when he died in a car accident at the age of just 28. In 1995, popular musicians and singers from Spain gathered to record a tribute to Nino Bravo in honor of what would have been his fiftieth birthday. The idea was simple: each invited “star” chose their favorite song by the famous singer and performed it alongside him. Nino appeared on the screen in the recording while his colleague stood in front of a microphone in the studio. It made a pretty good duet.

 

I’ve listened to a lot of Nino. I loved his voice, his style of singing, and his songs. My favorite was the lyrical (but by no means sappy) “Un beso y Una Flor” (“A Kiss and a Flower”). While searching for this song once again, I stumbled upon a recording from the 1995 tribute. An unfamiliar singer performed it alongside Nino. The credits read: Nino Bravo y Javier Andreu (La Frontera). I enjoyed the duet, and the raspy voice of the unknown singer captivated me. There was also something else that caught my attention — his passion and dedication in the performance, combined with a tender respect for the late singer.

I decided to learn more about Javier and his band. I played the first La Frontera video I found. It was a recording from a concert. The musicians didn’t look as young anymore. Javier performed in dark glasses and resembled Mike Naumenko in his later years. The song was called “El Límite” (“The Limit”). I’m not sure what struck me at that moment: the song itself, the lead singer’s voice, or his slight resemblance to Mike (or perhaps all of that together) —but I became genuinely fascinated by La Frontera. Only later did I learn that “El Límite” was the song (along with others from the album “Rose of the Winds”) that had propelled the band to stardom…

 

Listen closely,

my old friend:

I don’t know if you’ll remember

those times that are now lost

on the streets of this city.

We read forbidden books together,

thinking that nothing would change us,

always living waiting for a signal.

 

On the border of good, on the border of evil,

I will wait for you on the border of good and evil.

 

It’s hard to feel so downhearted

when you don’t feel pain—

It’s like plunging a knife

deep into your heart.

Listen closely, my old friend:

I will never forget our friendship.

Life is just a game

where you have to place your bets

if you want to win.

 

On the border of good, on the border of evil,

I will wait for you on the border of good and evil.

 

It’s not hard to find

paradise in the dark.

Luck sails in a boat

With no course and with no captain.

Listen closely, my old friend:

if we ever meet again,

I can just hope everything will be like it was yesterday.

 

On the border of good, on the border of evil,

I will wait for you on the border of good and evil.

 

* * *

 

By the mid-1980s, the famous Madrid movement (la Movida madrileña), representing the youth subculture of Spain, began to decline. New figures started to emerge in the country’s musical scene, primarily oriented toward the music of English rock bands. But into this space burst a band, like a cowboy from the American Wild West, performing a style of music that was completely atypical for Europe—country (or more precisely, country-punk) and western. This band was La Frontera.

Every generation has its heroes. Spaniards born in the 1960s grew up on American westerns, which were heavily broadcast on local television. Cowboy swagger, leather vests, revolvers, and six-shooters stirred boys’ imaginations, prompting them to emulate their film heroes. For some, this playful imitation turned into something more.

 

* * *

 

La Frontera, 1984 г.

La Frontera, 1984

They started out like many others. University students would form bands and try to conquer musical Olympus. La Frontera was no exception. In 1984, a group of friends studying information sciences in Madrid came together to form a “gang.” They had already tried their hands in other bands. The group originally consisted of five members and was called Las Muñecas Repollo (“The Cabbage Dolls”). They soon changed their name, though, to La Frontera, after one of the songs from their first album. The original lineup included Javier Andreu (vocals), Tony Marmota (bass), José Bataglio (drums), Quino Maqueda (guitar), and Rafa Hernández (guitar).

Typically, a musical group has a leader (be it the vocalist, guitarist, or even the drummer) plus the rest. The leader is the bearer of the concept and, consequently, the name. Other members may change, and sometimes the lineup changes completely, but the name is almost always firmly attached to the leader. In the history of rock music, a band rarely ceases to exist after losing a member. “La Frontera” has always been a duo: vocalist and guitarist Javier Andreu plus bassist Tony Marmota, with other musicians who may change periodically.

They started out like everyone else. But what set them apart was their style. Their unique style. The band also used instruments uncommon in Spain: banjo, harmonica, and violin. Bob Dylan’s work, which greatly influenced many Spanish musicians, was another major influence. And although the audience initially approached La Frontera with some caution and mild confusion, they ultimately couldn’t resist the musicians’ powerful energy and charm, along with the incredible charisma of lead singer Javier Andreu. Javier didn’t just sing songs; he lived entire stories on stage. Duels under the sun, smugglers’ adventures, terrible revenge for betrayal, scenes from Wild West saloons where you drink whiskey and embrace “dangerous women,” then within five minutes draw your Colt and kill the villain — Javier kept playing the games of his childhood, with the others actively supporting him.

Their first records were recorded in this “cowboy” style: “The Border” (La frontera) (1985), “If the Whiskey Doesn’t Ruin You, the Women Will” (Si el whisky no te arruina, las mujeres lo harán) (1986), “Midnight Train” (Tren de medianoche) (1987).

Perhaps one of the most characteristic songs reflecting the group’s concept during that period is “Southern Sky” (Cielo del Sur). Audiences still love it, and the band often performs it at concerts.

 

I walk down the road,

I’m heading to the border.

What separates you and me?

The dust of dawn

That will awaken you in an old hotel.

You’ll step out when you hear the engine’s sound.

I live in a truck without wheels

On the side of the road,

A thousand kilometers away from you.

And there, where the sun hides,

Where my voice is lost,

Why am I sure I will find you?

Southern sky,

So blue,

Southern sky,

I can never forget you.

My brother advised me:

Don’t run away; that’s worse.

That was the last time he spoke.

There, again on the highway

Like a lonely wolf

Why am I following your trail?

I live in a truck without wheels

On the side of the road,

A thousand kilometers away from you.

There, where the sun hides,

Where my voice is lost,

Why am I sure I will find you?

Southern sky,

So blue

Southern sky,

I can never forget you.

 

* * *

 

Хавьер Андреу и Тони Мармота, 2015 г.

Javier Andreu and Tony Marmota, 2015

In 1989, at the personal invitation of the head of the USSR, Mikhail Gorbachev, La Frontera traveled to Moscow for a music festival featuring Eastern European countries. Not long before, Gorbachev had visited Spain, and friendly relations had developed between the two countries. The musicians accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. They knew nothing about the Soviet Union and were eager to see this vast northern land, where they thought everyone wore big fur hats. Imagine their surprise in Moscow when they encountered only one “señora” in a hat like that! Nevertheless, the young Spaniards bought fur hats as souvenirs.

On the streets, they were greeted by crowds of young people shouting, “Let’s rock and roll!” But they played country and western… Fifteen years later, Javier and Tony would laugh as they recalled that trip.

By that time, the group had grown tired of cowboy antics, and musical tastes had begun to shift. Javier became fascinated by the work of David Bowie and Nick Lowe, and La Frontera turned toward pop-rock. The result was the 1989 album “Rose of the Winds” (Rosa de los Vientos). This album brought the band widespread fame. Songs from this record were literally playing on every radio. It was a beautiful, melodic, romantic album that resonated with Spaniards, and the song “El Límite” became the band’s calling card. Among the songs on “Rosa de los Vientos” is another noteworthy track with deep philosophical meaning — “Juan Antonio Cortés. Thirty-five years later, Javier would say, “Juan Antonio Cortés is me.” Here, La Frontera’s work resonates once again with Nino Bravo’s legacy. “Tell me, from what country I come… the land from which I have nothing but dust from the road,” sang Nino. “I was born on a land where the sun never sets, on a land surrounded by the sea, where a scorching wind blows. I was born with nothing, so I owe you nothing… I was born here and will die on this land,” sang Javier. Here it is, the harsh land under the blazing sun. But it’s home, it’s theirs. And no matter how enticing distant lands may be, the singers understand their place is here.

 

I was born on a land where the sun never sets,

On a land surrounded by the sea, where a scorching wind blows.

I was born with nothing, so I owe you nothing,

Just a few details about the people I met, the people I met!

My name is Juan Antonio Cortés.

 

There are people who are born and live in solitude,

Who die on a pedestal, and no one mourns them.

There are people who live as if lost and worthless,

And people who ask for more.

Everyone knows this is true.

 

There are people who sleep and wake,

Not knowing how to distinguish dreams from reality.

There are people who stay awake,

Not knowing who waits to see their arrival.

Everyone dreams, and I am the same.

 

There are people who fight for ideals,

Carrying flags blown by the wind.

There are people who strive to be something more,

Not knowing when their end will come. And no, no, no…

 

I never offered my hand for a handshake.

My name is Juan Antonio Cortés.

I was born here and will die on this land.

 

There are people who die in search

Of what destiny couldn’t give.

People with malice, people without evil—

While the world spins on, without stopping, without stopping.

 

I never offered my hand for a handshake.

My name is Juan Antonio Cortés.

I was born here and will die on this land.

 

I am already old; you can see me now,

And I leave you with my blessing,

With my epitaph, which I will write in blood,

And from my wine-colored hole, I will say to you: farewell! Farewell!

 

I never offered my hand for a handshake.

My name is Juan Antonio Cortés.

I was born here and will die on this land.

 

* * *

 

Хавьер Андреу

Javier Andreu

In the early 1990s, La Frontera was at the peak of its popularity. The 1991 album “Fiery Words” (Palabras de fuego) also enjoyed success. The song “Wild Wind” (Viento Salvaje) from this album formed a sort of continuation of the theme of “Cielo del Sur.”

In 1992, the album “Captured Alive” (Capturados Vivos) was released. It was recorded during a concert the band performed at Sony Plaza during the Expo92 exhibition in Seville. It included their greatest hits, born throughout the existence of La Frontera. This was followed by a two-year tour across the country, albeit without Quino Maqueda, who had left the band.

Everything was going well, but in the 1990s, the musical landscape saw the rise of grunge, which emerged from punk rock and heavy metal. This posed a challenge for bands playing different styles. In 1994, La Frontera released a new album recorded in London — “The Wheel of Sharp Weapons” (La rueda de las armas afiladas). Responding to the trends of the time, the album had a rather harsh sound. In some tracks, Javier’s raspy voice was pushed to its limits. The band’s lineup changed; now there were four members: guitarist Javier Pedreira, drummer Mario Carrión, and of course, the inseparable Javier Andreu and Tony Marmota. It’s worth noting that La Frontera has always been lucky with musicians, especially guitarists. Each has had a unique playing style that’s fit a particular period in the band’s evolution. Yet the new album didn’t match its predecessors’ success, and the band went back to performing live.

Personally, I enjoy this album just as much as the earlier ones. It is quite diverse, with hard, noisy tracks interspersed with lyrical ballads, such as “The Ghost of the Attic” (El Fantasma Del Desván) or even the psychedelic piece “Sands of Samarkand” (Arenas De Samarkanda). Javier Pedreira’s guitar sounds just as virtuosic and expressive as Javier the singer’s.

 

* * *

 

La Frontera 2003

La Frontera, 2003

The period from the late 1990s to the early 2000s was a crisis for many bands. La Frontera also faced tough times but never left the stage. It took quite a while before a new album came out. Meanwhile, Javier pursued a solo career, and in 1999, he released the album “Storybook” (Libro de Cuentos), dedicated to his daughter Muriel. In 2000, the band finally recorded an album titled “New Adventures” (Nuevas aventuras). Although the album included several hit songs, it wasn’t as popular as earlier albums. Much of this was due to producers imposing their opinions on the musicians and not letting them make the recording they wanted.

The next album, “Your Revolution” (Tú Revolución), was released in 2003. On it, the musicians returned to past years’ sound. The album opened with the title track “Your Revolution” and closed with the touching “At the End of Everything” (Al Final de Todo), dedicated to Javier’s father, who had passed away. This summed up Javier — a restless, free-spirited rebel, an anarchist with a kind heart. Those who’ve crossed paths with him in life have described him as “incredible.” He dedicates songs to his family, friends, and beloved women. He finds joy in everything and is always grateful to the audience.

In the 1980s, he wrote the song “Judas the Miserable” (Judas el miserable) in honor of his friend from Cersedilla. Here’s how Javier described the song’s creation in an interview with journalist Kiko Amat: “It’s dedicated to a good friend from Cersedilla. One evening, while we were drinking together, I came up with this song, seeing his resemblance to Judas Iscariot (devilish goatee, snake-like eyes). I wrote the song in his honor, and it became well-known in the town. He always thanks me, although he thinks it should be called ‘Judas the Terrible.’ When he comes to my concerts, I change the lyrics.”

 

La Frontera 2015

La Frontera, 2015

The band’s 20th and 30th anniversaries were marked by corresponding albums, which collected and re-recorded old hits with the new lineup, along with a few new tracks.

After 2003, La Frontera didn’t often delight the public with new songs. But as the saying goes, less is more. In 2011, they released another album — “Rivas Creek” (Rivas Creek) — with all the songs written by Javier Andreu. The album was recorded with a new lineup: alongside Javier and Tony were guitarist Harry Palmer and drummer Vicente Perelló. This project aimed to return to their roots with the typical sound of La Frontera, while also addressing very personal themes: memories related to Cersedilla (a municipality in Spain, part of the Madrid province within the autonomous community of Madrid — author’s note), where Javier spent much of his childhood and youth; love and loneliness; the experience of years lived.

Another recurring theme in La Frontera’s work is trains and stations. Javier explained it this way: “I was born on Ferrocarril (Railway) Street, perpendicular to Paseo de las Delicias, in Madrid. At that time, the central promenade was open, and trains ran continuously, day and night, all the time. I saw them passing by and dreamed of leaving. In the summer, we would go to Cersedilla, and I walked along the tracks. I snuck into the cars, not knowing where they were headed.”

 

The Train is Leaving (El Tren Se Va)

 

The train waits for no one

and is about to depart,

and no one wants to get on.

The guy with the scythe—

he’s the stoker and driver

burning your life on the coals.

 

I place stones on the tracks

to survive,

but the train

whistles away into eternity.

 

Always deceiving time,

changing stations,

without a suitcase and without a watch,

with a premonition

and a strange feeling

that the train is leaving.

 

It’s leaving

over fields and above the town,

it’s leaving—

the train is leaving, and no one can stop it,

over fields and above the town,

the train is leaving.

 

Passengers with broken hearts,

welcome to the end;

I trade things for my elixir

so I can carry on.

 

It’s leaving, over fields and above the town,

the train is leaving.

It rushes into eternity.

We were actors without directors,

seeking love without guidance,

once we were all happy…

But the train is leaving.

 

When the album was released, the band started promoting it. They mostly performed in clubs and small venues. Yet they still got a warm welcome from the audience, who consisted not only of their peers but also of younger fans. Maybe the young Spanish punks who might have wiped them off the face of the Earth just never showed up.

 

* * *

 

In 2020, the world was hit by a pandemic. Borders closed, and it was forbidden to go outside without a valid reason or to meet up in person. These were particularly tough times for creative people. All concerts, festivals, and various public events were canceled. Yet this situation also prompted more use of online resources and gave many musicians a chance to finally finish things they’d never had time for. Javier immersed himself in creating new songs. When the pandemic restrictions eased slightly, he began playing concerts in small venues with guitarist Harry Palmer, where people sat spaced apart and wore medical masks. At the same time, he started collaborating with director Juan Moya, who planned to make a documentary film about the La Frontera frontman for his anniversary.

By the end of 2023, Javier Andreu released a solo album called “The Man Who Went Out Too Much” (El hombre que salía demasiado). This album embraced the trendy style of retro-futurism (a vision of the future from the past). Musically, Javier returned to his roots: punk and western, classic rock and roll, and songs touching on personal themes. Some songs on the album are dedicated to his beloved woman and daughter, while others are tied to memories of Cersedilla.

Following the album, Juan Moya debuted the film “The Worst Hero of the Far West” (El peor héroe del Far West). The title comes from a La Frontera song. In the film, Javier shares memories of his childhood and youth, recounting how it all began. The film turned out to be very heartfelt and was well-received by audiences. In an interview about this project, Juan Moya said of Javier, “He’s spent forty years never leaving the playroom.”

What lies ahead includes a tour across Spain to promote the new album, concerts with La Frontera, and hopefully, new songs. Javier Andreu, the “worst hero of the Wild West,” is still “in the saddle.”

 

CODA

 

In Nino Bravo’s song “Un Beso y Una Flor,” there’s a line that goes “I’m leaving, but I promise you I’ll return tomorrow.” But as Juan Moya said, “La Frontera never returned because they never left.”

 

This article incorporates materials from the internet.

Photos from public sources.

Translation of song lyrics into Russian by the author, then from Russian to English by the translator.

About the Authors:

Marzieh Yahyapour holds a PhD in Philology and is a professor in the Department of Russian Language and Literature at the Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literature at Tehran University. She serves as the editor-in-chief of the “Research Journal of Russian Language and Literature” and is an honorary member of the “St. Petersburg Society of Admirers of Ivan Bunin,” the “Bunin Society of Russia,” and a member of the “Gumilyov Society.” In 2021, she was awarded the Pushkin Medal.

Janolah Karimi-Motahhar holds a PhD in Philology and is a professor in the same department at Tehran University, and the chairman of the “Iranian Association of Russian Language and Literature.” He is also an honorary member of the “St. Petersburg Society of Admirers of Ivan Bunin,” the “Bunin Society of Russia,” and a member of the “Gumilyov Society.” He is a member of the presidium of the International Association of Teachers of Russian Language and Literature (MAPRYAL).

 

Abstract: This article explores the poetry of 20th-century Russian poet Konstantin Abramovich Lipskerov, who was familiar with the works of Saadi. Influenced by Saadi Shirazi, Lipskerov composed a series of poems rich in Eastern motifs. Through his poetry, he merges the cultures and beliefs of Iranian and Russian thinkers. Lipskerov’s worldview reflects a perspective similar to that of Saadi, several centuries earlier.

Keywords: Saadi, K.A. Lipskerov, wisdom, Eastern motifs.

 

The renowned Persian poet Saadi (circa 1200-1292) has influenced poets and writers from various countries, including Russia, across the centuries. His name remains well-known in every corner of the world. Beyond Saadi’s wisdom, thoughts, and ideas, his ghazal style also captivated Russian poets, such as Mikhail A. Kuzmin (1872-1936). Saadi’s work has impacted great writers like Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910), who referenced the Persian poet’s words in his works over forty times. See Vol. 21: 671; Vol. 41: 17, 134, 144, 148, 150, 170, 228, 506, 532, 540; Vol. 42: 19, 172, 254, 268, 293, 456; Vol. 43: 66, 73 (repeated in Vol. 41: 148), 136, 583; Vol. 44: 8, 55, 103 (Vol. 42: 172), 130 (Vol. 41: 140), 175 (Vol. 41: 506), 176 (Vol. 42: 254), 242, 279, 281 (Vol. 41: 540); Vol. 45: 109 (Vol. 41: 148; Vol. 43: 73), 136 (Vol. 41: 228), 145 (Vol. 44: 279), 173 (Vol. 41: 540; Vol. 44: 281), 355 (Vol. 41: 506), 356 (Vol. 44: 242), 363 (Vol. 44: 242), 487 (Vol. 41: 144); Vol. 80: 298.

Most of the expressions of Sheikh Saadi that caught Leo Tolstoy’s attention are moral teachings:

 

— All children of Adam are members of one body. When one member suffers, all others suffer. If you are indifferent to the suffering of others, you do not deserve to be called human.

— It is best for a foolish person to remain silent. But if he knew this, he would not be a foolish person.

— A holy man prayed to God for people: “O God! Be merciful to the wicked, for you have already been merciful to the good; they are well because they are good.”

— If not for greed, no bird would fall into traps. This same bait catches people as well.

— Science should be used to affirm religion, not to acquire wealth.

— He who acquires knowledge but does not use it is like one who plows but does not sow.

 

Leo Tolstoy also wrote works based on stories from “Gulistan” (Persian: “Golestan”). For example, “The Unfortunate Man” (Yahyapour and Karimi-Motahhar, 2022, 28).

Before L.N. Tolstoy, Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799-1837), the sun of Russian poetry, used Saadi’s words in his poems “In the Sweet Coolness of Fountains,” “The Fountain of Bakhchisarai,” “Fazil-Khan,” and in the verse novel “Eugene Onegin.” In the poem “In the Sweet Coolness of Fountains,” Pushkin refers to Saadi’s verse as “golden”:

 

On a thread of idle merriment,

His hand cunningly strung

A necklace of lucid flattery

And beads of golden wisdom. (A.S. Pushkin, “In the Sweet Coolness of Fountains,” 1828)

 

Pushkin held the wisdom of Saadi, “the Eastern rhetorician,” in high esteem. For the Russian poet, Saadi’s style was like “thundering pearls,” and no one “has invented with such power; so artfully told tales and verses.” (Yahyapour M. https://literaturatmcodneoba.tsu.ge)

Ivan Alexeyevich Bunin (1870-1953), a poet of Russia’s Silver Age who acknowledged being strongly influenced by Saadi’s poetry, also compared the words of the Persian poet to pearls that enriched his own verses: “Sheikh Saadi, may his name be blessed! — Sheikh Saadi, we have strung many of his pearls alongside our own on a thread of fine prose!” (Bunin, 1987–1988, vol. 3, p. 175) According to Muromtseva-Bunina, I.A. Bunin always took Saadi’s “Gulistan” with him on his travels to the East. The poet himself said: “On my journey, I carry with me the Tazkirat of Saadi, the most delightful of preceding writers and the best of those who follow, Sheikh Saadi of Shiraz, may his memory be sacred!” (Ibid., p. 500). In his works, Bunin often used mystical and Sufi words and expressions such as “mentor,” “Sima’a” (Music of the World), “mysticism,” “tower of Ma’ana” (Contemplation), “state of the soul,” “seeker,” “perfection,” “ecstasy,” etc. (cited in the article: Yahyapour M., Karimi-Motahhar J. Ivan Bunin and Eastern Mysticism).

Russian orientalist I.S. Braginsky aptly noted the reason for such interest in Saadi: “Saadi’s work attracted attention for its sincerity in understanding humanity.” Braginsky writes of Saadi’s poetry: “Philosophical-didactic poetry is Saadi’s domain. At the center of his attention is a highly moral, benevolent personality. Whether he writes qasidas, lyrical ghazals, or collections of parables and admonitions, he always has one goal in mind — to depict his ideal: a person of soulful beauty (emphasis added by I.S. Braginsky).” (Braginsky, 1990, p. 207)

Moreover, many Russian poets and writers have written about Saadi, including A. Shishkov, E. Baratynsky, D. Kedrin, S. Yesenin, S. Lipkin, P. Obodovsky, D. Oznobishin, I. Severyanin, I. Selvin, A. Surkov, L. Yakubovich, and many others. The East, particularly the Iranian world, is not “foreign” to Russian poets and writers.

Here, we will focus on the poetry of the 20th-century Russian poet K.A. Lipskerov, who was familiar with Saadi’s works and even spoke Persian, translating Saadi’s poems from Persian into Russian.

Konstantin Abramovich Lipskerov (1889-1954) was a poet, translator, playwright, and artist of the 20th century, fluent in Georgian, Azerbaijani, Armenian, and Persian. He translated the works of Iranian poets Saadi, Nizami (“Khosrow and Shirin”; “Iskandername”), and ghazals of Hafez from Persian to Russian. He was associated with the Acmeists. In early 1914, Osip and Lilya Brik took him on a journey through Central Asia. This trip significantly influenced the young poet and his work, immersing him in the emotional atmosphere of the East.

Among Lipskerov’s poems, “Sand and Roses” (1916), “Turkestan Poems” (1922), “Sea Pea” (1922), “Golden Palm” (1916–1921), and “The Sixth Day” are rich in Eastern motifs. He is also the author of the poetic story “The Other: A Moscow Tale” (1922). From the early 1920s, the poet turned to playwriting. His first play was “Carmensita and the Soldier” (1924), followed by the rhymed drama “Sea Pea” (1925), which shares its title with his earlier poetry collection.

The poems “Why Should I Sigh for Pleasure’s Sake,” “Shiraz Roses,” “The Bookseller,” and “Song” are written in honor of Saadi, reflecting understanding and empathy for the Persian poet.

 

In the first stanza of the poem “Why Should I Sigh for Pleasure’s Sake,” the Russian poet mentions the name Zengi for unknown reasons. He may be referencing the preface to Saadi’s “Golestan,” which is dedicated to Abu Bakr Sad ibn Zengi.

 

Why should I sigh for pleasure’s sake?

The clang of coins is heavy.

I heed what aged Saadi makes,

The son of the wise Zengi.

Sweet Saadi once spoke, his message clear:

“Young ones should not hoard gold away;

Only the foolish in their cloisters

Keep their riches buried.”

Saadi also said: “Is life always bright?

Everything fades, as we know…”

Then why, dear friend, should I not delight

In kissing you, letting love grow?

 

In the poem “Shiraz Roses” (An Imitation of Saadi’s “Gulistan”), the Russian poet refers to words from the preface to “Golestan.” Using Saadi’s words, he writes the poem in a dialogic form to give it a lively character. All quoted words are taken from Saadi’s “Golestan.” In “Golestan,” the Persian poet speaks of the eternal and the temporal. The roses will soon wither, but his “Golestan” (“Golestan” in Persian means “garden of flowers”) is immortal and eternal.

 

Shiraz Roses

(An Imitation of Saadi’s “Gulistan”)

 

In a garden past the city, where a silver stream wove

In its course, the sheikh in cool whispers said

To his companion: “Tell me, what’s the good

Of your filling the patterned floor with roses?

Place a cup of fragile pleasures on the ground,

By dawn, the blooms will die. Don’t trust enjoyment

That is fleeting.” “What should I do, Saadi?”

“O friend…” And a ray of light passed over the old brow.

“For you and your homeland — its people have grown grimmer —

I’ll bind a book. The roses of my thoughts there

Will fill pages. My body may hunch down,

But the varied blooms won’t know an autumn’s passage.

“I’ve cleared the floor!” — “You’ll get the Gulistan:

Eternal gardens are born in Shiraz.”

 

In the poem “The Bookseller,” Lipskerov captures the atmosphere of Eastern society. The bookseller sits on his knees before the mosque, selling two books: one is the great book, the Quran, which addresses jihadist themes in various social aspects, and the other is a small book, the verses of Saadi. The Russian poet regards Saadi’s book as small compared to the Quran, but calls both books eternal commodities, believing that the Creator is the guardian of such treasures:

 

He believes in his eternal wares: the Creator

Preserves them. A sudden buyer

Leans toward him from his saddle, dusty body craned.

(Yahyapour and Karimi-Motahhar, 2019, 94)

 

The Bookseller

 

He sits, bowing his shaven temples low,

Crossing his feet and spreading his knees.

Above him, sweet shadows form a canopy,

Around him, spines of packed books crowd.

Before him, blue shards of enamel glow,

The mosque, where turquoise stairsteps lead.

And stirring the dust with their slippers idly,

Old men on browsing donkeys loaf.

He believes in his eternal wares: the Creator

Preserves them. A sudden buyer

Leans toward him from his saddle, dusty figure craned.

And he eyes, holding a child behind his body,

A large book — the fierce, passionate Quran,

And a small one — the little songs of Saadi.

 

The main motif of Lipskerov’s poem “Song” is love. The protagonist recounts the dangers of a forgotten noisy life and exalts the sweet red flower of passion and kissing, stating that they too were praised by Saadi and Solomon (in Persian, Suleiman). He believes that throughout the passage of fleeting time, he has found nothing sweeter than this. All bow before the fragrant cup of Almighty Love. Ages change, time flies quickly, and the earth strives for new horizons, but the heart in search of human love remains constant and unwavering.

 

Song

 

Life’s noisy, but I’ve forgotten that dread,

I sing of the sweet rose of passion instead.

What equals the pleasure of dewy kisses?

Suleiman praised them, Saadi sang their blisses.

Times have flashed by. What have we found more precious?

We all lean toward love’s fragrant chalice.

Let the earth strive for new ages to come —

The heart of man stays on unbudged.

 

In our time, the centuries-old cultural ties between Russia and Iran are entering yet another phase of development. As in previous eras, literary achievements serves as a primary indicator of the two people’s cultural interaction.

Examining Lipskerov’s poetry, we see that the Russian poet not only draws on Saadi’s thoughts but also pays attention to the motifs in the Shirazi poet’s verse, blending the culture and faith of both nations in his Eastern poetry. The Russian poet’s worldview is much like Saadi’s from several centuries before.

 

References

 

  1. Braginsky, I.S. 12 Miniatures. Moscow: Khudozhestvennaya Literatura, 1990. 284 p.
  2. Bunin, I.A. Collected Works: in 6 vols. Moscow: Khudozhestvennaya Literatura, 1987–1988. Vol. 3. Works 1907–1914. 671 p.
  3. Tolstoy, L.N. Complete Works in 90 Volumes. Jubilee Edition, Moscow, Leningrad, 1928–1958. https://tolstoy.ru/creativity/90-volume-collection-of-the-works/1008/
  4. Yahyapour, M., Karimi-Motahhar, J. Saadi and Russian Poets. Tehran: Tehran University, 2nd ed., 2019, 200 p. (in Persian and Russian).
  5. Yahyapour, M. The Wisdom of Sheikh Saadi in the Words of Russian Writers (based on the works of I.A. Bunin), https://literaturatmcodneoba.tsu.ge/VI%20simp-tezis.pdf
  6. Yahyapour, M., Karimi-Motahhar, J. Ivan Bunin and Eastern Mysticism // Quaestio Rossica. Vol. 9. 2021. No. 2. pp. 533–546. DOI 10.15826/qr.2021.2.594.
  7. Yahyapour, M., Karimi-Motahhar, J. Motifs of the Parable “The Unfortunate Man”: L. Tolstoy and Saadi’s “Gulistan,” XXXVIII International Tolstoy Readings “L.N. Tolstoy in the Consciousness of Man in the Digital Age,” dedicated to the 194th anniversary of the writer’s birth. September 9, 2022, Tula, Russia. (in Russian).
Леонид Ланда

Leonid Landa

About the Author: Leonid Landa is a historian, orientalist, traveler, guide to the countries of the Middle East, and the author of the Telegram blog “From the Niger to the Indus.” In the past, he was a research fellow at the State Museum of the History of Religion in St. Petersburg and a history teacher. Currently, he is an author of lecture courses dedicated to the culture and ethnography of the Middle East, as well as a guide and a participant in various research projects.

 

First Attempt

 

Everyone dreams of visiting Afghanistan, even those who may not realize it. Why? Well, first and foremost, because “beyond the River,” as people used to say, it’s not just another country — it’s a different world, a different era. It resembles the kind of territory found in the adventure novels of Karl May, richly infused with the backdrop of the “Great Game.” However, that’s poetic license, albeit one quite close to reality. I remember in the distant 1980s, while in kindergarten in Leningrad, we played a game where we had to name a word starting with the letter “i.” The other children came up with various interesting words, like “needle” (igla) or “fig” (inzhir). Only five-year-old me confidently said, “Iran.” Why not? It’s a cool word, too. Maybe it was an attempt to take a side in the ongoing Iran-Iraq War, but in reality, I was just inching closer to the border with Afghanistan.

As an adult, every time I found myself near Afghan borders, I literally counted the kilometers. For instance, at eighteen, I visited the blessed city of Samarkand for a student research seminar — quite an interesting phenomenon, by the way. But the city overshadowed even the seminar. Samarkand is so grand that it cannot be exaggerated. It is one of the most iconic cities of our civilization, the center of ancient Sogdiana, the city of Omar Khayyam, the capital of the Timur Empire, the place where “all roads meet,” and much more. But for me, a crucial question was logistics. Just like Joseph Brodsky during his visit to Central Asia — he thought everything was clear with Samarkand, but how far is it to Afghanistan? Tajiks, Uzbeks, and even the legendary Lyuli told me it wasn’t very far, but still, it was distant — about 400 kilometers, give or take. And the border was closed since it was 2001. Incidentally, that was the last year of the Taliban in their first iteration. Back then, the doors to country A were tightly shut indeed. But, as they say, soon the “student” regime would fall, and the country would open up to travelers. I first entered Afghanistan not when the Taliban regime fell, though, but much later — in 2015. Here’s how that (didn’t) happen.

By the mid-2010s, the visa policy of the Afghan authorities had deteriorated, making it much harder to visit Afghanistan. In theory, one could obtain a visa, but in practice, it was extremely difficult. The only place rumored to issue Afghan visas easily was the distant high-altitude city of Khorog, located on the Pamir Highway in Tajikistan. They had a special, welcoming consulate there.

Thus, to enter Afghanistan, one first had to travel to Khorog for a visa. The challenge was that the road from the Tajik capital, Dushanbe, to Khorog is high-altitude and takes 16-20 hours. In our visa-oriented case, this journey would have to be made twice — there and back — and then we would still need to travel from Dushanbe to the Afghan border at Lower Panj. However, there was another plan. In theory, one could cross the border into Afghanistan without returning to Dushanbe, at the point where the visa is obtained, which is in Khorog on the Pamir. Fortunately, there is a mountain crossing there. Once on the other side, one could navigate through the mountains to Kabul.

This was the route that Timofey (a.k.a. The Contractor) and I decided to take. But let’s go step by step. The journey to Afghanistan began in Dushanbe. Here, in the capital of Tajikistan, we needed to find someone who could help us with the pass to the Pamir and connect us with someone in Khorog — someone who could handle Afghan-related matters. I must say, such a person was found quite quickly in a teahouse near the “Vakhsh” hotel. It turned out there was even a special office in Dushanbe for those wishing to take a well-deserved vacation in the mountains of Afghanistan. Interestingly, this office consisted of just one person named Ruslan. Ruslan resembled a blend of Khoja Nasreddin, a rock star from the 1980s, and a French artist from the times of Fernand Léger. This didn’t hinder, and perhaps even helped, him to be extremely efficient. We received our pass to visit Khorog (and other sections of the Pamir Highway) the very next day. A day later, we set off. To ensure everything went smoothly at the consulate, Ruslan provided us with the contact information of a certain Gulnara in Khorog, who could quickly resolve any issue. Specifically, for $120 per person, Gulnara would not only secure our visas but also provide essential information on how to see Afghanistan and, for example, not die. This information was crucial for us since after crossing the border, we needed to find a way to get to Kabul.

However, we already had a certain plan in mind — the plan of the century. We would calmly cross the Panj River, change into local clothing in the nearest Afghan village, and under the guise of being mute, take a local minibus to the district center of Faizabad, and from there, somehow make our way to Kabul. A brilliant plan! What could possibly go wrong?

For example, everything.

After leaving Dushanbe at 5:00 AM, we arrived in Khorog only by midnight. The road was both picturesque and interesting. The Pamiri driver told us how he used to work in Pakistan… as if it were nothing. It’s not far, after all. Just through the Wakhan Corridor! About eighty kilometers at most. Or maybe a hundred. Dangerous, though. There were terrorists from ISIS, the Taliban, and other lesser-known groups all around. However, the driver was no coward. For instance, before going to Pakistan, he had a vodka business — in Afghanistan. But that was all in the past. Now he had his own construction business in Dushanbe, and he also occasionally drove a taxi. Along the way, we encountered a mudslide, and there were other noteworthy events, but that’s a story for another time, so let’s return to Afghanistan. Upon arrival, we checked into a hotel, and the next morning, of course, we called Gulnara. We introduced ourselves as Leonid and Timofey, sent by Ruslan. Gulnara was delighted, and we were too, so we immediately headed to the Afghan consulate. Ahmad’s acquaintance turned out to be a charming and very positive young woman.

“Decided to spend your vacation in Afghanistan? Good choice! Especially since it’s May — the perfect season! Just write a waiver, dictated by me. Nothing special. Just so you’re aware of the war in Afghanistan, and if you get killed, we at the consulate are not responsible. Great!” she smiled. “Now sign here. That’ll be $120 each, and have a good time! Ah, what can I say? I would love to go myself, but work is work…

By the way, the taxi is free. Consider it on the house.”

And indeed. Just a few minutes later, the free taxi was ready to take us from Khorog to the border. I distinctly remember that the Niva’s speakers were blaring the most inappropriate song, “Rosa.” “And she stabbed him with a sharpened dagger in the chest for peace…” sang Mikhail Krug, while the mountains of Afghanistan unfolded in the distance.

It’s hard to think of a more mismatched playlist for such a backdrop.

The border between Tajikistan and Afghanistan looked like a portal to another world, adorned in khaki. Before letting us leave their country, the Tajiks tried to persuade us to reconsider: “What will you do there? There’s nothing! Just mountains! Nothing — just mountains and ISIS. Although they are franchised. But does that make it any easier for you? If you’re after those Masoud hats, you don’t need to go ‘beyond the river.’ Want us to give you some? Well, it’s up to you. Our job is to warn you,” said the wise Tajik border guards resignedly. On the Afghan side, no one was trying to dissuade us from crossing. They grunted “Shuravi,” were surprised, stamped our passports, and gestured toward the exit. But with a few words, even in “tarzandzhe” (the special language I used in Eastern countries), we managed to exchange pleasantries. It turned out that this border post was under the authority of the government in Kabul, but no one else in the area was subordinate to that government, so the border guards hadn’t left their post for about a month. At most, they had gone to a neighboring village…

Great! — we thought. That means there’s a neighboring village, and it’s relatively safe. So that’s where we need to go. However, getting to Bar-Panj (the nearest settlement) turned out to be not so simple. We were used to the idea that there should be some taxi drivers at the border. But this was clearly not the case. There were no taxi drivers or even minibuses at the Khorog crossing. Only a caravan of camels slowly and melancholically passed by, attending to their own affairs. But we couldn’t stop the camels?! Moreover, the caravan leader looked rather grim, armed with a Kalashnikov and a dagger, and didn’t inspire much trust…

When we were almost losing hope of leaving the border post and considering returning to Tajikistan, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon in the form of a vehicle heading directly to the border post. The car’s lucky owner also turned out to be fluent in Russian. He had learned a few words during his service in the ranks of the Afghan government army (DRA) (those were the guys who supported the presence of Soviet troops in the country during the 1980s). What he did for a living was unclear, but he was familiar with the situation and immediately informed us that it was calm in Bar-Panj, but ISIS members were roaming around. We asked for clarification: “Franchised ones?”

“Of course,” replied our new acquaintance. “And many of them speak Russian. But believe me, that won’t save you. And if you plan to cross these mountains to Kabul, you’d better hurry. Because the weather is turning.” We made an agreement with our companion Said (that was the driver’s name) that for a small sum in US dollars, he would take us to the village market, where we would buy local clothing and then, under the guise of being mute, find transportation on our own. Said even wrote us a sign in Farsi saying something like “Help, we need to get to Faizabad…”

At first, everything went according to plan. Aside from the annoying teenagers with stickers of Walt Disney’s iconic characters stuck on their rifles, nothing seemed amiss. But as often happens in Afghanistan, everything began suddenly. At some invisible signal, the merchants rushed to close their shops. The number of armed men seemed to increase, and their faces turned anxious. When the sounds of gunfire rang out from nowhere, our friend Said appeared. “Daula! Daula (ISIS)! Hurry!” he shouted, pointing to his car. We didn’t need much convincing. Just like that, without having had a proper stroll through the village, we were racing back to the border. In St. Petersburg, such trips are said to be “used to get a visa.” But here, the climate was different, not Finland, and the Tajiks on the other side greeted us like people returning from the dead.

“We told you! ISIS! We’re already preparing to receive refugees! And you wanted to go to Kabul! As mutes! Great plan!” The rest was unprintable.

The fighting around Bar-Panj lasted several days. The bandits never managed to seize the village completely.

In the end, the local Ismaili militia managed to push the terrorists back, so to speak, to the hundred and first kilometer. Thus, my first expedition to Afghanistan ended in a rather unremarkable manner. Yet it left a lasting impression on me. For several years afterward, whenever I crossed any border, I was asked, “Tell me, what were you doing in Afghanistan?”

“I was on a tour,” I would say.

“For one day?”

“Well, yes. You see, it was sort of a sightseeing tour.”

 

 

Second Visit

 

Despite the unsuccessful previous experience, I held onto the hope of truly visiting Afghanistan — to see Kabul and not die. The problem again lay with the visa. Obtaining it seemed impossible. Even Khorog had stopped issuing them. The situation began to change only after the Taliban returned to power in 2021. The Taliban 2.0, or the second iteration, were eager to show the world that they had become kinder. For this reason or another, starting in 2023, the Afghan embassy in Moscow began issuing visas to everyone who wanted one. So much so that one of my friends even considered applying for a visa with a passport that had an Israeli repatriate visa. In October 2023, our initiative group of six people finally set out for Afghanistan. Since the visa was obtained in Moscow, there was no point in going to Khorog, and it was decided to enter through the Lower Panj border crossing, which is (un)comfortably located in the lowland of Tajikistan, not far from the former Kaganovichabad. By the way, there’s another interesting story connected with that former Kaganovichabad. But let’s return to Afghanistan.

The border at Lower Panj was much livelier than that border post in the Pamir mountains. But Afghanistan was palpable even before reaching the official Taliban customs. Already on the bridge over the Panj, locals in national costumes were sitting, and the atmosphere changed radically after passing the Tajik customs. Interestingly, the Tajiks were again surprised by our tourist desire to visit Afghanistan. They found it completely incomprehensible why we would want to do that, especially at our own expense; it would be one thing if it were for work…

“We have mountains too, if you haven’t noticed, and those hats are for sale here, too…”

 

 

The Taliban border guards greeted us quite amiably — or rather, they didn’t react at all. At passport control, they asked where we were from, our names, and then wrote something down by ear. But that’s not entirely accurate. I have a theory that they didn’t write anything down but just pretended to jot something in a notebook. In any case, the expected entry stamp was obtained, and we fully set foot on Afghan soil. The first Afghan settlement located on the southern bank of the Panj, right by the customs, is called Sherkhan Bandar, and it is interesting for approximately no reason. Abandoned buildings along the riverbank, solitary (and not so solitary) Afghans in national clothing, with and without guns. Overall, it’s a rather dreary lowland place, where nothing reminded us of the river cargo port and oil depot built by Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev. There was no sign of Americans either. The boarded-up houses and shops were reminders of the recent exodus of anti-Taliban Afghans. Our immediate minimum plan was to reach Kunduz, the nearest large settlement with hotels and a special Taliban registration office. The latter was important. We wanted everything to be legal.

Unlike my previous experience interacting with the Afghan border, here in Sherkhan Bandar, there were taxi drivers, and our transport to Kunduz was arranged fairly quickly.

The driver of the car I was in spoke about unemployment and his desire to emigrate. Somewhere. For example, to Russia, the USA, or Abu Dhabi. Or India. When we passed Taliban checkpoints, he deliberately and loudly played Turkish music. The Taliban didn’t react to the music, though, and by evening, we arrived safely in Kunduz. What can I say about this city? Gloomy. Moreover, sand and mud storms were frequent. The consequences of these storms were evident everywhere, even in the trees. Overall, I didn’t like it there. Although the hotel, contrary to expectations, turned out to be quite decent, with a bathroom and relatively hot water. The food in the teahouse was also quite edible. Furthermore, concerns about the aggressiveness of Afghans in general and the Taliban in particular were unfounded. For instance, our hotel was hosting a conference on “new computer technologies and software protection.” This event looked quite exotic. The Taliban were dressed in national attire, turbans, with guns and… purple folders, apparently containing conference materials. Despite their intimidating appearance and the constant presence of firearms, the guys turned out to be quite cheerful and curious characters. We even met a local official who believed that “Shuravi” (“Soviets”) should take a more active role in Afghanistan’s economic life and suggested we create a couple of projects for Russian-Afghan business to circumvent some international sanctions.

The first night on Afghan soil also passed quietly, except that my basement room was filled with sand from a storm. But maybe that’s how it was meant to be. In the morning, after drinking tea, we boarded an Afghan version of a tuk-tuk and headed to the Taliban’s foreign department to obtain a special permit — an internal authorization for travel within the country and region. While the main part of our group settled in the guest area of this ministry and watched videos about fighting Jews, I went to negotiate with the chief Taliban officer. In the official’s office, there were no chairs or tables; the arbiter of our touristic fate sat on a carpet, with a Kalashnikov leaning against the wall. The Taliban offered me tea and sweets but did not issue a permit. He said, “Just go as you are. Everything’s fine.” To reinforce his decision, he asked one of the fighters to translate via Google that “our problem is solved.” That’s just what his smartphone told us in Russian: “Your problem is solved.” The problem was that we didn’t really have a problem…

As I mentioned, Kunduz is a gloomy place, and I was eager to leave for something more civilized. For instance, to Mazar-i-Sharif. After all, it’s the fourth-largest city in the country, the former capital of General Dostum, once the stronghold of the Northern Alliance, and now the largest center in Balkh province under Taliban control. So we decided that since we had no problems now, it was time to part ways with Kunduz.

 

 

The road to Mazar-i-Sharif isn’t particularly picturesque and passes through a desert inhabited by semi-nomadic tribes living in simple adobe houses, reminiscent of the set from the film “9th Company.” The young nomads are known to throw stones at passing cars, but overall, it’s relatively safe there. Mazar-i-Sharif greeted us with good weather and appeared to be a center of civilization compared to Kunduz. The main attraction of the city is the Blue Mosque — one of the presumed burial sites of the fourth righteous caliph, Ali, the son-in-law, cousin, and companion of the Prophet Muhammad. Nearby is a colorful bazaar. We, too, seemed to stand out, and our presence everywhere sparked heightened interest and a desire for photos. Wow! “Shuravi” had arrived! The owner of the teahouse in the bazaar turned out to be an Afghan who had lived for many years in Minsk and Polotsk, and he had neither a turban nor a beard. In the same establishment, there was a Chinese woman who refused to have dinner behind the curtain, as well as a group of young Taliban. In the city itself, there were quite a few people who spoke English (or Russian). There was also a plethora of goods from Russia and Central Asian countries. In the local ministry that issued permits, there were also people who knew languages. And here, unlike in Kunduz, we managed to obtain a permit to travel in the region. The permit resembled a sort of collective ticket to a museum in the neighboring city of Balkh — but it bore the Taliban stamp. To jump ahead, I’ll say that we used this “museum ticket” not only in Balkh province but all over the country. Interestingly, the Taliban accepted our “ticket” with no issues, allowing us to pass at all checkpoints — even in Kabul. I have a theory that this was connected with the spread of literacy among the Taliban, or rather, its absence. Seeing Taliban’s respect for this document, I came up with the idea that it said something like: “Attention, attention! To all posts, mujahideen and field commanders! The bearer of this ticket to the museum is a friend!” After spending a couple of interesting days in the city and even visiting the courtyard of the famous mosque, and buying plane tickets to Kabul, we went to the airport of Mazar-i-Sharif. I remember the airport because of a woman with an open face. What made the situation even more colorful was that this woman energetically walked toward me. Naturally, I was scared. Was this a joke? A woman with an open face wants something from a man — in Afghanistan! That shouldn’t happen! Yet the reality turned out to be different from the information broadcast by the media. It turned out that this woman with an open face, say, worked at the airport, and in this case didn’t understand why I was running away from her while she was simply showing me where to put my luggage for inspection… Such are the difficulties of translation. But let’s be honest, I only encountered such instances at airports. But there were quite a few women with open faces on the streets of Kabul and at the bazaar in Mazar-i-Sharif. By the way, in Kabul we even once observed several women with open faces in a coffee shop… at the next table! In general, things happen in different ways. Let’s go back to the airport in Mazar-i-Sharif. After checking my backpack, I expectedly found myself in the smoking room of the departure area. Where another interesting dialogue took place. So, an Afghan in national clothes comes up to me. By the looks of him — a Hazara. That’s a local Shiite people of mixed Mongol-Turkic-Iranian origin. Something about this guy was unsettling, though. Maybe that the presumed Hazara proposed that I share a cigarette with him in the language of Ilyich and without any accent.

“How do you know Russian so well,” I say. “Did you serve in the DRA (pro-Soviet Democratic Republic of Afghanistan) army?”

“What DRA army? What’s wrong with you? I’m a Kazakh from Chimkent. I’m bringing food to the Taliban. And don’t pay attention to the Afghan clothes. It’s for ease of communication. So what, aren’t you rich in cigarettes?”

“I’m rich,” I say. “Why shouldn’t I be rich, especially for a fellow countryman…”

The Afghan airline “Ariana” is quite respectable and even has an unexpected and not very expensive business class. The flight to the capital of Afghanistan takes about an hour. And so, barely having time to take off, we are already heading to the center of Kabul, looking for, so to speak, our special hotel for foreigners. To get ahead of myself, I’ll say that we only spent one night in the special hotel, and not because it was expensive or because we were greedy, but because there were very strict security rules, which attracted the maximum attention of international thugs and space pirate types.

In a regular hotel with one security guard, it seemed like there was more security than in a tourist hotel, which resembled a besieged citadel with all the rules of a Ben Gurion Airport.

Afghanistan, like other similar countries, such as Iraq (and even Mauritania), is interesting not only for its sights and the colorful reality of local life, but also for the compatriots one meets there, who are in all these Baghdads and Kabuls for various purposes. “Russians?” we were asked by just that kind of obvious compatriot in an Afghan national costume. “My name is Nikolai Ivanovich. For what purpose are you here? Who do you work with? Do the embassies know? What?! Did you come for an excursion?? A sightseeing tour?? What excursion in Afghanistan? And what do you mean “quietly”? Do you want to go around Kabul, here and there? And those hats. Have you noticed that Ahmad Shah Massoud is not the most popular figure among the “toliks” and that the Masoud hats have kind of gone out of fashion? Oh well.”

“And you yourself, Nikolai Ivanovich, have you been in Afghanistan for a long time?” we ask.

“A long time. The first time was in 1983. But there was a war then. And now we’re making a film. An ethnographic one. With Grisha.”

“So, you were an eyewitness to many events? Very interesting! Do you have any free time? We’re staying at a hotel…”

“I know which hotel you’re staying at. All of Kabul knows. Quietly, they… Okay. I’ll stop by tomorrow. Say hello to the hotel owner from Nikolai. He knows.”

The next day, Nikolai Ivanovich showed up at the rooftop restaurant, and with him was the director, Grigory, dressed in an Afghan suit. Despite his authentic regional clothing, Grigory most resembled the chief rabbi of the Mogilev region… well, or Moscow. The third in this group was an Afghan named Ahmed, unexpectedly dressed in a European style.

What exactly Nikolai Ivanovich’s group was doing in Afghanistan remains a mystery to me. But definitely, a lot of things. At parting, having learned about our plans to visit the mountain villages of Panjshir and Nangarhar, Nikolai Ivanovich sullenly reported that, firstly, in the Panjshir Gorge above the Masud mausoleum, it was cloudy, and there were no Taliban authority, but there were partisans, say; secondly (and this more concerned the province of Nangarhar), remember, comrades: “Afghanistan is a wonderland; you go into a village and disappear there.” Kabul is a city of contrasts; that can be said about anywhere, though. Penza, for example, is also a city of contrasts. Helsinki is a city of contrasts. Anywhere is a city of contrasts. But Kabul is truly a special place. To feel the capital of Afghanistan, you have to live here. But even in a few days, walking through the bazaar and the Soviet “microdistrict,” climbing to the observation deck and visiting the suburbs, you can feel the city’s rhythm. Even the famous and mostly touristy Chicken Street conveys a certain mood of the era and time.

But everything ends someday. Our Afghan journey ended too. And so, a week later we were again on the same bridge from Afghan Sherkhan Bandar going to Tajikistan’s Lower Pyanj. Interestingly, one of the most joyful moments of the trip to Afghanistan was the moment of leaving the country. On the northern bank of the Pyanj, taxi drivers were already waiting for us. “Hello, brother! Are you coming from Afghanistan? Are you going straight to Dushanbe or first to the store?”

“Straight to the store,” I answered.

And so ended my second visit to country A. And I hope it’s not my last. Because, despite the joy of leaving country A, I want to go back there very soon.

 

Abstract: This article analyzes the role of university education, its goals, objectives, and the organization of the university as a social institution according to a philosophical concept of one of the leading idealist philosophers of the early 19th century, Johann Gottlieb Fichte. The article briefly describes the precursors to the ideas of the German philosopher and highlights his vision of science as an art and a vocation. In achieving the primary aim of nation-building, higher education as a vocation is embodied in the lifestyle of a scholar who serves science and society. The article discusses the role of the state in realizing this goal, as well as the internal organization and functioning of the university. It identifies means of achieving these objectives, including the reform of the faculty system, where philosophy is intended to play a dominant role. The methods of interaction between professors and students, as well as the internal organization of the university community, are described. The conclusion suggests that the term “professorial seminary” best encapsulates the organization of university life in achieving the educational and training goals set forth by the German philosopher.

 

Every society requires a social institution that ensures cultural continuity while effectively preparing individuals for life. Throughout human history, few institutions have accomplished this task as successfully as the university. The history of the university, particularly in Europe, spans about a thousand years, during which it has undergone several fundamental transformations. Some scholars designate the period from the 12th to the 19th century as the classical university era, the early 19th to mid-20th century as post-classical, and the modern stage as the “mass university,” characterized by globalization and universal accessibility. Contemporary universities retain many significant features, both corporate and academic, from their predecessors. To a certain extent, the university serves as a mirror of society, reflecting the present based on the past—what we refer to as tradition—while also laying the groundwork for the future, which might be called novelty.[1] Examining the history of the university as an idea is essential to grasping its role in society.

 

“University education, institutionalized in the 12th century, only achieved a developed form of theoretical reflection by the mid-19th century, as seen in the analysis of its idea as a collection of concepts about the fundamental values, goals, and limits of the functions of educational institutions.”[2] Although the university as a phenomenon in European history dates back to the 12th century, “the first experience of conceptualizing the idea of university education was the establishment of a research university in Berlin, as embodied by Wilhelm von Humboldt.”[3] His ideas, along with those of his associates and successors, including Johann Gottlieb Fichte, the rector of Berlin University, later became the foundation for the creation of the modern university. Humboldt envisioned the newly formed Berlin University as a center for science, culture, and education, serving as a model for emulation. He emphasized philosophical, natural science and mathematical education, with the university primarily tasked with the pursuit of truth. Achieving this aim demanded ensuring academic freedom and the unity of research and teaching within the university. Thus, engaging in science was intended to foster the spiritual and moral development of the individual and the nation.

 

According to Humboldt, the university should serve as a primary venue for individual development. However, he views specialized professional training, which seems paramount today, as at least secondary in importance. He envisioned the university as a place that unites objective science with subjective education, ensuring the holistic development of individuals by inspiring them through example, among other factors. In this way, the university should play a crucial role in socializing youth, aiming not only to form intellectuals but also to cultivate conscious citizens.[4]

 

Humboldt saw the purpose of higher education institutions as integrating objective science with subjective education and integrating completed schooling with independent study or facilitating the transition from one to the other.[5] He argued that universities should remain free from external pressures that seek to exploit them for practical gain at the expense of scientific research and educational activities. The knowledge imparted within their walls should focus more narrowly on scientific inquiry rather than universal concepts. Consequently, universities should receive a degree of autonomy from state control.[6]

 

Humboldt intended to implement his vision of the ideal at Berlin University, newly established in 1809. The institution’s educational model rested on three fundamental principles: first, rejecting an exclusively utilitarian approach to education; second, opposing the purely empirical side of science, which contrasts with the pursuit of fundamental theoretical knowledge; and third, asserting the dominance of the humanities as essential for the comprehensive development of the individual.[7] This encapsulates the idea of the university: the synthesis of research, education, and teaching will guide European thought in conceptualizing the university as such.

 

The decision to establish Berlin University occurred on August 16, 1809. Shortly thereafter, Wilhelm von Humboldt took on the leadership of the diplomatic corps of the Prussian kingdom in the Austrian capital, while Johann Gottlieb Fichte, a close adherent and ideological successor to Humboldt’s vision for the modern university, received an invitation from the king to become the rector. This great philosopher, a prominent figure in German classical philosophy, is associated with one of the most intriguing theories about the university’s purpose and structure.

 

Johann Gottlieb Fichte was born in Rammenau in 1762 to a poor peasant family. His adolescence was marked by poverty. However, thanks to Baron von Militz, Fichte graduated from the theological faculty of Jena University. After discovering the works of Immanuel Kant, the leading philosopher of his time and the founder of idealism, Fichte became so immersed in Kantian thought that by 1791, after tutoring in Warsaw, he wrote “An Attempt at a Critique of All Revelation.” He applied the principles of criticism so effectively that the work was worthy of presentation to Kant himself. Ironically, the authorship of this anonymously published work was initially attributed to Kant, but the integrity of the Königsberg philosopher ultimately led to Fichte’s recognition, making the younger scholar a world-renowned figure.[8] Kant described the university as embodying the characteristics of both a scientific institution, associated with the quest for truth, and a socially beneficial educational institution. In my view, Fichte successfully conceptualized and unified this dichotomy.

 

Fichte proposed building a new university, outlining his project in the “Deductive Plan for the Organization of Higher Education in Berlin” (1807) and other writings. His ideas traced the fundamental role that German classical philosophers attributed to knowledge and its social function.[9] The university serves as a necessary link in the system of holistic national education, uniting people based on a shared language, culture, and worldview. In his work “Addresses to the German Nation,” Fichte laid the ideological foundation for his educational reform—to elevate the national life of a specific people to the level of humanity while instilling them with an initiative for future creativity, whose results would deserve a place in the universal fund of ideas.[10]

 

When discussing education, particularly higher education, Fichte considers it a vocation, referring to it as an “idea.” He defines this vocation as an all-encompassing destiny that reveals itself in individuals during their studies.[11] This perspective on education would become one of the cornerstones of his vision for the entire university system. The figure of the scholar embodies the peak of this vision, both in external and internal manifestations. Fichte criticizes aspects of bourgeois society, such as the pursuit of pleasure, arguing that the university should aim to cultivate scholars by vocation, with its entire functioning revolving around this goal.

 

Fichte asserts that high-ranking state officials must firmly embed in their thinking the idea that they serve society not merely to live but wish to live to serve society.[12] Achieving this mindset requires a way of life grounded in science. Universities must provide the education that the state needs, thus contributing to national education. Fichte’s fundamental thought emerges here—universities primarily exist to fulfill an educational function, not merely an instructional one. He believed that many early 19th-century universities lacked this essential function.[13]

 

Students and professors must immerse themselves in science to the extent that they can dedicate themselves entirely to it. They should approach science in a way that their thoughts and activities take on a scientific form. When this occurs and when the university achieves this goal, science itself transforms into an art. The university is tasked with teaching this art of science. To ensure national education through this art, Fichte argues, training should not focus narrowly on specialties aimed at profit through practical applications after graduation. Such narrow aims only attract those who lack a true scientific vocation. This mismatch between the university’s objectives and the goals of most students reduces the diploma awarded to a mere tool for self-support and family sustenance. In this scenario, the university, which Fichte describes as embodying the graduate’s free will, can only hope for the goodwill of its students. The new university model aims to cultivate students’ will, directing it toward achieving genuine freedom—true scientific decisions—while minimizing or eliminating the acceptance of choices that contradict the truth. True education aims to create and realize a holistic spiritual existence; if the university fails to foster a mindset directed toward this goal, education remains incomplete. Moreover, the intellectual efforts of such graduates would yield only dogmatic speculations, which do not contribute to developing an innovative approach. The new existence of science demands conscious mastery of scholarship, eliminating the place for teaching that merely provides students with ready-made results recorded in specific formats, especially those developed by previous generations of faculty.

 

Thus, this school of the art of science is necessary and serves as the culmination of the national education system. The university must nurture students’ ability to use their reasoning scientifically, a skill that should develop through knowledge acquired from secondary education.

 

Fichte’s vision of the student-teacher relationship deserves special attention. Students should not remain silent listeners, as was often the case in past universities. Instead, they should engage as lively interlocutors striving for a dialogical form of knowledge acquisition. The ideal form of education resembles the Platonic method, vividly represented in his dialogues, where Socrates facilitates the educational process. Education should take the form of ongoing conversation and dialogue, allowing for independent reflection. Only in this way can students achieve meaningful engagement in their learning, according to Fichte.[14]

 

Students must fully dedicate themselves to the service of science, focusing entirely on it. Therefore, they should detach themselves from the external world with its mundane utilitarian goals and interests. The university’s goal, as stated above, is to cultivate artists of science capable of benefiting society and producing other artist-professors. In this way, the university becomes what might be called a “professorial seminary.” In my view, such a definition best reflects the essence of the ideal that Fichte sets for himself regarding the fundamental goal of the new type of university.

 

The internal life of such a “seminary” should foster a moral climate of detachment from everyday trivialities and needs that could hinder its goals. To achieve this, students must receive all necessary material resources, and as they begin their scholarly activities, they should engage with meaningful content. At the same time, students should work together to manage their responsibilities within the university, fostering and enhancing an internal community where they can actively participate in academic life, share insights, and support one another in their development. In this way, students support one another in perfecting the art of science. To cultivate such a community climate, Fichte suggests separating students studying for the art of science from those pursuing everyday utilitarian goals.

 

To achieve his primary objective, Fichte advocated for the abandonment of the traditional university system—rooted in the Middle Ages—which classified faculties into philosophical, theological, medical and legal disciplines, with philosophy serving as a lower, basic foundation for the other three. Fichte argues that this division is impractical, as theology and jurisprudence intersect with philosophy, philology and history in their use of scientific reasoning. Additionally, medicine is fully aligned with the natural sciences. Thus, there is no need to segregate these fields into distinct faculties.[15]

 

Philosophy, due to its ability to illuminate the essence of every other science, should form the foundation of teaching and not be confined to the role of one of the special faculties. Instead, it should stand apart as a distinct college of philosophical art, shaping the university’s scientific character and catalyzing further scientific development.[16] The task of such a higher school is to learn and teach philosophy. Following philosophy comes philology, which aims to foster mutual understanding among people. The exact sciences, as Kant viewed them, include mathematical and historical sciences.

 

A scholar, recognizing that their work embodies a form of self-consciousness of spiritual substance, undoubtedly represents a moral being. Mastery should be a fundamental quality, and the university community—comprising both professors and students—must create an environment conducive to the development of such scholars, remaining independent from administrative pressures imposed by external entities, including the state and other social institutions. However, Fichte does not propose to completely isolate university structures from the state. The university cannot exist outside the state-political structure; moreover, it should exert a certain influence on society’s formation and cohesion and therefore cannot be entirely autonomous. Fichte reconciles this seemingly contradictory position by suggesting the inclusion of esteemed representatives from the university scientific community in state-political governance after they retire from their active roles within the university due to age. Thus, experienced and knowledgeable scholars would enter the upper echelons of state governance, ensuring a connection between the university community and the political structure.[17] This does not pose a problem for their vocation, as Fichte believes scholars will continue to engage in scientific creativity even after their active roles within the university, since the essence of their vocation transcends both place and age. This solution also presents additional advantages, such as significantly enhancing the competence of members within the state administrative apparatus in the context of absolute monarchy and its bureaucratic structure, as well as establishing a system of representation for the university within state institutions. Such representation could exert influence and safeguard the rights and academic freedom of the university community in pursuing its lofty goals, as the university’s objectives closely align with those of the state, particularly in terms of societal development.

 

Thus, the university model developed by Johann Gottlieb Fichte exemplifies how the leading thinkers of the 19th century sought to address the spiritual and educational demands of their time. In their efforts to unify the tasks of nation-building, education, and the steadfast pursuit of scientific truth, Fichte, like many philosophers and intellectuals of his era, overlooked the deconstructive nature of the notion that scientific research demands abstraction from utilitarian aspirations. They failed to acknowledge the increasing professionalization of various fields of knowledge and practice, their specialization, and the complexity of relationships among different branches of science. Instead, they continued to perceive knowledge through essentially medieval theological models—as a unified whole, whose essence lies in the “theory of everything.”

 

At the same time, some of Fichte’s ideas remain relevant today. The notion that the university, as a general system, should evolve into a somewhat autonomous community of scholars seems particularly pertinent. Without this autonomy, it is difficult to imagine how to increase scholars’ interest and awareness regarding science. Although the idea of completely separating those who pursue science as an art from those who seek it for utilitarian purposes may seem unattainable, certain actions in this direction would positively contribute to university development and scholarly formation.

 

Fichte’s thoughts on enhancing the integration of philosophical disciplines into student education also appear significant. Philosophy, tasked with shaping young people’s thinking, occupies little space in modern humanities faculties and typically concludes after the preparatory period. Addressing this deficiency academically for most students hardly seems feasible moving forward.

 

The pedagogy of education proposed by Fichte is also important. Many professors today lack the vision of students as conversation partners. Instructors often organize the learning process around reading previously recorded lecture materials, resulting in relatively low levels of student comprehension.

 

Fichte’s proposals to provide students with all necessary material support during their studies are noteworthy. If the state aims to cultivate an intellectual elite, it should maximize the time allocated for this formation to be comprehensive. The quality of education depends significantly on students’ material well-being and motivation. When a student’s life lacks material organization, they must spend considerable time securing their basic needs. This situation directly affects their value orientation. If students lack adequate support during their studies and reasonable prospects afterward, they may continue their education solely to ensure a minimally decent existence. Under such conditions, the state’s efforts in the education system may go to waste, resulting in the loss of potential intellectual resources. Fichte fought against such situations by advocating for proper support for students, drawing from his own experiences of growing up in poverty and understanding the challenges faced by students striving for knowledge.

 

Finally, Fichte’s proposals regarding the internal self-governance structure within the university environment appear quite favorable. By conceptualizing the student community as a sort of “seminary,” where each member assists their peers in achieving lofty ideals, Fichte draws upon the well-known experiences of previous generations of students. These student societies united under a shared spirit of Christianity and provided mutual support in their pursuit of intellectual and spiritual goals. The positive example of such societies, both intellectually and morally, was well established by the early 19th century, particularly among the Catholic theological seminaries that had trained clergy since the mid-16th century.

 

 

Bibliography

 

  1. Humboldt W.K. von. “On the Internal and External Organization of the Higher Scientific Institutions in Berlin” (O vnutrenney i vneshney organizatsii vysshikh nauchnykh zavedeniye v Berline) in: *Invulnerable Reserve* (Neprikosnovennyy zapas), 2002, No. 2.

 

  1. Zakharov I.V., Lyakhovich E.S. “The Mission of the University in European Culture” (Missiya universiteta v yevropeyskoy kul’ture), New Millennium (Novoye tysyacheletiye), Moscow, 1994.

 

  1. Ivanenko A.A. “J.G. Fichte on University Education” (I.G. Fikhte ob universitetskom obrazovanii) in: *Bulletin of St. Petersburg State University. Philosophy and Conflict Studies* (Vestnik SPbGU. Filosofiya i konfliktologiya), 2017, Vol. 33, No. 4.

 

  1. Kislov A.G., Shmurygina O.V. “The Idea of the University: Retrospective, Versions, and Perspectives” (Ideya universiteta: retrospektiva, versii i perspektivy) in: *Education and Science* (Obrazovanie i nauka), 2012, No. 8 (97).

 

  1. Novokhatko A.G., Novokhatko I.M. “On the Historical and Philosophical Preconditions of the Idea of the Classical University” (K voprosu ob istoriko-filosofskikh predposylkakh idei klassicheskogo universiteta) in: *Bulletin of the TSU* (Vestnik TGU), Issue 11 (115), 2012.

 

  1. Olshannikova N.A. “The Evolution of the Idea of the University in the Era of Industrialization” (Evolyutsiya idei universiteta v epokhu industrializatsii) in: *Scientific Review. Pedagogical Sciences* (Nauchnoye obozreniye. Pedagogicheskie nauki), 2017.

 

  1. Povzun V.D. “The Mission of the University — History and Modernity” (Missiya universiteta — istoriya i sovremennost’) in: *Bulletin of the OGU* (Vestnik OGU), 1. 2005.

 

  1. Reale J., Antiseri D. *Western Philosophy from Its Origins to the Present Day* (Zapadnaya filosofiya ot istokov do nashikh dney). Volume 4: From Romanticism to the Present Day (Ot romantizma do nashikh dney), Pneuma, St. Petersburg, 2003.

 

  1. Ridings B. The University in Ruins (Universitet v ruinakh), Moscow, 2010.

 

  1. Fichte J.G. “On the Essence of the Scholar and his Appearances in the Domain of Freedom” (O sushchnosti uchenogo i yeyo yavleniyakh v oblasti svobody) in: Fichte J.G. Collected Works (Sobraniye sochineniy), St. Petersburg, 2008.

 

  1. Fichte I.G. “Addresses to the German Nation” (Rechi k nemetskoy natsii), Science, St. Petersburg, 2009.

 

  1. Fischer K. *A History of Modern Philosophy* (Istoriya novoy filosofii). Volume 6: Fichte. His Life, Works, and Teachings (Fikhte. Ego zhizn’, sochineniya i uchenie), St. Petersburg, 2004.

 

  1. Fichte J.G. “Deductive Plan for the Establishment of a Higher Educational Institution in Berlin” (Deduzierter Plan einer zu Berlin zu errichtenden hoheren Lehranstalt) in: Founding Texts (Gründungstexte), Humboldt University of Berlin, 2010.

 

[1] Cf. Povzun V.D. “The Mission of the University — History and Modernity” (Missiya universiteta — istoriya i sovremennost’) in: *Bulletin of the OGU* (Vestnik OGU), 1. 2005, p. 13.

[2] Kislov A.G., Shmurygina O.V. “The Idea of the University: Retrospective, Versions, and Perspectives” (Ideya universiteta: retrospektiva, versii i perspektivy) in: *Education and Science* (Obrazovanie i nauka), 2012, No. 8 (97), p. 102.

[3] Olshannikova N.A. “The Evolution of the Idea of the University in the Era of Industrialization” (Evolyutsiya idei universiteta v epokhu industrializatsii) in: *Scientific Review. Pedagogical Sciences* (Nauchnoye obozreniye. Pedagogicheskie nauki), 2017, p. 141.

[4] Cf. A.G. Kislov, O.V. Shmurygina, Ibid, p. 104.

[5] Cf. Humboldt W.K. von. “On the Internal and External Organization of Higher Scientific Institutions in Berlin” in: Invulnerable Reserve (Neprikosnovennyy zapas), 2002, No. 2.

[6] Cf. Novokhatko A.G., Novokhatko I.M. “On the Historical and Philosophical Preconditions of the Idea of the Classical University” (K voprosu ob istoriko-filosofskikh predposylkakh idei klassicheskogo universiteta ) in: Bulletin of the TSU (Vestnik TGU), Issue 11 (115), 2012, p. 260.

[7] Cf. Zakharov I.V., Lyakhovich E.S. “The Mission of the University in European Culture” (Missiya universiteta v yevropeyskoy kul’ture), New Millennium (Novoye tysyacheletiye), Moscow, 1994, p. 52.

[8] Cf. Reale J., Antiseri D. Western Philosophy from Its Origins to the Present Day (Zapadnaya filosofiya ot istokov do nashikh dney). Volume 4: From Romanticism to the Present Day, Pneuma, St. Petersburg, 2003, p. 32.

[9] Cf. Ridings B. The University in Ruins (Universitet v ruinakh), Moscow, 2010, p. 103.

[10] Cf. Fichte J.G. *Addresses to the German Nation* (Rechi k nemetskoy natsii), Science, St. Petersburg, 2009, pp. 208–209, 249–251.

[11] Cf. Fichte J.G. “On the Essence of the Scholar and his Appearances in the Domain of Freedom” (O sushchnosti uchenogo i yeyo yavleniyakh v oblasti svobody) in: Fichte J.G. *Collected Works* (Sobraniye sochineniy), St. Petersburg, 2008, p. 341.

[12] – Fichte J.G. “Deductive Plan for the Establishment of a Higher Educational Institution in Berlin” (Deduzierter Plan einer zu Berlin zu errichtenden hoheren Lehranstalt) in: Founding Texts (Gründungstexte), Humboldt University of Berlin, 2010, pp. 9-123.

[13] Fichte J.G. Ibid.

[14] Cf. Ivanenko A.A. “J.G. Fichte on University Education” (I.G. Fikhte ob universitetskom obrazovanii) in: *Bulletin of St. Petersburg State University. Philosophy and Conflict Studies* (Vestnik SPbGU. Filosofiya i konfliktologiya), 2017, Vol. 33, No. 4, p. 460.

[15] Cf. Fichte J.G. Ibid.

[16] Cf. Ivanenko A.A., Ibid, p. 459.

[17] Cf. Fischer K. A History of Modern Philosophy (Istoriya novoy filosofii). Volume 6: Fichte. His Life, Works, and Teachings (Fikhte. Ego zhizn’, sochineniya i uchenie), St. Petersburg, 2004, pp. 646-648.

Анастасия Паламарчук

Anastasia Palamarchuk

About the Author: Anastasia Palamarchuk is a medieval historian, Doctor of Historical Sciences, and a professor at the Russian-Armenian University (Yerevan). Her research interests include the history of Britain in the Middle Ages and early modern period, social history, and church history. She is the author of four scholarly monographs and over a hundred articles. She is also a church organist and a tertiary of the Dominican Order.

 

What comes to your mind, dear readers, when you hear the phrase “church art”? Certainly, something elevated, costly, and… traditional. Gothic arches of medieval cathedrals, baroque altars, and statues of saints in golden robes, along with colorful paintings depicting biblical scenes. Today, we perceive artworks from the 12th, 15th, and 18th centuries as sacred heritage. It’s worth recalling, though, that gothic architecture was once a novelty, both technically and artistically; that the emotional and passionate expressions typical of baroque art were considered provocative and almost indecent by many contemporaries; and that musical polyphony was viewed as a secularization of church tradition. The emergence of tradition itself is impossible without a quest for creativity.

 

The work of Henri Matisse (1869-1954) reflects a continual quest for style, form, and visual expression—a desire to convey the vitality of life and the joy of existence through simple yet powerful means. Although the artist was an atheist, he repeatedly showed interest in religious art. In 1911, Matisse visited Moscow and became acquainted with Russian iconography, which was actively being collected and displayed by collectors such as Tretyakov and Ostroukhov. He believed that the simplicity of forms and the richness and intensity of colors in medieval icons surpassed even the frescoes of Fra Angelico, embodying the soul of the Russian people and serving as a source of inspiration for contemporary painters.

 

Henri Matisse with Sister Jacques-Marie Bourgeois

Henri Matisse with Sister Jacques-Marie Bourgeois

 

The episode we’lll discuss today pertains to a period when Matisse’s creative and personal journey was nearing its end. After the onset of World War II, the seventy-year-old artist, who declined offers to emigrate to the United States or South America, settled in the countryside, spending time in Nice or its suburb, the small town of Vence. He was seriously ill, and in 1942, he placed an advertisement seeking a nurse at a nursing school in Nice. According to the ad, the candidate was required to be not only competent in medical care but also “young and attractive.”

 

The ad caught the attention of a young nursing student, Monique Bourgeois. Although no one considered her “attractive,” she was hired. Soon, a genuine friendship developed between the nurse and the patient, and Monique even agreed to pose for the artist. Between 1942 and 1943, Matisse painted four portraits of Monique Bourgeois, which she, however, found dreadful.

 

While Monique was working as Matisse’s nurse and engaging him in discussions about art, she gradually discovered her calling to a consecrated life. She encountered Dominican sisters in Monteils while recovering from the effects of tuberculosis. In 1944, she firmly decided to join the sisters and informed a deeply upset Matisse of her decision. The artist reacted negatively, while Monique attempted to explain her position. Matisse wrote: “I do not need lectures on monastic vocation. I do not need sacraments to glorify God with my life. I traveled all the way to Tahiti to admire the beauty of the world He created and to share it through my work.”

 

In September 1944, Monique Bourgeois was accepted into the novitiate of the Dominican Sisters in Monteils under the name Sister Jacques-Marie, and on September 8, 1946, she took her monastic vows. According to the congregation’s rules, after taking vows, sisters were not sent back to their native regions; however, Sister Jacques-Marie returned to Vence due to circumstances. At that time, the Dominicans in the town were cramped in an old building, practically a shed, with a leaking roof, and were seeking to build a new monastery — which, of course, would include a chapel. Sister Jacques-Marie created a sketch of the scene depicting the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary and showed it to Matisse. By this time, Matisse had come to accept his former nurse’s decision and convinced the nun that her concept should be realized as a stained-glass window. Over the next few years, Sister Jacques-Marie and Matisse immersed themselves in developing a new architectural project — the Rosary Chapel. Naturally, this project was to be an experiment. It scarcely conformed to the traditional standards of the Catholic Church. Unsurprisingly, the chapel project faced misunderstanding and resistance not only from society but also from the Church, particularly from the abbess of the monastery to which Sister Jacques-Marie belonged. The reputation of Matisse as an exclusively secular figure, a creator of highly provocative works, worked against him in the minds of the faithful at that time.

 

The realization of the project proposed by Matisse for the Rosary Chapel was largely due to the intervention and consultations of the Dominican brothers, particularly Father Marie-Alain Couturier, who was then the leading order expert in church art. A graduate of the renowned Dominican seminary Le Saulchoir and the Roman university Angelicum, from 1936 to 1954, Father Couturier, along with another Dominican, art historian Pie-Raimond Regamey, co-edited the Paris journal “Sacred Art.” This journal united believers — laypeople and clergy, artists and critics — who sought, in the spirit of general church renewal, to find common ground between contemporary art trends and the life of the Church, and to explore new approaches to church architecture and painting. Father Couturier supported other innovative architectural projects, including the construction of a chapel in Ronchamp designed by Le Corbusier, his Dominican monastery project in La Tourette, and the installation of stained-glass windows by Auguste Perret, Marc Chagall, and Fernand Léger in French churches. Father Couturier maintained personal friendships with many artists worldwide, and he also developed a warm relationship with Matisse. It is commonly believed that he served as the model for the figure of St. Dominic that adorns the wall of the chapel in Vence.

 

Father Alain Couturier

Father Alain Couturier

 

Matisse’s personal friendships with these two artistically gifted Dominicans, a sister and a brother, likely helped him, despite his distance from church and monastic life, to engage with the Dominican tradition of communal prayer, iconography, contemplation, and preaching. According to the teachings of the Order’s founder, St. Dominic de Guzmán, these practices should be accessible to all and expressed through various means, including artistic imagery. The monastic pursuit of spiritual perfection resonated with Matisse’s quest for excellence and simplicity in visual forms. Moreover, the praying sisters in their black-and-white habits were destined to become part of his artistic vision; Matisse also created a set of vestments for the liturgy throughout the liturgical year specifically for the Rosary Chapel. Art was intended to inspire the prayers of the community, and the community itself became part of the artwork. Matisse wrote in a letter to Bishop Raymond of Nice: “I began with the profane; at the sunset of my life, I naturally conclude with the divine.”

 

 

In 1949, the Bishop of Nice blessed the cornerstone of the future chapel. In 1951, he consecrated the completed building. The event was the subject of a separate article in Father Couturier’s journal “Sacred Art,” which included photographs of the chapel, sketches, and comments that Matisse provided in a letter to Bishop Raymond.

 

The interior of the chapel is bright and airy, maximally uncluttered, adorned with a series of vertical stained-glass windows in shades of blue and gold — the traditional colors of the Virgin Mary and simultaneously the colors of royal Catholic France. The repetition and rhythm of the stained glass correspond to the rhythm of the Rosary prayer, based on the repetition of the “Hail Mary.” The light that streams through the stained glass symbolizes the light of the mysteries of the Rosary contemplated by the sisters (the Biblical events recalled during the Rosary service).

 

 

The focal point of the presbytery (the space where the altar is positioned and where the clergy stands during the liturgy) is a visual representation of the figure of St. Dominic, conforming to all traditional canons for depicting the saint and founder of the Dominicans. St. Dominic appears to us in full habit — tunic, scapular, and cloak, holding a book. The benches designated for the sisters of the monastery were placed directly opposite the image of St. Dominic. Since his image lacks distinct facial features, each sister called to continue the founder’s work and mission could see herself, or a brother or a sister, in him, and reflect on her place in the service of the Order. The outlined form of St. Dominic helped convey a crucial aspect of the Dominican — and, more broadly, Christian — worldview: freedom.

 

 

The wall of the chapel, along which the pews for laypeople were arranged, is adorned with an image of the Virgin Mary with the Infant Jesus. Just like the image of St. Dominic, the portrayal of the Blessed Virgin conforms to the iconographic canon; it is recognizable and, in a certain sense, traditional. Yet again, we see only an outline, a universal form that grants freedom for contemplative prayer. Unlike traditional church painting, this image does not impose a specific mood or idea on the worshipper through colors and facial expressions. Each person praying could “fill” this outline with the requests, gratitude, and emotions they addressed to the Mother of God, fostering a personal and unique relationship with the Mother of the Savior.

 

 

Finally, on the back wall behind the worshippers were images of the Stations of the Cross. Traditionally, images of the so-called “stations,” that is, the stops of Jesus on the day of his journey to Golgotha, are placed on the side walls of a church or chapel. Matisse chose to concentrate all the dramatic narrative on one wall. Among all the images in the chapel, the fourteen Stations of the Cross are perhaps the most provocative, barely hinting at church tradition. However, as Matisse himself said, “Exactness is not truth.” Contemplation is not merely about scrutinizing details in a painting. Contemplative prayer aims to perceive the essence of God and, to some extent, transcend the images we see with our earthly eyes and hold in our memory. It is this transcendence of created reality that Matisse’s outlined “stations” facilitate: contemplative prayer becomes what it should be — a spiritual effort directed toward God.

 

To reveal Himself to humanity, the Lord often employs the most unexpected means. What happens when we combine the talent of an artist distant from the church, the experience of an intellectual brother, and the inspiration of a former nurse? We get the Rosary Chapel in Vence, an extraordinary, provocative and bold invitation to prayer, a call to take a step beyond the ordinary in personal spiritual life.

 

Logisch ist der Anfang, indem er im Element des frei für sich seienden Denkens, im reinen Wissen gemacht werden soll.“

— G.W.F. Hegel, Wissenschaft der Logik, I, Werke 5, p. 67

“The beginning is logical in that it is to be made in the element of thought that is free and for itself—in pure knowledge.”

— Hegel, The Science of Logic, Vol. 1

 

“In no science is the need to begin with the very essence of the matter, without preliminary reflections, felt more strongly than in the science of logic” [Hegel, Introduction to The Science of Logic, Vol. 1]. This statement also holds true for “Living Logic.” The distinction between the two—the science of logic and living logic—will become clearer as we uncover the “essence of the matter.” That’s one side of the story.

The other side is that the great thinker required an extensive work of “preliminary reflections,” spanning over three hundred pages, to guide his readers (if they don’t perish along the way) to this “essence.” This work is The Phenomenology of Spirit—one of the most challenging texts in philosophical thought. In this article, I cannot address the problems faced by the author of this work or lead readers smoothly to the concluding insights of The Phenomenology of Spirit to prepare them for grasping the beginning of “Living Logic.” In fact, this preparation is unnecessary, as the result of the Phenomenology is a “short cut” in the long journey of consciousness and its object toward their unity—pure knowledge. It plunges our thought into a state of “indeterminate immediacy,” which allows it to contemplate “pure being”—the beginning of both the “Science of Logic” and “Living Logic.” This somewhat clarifies Hegel’s statement above.

However, another circumstance compels me to refrain from any special “preparation” for perceiving the beginning of “Living Logic” through a detailed examination of The Phenomenology of Spirit. I’ll start with an introductory remark. After returning from the Gulag in 1933, A.F. Losev recorded his reflections during “quiet frosty nights” while guarding a lumber warehouse (by then he was nearly blind and could only “carry his weight” as a guard) in a lengthy article that remained unpublished during his lifetime. In the well-known eight-volume collection of his writings, the article was later titled “The Self Itself.” This work is quite difficult to comprehend, especially its first part, which is dedicated to the “touch,” the “hint” at the hidden or “mystical” essence of each thing, its “self itself.” From the very beginning, one must firmly grasp that this concerns the highest conceivable individuality of each thing, its absolute novelty and uniqueness. “Each thing is precisely itself and not something else [referring to a specific thing that, at this moment, is before me or you by our free choice]—thus, the self of the thing exists [this chosen one and no other]. However, all things together form something that is it itself [the author later calls this the absolute self], i.e., the self itself. Individual identities thus somehow enter into this absolute self. Moreover, in each thing, individuality is symbolically given in the form of the thing itself; in it, the thing itself is a symbol of its self itself. The self itself is equally contained in all things, thus being precisely the absolute self. Therefore, every existing thing is a symbol of the absolute self” [A.F. Losev, “The Self Itself,” Vol. 3, Moscow 1994, p. 351].

Furthermore, “the self itself is unattainable and unknowable. It is enveloped by the abyss of becoming, which generates its countless interpretations… Every becoming, including human spiritual activity, is always the becoming of the absolute self, because the latter, being everything, contains nothing outside itself. Every becoming thing and every person with their free spiritual activity is nothing other than a moment, expression, outpouring, action, etc., solely of the absolute self” [Ibid., p. 353].

Now, regarding the previously mentioned circumstance. At the very beginning of The Phenomenology of Spirit, in the first chapter, titled “Sense-Certainty, or the ‘This’ and ‘Meaning’,” Hegel embarks on his lengthy journey from the most immediate knowledge. In the preface to his work, he describes formations such as “Sense-Certainty” or the following “Perception,” etc., as “form formations” (Gestalten) and treats these “gestalts” as living entities, though he does not explicitly express this and may not even perceive it as such. However, one could infer from the perception of form formations as living entities the reason he called his work The Phenomenology of Spirit, as “the spirit gives life” [John 6:63], and the gestalts reveal (hence the term phenomenon) these formations of spirit as living entities. Yet, when discussing the genesis of the title of Hegel’s work’s, one must also briefly address its purpose.

The Phenomenology aimed to overcome the rift, stemming from Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, between the “thing in itself” (better translated as the “thing by its deep essence” or simply “thing by essence”) and our representation, knowledge, or, more precisely, the concept of that thing. “The thing in itself seemed… to be the literal focal point of all the problematic aspects of Kant’s philosophy. It turns out that any concept of causal connection is the rational category applied to the knowledge of phenomena, and no reference to things in themselves is possible. However, this thing in itself underlies our knowledge, as it affects our sensibility, serving as its matter and content, thus becoming its cause, while our representations become the action of that cause” [Kupriyanov V.A., The Formation and Issues of Philosophy of Nature in the Early Works of Schelling, p. 3]. I’ll refrain from describing the “Sturm und Drang” initiated by the intellectual elite of Germany to discover the “channel” connecting our perception of things with the objective reality of that “thing by essence.” Finally, the young Schelling had the fortunate thought that if we define truth as the complete agreement between the object and knowledge, then we must explain how this identity of being and thought is possible, which we find in ourselves as our “ego.” “Thus, only in the self-contemplation of Spirit is there an identity of representation and object. Therefore, to demonstrate the absolute coincidence of representation and object, which underlies the reality of all our knowledge, one must prove that Spirit, in contemplating objects in general, contemplates only itself. If this is proven, then the reality of all our knowledge is secured” [Schelling F.W.J., Early Philosophical Writings, St. Petersburg: Aletheia, 2000, p. 202]. Thus, Hegel began to systematically build this proof, starting from immediate knowledge and culminating in absolute knowledge, rather than employing the “pistol-shot” method of his friend Schelling, which he hinted at in the preface to his Phenomenology (Ф 14).

In “Sense-Certainty,” from which immediate knowledge begins, the aspects of this form are distributed as follows. First of all, there is consciousness based on this certainty. Next, we have the object of consciousness, appearing as pure “this,” while consciousness itself is pure “ego” (I remind you that the object or thing is what “Сonsciousness…distinguishes from itself… [while] at the same time it relates itself… and the determinate form of the processing of relating, or of there being something for a consciousness, is knowledge” [Ф 82, Introduction, PoS]). However, there is another aspect that observes “Sense-Certainty” from the outside or “above”—this is discursive thought, which Hegel calls “we.” We find the object of “Sense-Certainty” as simply existing, or as essence, while the other is the non-essential, which exists in it not by essence but through the object; this is the “ego, a state of knowledge which only knows the object because it is, and which can as well be as not be. The object, however, is the real truth, is the essential reality; it is, regardless of whether it is known or not; it remains even when it is not known; but there is no knowledge if there is no object” [Ф 93, “The Object of Sense Certainty,” PoS]. I note that these last conclusions are drawn by discursive thought or our reason.

He asks it—”Sense-Certainty”— a question (as if it were a living being!), trying to ascertain: is there indeed an object in it, or is “this” the true essence, while knowledge is something non-essential? Or, in a more immediate form: what is “this”? Taking “this” in the dual form of its being, namely, as “now” and “here,” we divide our question into two parts: first, what is now?—We might answer, for instance: now it is night. To verify the truth of this sense certainty, a simple experiment suffices. We will record this truth; by being recorded, the truth cannot disappear. If we look again at the recorded truth now, at this midday, we will have to acknowledge that it has evaporated.

The “now,” which is night, persists, meaning that we interpret it [ourselves!] as something that it claims to be—as something existing; yet it turns out to be rather non-existent. The “now” itself (selbst) remains, but as a “now” that is not night. Similarly, it persists concerning the day, which exists now as a “now” that is not day, i.e., as something negative overall. This enduring “now” is thus defined as something that remains because the other—i.e., day and night—does not exist. Yet it remains just as simple as before, “now,” and in this simplicity, it is indifferent to what else appears with it: just as little as night and day constitute its being, it is equally neither day nor night; it is not at all affected by this otherness. Such simplicity, which exists due to negation, is neither “this” nor “that,” but a certain “not-this,” and is equally indifferent to whether it is “this” or “that.” We call this something universal; thus, the universal is what is true in sense certainty.

We also express ourselves about the sensory [referring to this unique “self itself!”] as something universal; what we say is “this,” is a universal “this”; or: “it” is, and thus is being in general. Of course, [and here the moment of truth begins!] we do not conceive of a universal “this” [which is understandable, as representation always pertains to something singular, unique, inexpressible, while the universal is always abstract, negative, and indifferent to the singular, as defined in the previous paragraph] or being in general, but we express ourselves about the universal; or: we simply do not articulate how we imply, “imagine” (meinen) it in this sense certainty. Yet language, as we see, is more truthful: in it, we directly refute our opinion (Meinung); and since the universal is the truth of sense certainty, and language expresses only this truth, it is entirely impossible for us to ever articulate any sensory being we imply.

Thus, Hegel references the peculiarities of language, and this serves as a reliable criterion for him. Indeed, language is a means of communication (from the word common or universal), so when I communicate with a friend and tell him that I spent the entire evening yesterday at my desk trying to articulate my thoughts, I do not need to describe my desk in detail for my interlocutor to understand me; that would be impossible. Hegel understands this well. However, I might spend time not at the desk I imagine or imply, but at this unique, singular one, and this self of my desk, as well as any object, is an essential (absolute!) condition for both my existence and yours in this world! At the end of the chapter “Sense-Certainty…,” Hegel rejects our opinion regarding the singularity of sensory objects as true, asserting that it always expresses something universal in response to the question: what is “this”? In other words, he effectively denies the “self itself” of each thing. This provides me with grounds to argue for the necessity of revisiting Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Its conclusion regarding pure knowledge as the absolute coincidence of the object and knowledge about it must necessarily include the “presence” of the indeterminate, which cannot be articulated but serves as the living “motor” of the logical process’s development.

Thus, Hegel begins logic with the category of “being,” or, in the author’s words, logic itself commences with this category as the most “immediate” and therefore the “most indeterminate,” i.e., the most suitable beginning for logic (any determination already represents a departure from the beginning!).

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

BEING

 

A. BEING

 

Being, pure being, without any further determination. In its indeterminate immediacy, it is equal only to itself, and it is not unequal relatively to an other; it has no distinction either within itself or in relation to the external. If being had any distinguishable determination or content, or if it were established as distinguishable from an other, it would not retain its purity. Being is pure indeterminacy and emptiness.—There is nothing to be contemplated in it, if contemplation can indeed be said to apply here; in other words, it is only this pure, empty contemplation. There is also nothing to be thought in it; in other words, it is equally only this empty thinking. Being, the indeterminate immediate, is in fact nothing, and no more and no less than nothing” [§ 132, Chapter 1, Chapter 1, SoL].

Analysis 1. The “object” of our thought—pure knowledge—emerges directly from the Phenomenology of Spirit, leaving behind the long journey of consciousness and its object toward their unity—pure knowledge. Thus, it is pure being. This concept serves as the beginning for Living Logic. In this context, pure being proves to be entirely indeterminate. When thought applies its fundamental categories of equality and difference (as I emphasized above), it finds nothing, neither in it nor outside it, to hold onto for determination. So, what then in fact, i.e. what really, does our thought discover in analyzing pure being? It finds that pure being is indistinguishable from nothing due to its indeterminacy, and that pure nothing unexpectedly, suddenly replaces pure being as the beginning of logic. Now, logic begins with pure nothing.

 

B. NOTHING

 

Nothing, pure nothing: it is simply equality with itself, complete emptiness, absence of all determination and content; indistinguishability within itself. — When we speak of contemplation or thinking here, it is important to note that it counts as a distinction whether we contemplate or think of something or nothing. Therefore, the expression ‘to contemplate or to think nothing’ signifies something. We [our pure thinking!] distinguish between something and nothing; thus, nothing is, exists [existiert in the original] in our contemplation or thought; or rather, it is itself empty contemplation or thought; and the same empty contemplation or thought as pure being.—Therefore, nothing is the same determination or, more precisely, absence of determination, and thus altogether the same as pure being” [§ 133, Chapter 1, Book 1, SoL].

Analysis 2. Here, thought encounters the same result: pure being has unexpectedly replaced pure nothing, and thought has returned once again to the first principle, to pure being. Does thought find any change in the latter as a result of this return? Thought finds no change in pure being—no vanishing, dissolution, or, moreover, Hegelian sublation—because, according to Analysis 1, there is “nothing, neither in it nor outside it,” for it to hold onto, and there is nothing in it to change in its thought analysis, because it remains indeterminate!

Yet there are evident moments of replacement in the thought of pure being with pure nothing and vice versa. Moreover, they occur, as stated in Analysis 1, suddenly and unexpectedly for thought; it cannot grasp the flow of transitions of being into nothing or nothing into being; they occur as if “behind the back” of thought, beyond thought! This circumstance alters our thought’s relationship to pure being and also to pure nothing as the beginnings of logic. Now, for thought, the beginning of logic becomes a cyclical process from being to nothing and back from nothing to being. But let’s not rush. The process itself, consisting of transitions from being to nothing and nothing to being, occurs “behind the back” of thought, which means it lies beyond thought and thus beyond logic; it is illogical! Can something illogical serve as the beginning of logic? — The answer is unequivocal: no, it cannot. Therefore, let’s allow thought to go further, revealing the true state of things, or rather, thoughts, materialized by their immediate presence in thinking, while continuing to use fundamental fragments from Hegel’s Science of Logic for comparison and to identify discrepancies.

 

C. BECOMING

 

The Process of the Vanishing of Being into Nothing and Nothing into Being

 

“Truth is neither being nor nothing; it consists of the fact that being does not transition but has transitioned into nothing, and nothing does not transition but has transitioned into being. But the truth is equally not their indistinguishability; it consists of the fact that they are not the same, that they are absolutely distinct, yet also unseparated and inseparable and that each of them immediately vanishes [suddenly, unexpectedly for thought] in its opposite. Their truth is, therefore, this movement [process] of the immediate vanishing of the one into the other” [SoL, Book 1, Chapter 1, 135].

Remark 1. A few preliminary words about the “absolute.” This term is borrowed from Latin and consists of the prefix “ab”—negation of what stands behind—and the word standing behind, “solut”—the solution. By solution, we mean the following: suppose we solve a problem by stating its initial condition and then making justified conclusions step by step from this condition, resulting in a solution. The following chain of justified conclusions is called a solution. The prefix “ab” negates this process; that is, thought must perform a negation—a reflection—to conceive these parts of the word together. What can this word essentially mean? — The term “absolute” does not arise fundamentally from any conclusions (solutions); on the contrary, everything arises from it! In this sense, “absolute” is a synonym for the word “God.” The term “absolute” translates from Latin as “unconditional.”

Why does Hegel use this word instead of “unconditional”? — He explained in his note to § 186 that the term available in his native language “calls to mind more what is immediate, whereas the foreign term suggests more what is reflected.” End of Remark 1.

Analysis 3. How, then, in the context of the above, should we understand the phrase “absolutely distinct,” as proposed by Hegel? — It indicates that this distinction between being and nothing cannot be derived from them; “… this distinction is inexpressible. Let those who insist on the distinction between being and nothing tackle the problem of stating what it consists of” [SoL, Book 1, Chapter 1, §151]. Indeed, from the above analyses, it follows that there is “nothing to hold onto,” meaning there is no basis for indicating the distinction between them. This distinction manifests not in themselves but in a third entity—in what they give life to through their unstoppable (but beyond thought!) transitions into each other—in becoming, which reveals itself due to their distinction! But let us proceed further.

 

Moments of Becoming: Emergence and Vanishing

 

The thought suddenly discovers and holds the return back to pure being as a result of the transition from pure being to pure nothing and the transition from pure nothing back to pure being, that is, as a result of a cycle. The flow of these transitions, or the cyclical process, remains inaccessible to thought; it is illogical!

In this cyclical process, thought identifies and distinguishes only the realized transition (as Hegel emphasizes: “… does not transition, but has transitioned into nothing”) from being to nothing—vanishing—as well as the realized transition from nothing to being—emergence.

These transitions—emergence and vanishingmanifest in thought as moments of a cyclical process, connecting them as they follow a sequential flow “behind the back” of thought and revealing this flow in thought as becoming. Vanishing and emergence are two moments of becoming.

Analysis 4. It necessarily proceeds from the previous discussion that immediately after the moment of vanishing there follows another moment—emergence, also necessarily. We can talk about the simultaneous vanishing of both moments and, consequently, about the vanishing of becoming, as Hegel does in the section titled “The Sublation of Becoming,” but only by excluding their following manifestation in thought and abstractly connecting them in some unity (Einssein), as he does in his logic. However, this is impossible without violating the truth that has emerged here! What has manifested here is that they arise (in thought) in the cyclical process suddenly, as the replacement of pure being with pure nothing and vice versa, but following sequentially, not simultaneously.

The process manifests through becoming in our thought now as a “ticking” back and forth (vanishing-emergence) in complete silence (hesychia). Did the process exist before we discovered it? — Of course, it did, does, and will! This means that regardless of whether we have already uncovered this process through becoming or not, it is somewhere “flowing,” “functioning,” “ticking”! And thought receives the true beginning of Living Logic—becoming!

Remark 2. I’d like to draw your attention to the above-mentioned German word Einssein, which is translated in our Science of Logic as “unity,” whereas the German word for “unity” is Einheit, which Hegel uses exclusively thereafter. The word Einssein translates as “being in one.” Isn’t it strange that the great thinker uses this particular term here? Being “in one” for the two—being and nothing—is only possible in one way: by instantly holding in thought and through thought one or the other, without stopping (!), which we achieved above. One could reveal the cyclical process in this way, aligning our exposition more closely with Hegel’s text. However, this would be what Hegel later calls (see SoL, point (a)) “determinate being in general,” an external reflection that he urges us to avoid as a deviation from “the moment in the development of the subject matter itself.” The development of the subject matter itself, rather than our external reflections on the subject matter, which sometimes seem very “clever” to us, is the main “nerve” of the logical process for Hegel—plus, we might add, for the “underlying”—mystical—”work” of Spirit! End of Remark 2.

Remark 3. A few words about the terms “suddenly,” “unexpectedly,” and “instantly.” In the Greek language, in Plato’s dialogue “Parmenides” (156 d), this is represented by the single word τὸ ἐξαίφνης, formed from the adverb ἐξαίφνης (exaiphnēs) through nominalization.

Plato uses the term “suddenly” in the sense of “instantly,” linking it in some way to time. However, neither time nor space applies in the “Science of Logic,” especially in “Living Logic.” Therefore, in our context, the term “suddenly” is understood as “unexpectedly.” What does “unexpectedly” mean in our context? — It indicates a leap, a flow that is elusive to thought, creating the effect of an instant leap from one to another or the replacement of one by another—the term I used earlier. This replacement occurs instantly, “suddenly,” as this “suddenly” evidently signifies something from which a change occurs in one direction or the other. Indeed, change does not begin with rest while it is rest, nor with movement while movement continues; however, this strange “suddenly” lies between movement and rest, completely outside of time (“Parmenides,” 156 e). I would rewrite Plato’s last sentence in relation to our study as follows: however, this strange “suddenly” lies between being and non-being, completely outside of logical flow.

The greatness of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel lies in the fact that he elevated the formulation (note, this is not a determination!) of pure being to such a level of abstraction that it begins to move irresistibly, suddenly, leaping externally (in thought!) from one to another, returning to itself and thereby manifesting the “underlying” work of Spirit. He glimpsed this moment; the time for discovering the cyclical process flowing “behind the back” of thought had not yet come. And yet he captured “the movement of the immediate vanishing of one into the other” (see the earlier section “The Process of the Vanishing of Being into Nothing and Nothing into Being”). The word “immediate” here is very important, as it emphasizes the absence of any means (“special effects”) that initiate this vanishing; that is, the transition occurs unexpectedly, suddenly. Moreover, he expressed this in his own manner, which was later called “Hegel’s dialectical method.” For example, see subsection 2, “Moments of Becoming: …” (§ 179, Chapter 1, Book 1, SoL) where he states: “The one is a disappearance [in my translation, “vanishing”]; being transitions into nothing; but nothing is equally the opposite of itself, transition into being, emergence. This emergence is another direction; nothing transitions into being, but being also sublates itself and is rather transition into nothing, a disappearance. — They do not sublate each other; one does not externally sublate the other; each sublates itself in itself and is in itself its own opposite.” The last phrase is a Hegelian masterpiece that led me to an unexpected and fortunate discovery of the flow of the process in early January 1992. Suddenly and unexpectedly for me, it illuminated the internal “underlying work” of something or Someone, still unclear at that time.

To see how Hegel’s thought strives to express in the categories of a “Science of Logic” the “underlying work of Spirit,” which he seems to somehow sense, I will provide another fragment from §151: “But the third, in which being and nothing have their concentration [the noun Bestehen is translated here as “existence,” for which Hegel uses a different word, Existenz; see above in section Nothing], must arise here; and it has indeed arisen here; this is becoming. In it, they exist as different; becoming lives only insofar as they are different. This third is different from them;—they exist [the verb bestehen is translated here again as “exist”] only in the other, which means that they do not exist in themselves. Becoming is the concentration of both being and non-being; or their concentration is only their being in one [Sein in Einem, later in the original Hegel combines this phrase into one word—Einssein!]; this concentration is what eliminates their distinction.”

Try to feel the contradiction in this excerpt to understand the unusualness and complexity of speculative thought: becoming “ticks” back and forth due to the distinction between being and nothing on one side, while the fact of its existence as being in one of being and nothing eliminates their distinction on the other. This contradiction is resolved by the dialectical form of thought discovered by the ancient Greeks. Even Zeno formulates it in a negative form in his paradoxes. Socrates uses it in ethical discussions with his opponents, while Plato solidifies it in his dialogues as a universal form of expressing the fundamental categories of Reason! Hegel perfected this form of thought to its ultimate expression. What is remarkable is that he managed to express in this form the self-unfolding of the concepts of logic (the last phrase, emphasized by me, was first proposed by Hegel himself, perhaps even a little earlier by Fichte), excluding from this movement of thought the cyclical process that lies beyond logic (which he never uncovered!) and thus artificially avoiding the necessity of including this mystical component of the abode of Reason in the logical flow?—To answer this question, I will provide another fragment from “Science of Logic,” taken from the section “Sublation of Becoming.”

“The equilibrium brought about by emergence and vanishing is, above all, becoming itself. But becoming also converges [geht zusammen translates as “converges,” but not to the point of complete vanishing!] into a restful unity. Being and nothing abide in becoming only as vanishing; becoming, as such, exists only due to their distinction [due to their following vanishing]. Their vanishing [but not simultaneous, hence the next conclusion is incorrect] is therefore the vanishing of becoming, in other words, the vanishing of vanishing itself [this “arithmetic action” of Hegel (-(-) = +) seemingly was later enthusiastically accepted by everyone]. Becoming is an unstable unrest which settles [zusammensinkt—collapses, disintegrates] into a restful result.”

This passage contains many misconceptions, which I have partly already expressed above in square brackets, and I will add the following:—”converges into a restful unity.” It is unclear what Hegel means here by the word “unity,” let alone “restful”. He himself acknowledges this word as unsatisfactory and dedicates a substantial section of his reckonings to this in “Remark 2,” § 150. I will present only the result: “… the true result that has emerged here is becoming, which is not merely the one-sided or abstract unity of being and nothing. It consists rather in this movement, that pure being is immediate and simple, and for that very reason is equally pure nothing; that there is a difference between them, but a difference which no less sublates itself and is not [the indistinguishability that our thought encountered only externally—in reflection—resembles the procedure that Hegel called ‘sublation’; see below]. The result, therefore, equally asserts the difference between being and nothing, but as a difference that is merely supposed (gemeinten—imagined).” According to Hegel, the distinction is only supposed (it should be understood) by our external reflection because, in reality (according to him, of course), it is sublated by being and nothing themselves. So does one of the main discoveries of his “method” lie in his famous expression “sublation,” which he defines in the “Remark” at the end of the first chapter (§ 186)?—”Something is sublated only insofar as it has entered into unity [?] with its opposite; in this more particular signification as something reflected, it may be fittingly be called a moment.” To answer our first question, let’s first try to understand this.

As mentioned, thought, in analyzing pure being, suddenly apprehends its replacement with pure nothing. So, has pure being indeed “entered into unity with its opposite”—pure nothing—that is, has it sublated itself? — Externally, it seems so. But this is more our speculation (or rather, Hegel’s own external reflection!), because pure thought finds no “entrance,” let alone into “unity,” in this analysis; it does not perform such an act. We sense the hidden transition with our “spiritual feeling,”* but we do not think it: it occurs “behind the back” of thought, which captures only the leap!

Furthermore, “being and nothing exist in becoming only as vanishing,” but not in one moment, as already stated, but following sequentially, thus giving “life” to becoming, making it a stable (!) “unrest.”

No matter how you look at it, Hegel’s attempt to bypass the cyclical process that lies beyond logic, by killing becoming in the momentary act of the vanishing of being into nothing and vice versa, likely resulted in the artificial construct later termed “Hegel’s dialectical method”! End of Remark 3.

Remark 4. Here, I use the term “moment” in the following definition. First and foremost, its translation from the Latin word “momentum,” taken from I.K. Dvoretsky’s “Latin-Russian Dictionary,” published in 1976: 7) motion: momenta sua sustentare C(icero) to be in continuous motion; 8) change, run, flow… cycle, turn; 10) alteration, change (levia fortunae momenta L(ivius Titus) small moments of fortune); 11) a segment of time or space, interval (natura parvis momentis multa mutat C(icero) nature changes greatly in a few moments); 12) instant, moment; 13) section, part, point…

From this, I derive a definition of “moment”: a moment is that which manifests in thought as part of a whole, in which this part changes instantly, suddenly, due to its (remaining) indeterminacy, rotating (cycling) “behind the back of thought” into its opposite, which also becomes part of the whole, and therefore a moment of it; and the analysis of the determination: this definition engages such meanings from the translation of “momentum” as “part,” “change,” “instant,” “cycle,” excluding meanings from item 11). End of Remark 4.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

STAYING

 

a) Staying in General

 

Becoming is revealed in thought as the unity of two moments—emergence and vanishing—each of which instantaneously vanishes yet also, following, immediately re-emerges, equivalent in both directions. What remains, in other words, what stays in the equilibrium of instantaneous vanishing and instantaneous emergence? It is becoming itself, understood as the persistently recurring vanishing of one moment and the following emergence of another, viewed through the lens of its stability as staying (Dasein).

Remark 1. Becoming emerges as a new category of logic resulting from a process of transitions that our thought cannot fully grasp. The process itself is not a category of logic; it exists beyond it! Our thought discovers and fixes the result of its action but cannot define the flow of this action; it defies any determination. The first determination (before this, everything was indeterminate!) of “stable” arises as a quality referring to becoming, “ticking” back and forth as if in equilibrium, enclosing within itself an unstoppable process of transitions from being to nothingness and back, viewed from the perspective of being—one-sidedly. The process itself manifests for thought through becoming, acting as its “motor,” initiated by the “life-giving Spirit” that connects the unconnectable, the “Giver of Life”! End of Remark 1.

Analysis 1. In our literature, Dasein is translated as “determinate being.” This phrase, while conveying the category’s meaning, is imprecise and split in half, requiring constant mental effort to unify the two words into one coherent meaning. My translation—“staying”—avoids this flaw and emphasizes the stability of the enduring repetition of being, rather than merely the presence of being in a specific location (Dasein—being there) or, worse, being before us—externally present, which is inapplicable to logic according to Hegel’s own observations.

As a result of its discovery in thought, becoming arises, first, as a unity of two moments. This “duality” of becoming influences the nature of the functioning of its moments. Thus, the persistently recurring vanishing of the moments of becoming manifests in two ways within this unity (see the definition of a moment in Chapter 1, Remark 4): as a stable, enduring repetition of being (being… being… being…)—staying, and as a stable, enduring repetition of nothingness (nothing… nothing… nothing…)—negation. And second, “behind the back” of thought, where only reformulated moments of becoming—staying (reality) and negation (determinancy)—are manifested, flows the process of unceasing cycling (“oscillation” or “vibration,” as some prefer to say) of transitions from being to nothing and from nothing to being, due to their indistinguishability and their absolute difference.

Remark 2. Consider this example: the overwhelming majority of us believe that reality is what surrounds us. Opposite my window stands a residential building. Unless something extraordinary occurs—a quake destroys it, or a shell strikes it (which is quite relevant now), or something similar (or unprecedented) happens—it will remain (staying in its state as a residential building), while the trees around it will grow, imperceptibly changing their size (also staying in their state as trees). All this is based on the incredible stability of the proton! On the other hand, 20th-century physics has accustomed some of us to the idea that behind this apparent stability of our surrounding reality lie ceaseless processes of the transformation of matter, leading to the degradation of the building or, in the case of trees, to an increase in biomass that promotes their growth.

Another example involves elementary fundamental (structureless) particles—electrons, which appear as point particles (i.e., consisting of nothing) down to sizes on the order of 10−18 m (CERN). Here, defining particles as point-like emphasizes their simple staying without any internal “filling,” i.e., formally. However, if we accept this, it becomes unclear what distinguishes them physically—their essential determinacy. According to characteristics accepted by physicists, it is evident how an electron differs from a positron, but if we regard them as point-like, their physical differentiation (and the human mind always tends to want to perceive a distinction in their internal structure, that is their physical differentiation, beyond the formal distinction) “hangs in the air.” Such a concept cannot satisfy the inquisitive human mind. Physicists do not stop at such a state of affairs, so various models of the structure of elementary particles keep appearing: preon, string, and so on and so forth. End of Remark 2.

Remark 3. A few words about the terms “following” and “follows.” These terms arise from the thought manifestation of the flow of the cyclical process of transitions between being and nothing behind the “back” of thought. Hegel seemingly did not notice this aspect of the “logical process in the development of the subject,” which directly relates to logic itself. Indeed, after the substitution of being with nothing, there necessarily follows (necessarily!) the latter’s reverse substitution by being without any condition or inference (assistance!) from our thought; that is, unconditionally or absolutely. On the other hand, thought fixes this following: being and nothing do not “overlay” one another in their indistinguishability, nor do they vanish together, as Hegel assumed; rather, they separate and thus distinguish themselves through this following, differing absolutely, giving “life” to becoming—its “living ticking.” The following fixed in thought is pure thought (objective) without further determination or, in a word, is logical!

I will attempt to clarify this more definitively. For this, I will need some fragments from Hegel’s Encyclopedia of Philosophical Sciences (hereafter EPS), but in my own translation. The first fragment pertains to the beginning of thought. It concerns the state of our mental process when we learn to fix thoughts in their most abstract form, noticing and eliminating all attempts of the mind to add something that “fits a given situation” and thus focusing on the objective essence. But let’s turn to Hegel himself: “When we begin to think, we have nothing but thought in its pure indeterminacy, because the determinate already includes both [determinacy and mediation]; but initially we have neither. The indeterminate, as we have it here, is immediate, not mediated indeterminacy, not the sublation of all determinacy, but the immediacy of indeterminacy, indeterminacy prior to any determination, indeterminacy foremost. But this is what we call being [in the understanding of Parmenides]. It cannot be felt, seen, or perceived, but it is [unlike everything just mentioned] pure thought and, as such, it generates the beginning [of the Science of Logic]. Essence [explored in the second part of The Science of Logic] is also something indeterminate, but the indeterminate that, having already passed through mediation, contains determination as sublated” (§ 86, Addition 1, EPS).

Furthermore, in the second fragment, Hegel provides a definition of logical thinking: “the drive [der Triebtranslated as ‘the driving force, instinct’] to find a stable meaning in being or in both of them is the very necessity that compels being and nothing to move onward and gives them a true, i.e., concrete, significance. This movement is the logical derivation (Ausführung) and the further development of the concept. The reflection that generates deeper determinations for these beginnings, is the logical thought that generates such determinations, but not randomly, rather necessarily” (§ 87, Remark 1, EPS). I draw your attention to the subtle difference between what we obtained at the beginning of our work and fixed in our analyses and what the thinker offers us. Namely, it is not reflection that finds “deeper determinations for these beginnings,” but the beginnings themselves unexpectedly reveal their true “face” to thought. What is left for thought is only to follow these turns and leaps of the beginnings themselves and to register the resulting outcome. Therefore, the discussion here may not be about “logical thought,” but rather about the (objective!) Logos, which manifests unexpectedly and suddenly for thought due to a process that for thought is unexpected and hidden.

Of course, one could, without knowing or noticing (or ignoring?) this process, “construct” a chain of mental reflections, finding the transition of pure being into its opposite to be a unity with that opposite and thereby introducing a new definition into the science of logic, calling it “sublation,” as Hegel did. However, this would lead to at least two artificial constructs—unity and mediation (the latter arises because each of the beginnings in this transition allegedly loses its immediacy, but then how does one address the indeterminacy, which also automatically disappears? It is impossible to speak of any determination of pure being and pure nothing at the initial stage of the logical process, as thought at this moment has not yet revealed any stability of flow; it will obtain stability later, in the paragraph “Staying in General”). I won’t even make further mention of the infamous unity, which Hegel himself seemed to dislike.

In conclusion to this remark, I will repeat, slightly altering, one phrase from Remark 3 of the first chapter. After all that has been said, I think this phrase will be fully understood. Hegel’s greatness lies in the fact that he brought the formulation (note, not a determination!) of pure being to such a level of abstraction that it begins to move inexorably, suddenly, externally (in thought!), leaping from one to another, returning to itself and thereby manifesting the “subtle” work of the Spirit in how the concept of logic self-unfolds in our thought. End of Remark 3.

Notes

* Cf. the brief explanation of this phrase in footnote 7 on p. 378 in Ishtvan Pertsel’s article “Simeon the New Theologian and the Theology of the Divine Essence” in the book The Antique Tradition and Patrology, v. 4 (1/2), 2015: “The Biblical source of the term [“perception”] and, consequentially, the conception of ‘spiritual feeling’ are often ignored, and this allows researchers to speak of ‘spiritual mysticism’ regarding every place where this expression is encountered.” Back to main article

A BELOVED CITY: LESSONS IN PHOTOGRAPHY 

(Who, What, Where, When, and How?)

 

 

Having asked myself those simple questions, I’ll answer them like in an autobio: briefly, but with details. I’m a photographer. I guess you could say I’m an amateur (professionals get paid): I really love this work. What do I photograph? Whatever I see and find worthy.

Once, an eye doctor, whom I’d asked to help preserve my eagle-eyed vision as an “art” photographer, asked me that question. I answered: whatever shows signs of divine harmony or hints at the Creator’s design, or maybe at the Dao. After saying this, I felt embarrassed: first, it’s pointless to mention something you don’t really understand, and second, such words could easily sound like a clever way to avoid direct answers, like saying I’m a portraitist/landscapist/mariner/naturalist… Lead us not into temptation. He thought for a moment and soon retired to Florida (a sweet-sounding word for retirees). But before that, he gave me treatment.

In fact, “what I see, I sing” isn’t an insult but a belief, and maybe one that’s no worse than any other. What matters is choosing what to see, where, and how. As I travel through cities and different places, I gather impressions from the time and place, from the here and now, and I try to capture, preserve, and share them. I suppose, if I think about it, I’m an impressionist.

My whole aesthetic, if you will, was shaped on the banks of the Neva River, where I haven’t been for a long time due to weather and other reasons. But all my understanding of beauty, everything that still serves as my standard, comes from the North. Petersburg, where I was born around the middle of the twentieth century and lived for half my life, the Neva, Onega-Ladoga, Vuoksa, Vyborg… Once, an artist who was a close friend and companion on plein-air outings with tents by campfires, told this heir of ideas—as she pointed to the marshy Karelian landscape outside the train window: “This, my son, is called the ‘motherland.’” She said this ironically. We laughed. But it turned out to be true. Just as some have Tsarskoye Selo, we have the Karelian Isthmus, Vuoksa, Repino, and Lisiy Nos with Komarovo, which remain the space and time the roots of my memory cling to. And they keep holding on. I admit, this Finnish nature, this landscape of lakes and bays (like little tongues), the cold Baltic waves, the lakes whose blue eyes and fir tree eyelashes, as the song goes, indeed have lingered in my dreams.

St. Petersburg. I’ve been enchanted by this city since childhood. Its exquisite elegance struck me immediately and has stayed with me forever. I owe my ability to notice, appreciate, and enjoy it to my grandmother, Klavdiya Mikhailovna. She was a true native Petersburger, a doctor, a blockade survivor, an aesthete, a lover of literature and theater. From my earliest years, as soon as I could walk, she took me around the city to all her favorite spots, stopping to point out the facades, caryatids, bay windows, bridges, and sculptures… We lived in the center, just steps from Nevsky Prospect—at the intersection of Old and New Nevsky, right by the Moscow Railway Station—so our walking range stretched from the Lavra to the Admiralty and from the Smolny to the Obvodny Canal. We explored all the courtyards and parks together, and yes, even went for walks in the Summer Garden. It was there that I learned the fine art of flânerie. The ability to wander the city aimlessly, strictly following random signs that catch your eye. A contemporary of the century, my grandmother loved to tell stories, and she had many to share, and remembered more than a few poems and opera arias: once she started, you couldn’t stop her… I learned a lot from her and vividly imagined how my ancestors lived and died, her friends and relatives, and how during the Blockade, the harsh beauty of the beloved city supported them and helped them not to fall into despair…

Then, of course, museums had to have their turn. The most important of all was the Hermitage. There, my grandmother, in her honest and proud pension-age poverty, worked in the coat check for many years alongside other equally cultured elderly women, thanks to which I too had open, permanent Hermitage access. By the way, I later worked there myself, even if briefly, as a tour guide. I showed visiting foreign ex-students the Madonna Lipa (a whimsical nickname I gave her). So, all my general concepts of visual art—about color, composition, and so on—came from there. I was, of course, most captivated by the paintings of the Dutch and French. It was a corrupting influence; how could I not be in awe? Bosch himself commanded it. [Translator’s note: Author’s pun on Bosch/Bog (“God” in Russian)]

Those were my impressions and influences, and therein lies the root of my—well, there’s no getting past it—snobbery. Apropos, a lovely Moscow-Parisian old lady, long since passed, who would be, or rather, was older than my grandmother, once told me, looking at the deserted sea near Sudak (neither sails nor boats—the enemy beyond the sea never sleeps, the son of a bitch): “You Petersburg folks are snobby about us, aren’t you?” Not at all, ma’am, I replied, how could that be, ma’am? I was being cagey out of respect. Peter über alles.

 

But what about the art, or maybe the craft, of photography? Where does that come from? Again, there are traces of the past, and once more, the influence of a generation that lived through the 20th century from the beginning to almost the end. My grandfather, Georgy Vladimirovich, introduced me to photography. He was also a doctor, a veteran, and he served with a hospital on the Finnish-Leningrad fronts, where he saw many things. When he retired as a colonel in the medical service, he became passionate about photography, along with motorcycling, hunting, and fishing. He took many good photos, mostly portraits: of wives, children, and grandchildren (meaning me), as well as cityscapes. Some of those portraits still sit on my shelf.

And he passed this passion on to me and explained a lot about technique. He was knowledgeable. He could fix a camera, a primus stove, and a motorcycle. And he even invented and built some kind of stereoscopic device. No one condemned us for this frivolous hobby; in fact, they encouraged it. After all, it was a respectable hobby for reputable men. And it was even kind of in fashion. At that time, the city held photo exhibitions and published books. Photo albums, a couple of which are still with me, inspired me to explore urban themes. For example, the book Lions Guard the City is a wonderful publication about St. Petersburg’s urban sculpture. Later, before his death, my grandfather passed down his FED camera to me—a great device, of course, a ripoff of German Leicas. Unfortunately, it was ripped off from me as well: even in Petersburg, you sometimes run into unscrupulous folks, as they say. Yes, however things may be, there are plenty of scammers.

The first time I took a camera out into the city for a shoot was while I was still in a fairly junior class, assigned a project for some school wall bulletin or maybe a “red” corner. I was given a state-issued camera and told to photograph all the Lenin monuments. There turned out to be zillions and zillions and zillions of them. They all looked very much alike, of course, and were terribly unremarkable, but for the first time, I traveled to less familiar neighborhoods and looked around not just aimlessly but as a photographer, through the viewfinder, choosing angles, lighting, and so on. Fortunately, my photos didn’t make it into the bulletin: maybe they ran out of space, or perhaps they preferred someone from the Pioneer activists, I don’t know. I was satisfied: they took the camera back and let me go, but I enjoyed the experience of shooting.

I only bought my first camera when I was about fourteen. It was a “Seagull” with a half-frame (18×24), letting me fit twice as many shots on standard film. Very cool. I set up my laboratory in the communal kitchen, covering the window with a blanket. I developed the film and printed the photos myself. I loved it all—the red light and the smell of the chemicals. And the magical moments when an image gradually appeared on the blank sheet of paper, first hazy but then clearer and brighter, with details emerging, and I had to catch the right moment and quickly dip the paper into the fixative with tweezers… I often remember that smell and the entire process. I later developed color film myself but didn’t print the photos—there was no need; I worked with slides (or rather, played with them, workers do work). My grandfather would look at my photos and approve of them, which was nice.

I took many pictures, mainly of available subjects: my family and school, and later, naturally, my Universities. I also tried to photograph landscapes, both urban and rural, but it just didn’t work out; I didn’t like black and white for that. What kind of landscape is without color! I love colors; I’ve always admired their variety and interplay, and I want to capture the world in my photos as I see it—I like it bright and colorful, with an endless variation of shades.

A new and vibrant life began with the arrival of German (GDR) ORWO-CHROM color slide film. Around the same time, my entire lifestyle changed: I became part of a community of free street cleaners and guards, started traveling a lot, saw many new and interesting places, and met many remarkable people. I traveled through all of the Baltics, of course, and went to Siberia and the Crimea, drank young wine in the steppes of Moldova, fell in love with Odessa and Yerevan, and spent winters in the mountains of Tajikistan in a village, from which, by the way, I brought back the idea of a home slide show with music and stories over tea (thanks to my artist friends there).

It was then, during that period of free travel and experimentation, that I began to photograph constantly and seriously. I often felt a thrill, observing and recognizing the harmony in everything: in nature, in the city, and sitting in some forest or other, or maybe in a park, admiring the wrought-iron fencing and splaying branches, I’d think I should try to capture this to take home to admire later, to remember everything and maybe relive that joyful moment. Again, I wanted to share this enlightenment with my friends. They hadn’t seen it, and if I could capture the moment when a beautifully harmonious scene suddenly came together—almost divinely—and show it to them, maybe they’d also have their own satori. I aimed to seize the moment without breaking the clock. And I felt sometimes I succeeded. Satori or not, who can tell, but we caught our own high. I started carrying a ready-to-shoot camera everywhere, looking around attentively yet meditatively. Seekers of adventure usually find it. But you always need to be in a state of readiness to seize the moment, to recognize and capture it. And so the viewer can suddenly feel a response in their soul, so the image comes alive, so a breeze blows from it, so clouds drift across the sky, and with some luck, so you get a whiff of scents… everything has to be real; there’s no place for staging; you have to live in the moment.

I almost always had a camera loaded with color slide film and a compact projector with me. Film, of course, was a scarce commodity, and in Peter, it could be hard to find. Things were much better in relatively accessible Estonia. I often traveled there, either hitchhiking or sneaking onto trains. I went for film and, of course, to wander and photograph Tallinn—which I’d loved since childhood—one of the most charming and visually pleasing cities. There, and in various other places where I had friends, my projector came in handy. In the homes where it worked out to stay, we would gather for slide shows, sharing stories about life on the road and more while drinking plenty of wine and smoking ample aromatic herbs. It was always a pleasure to stroll through the city with friends who’d lived there for a long time and knew all the nooks and crannies. Back home in Petersburg, a lively crowd would regularly gather for a friendly flagon, as the saying goes, and about twice a month I’d host slide shows with reports on what I’d seen and experienced. And I saw that it was good… Simply “Zen and the Camera.”

 

Later, after moving to the West, for a while I kept giving slide shows and sharing stories about my hard and merry past life. Libraries and educational institutions gathered interested audiences who watched, listened, and even paid a little. But gradually, that faded away. When I switched to digital (I held out for a long time, but where could I go?), I began creating online photo albums, the closest equivalent to slide shows. And I instantly fell in love with the digital camera, if only because I no longer had to worry about running out of film at the most interesting moment. It would never run out! Hooray! I shoot without limits. Of course, later I have to spend a long time editing everything, but as an old-timer, I enjoy this process. I send album-viewing invitations to friends scattered across different continents. That way, even without the possibility of gathering together, together we can see and communicate. The tradition of regular slide shows lives on and triumphs (over whom?).

Of course, my opportunities for movement in different spaces have significantly expanded, and I’ve seen many beautiful new and old cities, wandering and flâneur-ing through them, capturing all that’s amazed me, that’s made me stop and admire. My favorites, in terms of spirit, beauty, and style, include Prague, Amsterdam, Paris, Venice, Florence, and Rome. London—that goes without saying. Since childhood.

I am glad I’ve been able to provide what feel like virtual strolls for many who’ve never been there, and for those who have been, I hope it was nice to remember. And I still look for familiar features and signs that evoke that childhood moment of silent admiration. Just like back then in SPb, by the Neva and the Gulf of Finland. The same motifs, roofs, towers, domes… Just stop and admire: how wonderful everything is… Here’s a reaction to my photographs that’s stayed in my memory. For me, it was the highest praise I ever heard. An old professor in St. Petersburg teared up after viewing my slides and said: “Oh, how beautiful God’s world is after all!”

 

Set theory is universal in the sense that the elements of sets can be any objects. In mathematics, these objects are typically numbers, but they can also be people, buildings, or trams. In linguistics, the primary focus is on graphemes. It’s intriguing to consider the graphemes of Japanese characters.

 

Most writing systems are phonetic and categorizable into three main types: alphabetic (like the Latin script), consonantal (like the Arabic script), and syllabic (like Hiragana and Devanagari). The graphemes in these systems can be represented as two-dimensional vectors that include visual and phonetic components. For example, a letter from the Indian script Devanagari can be represented as त, pronounced “ta.”

 

Hieroglyphic characters are found not only in Chinese and Japanese writing but also in Egyptian, Mayan, and other writing systems. However, this discussion will focus solely on Japanese characters. The difference between a hieroglyphic character and a phonetic sign is that the former has a third component—semantic! This means it represents a three-dimensional vector that has a written form, a reading, and a meaning. A Japanese hieroglyph can have several readings and meanings. For example, (日, jitsu, ‘day’), (日, nichi, ‘sun’).

 

Now let’s return to set theory. Just as algebraic operations of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division are introduced for numbers, there are also algebraic operations for the elements of a set—union, intersection, difference, symmetric difference, and complement. In the union operation (U), all elements are included, while in the intersection (∩), only the common elements are considered. To find the difference of sets \, we remove from the first set any elements that are also in the second set. The symmetric difference (Δ) represents the difference between the union and the intersection. In this case, the union is analogous to addition, while the intersection corresponds to multiplication. For example, let A = {1, 3, 4} and B = {1, 4, 5}. Then AUB = {1, 3, 4, 5}, A∩B = {1, 4}, A \ B = {3}, AΔB = {3, 5}.

 

If we consider a character as a set of its readings or meanings, all set theory operations can easily apply to it, except the complement operation. What does the complement of an element mean? It refers to the set of all elements except for the given one, within some universal set defined based on context. For example, the complement of the Russian letter {ш} in the context of modern Russian Cyrillic would include all Cyrillic letters except {ш}. A reading of a Japanese character can be a syllable, a morpheme, or a whole word, so the concept of a universal set doesn’t apply here. This holds even more true for the semantics of characters.

 

Let’s look at examples of applying set theory to the readings and meanings of a character, selecting instances where the reading and meaning partially overlap. The subscript y indicates the phonetic component, while z indicates the semantic component.

 

y = {mon, fun, fumi}, 門y = {mon, kado}.

(文U門)y = {mon, fun, kado, fumi}, (文∩門)y = {mon},

(文 \ 門)y = {fun, fumi}, (文Δ門)y = {fun, kado, fumi}.

The meaning of the character 文 is “text, writing, literature,” and 門 means “gate.”

 

z = {city, market}, 町z = {city, street}.

(市U町)z = {city, market, street}, (市∩町)z = {city},

(市 \ 町)z = {market}, (市Δ町)z = {market, street}.

 

Let’s take another look at the characters’ visual components. Theoretically, a character can also be represented as a set of strokes. Most characters include vertical or horizontal strokes, but since they appear in a wide variety of combinations, discussing their union or intersection—applying set theory operations—makes little sense.

 

So it’s better to consider characters as a set of radicals (each character has a defining part called a radical, totaling 214 radicals) or other significant elements. Yet even then, it’s generally impossible to apply any set-theory operations to the characters themselves. That’s because the set resulting from the union, intersection, or difference of two characters typically won’t be a real character at all! (When uniting or intersecting phonetic and semantic components, we’re still within the realms of phonetics and semantics.) Exceptions are quite rare but do exist. For instance, uniting the characters for “sun” and “moon” forms a character with the meaning “bright”: (日U月)x = 明x. In this case, the union operation clearly isn’t symmetric, as no character corresponds to the set (月U日)x!

 

Now let’s consider a set of characters that share the same radical. The radical itself must also be a character; otherwise, it can’t be considered an element of the set. For example, radical No. 149 言 “to speak” is a character, while radical No. 40 (“lid”) as the upper part of 安 “calm, cheap” is not. Additionally, a radical can have different representations (allographs), which we will treat as identical in this model. For instance, radical No. 61 心 “heart” can appear in both standard (忘 “to forget”) and modified forms (性 “nature, gender” — the left radical).

 

It might seem that if a radical is a character, then for a set of characters sharing the same radical, we could introduce the intersection operation: (抱∩押)x = 手x (抱 “to embrace, to hold,” 押 “to press, to push,” 手 “hand”). However, this is not generally the case: characters with the same radical can have common elements beyond the radical itself, for example: (姉∩婦)x ≠ 女x (姉 “older sister,” 婦 “lady,” 女 “woman”).

 

Let’s consider an arbitrary character H and denote its radical by K, treating K as a subset of H. Then the intersection and union operations (H ∩ K)x, (H U K)x are defined if K is a character. It is evident that (H ∩ K)x = Kx; (H U K)x = Hx. The intersection operation can be extended to any number of characters sharing the same radical: (H1 ∩ H2 ∩ H3 ∩ … ∩ Hn ∩ K)x = Kx.

 

As an example, let’s take the radical ‘tree’ 木 and several characters with this radical: 村 “village,” 桜 “sakura,” 柱 “pillar, column,” 机 “table.” Then (木∩柱)x = (村∩桜)x = 木x; (木U 村)x = 村x; (木U机)x = 机x.

 

To determine the difference of sets, we need not only a pair (H, K) but also an existing character (H / K)x. Clearly, in general, no such character exists, and the operation of set difference can only be introduced in a limited number of cases. For example, consider 言 “to speak,” 計 “to calculate,” 訪 “to visit,” 訓 “instruction, kun-reading.” We can then define their difference: (計 \ 言)x = 十, (訓 \ 訪)x = 川. The symmetric difference of two sets is even rarer: for example, (木Δ村)x = 寸x; (計Δ言)x = 十x.