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Violetta Trofimova

About the Author: Violetta Stigovna Trofimova, PhD in Philology, is a writer. She defended her dissertation on the prose of Aphra Behn at Saint Petersburg State University in 2002 and is the author of two scholarly monographs—”The Prose Legacy of Aphra Behn” (2006) and “The Women’s Republic of Learning in the 17th Century” (2012)—as well as several dozen research articles in Russian, English, and French. She has also published three novels and a collection of short stories.

The once-celebrated novel by Anglo-Irish writer Charles Maturin (1780–1824), Melmoth the Wanderer (1820), is experiencing a renaissance in Russia. In recent years, several translations of the novel into Russian have been published, with annotations describing it as acclaimed masterpiece of world literature. However, these are essentially reissues of A. Shadrin’s translation, first printed in the series “Literary Monuments” (Litpamyatniki) in 1976. That edition included an extensive critical article by Academician M.P. Alexeev, which shaped the understanding of this novel in the USSR and Russia. This article is also included in Melmoth’s latest editions. The critical literature on Melmoth in Russian is not particularly extensive, and there is a lack of the kind of basic supplementary material one would expect for a work admired by A.S. Pushkin, Honore de Balzac, and Oscar Wilde—such as the origin of the novel’s title and the prototypes of its characters. From 1978 to 2005, three dissertations dedicated to Maturin and Melmoth the Wanderer were produced in Moscow, Nizhny Novgorod, and Voronezh—by L.V. Spitsyna in 1978, L.S. Makarova in 2001, and A.V. Varushkina in 2005, respectively [4; 2; 1]. The authors debate the genre classification of Maturin’s novel and raise questions of intertextuality and composition, but they minimally address Melmoth the Wanderer as a historical novel and, judging by the content of the abstracts, fail to create the apparatus I just mentioned. I’m sorry to say that the commentary in the academic edition is incomplete and contains typographical errors and mistakes in dates.

Melmoth the Wanderer features several temporal layers. It begins in 1816 but shifts between 1667, 1677, and 1683. Although most of the novel’s action takes place in Spain, the English episodes pertain to the Restoration period in England (1660–1689). There are two such episodes: Stanton’s notes near the beginning of the novel and “The Lovers’ Tale” closer to the end. I currently have no answer as to how these episodes are connected. I will focus on the first episode. Regarding the second, I can only say that it is arguably the most artistically compelling novella in the entire novel Melmoth the Wanderer. It presents a traditional historical narrative about the Mortimer family in the spirit of Walter Scott’s novels, featuring coherent, sequential storytelling and well-developed characters. A central theme in this part of the novel is nobility. The embodiment of nobility in this section is Mrs. Anna Mortimer. The most striking characters in this narrative are the women—Mrs. Ann, Margaret, and Elinor. Elinor is one of the few in the novel who manages to emerge victorious against the cruel and unjust world around her and to resist the temptations of the main character, Melmoth the Wanderer.

In addressing the Restoration period, Maturin begins with an unexpected aspect—occultism, belief in witches and witchcraft, and astrology: “It must be remembered, that at this period, and even to a later, the belief in astrology and witchcraft was very general. Even so late as the reign of Charles II Dryden calculated the nativity of his son Charles, the ridiculous books of Glanville were in general circulation, and Delrio and Wierus were so popular, that even a dramatic writer (Shadwell) quoted copiously from them, in the notes subjoined to his curious comedy of the Lancashire witches” [3, p. 23]. Such a perspective is not often associated with the period. Maturin was attracted by the Restoration’s excesses and unprecedented freedoms, and by their flip side—unprecedented licentiousness: “There was…something splendid, ostentatious, and obtrusive, in the vices of Charles the Second’s reign” [3, p. 34]. The author provides a detailed account of the everyday aspects of theatrical life at that time—from the types of audiences and attitudes toward actresses and actors to the timing of performances: “Plays being then performed at four o’clock, allowed ample time for the evening drive, and the midnight assignation, when the parties met by torch-light, masked, in St. James’s Park” [3, p. 34]. The mysterious Stanton, obsessed with the equally mysterious Melmoth the Wanderer, immerses himself in the whirlwind of London theatrical performances. Stanton’s “Notes”— romantically fragmented, incomplete, and illegible—present two spaces of Restoration-era London: the space of the theater and the space of the madhouse.

Maturin demonstrates an unexpectedly profound knowledge of the English theater of the late 17th century for his time—the late 1810s. He mentions numerous playwrights: William Wycherley with his play “Love in a Wood, or St. James’s Park” (1671), John Dryden with his comedy “The Marriage à la Mode” (1673) and heroic drama “The Conquest of Granada by the Spaniards” (1670), Thomas Shadwell with his play “The Lancashire Witches” (1681), Aphra Behn with her comedy “The Roundheads” (1681), as well as Thomas Otway, Robert Howard, Elkanah Settle, Charles Sedley, and John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. Among the playwrights of the last decade of the 17th century, Maturin mentions William Congreve with his first comedy “The Old Bachelor” (1693) and Thomas Southern with his tragicomedy “Oroonoko” (1695), based on Aphra Behn’s novel of the same name. However, the central figure throughout the “theatrical” episode in Melmoth the Wanderer is the personality and dramatic work of the greatest Restoration tragic playwright, Nathaniel Lee (1651?–1692).

Nathaniel Lee was Maturin’s favorite playwright among all authors of the Restoration period. He was arguably the only author of the late 17th century whose plays remained on the stages of English theaters even 150 years later. Byron noted the similarity between Maturin’s own play “Manuel” and the works of Nathaniel Lee [5].

Maturin provides a detailed description of the performance of the tragedy “The Rival Queens, or The Death of Alexander the Great,” which he refers to as a premiere. The play’s first performance took place in 1677: “Stanton gazed on all this with the look of one who ‘could not be moved to smile at any thing.’ He turned to the stage, the play was ‘Alexander,’ then acted as written by Lee, and the principal character was performed by Hart, whose godlike ardour in making love, is said almost to have compelled the audience to believe that they beheld the ‘son of Ammon’.” [3, p. 36]. Maturin then draws attention to the play’s absurdities present: “There were absurdities enough to offend a classical, or even a rational spectator. There were Grecian heroes with roses in their shoes, feathers in their hats, and wigs down to their waists; and Persian prin Persian princesses in stiff stays and powdered hair” [3, p. 36]. He then almost verbatim recounts Thomas Betterton’s story about one of the productions of “The Rival Queens”: “It was that memorable night, when, according to the history of the veteran Betterton, Mrs Barry, who personated Roxana, had a green-room squabble with Mrs Bowtell, the representative of Statira, about a veil, which the partiality of the property-man adjudged to the latter. Roxana suppressed her rage till the fifth act, when, stabbing Statira, she aimed the blow with such force as to pierce through her stays, and inflict a severe though not dangerous wound. Mrs Bowtell fainted, the performance was suspended, and, in the commotion which this incident caused in the house, many of the audience rose, and Stanton among them” [3, p. 36]. The story concludes with the appearance of the main character—the mysterious Melmoth the Wanderer: “It was at this moment that, in a seat opposite him, he [Stanton—V.T.] discovered the object of his search for four years—a man he had once encountered on the plains of Valencia, who, in his opinion, was the main protagonist of the extraordinary stories he had been told” [3, p. 36].

The most intriguing part of the novel’s backstory begins in connection with the play “The Rival Queens.” This play contains scenes of madness that captivated Maturin. It was performed, among other places, in Dublin in 1685 (in Melmoth the Wanderer, the theme of Ireland is openly expressed—in the origins of the main character and his descendant, in the depiction of life and customs in early 19th-century Ireland, as well as in the author’s comments, and there are many hidden and obscure allusions that are not immediately apparent upon first reading). In the 18th century, this play featured the actress Charlotte Melmoth (c. 1749–1823), who, along with her common-law husband, a priest turned actor, Samuel Jackson Pratt, opened a theater in Drogheda, Ireland, in 1773, and debuted that same year at the Smock Alley Theatre in Dublin. She appeared as Roxana the following year, in 1774, at Covent Garden Theatre in London. Later, Charlotte Melmoth emigrated to America and became a leading tragic actress in New York at the turn of the 18th and 19th centuries. Her common-law husband adopted the stage name “Courtney Melmoth.” He was a prolific and well-known poet and novelist during his time. The story of Charlotte Melmoth and Courtney Melmoth may have somehow influenced Maturin’s choice of surname for the hero of his novel.

Returning to Nathaniel Lee: he was born around 1651 to a Presbyterian minister, Dr. Richard Lee, chaplain to one of the “architects” of the Stuart Restoration, George Monk. He received an excellent education first at the prestigious Charterhouse School in London and then at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he earned his Bachelor of Arts degree in 1669. His first play, “Nero” (1674), staged at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane, in 1675, was not very successful. It was followed by two more tragedies based on historical subjects—“Sophonisba” (1675) and “Gloriana” (1676)—but true success came with the performance of “The Rival Queens” on March 17, 1677, at the Royal Theatre, Drury Lane, which I mentioned earlier. This was followed by “Mithridates” (1678), “Caesar Borgia” (1680), and “Theodosius” (1680), the tragicomedy (or “black” comedy) “The Princess of Cleves” (1681), and finally, a play often regarded as the best of his work—the tragedy “Lucius Junius Brutus” (1680), which was soon banned due to allusions to King Charles II and the promotion of republican ideas. Consequently, in 1683, Nathaniel Lee released the tragedy “Constantine the Great,” which served as an apology for the Tories.

In 1684, Nathaniel Lee experienced what both frightened and attracted Romantic writers (recall Pushkin’s “God forbid I go mad”)—he was committed to Bedlam, a mental asylum. Here is what Maturin writes about Stanton—what situation he found himself in “a few years later”: “He had been always reckoned of a singular turn of mind, and the belief of this, aggravated by his constant talk of Melmoth, his wild pursuit of him, his strange behaviour at the theatre, and his dwelling on the various particulars of their extraordinary meetings, with all the intensity of the deepest conviction, (while he never could impress them on any one’s conviction but his own), suggested to some prudent people the idea that he was deranged” [3, p. 38]. The prophecy of Melmoth the Wanderer was fulfilled: “the place shall be the bare walls of a madhouse, where you shall rise rattling in your chains, and rustling from your straw, to greet me,—yet still you shall have the curse of sanity, and of memory” [3, p. 37]. “An anecdote about Nathaniel Lee’s attitude toward his stay in Bedlam has survived: “They called me mad, and I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me” [6, p. 1]. There were rumors that in Bedlam, Nathaniel Lee wrote a twenty-five-act play. Unfortunately, no traces of this work have survived. After his release from the asylum in 1688, Nathaniel Lee published a poem on the death of Aphra Behn and also released the tragedy “The Massacre in Paris,” which was considered highly anti-Catholic. Maturin faced similar accusations of anti-Catholicism over his novel Melmoth the Wanderer. Nathaniel Lee died from alcoholism in 1692 in London.

From all of the above, it can be concluded that both the biography and the creative method of the Restoration playwright Nathaniel Lee were at least one point of reference for Charles Maturin’s novel Melmoth the Wanderer. Lee’s attention to liminal states and the mad (in the literal sense) passions that consumed his characters attracted the Romantic novelist Charles Maturin. The mysterious story of Nathaniel Lee’s confinement in Bedlam and his equally strange release four years later all contributed to the narrative of Stanton, who similarly manages to escape from the madhouse, then visit Ireland and apparently Spain, where he presumably has his final encounter with the main character—Melmoth the Wanderer.

References

Varushkina A.V. The Image of the World and Methods of Its Creation in C.R. Maturin’s Novel “Melmoth the Wanderer” (Obraz mira i sposoby ego sozdaniya v romane Ch.R. Met’yurina «Mel’mot Skitalets»): Abstract of PhD dissertation. Voronezh: [Voronezh State University], 2005. 20 p.
Makarova L.S. Charles R. Maturin’s Novel “Melmoth the Wanderer” in the Context of Gothic and Romantic Traditions (Roman Ch.R. Met’yurina «Mel’mot-Skitalets» v kontekste goticheskoy i romanticheskoy traditsiy): Abstract of PhD dissertation. Nizhny Novgorod: [Nizhny Novgorod State Pedagogical University], 2001. 20 p.
Maturin C.R. Melmoth the Wanderer. Moscow: Azbuka-Atticus, 2021. 584 p.
Spitsyna L.V. Charles Robert Maturin and His Philosophical Novel “Melmoth the Wanderer” (Char’lz Robert Met’yurin i ego filosofskiy roman «Mel’mot Skitalets»): Abstract of PhD dissertation. Moscow: Moscow Regional Pedagogical Institute named after N.K. Krupskaya, 1978. 21 p.
Letters and Journals of Lord Byron. Lord Byron to John Murray, 14 June 1817 // https://www.lordbyron.org/monograph.php?doc=ThMoore.1830&select=AD1817.26 [accessed 27 August 2024]
Porter R. The Faber Book of Madness. London: Faber & Faber, 1991. 572 p.

Born September 6, 1986. Graduated from the Philological Department of St. Petersburg State University and earned a Master’s degree in Art History at St. Petersburg State University. By chance, at age twelve, I went with my parents to the shipyard where the frigate was “Shtandart” under construction. That hooked me for good. After the launch of “Shtandart” and its maiden voyage, I participated in building the captain’s gigs for the Atlantic Challenge Russia and sailed on them. In 2009, while a university student, I got acquainted with the Theater of Generations named after Z. Ya. Korogodsky and became a volunteer, and later a permanent employee of its literary and administrative department. Most of my work is connected with those two elements — the sea and the theater.

“WITHOUT LEAR”
On a production of “King Lear” at the Z. Ya. Korogodsky Generations Theater

Neither distance nor dust on the withering apple trees,

Nor the salt spray wreathing the air over Albion,

Nor the ashes will tell those alive, stronger or weaker,

Of this path and the ruler who’s stripped off his crown.

No less precious for that, the complicated truth

Slides away like a bar of soap slips from wet hands,

And the storm swirls — as close as the palisade it looms,

Where the questioning third trumpet’s blast comes to an end,

And death chases death, flashing it gestures,

Spinning its mill toward Judgment Day pell-mell…

Gone mad, the king speaks over the castle’s cinders,

And coldness slowly settles upon his soul.

2009

In the final months of 2023, “Apraksin Blues” hosted a series of three thematically linked seminars in its St. Petersburg editorial offices on Apraksin Lane, under the now well-tested banner of “Boogie-Woogie ῥῆμα.” The speakers—molecular biologist Marina Chernysheva (November 18), Tibetologist Vagid Ragimov (November 25), and philosopher Andrey Patkul (December 5)—view time from the standpoint of their fields of expertise.

Just over two weeks separate the first seminar from the last. The program is deliberately intense, coloring St. Petersburg’s Blues season with varied approaches to time’s nature. The gatherings prepare attendees for the path through winter and leave much to think about in future seasons.

1. The Energy Time of Biosystems

Marina Chernysheva’s lecture focuses on the relationship between time and the body, a topic she also explores her 2016 book, The Temporal Structure of Biosystems and Biological Time. She presents her ideas in a calm and friendly manner, drawing on extensive knowledge. To help attendees, she provides handouts that list key points, often using equations. Chernysheva speaks clearly about time’s biological side, including her own experiences, blending scientific facts with personal and ethical reflections.

Marina Cherysheva

She starts by giving a brief history of how time has been viewed by important thinkers in Western civilization, such as Heraclitus, Zeno, Plato, Aristotle, Newton, Leibniz, Kozyrev, Vernadsky, and Schrödinger. Then she moves on to modern scientific theories that connect time, energy, and biology. While it’s impossible to cover everything she discusses, the main ideas are clear.

Chernysheva explains that time is a form of energy present in living beings and the non-living universe. She highlights three roles of biological time: processing information, keeping a balance between information and energy in biological systems, and adjusting to our environment and interactions to optimize these resources.

The structure of the universe influences how we experience biological time. Balancing cyclical and linear processes, the universe seeks synchronization among all living things, including humans. Our biological systems help us synchronize internally and with the outside world. These processes, whether we’re aware of them or not, create a new balance even as living beings face losses, constantly using energy while trying to regain it, often in the form of information. Thoughts, actions, and experiences can all be seen as information. Like energy, information needs careful processing, both consciously and unconsciously.

When we do hard mental work, there’s a practical reason we crave breaks for fresh air: to keep our brains from overheating. This is a way of seeking balance in both conscious and unconscious processes inside us. Our success in this depends on how we engage with the present moment, which becomes more real through our awareness of change.

Our well-being relies on our unique human ability to reflect on the past, present, and future within the so-called temporal window of our consciousness. This window can and should be expanded. Our minds play a crucial role in this, storing and retrieving memories while measuring time. To support our biological processes, our minds help organize information into labeled categories, making it useful and manageable. Regularly organizing and cleaning up this information is essential for keeping it in shape.

Thoughts, which involve generating and processing information, represent energy intertwined with the energy of time. This concept relates to the second law of thermodynamics, which deals with entropy in thermodynamic systems, as well as the work of physicist Léon Brillouin on open thermodynamically unstable systems. The flow of thoughts, as an energy exchange within our systems, needs modulation and adjustment according to quantitative and qualitative factors. This cognitive work occurs both when waking and sleeping, including dreams, which help reconnect and purify fragments of our consciousness. Chernysheva says this is why we often forget our dreams and why we usually shouldn’t dwell on their significance or regret their vanishing—”Oh, what a lovely dream! Why did it disappear?”—because they serve a specific biological function that ends upon waking. Chernysheva recalls a dream where her mother appeared, sitting on a crocodile in the street. She doesn’t know the dream’s meaning but thinks the relief it gave her consciousness means more.

The audience includes physicists, philosophers, artists, writers, and representatives from both the exact sciences and the humanities, spanning various religious backgrounds. Each participant brings their own perspective on these biological principles’ significance for real people, drawing from their experiences and understanding of psychology, physiology, and cultural traditions. Some attendees keep asking, “So what is time, after all?” —still unconvinced that time is a form of energy and viewing it more as a medium for energy and matter. It would be interesting to think more about the kinds of changes people can or can’t comprehend, and how this varies from person to person based on individual experiences and development. Some might want to expand their understanding of biological time and how to navigate it beyond what Chernysheva presents. Some of us, for instance, like to remember and think about our dreams. Yet her basic ideas admit personal interpretation and adaptation. Her findings and theories about biosystems have profound repercussions for our lives.

Chernysheva appreciates the audience’s thoughtful and engaging questions. When a humanities specialist asks how culture relates to biological time, the biologist replies that she considers music and art good ways to measure time and shape our consciousness. She also emphasizes that while biological time can include the idea of eternity, “eternity is not just endless time; it’s the absence of time.”

Chernysheva also mentions that some questions haven’t been explored in her research yet and will need further attention from specialists or herself. During the seminar, she’s even had an idea for her next book. She plans to start writing it soon.

2. Trading Time for Mahamudra

In Vagid Ragimov’s teachings on Tibetan Buddhism, eternity as the absence of time figures as a baseline guide for consciousness. In Buddhism, conventional time requires spiritual rethinking. One practice for attaining such understanding is Mahamudra, a part of Tibetan Buddhism’s Kagyu school, associated with the Six Yogas of Naropa. Tibetan Buddhism has passed down this practice for a thousand years.

Vagid Ragimov

Through Mahamudra, practitioners learn to expand their self-identity. Ragimov clarifies that it’s “good to connect with others,” while also important to realize personality is just one aspect of who we are. Fuller realization happens through “subtle channels,” developed using visualization, mantras, and breathing techniques. Ragimov notes, “Mahamudra is based on what actually is, and that’s why it works.”

Mahamudra shares some concepts with all of Buddhism, like the “middle way,” but it also has unique elements. One key text Ragimov has translated is The Essence of the Ocean of True Meaning, written in the 16th century by the IX Karmapa Wangchuk Dorje. Ragimov’s fluency is evident as he jots down Tibetan words and symbols in chalk on a wooden board, which still shows the smeared remnants of past lessons. Going deeper into his explication, he becomes inspired and responds to questions vigorously.

To master Mahamudra, having a guru, or spiritual teacher, is essential. Ragimov explains that a guru can take many forms; it doesn’t have to be a person. For example, in a classic painting he shows us, elephants form a spiral staircase to the sky, symbolizing a guru. Texts, symbols, or nature can be a guru. Earth, water, and mountains can teach different virtues. Incense is a traditional meditation object, but any object can do, and Mahamudra meditation can focus on internal objects or even have no object at all.

Mahamudra helps practitioners experience their state of consciousness. They move from meditation for its own sake to exploring the nature of their minds. Any meditation technique in Mahamudra strengthens their practice and helps them persist. Ultimately, Mahamudra reveals that time does not exist. Tibetan Buddhism teaches that belief in the conventional understanding of time is a limited perspective. Referred to as “sem” in Tibetan Buddhism, this narrow understanding can often be mistaken. True understanding shows that “only the moment exists,” but even this moment is difficult to grasp fully. Recognizing this uncertainty helps enhance compassion, making it “freer” and “lighter,” Ragimov says.

Both absolute and conditional realities exist at the same time. The conditional reality we experience is not unnecessary; instead, it forms a starting point for purifying our consciousness in our human lives. Unlike the gods, who already exist in absolute reality and have no need to seek truth, humans have the potential for growth and development.

When someone familiar with Buddhism asks Ragimov if relying on familiar rituals, known as “taking refuge,” could hinder spiritual progress, he replies that this attachment is not harmful at early stages. It’s just good to recognize it if it comes up on the path to understanding the true nature of all things.

As Ragimov discusses Tibetan Buddhism’s written heritage, the audience expresses interest in translation. Ragimov explains that Tibetan Buddhism is less known than other forms that originated in India, often using terms from Indian philosophy. To help people understand Tibetan Buddhist ideas, it is sometimes acceptable to use Sanskrit terms instead of Tibetan ones. For example, he translates the Tibetan word “khorwa” as the Sanskrit “samsara,” which describes the cycle of birth and death. Ragimov has also accomplished the first poetic translation of The Songs of Milarepa from Tibetan to Russian. A mention of this leads to questions about his techniques, which also demonstrate Mahamudra’s practical benefits.

Eventually, someone suggests that Ragimov take a break. It’s easy to lose track of time with so much sharing in one session, but the audience still wants to hear more. As we move from the formal lecture to a more relaxed conversation over tea and coffee, there’s a sense that we’ve collectively explored the connection between conditional and absolute time, creating a newly balanced understanding. We hope to keep building on this experience of freedom and community. This growth also raises questions about personal responsibility, but Ragimov offers his help for the future. He invites anyone interested to join him at the Diamond Way Meditation Center on Nikolsky Lane and to attend his daily lessons based on The Essence of the Ocean of True Meaning. He also hints that lessons in Tibetan language and on Milarepa may resume, becoming part of the ongoing history of the St. Petersburg offices of Apraksin Blues.

3. Heideggerian Time as a Drive for Understanding

In Martin Heidegger’s philosophy, which guides our next seminar, the intellect is crucial for understanding our relationship with time. Through intellectual exploration, time becomes a key element in ontology, the study of being. Heidegger argues that temporality is essential to grasping what it means to be. Andrey Patkul’s book, The Idea of Philosophy as the Science of Being in Martin Heidegger’s Fundamental Ontology (St. Petersburg: Nauka, 2020), provides an insightful interpretation of Heidegger’s ideas. An evening with Patkul turns the book’s content into an engaging discussion with a sense of personal urgency.

Andrey Patkul

On this particular evening, the air is bitterly cold, and due to poor traffic and road conditions, many participants arrive a bit late, including the speaker. Yet once Patkul steps into the warm room and takes his seat, he sets a quick pace—as a committed professional—beginning a talk on Heidegger that turns out to be surprisingly accessible. Those who’d felt anxious about attending due to Heidegger’s reputation for opacity needn’t have worried.

Patkul explains that Heidegger’s philosophy draws from various traditions, including neo-Kantianism, phenomenology, and Christian theology. Heidegger’s main goal is to define what being (or Sein in German) is, what essence (Wesen) means, and how they differ. This exploration is central to Heidegger’s major work, Being and Time (Sein und Zeit), as well as his other writings.

To simplify these complex ideas, it’s possible to say that essence refers to what exists independently and unconditionally. In contrast, being is what is given to us through understanding, even if it doesn’t exist in the same way. For Heidegger, examples of essence include concepts like numbers, society, and God, while being encompasses our various relationships with essences or objects. Understanding essence requires the perspective of being, and being understands itself as active rather than static. The principles of being create new forms of being, which then serve as a foundation for further understanding.

Additionally, essence is constant, while being is tied to time—specifically, the time defined by the subject experiencing being. For Heidegger, ideas like timelessness or eternity are just abstractions. The essence of life is found in temporality, which is linked to being and can be seen as a more nuanced concept of time in the real world. A key question then arises: who is responsible for realizing this temporality in the world? Heidegger introduces a new term, Dasein, which means “being-there” or “being-as-such,” to describe being that is influenced by existence in the world and time.

Dasein’s counterpart is Das Man, which can mean “someone,” “something,” “people,” or simply “the crowd.” This term describes a way of being that does not create new ideas but relies on borrowed ones, thus avoiding full engagement with existence. Das Man cannot interact with being, the world, and time in the personal, deep way that Dasein does.

Patkul characterizes Heidegger’s approach as a significant shift in philosophy, bridging thinkers from Aristotle to modern figures like Einstein and Bergson. Recognizing this shift, Heidegger argued for a new philosophical ontology to explain how being and time interact. The many new terms Heidegger created can be overwhelming for newcomers, but the key concepts shared by Patkul during the seminar are understandable and useful.

Alongside these new terms, Heidegger also gives specific meanings to familiar concepts. Patkul highlights “ecstasy” and its related “ecstatic horizons,” as well as “presence” and “care.” Ecstasy, from the Greek meaning “to stand outside oneself,” is vital for understanding time and being. In ecstasy, our Dasein transcends the usual flat understanding of time and our existence within it. These moments of liberation create ecstatic horizons that can help us broaden our understanding.

This idea can be related to the notion of a “temporal window” from Chernysheva’s teachings on biological time, but Heidegger’s perspective describes a shift in consciousness toward a higher level of understanding. Heidegger’s idea of transcendence differs from what might be found in Tibetan Buddhism and other spiritual teachings, yet it still encourages moving beyond ignorance and toward a deeper understanding. Transcendence in Heidegger’s view also leads to the concept of presence, which represents temporality as part of a greater unity—hinting at a holistic understanding of existence that goes beyond humanity. Presence allows us to grasp the fullness of being in the here and now, in relation to what is immediately available.

An important question arises about motivation: what should drive Dasein to deepen its understanding of existence in time? One answer lies in confronting fear—particularly the realities of death, limitation, and impermanence—as these experiences shape our understanding of existential temporality. In Heidegger’s philosophy, death represents the most significant ecstasy and the deepest state of standing outside oneself. Nevertheless, fear remains fear. Patkul points out that Heidegger believed if there were no death, there would be no reason to live. Critics argue that Heidegger does not clarify why, if death is so significant, one should not rush toward it. In response, Heidegger introduces another key concept: care, which means “running ahead of oneself” in the pursuit of what is necessary. This concern for both body and mind—what needs to be accomplished in time—becomes a philosophical virtue alongside the fear of failing to meet the demands of presence and ecstasy. As Patkul aptly states, “fear works.” Dasein is always under the pressure of duty embedded in the very structure of being and time, and it must cultivate an understanding of this duty.

After hearing this, a seminar participant remarks, “That comes from his background in Christianity.” Patkul agrees, noting that Heidegger himself acknowledged the influence of Christian thought on his work.

Thanks to Patkul’s clarity and the engagement of the audience—some familiar with Heidegger’s ideas and others new to them—the seminar dedicated to this “frightening” philosopher turns out to be not frightening but inspiring. It helps to discuss complex topics collectively, rather than tackling them alone. The speaker realizes that not everyone can grasp the depth of his research, even though Heidegger’s ideas are relevant to all. That said, this world philosopher provides a valuable framework for refining thought. Patkul himself is evidence of this. As at all the seminars on time, the concentration on the participants’ faces showed the beauty of their philosophical reflection.

After the seminar, one woman expressed her excitement: “This is exactly what I need.” Another guest, clearly pleased, remarked, “I think we did quite well.” Indeed, everyone at our winter seminars participated admirably. Proposals have already come in for future seminars—some about time and others on new themes. There are many perspectives and teachings to explore. So we need to get ready!

Where is it?

When is it?

— It’s all NOW.

Now and in us:

in our bodies and heads

in our eyes-minds-cells-hearts

in our worlds and times

in our past and future

HERE and NOW.

SELF-PORTRAIT AS A METHOD OF BLUES

As in the primal naming of the names

cadences of eternity have warmed

they stride onto the pathway of their times

oblivious to vanished poets gone before

not wavering not making needless fusses

each life pursues its own self-portrait’s painting

although they have connections their own bridges

their own special communication methods — astrolabing

through antennaed cellular unity in universal waves

through their signals signs and passwords of a prudent will

which passed thousand-year warfare’s navigation

which hasn’t fled captivity and pain’s travails

at the bottom and the summit of genetic spoke dimensions

the circles of elusive spirals came into alignment

and in countless spots and faces customarily partitioned

our self — self-portrait — recognized, surprised us.

Thus there arises neverending blues-ness

in verse and formula and prose of dancing muses…

— T. Apraksina

Self-Portrait as a Method of Blues: In Worlds and Times (Blues Mondo). T. Apraksina

“That’s what results in endless blues “

The Many Faces of Time (Blues Report). J. Manteith

“Eternity is the absence of time”

Until the grass breaks… K. Razumovskaya

“The chapter is moving away, the stanza is hurrying…”

The Restoration Period through the Prism of Romanticism. V. Trofimova

“Maturin begins with an unexpected aspect — occultism, belief in witches and witchcraft”

Japanese Characters and Set Theory. A. Kiselyov

“All set theory operations can easily apply to each character…”

Cadences of Florence (Photo Gallery). A. “Liverpool”

“Hurray! I shoot without limits!”

Living Logic. V. Lyubeznov

“Thought can only follow the turns and leaps of the first beginnings”

Matisse’s Stroke in Church Art. A. Palamarchuk

“The very emergence of tradition is impossible without creative search”

The Model of the University in the Ideas of J.G. Fichte. D. Skachkov

“The goal of the university…is to educate artists of scholarship…”

The Long Road to Afghanistan. L. Landa

“To see Kabul and not die”

Echoes of the Wisdom of Sheikh Saadi in the Poetry of K.A. Lipskerov. M. Yahyapour, J. Karimi-Motahhar

“in his oriental poems, he combines the culture and faith of two nations”

Spanish Rock (continued). La Frontera: On the Border of Good and Evil. O. Romanova

“an anarchist with an open, kind heart”

The Creative Will (fragments). W.H. Wright

“All art must dominate life”

About the Author: Bill Yake (1947-2022) — American poet and environmentalist, author of three poetry collections: This Old Riddle: Cormorants and Rain (2004), Unfurl, Kite, and Veer (2010) and Waymaking by Moonlight (2020). He received awards for his poetry. He also published books based on his impressions of traveling in Mongolia and among the islands of western Canada (Haida Gwaii),

Bill Yake’s work has been featured in many American literary and environmental journals. Apraksin Blues readers have encountered his poetry in Russian in AB №11 “Without and Within,” which includes a translation of his “The Mind of Taxidermy” (in Russian here).

Distinguished by scientific and cultural accuracy, Yake’s poetry focuses on topics related to nature, humanity’s relationship to it, and critique of civilization’s friction with the natural world.

The below meditations are a byproduct of Yake’s main body of work and were written, understandably, for his inner circle. The text shows the informal side of the author’s personality, spinning a documentary chronicle of his life with cars in a way that measures stages in his own development.

* * *

A litany, or lineage, of car ownership and anecdotes can shine a random light into one’s life. Here I try to recollect some of my vehicles and memorable stories I associate with each. You will probably detect a pattern of high turnover, which probably had multiple causes:

Being relatively poor, early on, I got/bought cheap used vehicles
My mechanical skills were limited, especially in the beginning.
Cars of the mid-20th century were, in general, less reliable than current vehicles.
I adopted a philosophy (justification) of judging the efficiency of a car purchase based on a ratio between the purchase price and the number of miles the vehicle ran before dying. So, if I got 1,000 miles out of a $100 car, that would be $0.10 of purchase cost per mile driven. Some of my cars achieved $0.02 purchase cost per mile or better. That would be the equivalent of getting 1,000,000 miles out of a $20,000 car. Not bad, eh?

Obtained in 1965. 1958 Tan Ford Station Wagon with a (police) Interceptor V8 engine.

This vehicle was given to me by my father early in the summer of 1965. I think he bought it in Spokane for $200 and drove it to West Glacier, Montana, where I’d begun working for the National Park Service. It had bad tires and was fast. I would drive it from West Glacier to Many Glacier on weekends as I had a crush on a girl (a high-school classmate) whose father (Lewis Sabo) was a naturalist stationed in Many Glacier. Sometimes his daughter (Carolyn) would visit. No relationship developed but I would drive the Ford at over 100 mph between St. Mary’s and Babb – a straight, flat run between the park and the Blackfoot Indian Reservation. The tires never blew out. Once, while driving between Babb and Many Glacier something struck the windshield and cracked it just to the left of my head. I stopped and examined the fracture and concluded that it was a stray (?) bullet; scanned the horizon for a potential source, then got back in and drove off fast.

Obtained in 1966 or 1967: 1957 Black Ford Station Wagon with a reflective gold side stripe.

This vehicle had previously been the family car and was handed down. The back-side window was festooned with decals from various states and national parks. A friend who was a graphic artist added a sign that read “Land Speed Record”. The policeman who stopped me on the highway headed north out of Pullman was not amused. Eventually I painted much of the car with bright psychedelic patterns. Like the ’58 wagon, it had a manual transmission with the shift on the steering column. The steering gear became very worn (over a full 360-degree turn before it would “catch”) and I remember Dad bringing a replacement gear down to Pullman and fixing the problem while the car was parked in a dorm lot. In the summer of 1967, I loaned the car to a guy who then burned out the clutch – got it repaired at a Pullman garage.

(Photo from a Boy Scout campout at Deer Park circa 1964.)

Obtained in the summer of 1968: 1949 pale green Plymouth.

I bought this vehicle while working in Seattle – grounds-keeping at a cemetery and some interior painting. Cost $50. It had a loud exhaust and I got a warning ticket in Seattle instructing me to get it repaired. On driving it back to Pullman at the end of the summer I was stopped on Hwy 195 between Spokane and Colfax by a Washington State patrolman for the loud exhaust. He asked for my registration and I fumbled through the glovebox for the pink registration, found a likely document and handed it to him. It was the Seattle warning ticket for a defective exhaust. He wasn’t impressed, but gave me another break, saying he patrolled this stretch of highway regularly and next time he’d nail me if I didn’t get it fixed. On pulling into Pullman I got a soup can and two hose clamps. Cutting the ends out of the soup cans and cutting the resulting cylinder lengthwise with tinsnips, I spliced together the exhaust pipe (it had rusted through completely) and solved the problem.

Later that year the Plymouth developed severe engine problems – it would not start without coasting and I used it only to get groceries at the Rosauer’s at the base of the Stadium Way hill. The engine was so weak I could only get back up the hill in reverse.

The winter of ’68-69 was extreme. Temperatures fell as low as -32 degrees F. (Jan. 1, 1969 – Pullman-Moscow Airport) and -48 degrees at Ice Harbor Dam near Walla Walla. The latter was the coldest temperature ever recorded in Washington State. Snowfall was very heavy over the Christmas vacation, which I spent at a friend’s in Seattle. I drove his VW Bug back to Pullman and my feet were numb and clumsy as ice blocks on arrival.

My Plymouth had been towed away when the city plowed the streets and by the time I could consider retrieving it from impoundment, the fee was over $100. The city inherited one Plymouth. And I hitchhiked for some time – including a visit to the Tolstoy Peace Farm near Ritzville the spring I was reading Nietzsche. Early in the summer I hitchhiked to San Francisco and spent the summer there looking for work. But these are other stories.

Obtained around 1969-1970: A black VW Bug. Maybe ’62 vintage?

Around this time I moved back to the Palouse and lived in Albion. This vehicle had belonged to brother Tom’s friend Dave Juckich. I don’t remember the cost. The driver’s seat was not bolted to the frame but could be moved back to rest against the back seat, giving me plenty of legroom. This also allowed easy access to the back seat and allowed me to requisition this Round Oak woodstove (see photo) from the fallen-down cabin where it was moldering in the Moscow Mountains.

The photo at right dates from about 1970. This ’38 Plymouth (?) 4-door was parked semi-permanently outside our (freaky) farmstead in Albion. I never saw it move, but rumor was that it had been driven by Tad Suckling and others in bringing Peter, Paul, and Mary from the Pullman-Moscow Airport to their concert venue on the WSU campus. And that P, P, & M were unsettled by its rustic condition.

Obtained around 1970: 1950 Dodge panel truck.

This classic vehicle had a stovepipe that vented through the side of the truck for attachment to an interior stove. It had windows all around and had once belonged to some sort of (dude?) ranch or recreational site in Colorado. The truck had originally been green but had then been painted black, leaving only the ranch sign on the driver’s door still displayed in the original green. This vehicle transported old wooden furniture and a bit of contraband. After a bad winter, algae was found growing in the piston bores. I don’t believe it ever ran after that.

Obtained about 1972. ~1962 Saab. Blue.

A very odd car – 2-stroke, 3-cylinder, front-wheel drive with a “free-wheel” feature – meaning that it provided no compression braking when you let up on the accelerator. This was the year of my very short, unhappy, 9-month marriage to Jamie Crighton. When all fell apart, I resolved to drive across the country (Pullman WA to Schenectady NY) to meet her family. It was a long, strange, and memorable trip.

I piled most of my belongings and dog – Clancy, a gentle, understanding off-breed golden retriever – into the car and headed east. In the Midwest I picked up two hitchhikers (guys) and let one of them drive when I got sleepy. When I awoke, we’d been pulled over by a patrolman. Perhaps for speeding, I don’t recall. It was between midnight and dawn, but we were guided to a judge’s house to resolve the problem — perhaps because the driver had no money to pay the fine and we were clearly unlikely to hang around. My memory is incomplete on this, but at one point the cop and we stopped at a small store – to use the restroom(?). The hitchhikers and the cop went inside and I deduced that the cop(s) were giving me a break – so I drove the Saab off in a hurry, crossed over the freeway and headed east on back roads for the state line. They probably never followed me, but I was relieved when I crossed into the next state (Minnesota or Michigan).

Not being a quick learner, I picked up another hitchhiker who made a pass at me, so I let him out forthwith.

Next mistake? To save time (I thought) I took a route that passed through Canada. I-90 to Interstate 295 to Hwy. 69/410 and back into the US at Niagara Falls. The border guards pretty much tore the car’s insides apart searching for contraband – there was none. I put everything back together and carried on to Schenectady, avoiding the toll roads, which meant long roller-coaster grades over the rolling mountains.

After Schenectady (the stop at the Crighton’s was only modestly enlightening) I drove to Boston and slept in the Boston Commons. I awoke in my sleeping bag with Clancy barking at a squad car full of cops with their windows mostly rolled up. They advised me to get moving, and I did. Next, I stopped at Woods Hole and actually got a room at the old seaside inn. What remains vivid is seeing several skunks sharing the sidewalks as I ambled around town. From there I drove through NYC on the freeway and headed back west again.

Somewhere in New England I remember the gas mileage improving drastically. But also, the engine would kill every time I came to a stop. Opening the hood, I examined the carburetor. When I touched it, it fell off. The retaining bolts had shaken loose. Excess air was being drawn in at the base of the carburetor and the engine had been running extremely lean. Somehow (wire?, spare bolts?) I reattached the carburetor and continued.

I came back through Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska. In Nebraska, the car started stalling and when I checked, I found that the distributor was filling up with iron filings and the points were shorting out. I would clear out the iron filings and drive another twenty miles, then the engine would stall again. It got worse and worse. The shaft on the distributor was rapidly wearing away, throwing the iron filings into points. Finally, as the vehicle died, a snowstorm picked up and I was stranded at the side of the road. I slept in the car and in the morning flagged someone down who agreed to haul the car to the nearest town. From town I called around and found that the nearest Saab dealer and parts were in Bismarck ND – 2 states away.

I gave to car to the guy who had hauled me to town, then put most of my belongings on a Greyhound headed for Spokane. Because I couldn’t take Clancy on the bus, I hitchhiked with the bare essentials back to Spokane. Somewhere in Montana, while I was sleeping beside the freeway, my old Springfield 22 was stolen. Clancy didn’t even wake me. In Spokane I temporarily took up residence with my folks, who found a lawyer to help me settle the divorce.

Obtained about 1973. A 1948(?) Ford Pickup.

This lasted maybe a year while I lived in a cold-water flat by the Spokane River/Peaceful Valley. It had an icebox rather than a refrigerator and my nearest neighbor there was a one-legged Indian knife fighter with horrible headaches and a serious fortified wine habit.

Eventually I got a job as a laborer, then working for an environmental consultant, then as “field representative” for the Spokane County Air Pollution Control Authority.

(Photo – Ford pickup in front of cold-water flat in Peaceful Valley, circa 1973.)

Obtained about 1973. A Blue Chevy II.

I don’t recall much about this vehicle.

Obtained about 1974. A Ford F-150 pickup. Early 60’s vintage. This truck had belonged to the USFS and had thus been painted the standard light green of the federal vehicles in that era. I had an angle-iron rack welded to the bed, with two washing machine rollers attached to the back crossbar. These were used when loading my canoe onto the rack. I also remember using this truck to haul firewood for me and recyclables for the Spokane Food Coop. On more than one occasion it was so heavily loaded (with bundled newspaper or lumber) that, on hitting a bump, the front wheels would actually rise off the road. This hindered steering somewhat.

On weekends I’d sometimes take the truck and canoe to 4th of July Lake in Lincoln County to flyfish for rainbow trout.

Eventually, when I left Spokane (late 1976) I sold the pickup to brother Tom.

(Photo: F-150 at family farm with Dad, Mother, Tom, Betsy (in truck bed), Mary, and Eric Kowalski – Mary’s friend. Tom’s Porsche in background.)

About 1974, the Chevy II gave way to a 1963 Dodge Dart.

This was my most reliable car to date. Its slant-6 engine held up well as I drove it between Spokane and Pullman working on my Environmental Engineering master’s degree. The Dart lasted through a year’s residency in Pullman and a summer job as Stream Patrolman for the WS Department of Ecology, checking water withdrawal permits during the drought of 1977. The Dart moved me to Olympia in late 1977.

Eventually it too gave up the ghost. I remember parking it on a visit to my sister, Mary, in Seattle. The engine didn’t shut off, then I could see dancing shadows on the asphalt beneath the engine. On opening the hood, I found flames flickering from the carburetor.

Obtained in 1978. A small, used Ford Courier pickup (actually, a Mazda), maybe ’72 vintage(?) to replace the F-150 for wood and canoe hauling. It was a bit cramped, but serviceable. I spun it once in the snow driving from Tumwater to Tenino. No damage.

Early 1980’s. A blue Toyota Corolla hatchback.

A commuter vehicle between Tenino and work at the Ecology office near the Tumwater Airport.

Late 1980s. A Maroon Isuzu Trooper II.

My first new car. Cost about $10,000. This 4-cylinder vehicle picked up a theme from the early station wagons and the Dodge panel truck. It had relatively high clearance and room to sleep in back. It also had 4-wheel drive, a cassette deck, and a rack that allowed me to haul the canoe. This permitted relatively cheap road trips with access to back roads. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that sturdy and took something of a beating. In the end the driver’s door was sprung, so it wouldn’t completely close.

One memorable trip was a search for Lew Welch’s* hermit cabin in the Northern California Salmon River country. Welch, a poet and confederate of Jack Kerouac and Gary Snyder, lived in a remote cabin not far from the tiny town of Forks-of-Salmon. I met up with Greg Darms,** who was living, at the time, in Inverness CA, near Bolinas, on the coast north of San Francisco. We used hints from Welch’s collected letters I Remain to locate the remains of the cabin near a small pond up a ridge on the south side of the Salmon River. This car was also transportation to several poetry retreats: Centrum, Art of the Wild, etc.

It lasted until about 1995.

(Photo: My cat Catfish in the wheel well of the Trooper.)

Obtained in 1996. Green Toyota 4Runner with 4-cylinder engine.

As of 2019 this vehicle is running strong with over 180,000 miles in its 23 years of service. It’s provided transport for the canoe, kayaks, a row/sailboat and numerous road trips. Some of the most notable were fall camping trips with Matthew*** and Greg Darms to locations throughout Washington and Oregon, and occasionally into northeastern Nevada. A remarkably reliable vehicle with good gas mileage – 19-25 mpg.

2019

* Lew Welch (1926-1971) — American Beatnik poet and essayist.

** Greg Darms — American poet, publisher, essayist. See AB №№ 17 (“Katagami“), 29 (“Certain Uncertainties: Speculative Readings of Emily Dickinson’s ‘This World is not conclusion’“).

*** The author’s son.

Gjekë Marinaj

The poet Gjekë Marinaj’s international outlook illustrates the age-old truth that poetry has no place of permanent residence. His poems are translated and loved in many countries, and fans of his work can be found across the continents. The numerous prizes, awards and other honors he has received around the world resoundingly affirm this.

For admirers of Marinaj’s creative gifts, it comes as welcome news that Syracuse University Press has released the most comprehensive selection of his poems to date. The book, entitled Teach Me How to Whisper: “Horses” and Other Poems, includes a generous assortment of new and previous work by the poet.

Over the many years of Marinaj’s sojourn in America, English has become his primary poetic language, which in no way signals a rejection of his native roots or of the culture that raised him. Having gained American citizenship under the pressure of extraordinary circumstances, the poet inhabits both hemispheres, paying borders little mind and constantly nurturing literary relationships not only in the land that has become his home, but also in the nations of Europe, Asia and Africa. His varied, deep and unpredictable poetic trajectory interweaves the traces of these literary relationships, supported by necessarily frequent travels as well as concern for lives and fates in poetry’s domain.

Like another exile, Joseph Brodsky, Gjekë Marinaj chose to treat his rift with his homeland as a way to find himself and a new civic spirit transcending the political. Unlike Brodsky, he preferred a swift restoration and strengthening of reciprocal ties with his birthplace. A vision shaped by Albania’s nature and people remains a lasting foundation for this poet of the world.

The book shows that Marinaj’s worldwide reputation is based not only on his expansive reach in the outside world, but also on sensitivity to inner worlds and otherworldliness — common to everyone, but revealed in a special way by the labor of careful, heartfelt poetic craft.

The collection’s lines of development confirm that the shifts in Marinaj’s situation find reflection in shifts in consciousness, reinforcing the bedrock of his personality and attunement to truth. The general vector of this process can be glimpsed in the names of the nine sections: “Home,” “Albania,” “Amor,” “Admonitions,” “Acheron,” “Heroines,” “Metaphysics,” “Poets,” “Earth” and “India.” In any of the topics that attract him, Marinaj sees broad horizons for poetic intelligence.

Accordingly, poems expressing the author’s attitude toward the characters and scenes of his childhood (“My Neighbors in Brrut,” “Ode to My Parents”) demonstrate how much he treasures his early, isolated experience as a source of values for life to come. That same dawn of his life (“The Lullaby Singers,” “A Book Gift from My Parents”) fostered Marinaj’s craving for lyrical and epic poetry in folk and classical forms — and the wandering Odysseus might have served as a prototype for the future poet.

“The Return of Skënderbeu” and “Since the Time They Killed Omer” celebrate Albania’s nerve and national heroes, while “To Shkoder” and other poems mourn the tragedies of the Balkans and the pain of parting with the region. “Twenty-four Hours of Love,” “Reading Poetry with my Sweetheart” and other lyric poems show the poet’s romantic, chivalrous side.

The range of protest poems in the collection — from the famous “Horses” (Marinaj’s metaphor for his tormented people) to “Sketches in the Imagination,” with its description of a faded, impersonal world — shows that the author perceives the integrity of human life as threatened on the scale that spans immediate realities and a timeless, ubiquitous struggle.

“My Conversation with Death” and “On the Ferry of Acheron” (a river that, according to Greek mythology, flows through the underworld) identify the dark side of modernity with hell and corruption. The poet does not hide his horror and disgust before dead facts hostile to the life of the spirit.

Embodiments of Marinaj’s ideal can be seen among those whom his poetry praises — not only militant heroes, but also figures drawn from literature and history. Marinaj’s poems help to realize afresh how it matters directly for us that Antigone refused to surrender, and to feel ourselves newly moved by the fortitude and devotion of Desdemona, Emily Dickinson or the tragic Albanian heroine Rozafa — each a paragon of ethics of self-abnegation.

In such philosophical lyrics as “Hallelujah” or “The Labyrinth of Tang Thought,” the collection’s originality and freedom reach a certain peak of intensity, yielding the fruits of the author’s own detachment, a sanctum of inner life persisting amid diverse external engagements.

Of course, rising above the commonplace can render poets vulnerable, leaving them with truncated, star-crossed lives. Marinaj’s work frequently laments this side of poets’ destinies. But such sorrow is paired with a compassionate receptivity that lifts these poems beyond the usual limits of individual existence.

The poems “The Blue Nile,” “Fuji,” and “So It Seems, at Ha Long Bay” impress with their refined assessment of far-flung places approached by the outsider poet with great respect for the peoples who call them their own.

The concluding long poem “The Lost Layers of Vyasa’s Skin,” steeped in love for Indian culture and in no less tender affection for the Albanian-Calcuttan saint of our time, Mother Teresa, gives the reader a new standard for a fusion of Western and Eastern imagery and moral contemplation.

Many layers of Marinaj’s personality coexist in his poems. Teach Me How to Whisper crescendos into revelation, cultivating planetary meaning while staying true to the dearest human principles.