Latest news with #JosephBrodsky
Russia Today
29-05-2025
- Politics
- Russia Today
From psychiatric ward to Nobel prize: How a Jewish outcast became a great Russian poet
A Russian Jew who found spiritual kinship in Christianity and made it a tradition to write a Christmas poem each year. A man with an imperial imagination, shaped by the worldview of ancient Rome. Someone who defended the conquistadors and denounced Ukrainian independence. All of this – and more – describes Joseph Brodsky. Few writers achieve the status of a classic while still alive. Brodsky, deeply grounded in literary tradition and animated by a consciousness forged in antiquity, didn't just challenge conventions – he shattered them. Decades later, some of his choices still provoke. In the month he would have turned 85, RT revisits the life and legacy of Joseph Brodsky. They say childhood shapes who we are – and in Joseph Brodsky's case, that couldn't be more true. Within his first two years of life, he witnessed events that would leave an indelible mark on his future. Brodsky was born into a Jewish family in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) on May 24, 1940. His father, a naval officer, was sent to the front when Nazi Germany launched Operation Barbarosa. During the brutal winter of 1941–1942, young Joseph endured the siege of Leningrad and was later evacuated with his mother to the city of Cherepovets. It was there that a Russian nanny quietly baptized him. After the war, the family was reunited in Leningrad. Brodsky would later recall those early years: 'My father wore his naval uniform for about two more years. He was an officer in charge of the photo lab at the Naval Museum, located in the most beautiful building in the entire city. And thus, in the whole empire. It was the former stock exchange – a structure far more Greek than any Parthenon.' This sense of imperial grandeur – part reverence, part irony – would stay with Brodsky for life. His youthful ambitions didn't yield immediate success. He failed to get into naval school, and after finishing eighth grade, took a job at a factory. Over the next few years, he worked as a stoker, a photographer, and even joined geological expeditions to the Russian Far East. Throughout it all, he pursued a rigorous self-education. Despite never receiving a formal literary degree, Brodsky emerged as a strikingly erudite voice. By the early 1960s, in his early twenties, he was reading poetry publicly in Leningrad. It was there that he met some of the era's most important poets – including Anna Akhmatova. A famous story survives from their first meeting. The aging Akhmatova asked the young Brodsky what a poet should do once they've mastered all the rhymes and rhythms of the language. Without hesitation, he answered, 'But there remains the grandeur of vision.' Brodsky was just 23 when Soviet reality collided with his rising career and brought it to an abrupt halt. In 1963, Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev launched a public campaign to root out 'layabouts, moral degenerates, and whiners' who, in his words, wrote in 'the bird language of idlers and dropouts.' In the eyes of the government, poets fit squarely into that category. That November, the newspaper Vecherniy Leningrad published a hit piece titled 'The Near-Literary Drone,' targeting Brodsky by name. The poems cited were falsely attributed to him, and the article was riddled with fabrications – but none of that stopped the authorities. A few months later, Brodsky was arrested and charged with 'social parasitism.' By then, he had already earned recognition in literary circles. His poems had appeared in respected magazines, and he was receiving commissions to translate poetry. But none of this mattered to the court, which refused to acknowledge him as a legitimate writer. During the trial, a now-legendary exchange unfolded between Brodsky and the judge: Judge: And what is your profession, in general?Brodsky: Poet. Poet and And who said you're a poet? Who enrolled you in the ranks of poets?Brodsky: No one. Who enrolled me in the ranks of the human race?Judge: Did you study for this?Brodsky: Study for what?Judge: To become a poet. Did you attend a university where people are trained – where they're taught...?Brodsky: I didn't think it was a matter of Then what is it a matter of?Brodsky: I believe it comes from God. He was first sent for compulsory psychiatric evaluation, then sentenced to five years of hard labor – the maximum term – for doing what the state deemed 'nothing.' In practice, this meant exile to the Arkhangelsk region, deep in Russia's far north. Brodsky worked on a collective farm, spending his free time reading, translating, and teaching himself English. His sentence was eventually cut short, thanks to the intervention of prominent cultural figures, including composer Dmitri Shostakovich, poet Korney Chukovsky, writer Konstantin Paustovsky, and even French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. After returning from exile in 1965, Brodsky was granted formal membership in a 'professional group' within the Writers' Union – a bureaucratic maneuver that shielded him from future charges of parasitism. He worked prolifically; his poetry was widely published abroad, and he built relationships with scholars, editors, and journalists. Still, in the Soviet Union, only his children's verses saw print. He remained fundamentally out of step with the system. In May 1972, he was summoned to the Ministry of Internal Affairs and given a choice: emigrate immediately or face 'difficult days' ahead. Recalling his interrogations and forced hospitalization, Brodsky chose exile. Obtaining an exit visa from the USSR usually took months. Brodsky's was ready in just 12 days. In June 1972, he left the country – this time, for good. When Joseph Brodsky left the Soviet Union, he left behind nearly everything – his parents, his friends, the woman he loved, and his son. 'It is very painful for me to leave Russia,' he wrote in a candid letter to Soviet General Secretary Leonid Brezhnev. 'I was born, grew up, and lived my life here, and everything I have, I owe to this country.'The Soviet authorities never allowed him to return. He would never see his parents again, nor attend their funerals. Upon arriving in Vienna, Brodsky was met by Karl Proffer, an American publisher and Slavist who offered him a post as a 'visiting poet' at the University of Michigan. It was a surreal twist of fate: Brodsky had only completed eight years of formal schooling, yet he would go on to teach Russian literature, poetry, and comparative literature at some of the most prestigious universities in the United States and the United Kingdom for the next 24 years. In truth, Brodsky didn't really know how to teach – at least not in any conventional academic sense. But he spoke to students about what mattered most to him: poetry. After winning the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1987, a student once asked why he still taught when he clearly no longer needed to. His answer was simple: 'I just want you to love what I love.' Still, to imagine Brodsky as a remote, ivory-tower intellectual would be misleading. He was not just a man of letters – he was also a man of appetite and mischief. His friend, the poet and writer Glyn Maxwell, recalled Brodsky and his circle as loud, unfiltered, and often crude: 'They behaved like alpha males. Sometimes it was even annoying, but that was the male culture of the time.' They drank heavily, told off-color jokes, and filled rooms with their presence. But when it came to poetry, Brodsky was exacting and unwavering. After becoming an American citizen, he turned his focus toward essay writing, translating Russian poetry into English, and even composing poems in English himself. He revered the English language and deeply loved its poetic tradition, though he recognized that as a non-native speaker, he would always be writing from the outside in. His biographer, Valentina Polukhina, observed that for all his success abroad, Brodsky remained, at heart, a Russian poet. Poetry, for him, was the highest form of linguistic expression, and Russian was the language in which his soul most fluently spoke. 'Sometimes I feel that for Brodsky, the choice of the Russian language was conscious,' she reflected. Poet Bella Akhmadulina echoed this sentiment. She described how Brodsky didn't merely use the Russian language – he nourished it from within: 'He didn't need to hear how people around him spoke... Cut off from everyday conversation, he himself became fertile ground for the Russian language.' Brodsky's complexity often revealed itself in quiet, personal rituals. 'I had this idea, back when I was 24 or 25, to write a poem every Christmas,' he once said. And he kept that promise – for the rest of his life. In fact, he began even earlier. At 22, he wrote A Christmas Romance, and from then on, continued to write Christmas poems every year until his forced emigration in 1972. After a long break, he returned to the tradition in 1987 and maintained it annually until his death in 1996. Though not affiliated with any particular denomination, Brodsky was deeply drawn to Christianity. He read the Bible attentively and spoke of Jesus Christ with profound reverence. 'After all, what is Christmas? The birthday of God who became Man. It's as natural for a person to celebrate it as their own birthday... It's the oldest birthday celebrated in our world.' His spiritual reflections extended beyond religious ritual. In a 1972 letter to The New York Times, Brodsky challenged the utopian promises often made in Soviet political discourse: 'In my opinion, there is something offensive to the human soul about preaching Paradise on Earth,' he wrote. 'Life the way it really is – is a battle not between Bad and Good, but between Bad and Worse. And today humanity's choice lies not between Good and Evil, but rather between Evil and Worse. Today humanity's task comes down to remaining good in the Kingdom of Evil, and not becoming an agent of Evil.' Such sentiments may seem stark, but they were consistent with his moral seriousness and existential clarity. Despite being born into a Jewish family, Brodsky repeatedly described himself as a Russian poet, and always saw Russia as inseparable from the Christian cultural world. Even in exile, he refused to speak ill of his homeland. 'I did not leave Russia of my own free will... No matter under what circumstances you leave it, home does not cease to be home. No matter how you lived there – well or poorly. And I simply cannot understand why some people expect, and others even demand, that I smear its gates with tar. Russia is my home; I lived there all my life, and for everything I have in my soul I am indebted to Russia and its people. And – this is the main thing – indebted to its language.' Politically speaking, Brodsky was more of a 'Westerner' than a 'Slavophile,' at least in the traditional Russian sense. But he was unmistakably a Russian Westerner. Living in the West after his exile, he often encountered anti-Russian sentiment and cultural disdain. And yet, again and again, he chose to defend the Russian people—not out of nationalism, but from a sense of fairness. As the poet and scholar Lev Losev put it: 'Just like the 'Slavophile' Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, 'Westerner' Joseph Brodsky stood ready to defend Russia – its people and its culture – against unfounded accusations of inherent aggressiveness, servile psychology, and national masochism.' Joseph Brodsky was, unmistakably, a poet of the Empire. Born in Leningrad – once imperial St. Petersburg – he could never imagine himself, or the world around him, outside the gravitational pull of imperial culture, history, and aesthetics. Raised among the colonnades and neoclassical façades of Russia's most imperial city, Brodsky found in ancient Rome the ultimate model of grandeur. In his poem Letters to a Roman Friend, he writes: 'If you were destined to be born in the Empire,it's best to find some province by the from Caesar and the blizzard, in your flattery, no rushing, constant telling me the governors are crooks?But murderers are even less endearing.' The lines recall Ovid's Letters from Pontus, written during exile by the Black Sea. For Brodsky, his own symbolic 'imperial space' was Crimea – a peninsula he always considered Russian and which inspired some of his most evocative poetry. There he found his cherished trinity: antiquity, the sea, and empire. Brodsky's imperial sensibility revealed itself in more than just geography. His biographer, Vladimir Bondarenko, remarked that the poet could easily be mistaken for a staunch conservative – a man with a worldview shaped by colonial assumptions. A striking example can be found in his 1975 poem To Yevgeny, written after a visit to Mexico. Contemplating the ruins of Aztec civilization, Brodsky reflects: 'What would they tell us, if they could speak?Nothing. At best, of victoriesover neighboring tribes, of shatteredskulls. Of human bloodthat, spilled into a bowl for the Sun god,strengthens the latter's muscle.' And further: 'Even syphilis or the jawsof Cortés' unicorns are preferable to such sacrifice;If crows must feast on your brows,Let the killer be a killer, not an without the Spaniards, they'd hardly have learnedwhat really happened.' Brodsky never shied away from uncomfortable truths—or from voicing them bluntly. His worldview was neither romantic nor utopian. He rejected simplistic dichotomies of good versus evil. For him, paradise on earth was a dangerous illusion; reality was a constant struggle between 'bad' and 'worse.' Among his most controversial works is On Ukraine's Independence, a poem brimming with fury and sarcasm. In Brodsky's eyes, the move to break historical ties with Russia was a rejection not just of political union, but of shared culture, language, and literary heritage. In a caustic farewell, he wrote: 'Go away in your zhupans, your uniforms,To all four points of the compass, to destinations composed of four-letter wordsAnd let the Krauts and Pollacks in your hutsPut you on all fours, you scoundrels.' He closed the poem with a grim vision of cultural amnesia: 'God rest ye, eagles and Cossacks, hetmans and guards,Just know this – when it's time to be dragged into the graveyards,You'll wheeze, clawing the edge of your mattress,Alexander's lines, not the lies of Taras.' For Brodsky, Ukraine's departure from the Russian cultural orbit was not simply political; it was a loss of literary and civilizational continuity. He believed that when the time came to confront death, it would not be the folk verse of Shevchenko people would recall, but the classical cadence of Pushkin. As the post-Soviet world fractured, and vast parts of the 'Russian world' renounced their imperial inheritance, Brodsky watched with a mixture of dismay and resignation. In the 1990s and early 2000s, many within Russia's liberal intelligentsia held up Brodsky as a dissident icon – the embodiment of intellectual resistance to authority. And indeed, traces of dissent run through his work in subtle and powerful ways. But as his legacy has come under closer scrutiny, a more complex portrait emerges: that of a Russian poet with a profoundly imperial imagination and a strong, unapologetic view of Russia's role in history. He was, above all, a defender of Russian language and culture – often in defiance of popular sentiment in the West or among émigrés. After the start of the war in Ukraine, some opposition figures who fled Russia called for Brodsky to be 'canceled,' citing his imperially inflected worldview and what they described as the cultural colonialism embedded in his poetry. But Brodsky cannot be canceled. He remains what he always was: a witness to his time, a singer of antiquity, a thinker of vast moral scale, and – despite exile – a quintessentially Russian poet.
Yahoo
24-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
The Knowledge That Brings True Happiness
Want to stay current with Arthur's writing? Sign up to get an email every time a new column comes out. I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish I knew no astronomy when stars appear Yes! I thought, as I read these lines from the Russian American poet Joseph Brodsky in a 1989 love poem, 'A Song.' There's something about the ineffable beauty of life that formal knowledge misses. So it seemed to the 25-year-old me, a bohemian musician and hopeless romantic. True, this anti-intellectual view was also flavored by no small quantity of sour grapes, after I'd spent an unsuccessful eight months at college and was barely making rent. I didn't know it at the time, but I was in for a great deal of book-learning in my 30s, which ultimately led to a life as an academic. Although I became a happiness researcher, not an astronomer, I eventually came to repudiate my dalliance with Brodsky's contention. Still, given what I now do for work, I have to ask: How exactly does higher education affect happiness? Not because college costs a family, on average, nearly $40,000 a year (per student), which gives rise to a legitimate debate about whether people are getting their money's worth; but because one of the most important questions they should weigh is 'Will well-being be better or worse with this investment of time and money in additional schooling?' The answer to whether education pays a happiness dividend is not easy or clear-cut, but I can suggest a few rules to guide a potential student's decision about whether to pursue further studies. [Dwayne Betts: Joseph Brodsky on a Thursday morning] At first glance, the relationship between education and happiness appears very positive. Many scholars have looked at life satisfaction in countries all over the world, and found that educational attainment seems to push it up, in general, for both individuals and countries. Most studies ascribe this effect to the fact that formal education improves labor-market outcomes, which raises living standards, resulting in higher well-being. A few researchers have looked at the nonfinancial benefits as well. One large study from Spain discovered that, in addition to better career outcomes, people get a happiness boost from the greater levels of self-confidence and self-esteem that higher education can provide. Another study found that at relatively high income levels, specialized education that fewer and fewer people attain (for example, a doctoral degree) becomes a 'positional good,' meaning that simply possessing such attainment boosts social standing; this can translate into enhanced life satisfaction. In this respect, you might think of getting a Ph.D. as akin to buying a Ferrari. When we look at happiness in other domains of life, things get a bit more complicated. On the one hand, people who have a college degree experience less satisfaction with their amount of leisure time than non-college-educated people do. On the other hand, higher education improves job satisfaction, as well as offering financial benefits—but only if one's career expectations match actual employment opportunities (and this is especially the case in rich countries). The obvious explanation for this might be that some college majors actually do not prepare students for high-paying careers. Universities rarely talk about the reality that, whatever inherent value certain degree qualifications may have, entitlement to a top salary is not one of them—so some graduates get a nasty surprise. Even worse for happiness is when higher education leads to indebtedness, which can lower well-being a great deal. Scholars have found that student loans are negatively correlated with psychological functioning, and that higher debt-to-income levels predict more symptoms of depression at midlife. This is consistent with the broad finding, which I discussed in this column, that in general, owing too much money is terrible for happiness. Brodsky's line about astronomy refers to the way knowledge derived from formal education can limit our perception of the sublime—and in that sense, interfere with pure happiness. But formal education is only one way of acquiring knowledge. Many behavioral scientists, myself included, believe that interest is a positive emotion that, when stimulated, makes learning inherently satisfying. The argument is that we are fitter as a species when we learn new things, and thus evolved to want to do so. But not everyone learns in the same way—and conventional, classroom-style education can be a mismatch for the way some people naturally acquire knowledge. For them, college is—in the words of one of my sons—complete torture. The point is that studying astronomy is not the only way to learn about and be interested in the stars. [Robert E. Rubin: Higher education isn't the enemy] Very few families, I imagine, sit around the kitchen table making a college decision purely on the basis of happiness. But in the United States, where the annual college dropout rate is about 33 percent, we would do well to take this variable into account. And the research provides a simple guide to making college a happier experience. 1. Follow the ikigai of college. First, fortunate is the student who is extremely fascinated by the course of study in greatest demand by the job market. Most students, however, will need to find a balance between these two priorities: interest and reward. One method to help you strike that bargain is to use a simplified version of the Japanese concept of ikigai: in this case, the sweet spot of overlap between what interests you and what is professionally practical. Live in that sweet spot, and you will get as much positive emotion as possible from your work while minimizing the risk of job dissatisfaction. So do the work that universities don't: Inform yourself about which majors lead to the best jobs and merge that list with the majors that most appeal to you. 2. Avoid debt as much as possible. For the sake of happiness, avoid educational debt as much as possible. For people lucky in their family circumstances, student debt is not an issue, even if they attend expensive private universities. For others, however, more limited resources mean starting at community college and staying within a state system, or learning through one of the many affordable, virtual courses proliferating today. I was in the latter category when I finally went to college in my late 20s; I graduated one month before my 30th birthday. I had little money, was starting a family, and knew that a debt load would depress not just my well-being but theirs, too. I found an institution where I could pursue my degree through distance learning, and completed my studies within a budget of $10,000, including books. Plenty of people get their higher education this way, without incurring the happiness penalty of huge debt. 3. If you hate school, find a different path. For decades, education researchers have debated whether different 'learning styles' exist and what they are. Many subscribe to the idea that some people learn better through the written word, while others learn visually, and still others assimilate knowledge best by spoken-word methods. Although this theory—about text, image, speech modes—is still contested, there is little dispute that traditional college simply isn't best for everyone, or even necessary. According to the trade-skill staffing company PRT, the United States has a critical shortage of tradespeople in fields such as plumbing and electrical contracting. I strongly suspect that one factor behind this shortage is an everyone-must-go-to-college mentality. The overt intentions may be admirable but can conceal an unconscious snobbery about class and profession that pushes into higher ed many talented, hardworking young people who would be much happier in occupations that do not require a college degree. [Read: The end of college life] One last point is that the happiness gained by education might not be the same at every point in your life. Had I stayed in college as a teenager, I would certainly have majored in something of dubious job-market value and gone into significant debt in the process. A decade later, the education I got was both practical for my professional future, and inspirational, enabling me to understand myself and the world. At 18, I was not ready to study, and doing so gave me no joy. At 29, I thrilled to the glories of differential calculus and the mysteries solved by regression analysis. I wasn't only a quant-head—I also took courses in poetry. And it was then that Brodsky's words took on a deeper meaning, opening up for me an apprehension of the fleeting beauty that knowledge brings all through life. Indeed, 'A Song' closes with the following lines: It's evening, the sun is setting; boys shout and gulls are crying. What's the point of forgetting if it's followed by dying? Article originally published at The Atlantic
Atlantic
24-04-2025
- General
- Atlantic
Does More Education Make You Happier?
Want to stay current with Arthur's writing? Sign up to get an email every time a new column comes out. I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish I knew no astronomy when stars appear Yes! I thought, as I read these lines from the Russian American poet Joseph Brodsky in a 1989 love poem, 'A Song.' There's something about the ineffable beauty of life that formal knowledge misses. So it seemed to the 25-year-old me, a bohemian musician and hopeless romantic. True, this anti-intellectual view was also flavored by no small quantity of sour grapes, after I'd spent an unsuccessful eight months at college and was barely making rent. I didn't know it at the time, but I was in for a great deal of book-learning in my 30s, which ultimately led to a life as an academic. Although I became a happiness researcher, not an astronomer, I eventually came to repudiate my dalliance with Brodsky's contention. Still, given what I now do for work, I have to ask: How exactly does higher education affect happiness? Not because college costs a family, on average, nearly $40,000 a year (per student), which gives rise to a legitimate debate about whether people are getting their money's worth; but because one of the most important questions they should weigh is 'Will well-being be better or worse with this investment of time and money in additional schooling?' The answer to whether education pays a happiness dividend is not easy or clear-cut, but I can suggest a few rules to guide a potential student's decision about whether to pursue further studies. Dwayne Betts: Joseph Brodsky on a Thursday morning At first glance, the relationship between education and happiness appears very positive. Many scholars have looked at life satisfaction in countries all over the world, and found that educational attainment seems to push it up, in general, for both individuals and countries. Most studies ascribe this effect to the fact that formal education improves labor-market outcomes, which raises living standards, resulting in higher well-being. A few researchers have looked at the nonfinancial benefits as well. One large study from Spain discovered that, in addition to better career outcomes, people get a happiness boost from the greater levels of self-confidence and self-esteem that higher education can provide. Another study found that at relatively high income levels, specialized education that fewer and fewer people attain (for example, a doctoral degree) becomes a 'positional good,' meaning that simply possessing such attainment boosts social standing; this can translate into enhanced life satisfaction. In this respect, you might think of getting a Ph.D. as akin to buying a Ferrari. When we look at happiness in other domains of life, things get a bit more complicated. On the one hand, people who have a college degree experience less satisfaction with their amount of leisure time than non-college-educated people do. On the other hand, higher education improves job satisfaction, as well as offering financial benefits—but only if one's career expectations match actual employment opportunities (and this is especially the case in rich countries). The obvious explanation for this might be that some college majors actually do not prepare students for high-paying careers. Universities rarely talk about the reality that, whatever inherent value certain degree qualifications may have, entitlement to a top salary is not one of them—so some graduates get a nasty surprise. Even worse for happiness is when higher education leads to indebtedness, which can lower well-being a great deal. Scholars have found that student loans are negatively correlated with psychological functioning, and that higher debt-to-income levels predict more symptoms of depression at midlife. This is consistent with the broad finding, which I discussed in this column, that in general, owing too much money is terrible for happiness. Brodsky's line about astronomy refers to the way knowledge derived from formal education can limit our perception of the sublime—and in that sense, interfere with pure happiness. But formal education is only one way of acquiring knowledge. Many behavioral scientists, myself included, believe that interest is a positive emotion that, when stimulated, makes learning inherently satisfying. The argument is that we are fitter as a species when we learn new things, and thus evolved to want to do so. But not everyone learns in the same way—and conventional, classroom-style education can be a mismatch for the way some people naturally acquire knowledge. For them, college is—in the words of one of my sons—complete torture. The point is that studying astronomy is not the only way to learn about and be interested in the stars. Robert E. Rubin: Higher education isn't the enemy Very few families, I imagine, sit around the kitchen table making a college decision purely on the basis of happiness. But in the United States, where the annual college dropout rate is about 33 percent, we would do well to take this variable into account. And the research provides a simple guide to making college a happier experience. 1. Follow the ikigai of college. First, fortunate is the student who is extremely fascinated by the course of study in greatest demand by the job market. Most students, however, will need to find a balance between these two priorities: interest and reward. One method to help you strike that bargain is to use a simplified version of the Japanese concept of ikigai: in this case, the sweet spot of overlap between what interests you and what is professionally practical. Live in that sweet spot, and you will get as much positive emotion as possible from your work while minimizing the risk of job dissatisfaction. So do the work that universities don't: Inform yourself about which majors lead to the best jobs and merge that list with the majors that most appeal to you. 2. Avoid debt as much as possible. For the sake of happiness, avoid educational debt as much as possible. For people lucky in their family circumstances, student debt is not an issue, even if they attend expensive private universities. For others, however, more limited resources mean starting at community college and staying within a state system, or learning through one of the many affordable, virtual courses proliferating today. I was in the latter category when I finally went to college in my late 20s; I graduated one month before my 30th birthday. I had little money, was starting a family, and knew that a debt load would depress not just my well-being but theirs, too. I found an institution where I could pursue my degree through distance learning, and completed my studies within a budget of $10,000, including books. Plenty of people get their higher education this way, without incurring the happiness penalty of huge debt. 3. If you hate school, find a different path. For decades, education researchers have debated whether different 'learning styles' exist and what they are. Many subscribe to the idea that some people learn better through the written word, while others learn visually, and still others assimilate knowledge best by spoken-word methods. Although this theory—about text, image, speech modes—is still contested, there is little dispute that traditional college simply isn't best for everyone, or even necessary. According to the trade-skill staffing company PRT, the United States has a critical shortage of tradespeople in fields such as plumbing and electrical contracting. I strongly suspect that one factor behind this shortage is an everyone-must-go-to-college mentality. The overt intentions may be admirable but can conceal an unconscious snobbery about class and profession that pushes into higher ed many talented, hardworking young people who would be much happier in occupations that do not require a college degree. One last point is that the happiness gained by education might not be the same at every point in your life. Had I stayed in college as a teenager, I would certainly have majored in something of dubious job-market value and gone into significant debt in the process. A decade later, the education I got was both practical for my professional future, and inspirational, enabling me to understand myself and the world. At 18, I was not ready to study, and doing so gave me no joy. At 29, I thrilled to the glories of differential calculus and the mysteries solved by regression analysis. I wasn't only a quant-head—I also took courses in poetry. And it was then that Brodsky's words took on a deeper meaning, opening up for me an apprehension of the fleeting beauty that knowledge brings all through life. Indeed, 'A Song' closes with the following lines: It's evening, the sun is setting; boys shout and gulls are crying. What's the point of forgetting if it's followed by dying?
Ammon
23-02-2025
- Business
- Ammon
Russia sells famed imperial prison at auction
Ammon News - A notorious Russian prison complex that once housed jailed revolutionaries, toppled ministers and Soviet dissidents will be turned into a hotel, restaurants, museum and art gallery after being sold at auction on Friday, the site's new owner said. Bolshevik revolutionary Leon Trotsky and writer Joseph Brodsky are among the roll call of famous Russians who were imprisoned at the Kresty jail complex in the imperial capital of Saint Petersburg. Named after the Russian word for "crosses" in homage to its shape the jail's red-brick walls loom ominously over the banks of the Neva river. But having fallen into disrepair, Russia built a new prison, shut down Kresty and put the historic site on the market. In an auction on Friday it was sold it to a development group for 1.1 billion rubles ($12.5 million). The group said in a statement it would transform the complex in "one of Saint Petersburg's most ambitious urban planning projects." "There will be a museum preserving the memory and history of the location, as well as a hotel complex, restaurants, galleries and public spaces open to all," it said. AP
Yahoo
21-02-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Russia sells famed imperial prison at auction
A notorious Russian prison complex that once housed jailed revolutionaries, toppled ministers and Soviet dissidents will be turned into a hotel, restaurants, museum and art gallery after being sold at auction on Friday, the site's new owner said. Bolshevik revolutionary Leon Trotsky and writer Joseph Brodsky are among the roll call of famous Russians who were imprisoned at the Kresty jail complex in the imperial capital of Saint Petersburg. Named after the Russian word for "crosses" -- in homage to its shape -- the jail's red-brick walls loom ominously over the banks of the Neva river. But having fallen into disrepair, Russia built a new prison, shut down Kresty and put the historic site on the market. In an auction on Friday it was sold it to the KVS development group for 1.1 billion rubles ($12.5 million). KVS said in a statement it would transform the complex in "one of Saint Petersburg's most ambitious urban planning projects." "There will be a museum preserving the memory and history of the location, as well as a hotel complex, restaurants, galleries and public spaces open to all," it said. Kresty was commissioned as a jail at the end of the nineteenth century to house imperial Russia's swelling prison population. It was designed to be the largest and most modern solitary confinement facility in Europe with 999 individual cells. Before the Russian revolution in 1917, it housed enemies of the Tsarist state like Alexander Kerensky, who would lead the February Revolution and Anatoly Lunacharsky who would become Lenin's top cultural official as well as Trotsky himself. After the revolution, it was the enemies of Bolshevism who found themselves in the prison especially during Joseph Stalin's 1930s purges when its cells were filled with the victims of political repression. These included the historian Lev Gumilev whose mother, the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, would wait outside the walls of the prison in the hope of passing him a package. bur/giv
