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 these 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 a photographer-artist, 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 vain to mention something you can’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 became pensive and soon retired to Florida (a sweet-sounding word for retirees). But before that, he gave me the cure.

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, come to 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 her son and heir of ideas—as she pointed to the marshy Karelian landscape outside the train window: “This, my child, is what they call 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 that the roots of my memory cling to. And they keep holding on. I admit, this Finnish landscape, this  realm of lakes and bays, 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 and 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, 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 highly cultured retirees, 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 tourists the Madonna Lipa (a whimsical nickname). 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.  Such a corrupting influence; how could I not be in awe?

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 Black Sea near Sudak, Crimea (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-city 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 witnessed 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, or a motorcycle. And he even invented and built some kind of stereoscopic photo 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 types, 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 shoot, that is to say, to photograph, all the Lenin monuments. There turned out to be zillions and gazillions 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: perhaps the space ran out, or maybe some Pioneer activist got preferential treatment, 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 recall 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 has no 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 night watchmen and janitors, 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  wintered in a kishlak (village) in the mountains of Tajikistan—where I got the idea, by the way, of starting to have home slide shows 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, 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 to get color 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 fragrant 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…  Sounds like some kind of “Zen and the Camera.”

 

Later, after moving to the West, for a while I kept giving slide shows and sharing stories about our rough 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 how could I get away from it?), 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 getting together in person, together we can see the images and thus 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 might 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 a childlike 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 one man’s 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 the 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.

Img 67671df4a87f0

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

 

  1. 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.
  2. 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.
  3. Maturin C.R. Melmoth the Wanderer. Moscow: Azbuka-Atticus, 2021. 584 p.
  4. 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.
  5. 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]
  6. 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

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

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

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”