Literature - poetry
11. 05. 2016
George Edward Hart


My love went a-walking
Left her paintings on the walls
Left her song book and silent keys
And came not home again

My love went a-walking
Left the fountain and the fuchsia
Left the goldfinch and cardinal
And came not home again

My love went a-walking
Left her friends and her neighbours
Left her children and husband dear
And came not home again

My love went a-walking
She did not know to say goodbye
She did not know to say goodbye
And came not home again

My love went a-walking
From the stage as footlights dimmed
From the stage as footlights dimmed
And came not home again.


The blue of sunlit summer sky
Your eyes have purloined
And in return they wander
The heavens for the rainbow
After the teasing rain,
For the gallivant vestal moon,
For the bravura sinking of the sun.

The Iceboat

The iceboat was harmless in my backyard,
A long plank with a rear skate rudder,
A crossbeam fitted both ends with skates,
A mast of oak for a triangle of sail.

But guide that boat to Charlottetown Harbour:
For thrilling speed there is no other.
Faster than steam train or touring car
And close to the ice it feels like flying.

Physics is master in hard-water sailing:
Trim the sail for an ‘apparent wind’
That speeds the boat on mirror-smooth ice
Six times faster than the wind that blows.

Oh, you lie flat and hold the rudder
And tease the boat to ride two skates
At forty-five degrees and so reduce drag,
Accelerate and hang on for dear life.

It was not always smooth sailing:
The ice could be bumpy or fissured
In places; the boat might go soaring
And land hard; it had no springs

A murder of crows

A murder of crows happened in Leaside:
They single filed the telephone wires
And commandeered the trees,
Flapping, swerving, changing places;
Each look alike strutted
And had his say with others.

Here was merriment to mock the world.
An old man threw back his head in laughter;
He was a boy again.
At the front door a woman clapped her hands
To drive away the raucous intruders.


Early in the morning
I saw the half moon high
In the southern sky
And I thought of you.

Over my left shoulder
I saw the sunrays play
In the dazzled day
And I thought of you.

Evening in my garden
Among the flowery shows
I chose the sweet wild rose
And dreamed of you.

Literature - poetry
11. 05. 2016
Nadezda Vashkevich

Nadezda Vashkevich

The snow stands still in the air,
but the asphalt’s dark and cold –
does that mean there’s no snow ?
only my thoughts drifting away
back to the sky,
back to the night.

The moon shines bright,
the Vesper is rising.
Dreams unrepeatable,
irreversible as celestial orbits.
Only that snow that drifts
building bridges to the past
far away from bitumen darkness.

5 th February 2015

abandon metaphors – those idle
it’s time for autumn with its rain
the life has stopped awhile the running
of its film framing and come back
to words
let’s get a book or an umbrella
to hide us from the eyes and winds
let’s live to no effect
and boil a kettle twenty times a day
until the threshold
gets swollen by the mist
no roads as far as one can see
rain autumn whisper over night

25 th of November 2014

Literature - poetry
11. 05. 2016
Siho Ho


The past is air, right here
A dripping tap, old windows, the sea
I found you through dreams
Through each embarrassed verse

The feminine strength, youth and breath
Of my burning hair
I cut a drop of water. Running stream
You shaded the window. The big tree

The growth rings were a myth,
Some sparse, some dense
Like the swing of teenage shadow
Swayed away from the window
To the sea, to the endless sky
Where I would fly


A chorus by the water
Could be any river or stream

I wander like a vagrant
dragging the shadow of my own

deaf and awed
I tumble at the strange forks

An ancient tribe they are
An obscure gesture comforts the wind

Fruits of shrubs
Pierce into unspeakable pain

Sooner or later I will join them
As the shadow that opens the light

They count candlelight and count again
Become reflections of running water and time

No longer will I topple
In the dusk when raspberries are ripe

The familiar tunes hark back the child
who stole a white lotus in a line of Tang

Though steps waver
They lead to the virgin snow of life

A chorus sings in silence


Now I realize how much I loved traveling
As a young child, when street lamps were dim
And the wind too soft to catch
The sea is an enormous dream

On cloudy Sundays
My father would shake hands with a ferry
We sailed between dock and dock, and did not get off
Or follow the waves that came to shore

I just learned how to walk without staggering
And still talked to the army of ants before rain
A daughter sailed with her father, until an anonymous hand
Put a cloak of snooze on waters and streets

The whistles summoned insects and me
Loud, piercing and masculine
I dropped a song as we hurried back
The captain’s beard was winking

The boy in a poem steals a white lotus
I sent it back to the blue waves
He was my first friend who lives in words
Like Pan, he does not grow or age

I stared at the waves and they spoke to me
Ripples on the surface of a dream
Morning would visit and kiss our foreheads
Petals would rise and float away

My father helped me onto the bow
High and lean, like each lonely road
Someone in white robes riding a camel
Figures and figures dancing in the blue cradle

I sensed my father’s fear as he loosed hands
And took a picture the moment I smiled
At three I felt the chill in the wind
As a traveler does


At ten I stopped
Playing the accordion in the wind
The black and white keys slumbered
In winter, a chilly and damp afternoon
A Thursday of bruise
My mother back early
“Grandpa passed away.”

I used to play in the first row
Fingers dancing like spring bamboos
In sun, in rain, in blindness
Faster and faster
Pressing the magic switches
Of love and pain, in a row. Your face
Would light up at the back window
When the last note muted
Your hands, warm as sweet potatoes
Roasting on a metal trunk, took me home
My old accordion on your back
Bending over
Only for his granddaughter
No ghosts or monsters in a barley mow

Now your hands gone
To chase a brush and a shovel
Leaving mine cold and red
Wrapped by the thorns of ice
Bitten by the bees of winter
My heart swollen
Like a balloon filled with salt and water
When it flew, the wind paused
And tasted bitter

At ten I got chilblains
Fingers puff and stiff
Music swelling
I stopped
Playing polka, or played slowly
Slower than the growth of prints
In your palms. Chilblains are caused
By exposure to cold and grief
They came back every winter
But you

Literature - prose
11. 05. 2016
Tristram Coffin

Divided City: On the Edge

(An excerpt from the novel Not An Incredible Journey in manuscript)

Chapter 7
The plane was escorted by Egothian fighter jets. We aboard were ap-
prehensive, having heard recently about a sad incident when the fight-
ers of one nation shot down a civilian airliner. There had been accusa-
tions and counter-accusations of spying, lying and brutality. Through
the gauze of media, press releases and government obfuscation, the
public was outraged but will never know the truth. The elusive truth our
ancestors were so confident of. Have we all become Pilates? (I’m not
badgering you. My name isn’t Hector.)
We landed precipitously. Over my shoulder, a hateful man scowled
and said to me: “You,re a sciolist who sashays his way without heed-
ing strictures. You pissbrain, slubberdegullion and snaggle-tooth,
j’aboude.” Of course, he was joking, I thought. Until he tried to apply
acupuncture on me from ear to ear. A team of security guards led him
away. Oddly, I never saw mention of the incident in the newspapers.
It was, therefore, with some nervous exhaustion and perhaps even
a little trepidation that I deplaned (as I heard the captain say). The
quest for palingenesis is a foolish one. It pains me to admit it. My heart
rebels. Yet I will take no nervine. No folly is inexpiable. Deuus miserea-
tur. I shall daub myself with mud and salt, but I wi11 not foul myself
with the stain and soil of my sin. Laugh, I know, I bore or give mirth
inadvertently. Gaff or gaffe? To pit and put out. I only wanted to root,
to be left alone, but, instead, I am harassed, and danger flees before me.
My cousin shook me out of my trance. Walter was tall, blond and
sad-eyed. He apologized for having been out of town when I visited
Damelow. He was a polyglot and a great organ master. It seemed odd to
me that he had been away on business when his concerts were planned
months and years in advance, but I asked no questions. Man’s natural
state is ignorance. History is the chipping away at that mass of dark-
ness, which, ironically, appears to grow with each discovery.
Walter shook me again. I must have been in shock. He whistled a
fugue (if that is possible; if it is, only my cousin could do it). The land-
scape skirred by. In minutes the heart of the divided city rose like a
buckling of the earth. Somehow amid this urban earthquake, I could
only think of a prison, of the war between thisness and thatness (haec-
ceity and what?). For my cousin, all things were possible. He was un-
doubtedly one of the marvels of our century. Being modest, he didn’t
say, as some of my friends did, “You ‘re not a Tremblegun, so do as I
say.” Walter didn’t mind silence. “Rest and pause,” he observed, “are
the half-mortar of music.” I felt comfortable with him because he was
beyond criticism and made me feel that way. By “beyond” I mean
beyond unjust censure. Small souls look for small faults as toads do
to hide in. If I had listened to the others, I would have been drunk at
home, breathing bitter words to dwarfish minds and the open wind.
Instead, I fought and achieved what I could. Let time judge. What
works is my only theory.
A sag of youth leaned against the base of the tall buildings. These
souls looked eaten with drugs and neglect. I could do nothing. Belief
had fled like a soft bird escaping hard rocks and wiry serpents. No one
noticed them any more. Cancer can suddenly kill a man in the seem-
ing pink of health. Our driver sped up. Gangs wandered the streets like
accident. Billiards and chess were turning to bombardment and reac-
tion, whirring to events and motion without explanation. The car was
hermetic. Exhaustion. The ruins of the last war still seemed to smoul-
der. A cold northern dusk descended. Perhaps the city was nothing like
this but had become the grim repository for my feelings.
The next day I was left to my own devices. Walter had to practise
for a concert he was giving that evening. “On the day of a perform-
ance,” he explained, “I grow meditative and concentrate on nothing
but my organ.” And so, as my cousin pounded out piece after piece, I
wandered the streets of Divide. Perhaps while he cheered himself with
a roundel, I went round in circles. The city was the rowen of war, pride
and politics. Here the overtones differed from those in the concert
hall. I was leery of walking by myself. Old half-covered leats winded
through the scape. Dead ides floated on the surface, portending dis-
cord. The sound of carping voices bickered through the streets. I sew
faces drawn with jaundice. Even the sun seemed to suffer from icterus.
I came upon a high, thin wall of stainless steel, stretching the length of
this city, separating cousin f rom cousin, one side jailed and the other
yearning for unity.
I heard a voice. “Emerods,” it said. I turned and saw a man sitting
on this razorous fence. Startled, I asked him what he was doing. My
seat is beaten, even my specialy-designed trousers can,t keep me from
guillotining myself in two vertically. At least the Creator designed us
with a start, from ankle to acrotum.” I blushed. “What is imminent
here?” he asked. Just as I was about to answer, he cast an immortelle
upon me and said: “So you went to know why I straddle this Wall? My
name is Grumpy-Lumpy. Does that explain it?”
“No,” I said.
Seeing that I was dumbfounded, or confounded at least, he con-
tinued: “You see I was born of parents, one Up, the other Down, of
two opposite political persuasions, from different sides of this wall,
which, by the way, gives me vertigo. I am half a Togetherist and half
an Apartist, so here I perch. I live like a beetle crawling along a razor.
My left hand doesn’t always know what my right hand is doing. Neither
side trusts me. I am a citizen of nowhere. Every day both sides goad
me, making Destructo bombs in my sight. I have no political voice, no
rights, no freedom of movement (of any sort). It seems I am the end of
a dialectical view of history. My city, so complex, so crass, now splits
like a melon hit with a machete.”
Neither side treated Grumpy with respect. All about him, he saw
ugliness, the oedematose ooze of urban ugliness. Not a lover in sight.
No Jacob’s ladder to inspire him. No repose for the souls of the faithful
departed. Dead or alive indistinguishable. I wanted to repugn those
who kept him from beauty and peace. Mud, dung and concrete clung
at the base of the wall. Blood rusts when dirt is all around. He was
bleeding internally, a slow trickle clinging to the corners of his mouth.
“To snib or sneck? to act with distinction? those are questions. I
can’t even snog here or realign alliances. Really I can’t effect a thing.
My arms wither as I flag.”
“Marcescent limbs.” I added.
“Limp.” he mused. I thought of transformation and the Chinese
book of changes. Words are not things. Sound is not sense. “Iamb”
and “lamb” have little in common. “Ibid” and “ibex” are not the same.
Analogy, I suppose. I did not dare to broach this topic with a man who
was already in such pain.
“Economists,” Grumpy surmised, “are iatrogenic. What do peens
and icebergs have in common?” Riddles were not my forte. Soft now,
there goes the drowning maiden. Association, free or not, saves few
of us-in the end. I wondered whether he had played pelota, for he was
holding court on a wall amid the racket of the city market in the dis-
tance. Was he a stockbroker concerned with dividends or a mathem-
atician impassioned with divisions or a politician wrestling with div-
ision or did he just like sitting there?
“To be plain,” he said, “I am no jobbernowl, am no lessor – than
what you say. I’ll cut he otioseness.”
“Please do,” I ventured, “if you would like to.”
“It has been hard,” he said, “living here on the edge. Guns and gut-
ters seem to be my lot. When I was young, I used to wash my feet in a
mountain lake, run along its ragged shore and plunge into the ice and
water when spring was newly born. Neither the sound of battle nor the
fury of envy and fire shook me and cast me into smoke and stench.
Now I am bitter that life is not a nest but has become a hunt, in sleep,
at work, by day and night. Pursued. We should never put up with this
organized terror.”
That night I could barely hear the harmony. A rash of voices in the
lobby praised Walter for his melodious organ. His renditions would
make murderers weep and wake the petty and envious from their
squint and whine, the polemicist or marble-hearted from their dog-
matic slumber. After the intermission, the music soothed me more and
more, and, for a moment, transported my smirched and tattered soul
beyond the concerns of’ death and war. I wished I could consider the
simple things in life. The loss of the simple. Time, the pillory. History
shakes us out, thus giving us our selfhood but also leaving us to the
plunder each hour brings. The seas blow our fingers from the holes in
the dykes and we try to plug them frantically. I guess.
From sangrail to sangria, we, the sand-blind, wander. Miracles
lie beaten at the gates. We drink swipes. Who believes now in san-
guinification? I badger, perhaps. An unbearable telluric teddy. A punk.
A snot. What is real about me? Sure, I’m actual, but where is essence
to these pompous sinews and simoonic skull ? Questions are life but
not ever lasting. Quest: all is simulacrum. I could ring my neck. Guilt
creeps into my heart and angry and afraid. I am a pimple on a sea of
trouble. A song of myself is nothing. Let these hands reach out.
The janitor asked me what I was doing. The hall had been empty for
some time. Apparently, a car was waiting for me outside. Walter was
already at the restaurant. I swore I would not tell him about Grumpy,
so I wouldn’t ruin the celebratory drink.
“So you’ve seen Grumpy,” Walter said as I sat down.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“You,re depressed beyond reason,” he replied.
“So is the rest of humanity,” I said.
“Not so,”he said.
“Why,” I said.
“Because,” he said, “if men become to manic, they only invite
misery and war. We need positive men. That is your mission – to go
and convince men that we must survive, to thrive in goodness for ever.”
“So you say,” I said.
“You know I’m right,” he said.
“O say,” I said, ”can you see the red sandlewood, the sky a sailor’s
“By the way,” he noted, “you should rest or you’ll suffer the strug-
gle of atrophying muscles. In other words, don’t be sadistic and repeat
yourself world without end.”
I was lost and the jungle was not dark yet. The divided city was a
smoked glass mirror on one side and a prism on the other. Here, I dam-
aged my sense of touch. I could find no enlightenment. A labyrinthine
figure, My head swirled. I threw up.
The man who looked like Walter peeled of his mask. I was on the
Other Side, the Undpire, moving underward in a speeding car. I had
been kidnapped once again, my mouth bound, my stomach retching.
Perception moved in loose waves. Then a vortex. I was going down the
drain. I lost consciousness.

Literature - essay
11. 05. 2016
Bratislav Milošević

The supernatural in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Terror of Blue John Gap

The paper is focused on the supernatural in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s
story The Terror of Blue John Gap (1910). Eventually, the paper engages
with a complex semantic structure of Doyle’s narrative and makes an
attempt at the demystification of the mysterious and the naturaliza-
tion of the supernatural. Through the portrayal of the bear-like and
elephant-sized animal, which is believed to inhabit the depths of a
cave, the paper explores the impact of the mystifying, supernatural
force ravaging the English countryside and tantalizing the locals. Ter-
ror-inspiring and unsettling, the subterraneous creature perseveres in
being a living threat; consequently, the entrance to the Blue John cave,
which it supposedly inhabits, is closed off for good. Therefore, by the
story’s end, the supernatural in Doyle’s story defies being demystified,
demythologized or naturalized since the locals’ preferred alternative is
to have the place of brooding terror and the seat of mythos permanent-
ly sealed off. Eventually, despite Dr. Hardcastle’s scientifically-aligned
version of the existence of the creature from the Blue John cave, the
unexplained from the beginning of the story largely remains within the
semantic boundaries of the non-transparent or the opaque.

The Terror of Blue John Gap aligns Doyle with the other Victorian and
Edwardian novelists/short-story writers who were preoccupied with
the supernatural, especially those who combined the natural and the
supernatural. The narrative of the story, which is a synchronized ver-
sion of Dr. James Hardcastle’s diary entries, is in fact a very personal
account of a scientist who falls for the superstitious and the supernatur-
al. Throughout the story, the writer explores this relationship between
the natural, rationally explained and knowable on the one hand and the
mysterious, the mythical and the supernatural on the other. Arguably,
Doyle, as the late-Victorian and early-Edwardian writer, progressively
explicates the losing grip of the scientific explanation as an ultimate sig-
nified and points to the supernatural as a complex signifier. Thus what
the Blue John cave is hiding is irreducible to an undoubted, unques-
tionable interpretation of Dr. Hardcastle’s scientific mind. In fact, the
scientist himself re-emphasizes his own interpretative insecurity and
doubtfulness in his last diary entry: “I leave these facts behind me, and
if you can explain them, do so; or if you choose to doubt them, do so.
Neither your belief nor your incredulity can alter them, nor affect one
whose task is nearly over” (Doyle 2009: 40). In addition, the scientist’s
account is further disrupted and unsettled since he is suffering from tu-
berculosis and is prone to hallucinations: the existence of the subterran-
eous creature could, therefore, only be a supernatural manifestation of
the hallucinating mind.
At the beginning of the story, Dr. Hardcastle arrives at a remote
upland area of Derbyshire, England, with a view to recuperating from
tuberculosis. There he stays at the suspicion-minded farming family of
Allertons. Interestingly, the opening scene is both suggestive and sym-
bolic of the contrast self-contained in their names: the scientifically
minded, firmly rationalistic James Hardcastle is sharply contrasted
with the legend-prone, suspicious Allertons whose task is to literally
‘alert’ him to the mysterious, terror-inspiring, otherworldly creature
of Blue John Gap. Metaphorically, the seat of logos, personified in the
figure of Dr. Hardcastle, is gradually challenged and disturbed by the
seat of mythos, embodied in the unearthly, subterraneous creature
residing in Blue John Gap in the Derbyshire uplands. What is progres-
sively being tested is the sustainability of the compactness of human
mind and its rational capacities if a man is displaced onto the marginal
or peripheral, both physically and psychologically.
The first scene, which depicts Mr Hardcastle’s impression of the
countryside, is very detailed, even scientifically precise:
“It is a most lonely spot, and the walks are picturesque in the ex-
treme. The farm consists of grazing land lying at the bottom of an ir-
regular valley. On each side are the fantastic limestone hills, formed
of rock so soft that you can break it away with your hands. All this
country is hollow […] A great sea there must surely be, for on all sides
the streams run into the mountain itself, never to reappear. There are
gaps everywhere amid the rocks, and when you pass through them you
find yourself in great caverns, which wind down into the bowels of the
earth” (Doyle 2009: 22).

Despite the geographical isolation, the hollowness of the countryside
and the rock-strewn mountain with gaps winding deep down and
under, Mr. Hardcastle is fascinated to be in these “weird solitudes”
(Doyle 2009: 22). Among other things, his attention is unremittingly
focused on Blue John Gap – an unusual-looking gap or passage inter-
secting several caves. Being in poor health, however, he is unable to
descend into the hidden depths of the mysterious-looking passage;
still, he gives himself a promise to explore it once he has recovered.
As a man of unusual curiosity, he is determined to find out how deep
into the hills the Romans went while digging underneath the Derby-
shire hills.
Soon, he learns about the legend which lives on among the locals
and which is inseparable from the countryside itself: it is the legend
about a mysterious, terror-inspiring creature lurking in the Blue John
Gap and plaguing the countryside, the locals and their sheep. On the
one hand, Mr Hardcastle, in the fashion of a true scientist, is unwilling
to accept the locals’ accounts of the existence of the nameless Creature
and smiles away at the plausibility of their superstition-ridden stor-
ies. On the other, his mind becomes seriously unsettled by a sudden,
indescribable, indistinct sound coming from the bellows of the Blue
John Gap and making his experience both mystifying and queer. Ex-
pectedly, he ascribes the queer noise to his hallucinating mind and is
strong-willed to rationally explain away the queer, the strange or the
otherworldly. In fact, what the scientist is attempting to do is to de-
mythologize the space and provide a scientific and objective explana-
tion for the purportedly supernatural – even alarmingly supernatural.
To that end, he repeatedly goes to the place of the brooding terror,
hoping to thoroughly investigate and ultimately demystify the legend.
However, the process of demystification of the mystifying and the nat-
uralization of the seemingly supernatural is an unsettling experience
in itself. On one occasion, he is literally shocked to find some blood-
smeared tufts of wool at the mouth of the Blue John Gap: “my reason
tells me that if sheep wander into such rocky places they are likely to
injure themselves, and yet somehow that splash of crimson gave me
a sudden shock, and for a moment I found myself shrinking back in
horror from the old Roman arch. A fetid breath seemed to ooze from
the black depths into which I peered” (Doyle 2009: 25). And once again
he refuses to acknowledge any unnaturalness down below. He would
rather ascribe it all to his ill health and to his still recuperating, hal-
lucination-prone mind: “one grows more nervous and fanciful when
one’s health is shaken” (Doyle 2009: 26).
Finally, Mr Hardcastle descends into the locus of the terror and the
residence of the much-feared creature – the Creature of the Blue John
Gap. Importantly, he must go down into the depths of the gap in order
to investigate the validity of the locals’ accounts of the existence of
the mysterious, unearthly and gigantic monster. Put differently, he is
eager to demystify the supernatural side of their story and to satiate the
thirst of a scientist’s mind for the rational, the reasonable, the explic-
able, the fathomable and the logical. Set out on a know-it-all quest, he
walks through the dark, shadowy corridors of the cavern whose floor
is mostly bestrewn with rocky pieces of boulders and overlaid with
lime incrustations. Suddenly, he is bewildered to see a strange-looking
impression in “a patch of soft mud” (Doyle 2009: 27). In fact, what he
comes across is “a huge mark – an ill-defined blotch, deep, broad and
irregular, as if a great boulder had fallen upon it” (Doyle 2009: 27).
Using his logic, he deduces that the shapeless mark cannot be the result
of either a boulder (there is not any loose one around) or an imprint of
the foot of an animal (the size of the mark far overreaches the foot size
even of an elephant). His bodily sensations, the trembling of the hand
and the sinking of his heart, immediately evince the scientist’s loss of
self-assumed superiority of reason in the subterraneous world, which
is dark, shadowy, labyrinthine and unexplored. Metaphorically, it is at
the heart of darkness that the prowess of reason is challenged.
In a veiled way, though, the scene is suggestive of the way abso-
lute rational certainty is questioned and subverted. Being previous-
ly geographically isolated to this far-off spot in England, Mr Hardcastle
is now physically and psychologically isolated, too. In the ambience

Literature - essay
11. 05. 2016
Bozidar Mitrovich

Objectives of the sciences and culture

The word KULTURA / Culture (as well as culture itself; енгл. culture,
нем. die Kultur; fr. culture; it. cultura; шп. Cultura; lat. cultura/cult//
cvllv/Collo, rus. культура, serb. култура) originated from the Serb-
ian/ancient Russian word KOLO, which was transformed in KVLV
then in CVLT/Kult, (it is even recorded in Latin language that the word
culture originated from the word (cult) COLLO/KOLO). The earliest
world view (mirovozrenje) of the ancient Slavs/SloVena, who used to
name themselves KoloVeni, was ingeniously simple – “Everything is
Kolo/Circle” (the unity of the movement of the Earth round the Sun,
nature and man), on which basis they discovered that this Kolo (Circle)
of interdependence within the cyclical movement was materialized in
the cross section of wood in the form of a growth ring – in Serbian:
God (Godovi), which allowed the people of Lepenski Vir to specify a
period of one year (God-ina is the Serbian/Russian word for “year”)
as the time of resurrection of nature, thanks to which finding they
were able to change the nomadic for sedentary way of life (which also
accounts for the beginning of culture), and to start building houses of
(divine) wood in Vinča, to plant crops in furrows and to harvest crops
at the same place.

The mother (мать) of all sciences is mathematics, not philosophy,
as some erroneously teach. Recently discovered research of Miloš
Mitrović, a graduate of the Faculty of Computational Mathematics
and Cybernetics of Moscow State University “M.V. Lomonosov“
shows that the foundation of mathematics was ZERO ( → О) which,
at the times of Lepenski Vir and Vinča did not mean “nothing“, but
was the concept of Az – Аз/ (primordial source – the Sun О), as the
eternal resurrection of Kolo (Circle) of the ancient KoloVena (Slavs),
which is why it was divided into three divine, equilateral crosses (the
cross of the Sun, the cross of the Earth and the cross of the night
Sun/Moon ), which account for the origins of a Clock / ČasoVenik
(in Cyrillic alphabet: часоВеник/часоВник), the most widespread
temple in the world, thus having:

✓ 12 figures
✓ the space between each of them having five papillary circles –
points accounting for fingers of a human hand, as an expression of the
identity of cosmic and divinely human, which resulted in this eternal
koloVrat/(колоВрат)/S/ДЗело/Zero having also
✓ 60 minutes,

which concept was taken from Vinča to mathematics of Mesopotamia/
Međurečje (engl. “the land between the rivers“), and which Gaius Julius
Caesar did not manage to destroy in the mountainous and forested
“Trans-Alpine Galia“, thus being preserved to present days in that cap-
ital of “časoVenik/ часоВеника“ (clocks and watches) – Switzerland,
which in those ancient times constituted a part of the culture of Vinča,
bearing the name KoloVenija (Latinized version: HelVetija) the same
like RasSija/Racija/Russia (in Cyrillic alphabet: РасСија/Рација/
Русија) (Latinized version: Ruthenia).
Therefore, the first Cyrillic-alphabet tower clock, built by the
Serbian master Lazar Hilandarac in Moscow in 1404, had the Cyril-
lic alphabet character A, that is Az/Аз in place of the figure 0, not in
the place of figure 1, as the same clock, under the influence of Latin
deceptions, was later restored (in Suzdal and in Moscow in Poljanka
Street) by the Soviet restorers, who neither understood the Orthodox
religion nor, as a consequence, the religion of the ancient KoloVena/
КолоВена, where the RELIGION was the system of knowledge
(ведать – to know RA (in Cyrillic alphabet – PA): genus Аз/Az: pri-
mary, primordial) of the civilization of Vinča, whose real name was
RasSija/РасСија or KoloVenija/ КолоВенија.
This simple world view/мировозрења of the ancient SloVena/
СлоВена/Slavs gave birth to architecture, law and medicine (med-
Isina/медИсина), which account for the very origins of culture, al-
though the origins of law, medicine and architecture have unreason-
ably and arbitrarily been attributed to Rome or Greece:

In I century BC, the famous Roman architect and engineer Vitru-
vius, in his work “Ten Books on Architecture” (“De architectura libri
decum’’), argued that the Greek Callimachus constructed the Cor-
inthian Capital after having seen a food basket braided with the
leaves of achantus (Emily Cole: “The Grammar of Architecture”).
The book: “(KoloVeni/SloVeni/ КолоВени/СлоВени and the
Continuity of Culture and Law’’ has, on the basis of the most recent
scientific research, presented the evidence that the capital (kapitel)
originated from the мировозрења (the world view) of the ancient
Slavs/SloVena/KoloVena (in Cyrillic alphabet: СлоВена/КолоВена)
“Everything is Kolo/Circle’’, as the cross section of the capital did
express and still expresses Kolo (Circle):
a. circle О on the Doric capital, and the same in the shape of
b. two equilateral crosses which on the Corinthian capital include:
• the Cross of the Sun, which on the external/visible part ends in
a flower and
• the Cross of the Mother Earth, which passes into a volute.

This unity of the movement of the Mother Earth round the Sun is
created by the Spirit of God – the Sun Rays expressed in the form of
cannelures, which emerge out of the capiTal.
The same cosmogony is nowadays expressed by the Orthodox
Slavs (SloVeni) in the form of the most beautiful spiritual capital –
the five-domed cross-shaped temple.

The word iustitia (Justitia/Justice) is, according to a Russian scien-
tist Nokolai Ryzhkov, derived from a Serbian word ustiti (in Cyrillic
alphabet: устити), which is true, because in the primordial source
of Roman Law “The Law of the Twelve Tables” the subjective law was
not divided into the power of attorney and prosecution, but the pros-
ecutor had to correctly pronounce the formula of charges in order to
be granted the LAW, which, according to the cult Kolo from Lepen-
ski Vir, was the right / Russian: прямо from God (English: down
right), but also Russian: наПРАВО/English: right, that is to the right,
to the movement of the Sun, because ’’Everything is Kolo / Circle’’,
in which a prosecutor today may be a defendant tomorrow, which
accounts for the reliable proof that the source of Roman Law was
Etruscan Law, and not the law of the alleged Greek colonies, because
it was: KOLO(Ve)nija.

The deities of Lepenski Vir were egglike (ovoid) and fishlike (ichthy-
oidal) because they did present and still present the мировозрење
(world view) of the ancient KoloVena/SloVena (Slavs), who used to
fish for beluga from the genus of sturgeon, which at exactly the same
time emerged to the surface of water for spawning as the goddess
Morena, and it appeared that the world’s first physicians used to treat
the rodoVerna (“faithful to the genus“) brethren with roes (sturgeon
eggs), wine, honey and secret knowledge of KoloDar/kalenDar (Cal-
endar), about the arrival of the Savior (from pestilence) – the Spring
Sun, as the eternal resurrection of the annual movement of the
Mother Earth round her offspring, the Sun.

According to Professor Srboljub Živanović, Miloje Vasić has, in his
diary kept at the National Museum in Belgrade, expressed the view
that the signs found in Vinča are – the script and argued that the
same must be examined and systematized on the basis of a multi-
disciplinary research. Not only did this fail to be performed for a
long period of time, but the systematization of Professor Radivoj
Pešić: “The Vinča Script” (and his use of the term the Vinča alphabet
and comparison of it being identical to Etruscan alphabet) had been
ignored until the symposium of the SASA held in Novi Sad, when the
world’s leading paleolinguists acknowledged that this is a script (but
at the same time suggested that the name the Vinča script should be
changed into the Danubian alphabet, in order to prevent it from being
associated with the Slavs (SloVena)), which fact still fails to reach the
people who are paid to be involved in Vinča and the Vinča script, as
the earliest of in the world of science recognized scripts, regardless of
whether it accounts for the script of an unknown nation or the alpha-
bet of the SloVena (Slavs), the concept which, both in the linguistic and
in the socio-historical framework, offers plenty of evidence.

Mining and geology
Archeology has determined the traces of mining reaching as far as to
the times of the Vinča culture:
• Rudna Glava in Eastern Serbia is the oldest copper mine in the
• the cinnabar mine Šuplja Stena, on Avala mountain, used to be
of extreme importance for the development of the first forms
of trade.

The most recent discovery of the traces of copper processing and de-
termination that the world’s first metallurgy originated in the area of
the Vinča culture more than seven millennia ago is yet another addition
to a number of other evidence that the roots of civilization originated in
the Danube region and the area of Lepenski Vir and Vinča.

11. 05. 2016
Radojka Vukcevic

Interview with Lawrence Buell 1

How do you see the relationship between GATGAN and American
literature as a transnational whole?
The relation is double-sided. My original working subtitle for the book,
later dropped at the request of the publisher as sounding too pedantic,
begins to suggest that broader conception: “Rethinking National Nar-
rative for a Post-National Age.” On the one hand, the GAN as this very
impressionistic phrase/concept has been used during its 150-year exist-
ence must be understood as referring to a complementary set of recur-
ring “scripts” for representing the distinctive character of U. S. national
experience. On the other hand, some although not all of these scripts
were either formatively influenced by or developed in coordination with
other literatures of the world, especially in the first instance Europhone
literature. To take the most outstanding example: my second script,
what I call the “up-from” narrative that follows the career of a social-
ly representative protagonists who rises or seeks to rise from obscurity
to prominence, is an Americanized variant of the European Bildungs-
roman tradition that has developed as much in conversation with it as
from its “native” roots in the so-called American Dream myth.

Would you agree with those critics who see this book as a com-
parativist project?
Yes definitely. To be sure, I make no attempt to give equal time to any
other national literature or to generalize more than intermittently
about world literature and the place of U. S. literary history therein. Yet
I operate throughout from the assumption that U. S. literary history is
inseparable from the rest of world literature, and that even its points of
distinctiveness or idiosyncrasy cannot be fully understood except by
comparison with other national literary histories. Only through such
research, for example, was I able to discover the combination of family
resemblances between the GAN idea and certain other postcoloni-
al literatures, as well as the near-uniqueness of the specific GAN idea
among all national literary histories of the world, except for Australia.
Later on, when discussing regionalism(s) as an important dimension
of U. S. literature history, I benefitted from awareness of comparable
subnational movements in Europe and the English-speaking world at
large, and beyond that the history of debates within other national lit-
erary cultures concerning the relative claims of regionalism vs. “main-
stream” writing as definers of national imaginaries. Finally and most
importantly, both the hybrid-syncretic stylistic makeup of many GAN
contenders and the investment of many of them in such transnation-
al phenomena as immigration and globalization made it necessary to
conceive of most if not all of my novels as being about far more—both
in subject and in texture—than US-ness. Both Hawthorne’s The Scarlet
Letter and Toni Morrison’s Beloved for example, demand to be read as
diasporic narratives, of sharply different kinds.

In that sense, is history a key to the dynamics of national literature
and national identity itself?
Yes indeed. Most obviously this is so by reason of history’s self-con-
scious presence as a driver of the narrative project, as in Hawthorne
and Morrison, not to mention several other among my featured novels:
Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!, and Dos
Passos’ U.S.A. to name just three examples. I did not set out expecting
that such a large number of the leading GAN candidates would be his-
torical fictions, but it makes perfect sense, insofar as fictions or fables
of history are so obvious a recourse for literary projects that seem to
represent, analyze, explain national experience. But history potentially
figures no less importantly in national literature when it is shown to be
repressed or distorted or misconstrued, as again in the early twentieth
century of Faulkner’s imagined white south, or in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s
The Great Gatsby, or in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. Indeed, as these
last three examples suggest, although “reinvention of tradition” (in the
luminous phrase of Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger) is common
to all national ideologies, the will to repress or reinvent the past may
be especially salient — and at worst especially toxic — in U. S. culture.
“American innocence” has, for good reason, become a byword for will-
ful blindness to the continuing force exerted by precedent and custom-
ary social practice on life in the present.

How else can GAN be redefined?
This question needs to be reframed more specifically in order for me to
give you a substantive answer.

Which issues in the history of American literature determined
most of all your division into four main types of potential GANT?
I don’t pretend to be able to provide a complete list. Two that were es-
pecially influential for me were the two canon shakeups that occurred
during the twentieth century: first, the winnowing of the U. S. liter-
ary canon down to a limited number of super-texts by the so-called
New Critics in the mid-1900s and then (even more importantly) the
late century canon wars instigated by advocates for bodies of literature
by women and/or nonwhite authors that the New Critics had banished
or overlooked. This one-two sequence of controversies, the latter of
which is still playing its way through, created a dichotomy between
“mainstream” and “minority” literature that increasingly dissatisfied
me both as scholar and as teacher. My second and especially my third
script (“the romance of the divides” as I call it, meaning divides both of
region and of race or ethnicity) attempt to mediate such false dichotom-
izing by arguing that although both these scripts originate in a literary
scene dominated by white writers, they have proven highly amenable
over time for minority fiction. Indeed, one of the big GAN story-lines
during the twentieth century is that by century’s end writers from the
ethnoracial margins had become to a large extent the definers of the
national literary “mainstream.”

Then too, another consideration behind my first script in particular was
the historical durability of a particular novel—its after-life as a text that
gets retold, recast, elaborated, simplified, or in whatever sense perpetu-
ated so that it enters, seemingly for good, the bloodstream of American
culture as a variously-understood key to its meaning. The earliest four
examples I discuss at length are cases in point: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, The
Scarlet Letter, Moby-Dick, and Huckleberry Finn.

Which most outstanding cannonical questions has this division raised?
The biggest question has to do with the relation between “canon” and
“GAN.” The GAN as a concept, or as a tradition of critical talk, is dis-
tinctly sub-canonical, in the sense that most credentialed critics have
avoided it as a kind of amateurish enthusiasm, a promotional hype, or
(oppositely) as a kind of standing joke that indeed U. S. fiction writers
have bandied about for decades. (My introduction cites the case of the
novelist-father of one of my students who had the practice of excusing
himself from the family dinner table by saying “I’ve got to get back to
writing the great American novel.”) So the durability of the GAN dream
is more a demotic or “grassroots” phenomenon than it is a top-down,
critical-establishment-driven phenomenon. And yet many if not all the
serious contenders have been novels that most academics would consid-
er canonical today, or were so considered in a former time. Generaliz-
ing more broadly, the two domains of GAN and (novelistic) canon are
(1) overlapping categories; (2) self-evidently by no means coextensive (eg
Melville’s Billy Budd and Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye and Sula are
all clearly canonical, but also clearly not GANs); and (3) sharply differ-
ent however with regard to the kind of cultural capital to which they lay
claim. “Canon” is traditionally and still today the more “elite” category,
implying for example a degree of stylistic control and refinement not
necessarily found (or even expected) in leading GAN contenders gener-
ally, as evidenced for example by Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Theo-
dore Dreiser’s American Tragedy. On the other hand, to introduce a
further complexity, it’s also true — counter-intuitive though it may seem
— that the aesthetics of difficulty, which offhand might seem to exclude
a novel from claims to GAN, in some cases hasn’t proven a barrier at all.
Consider Moby-Dick, for example. It’s an extremely challenging text, yet
it’s on just about everyone’s top-five list of GAN candidates.
1) Interview was done on the occasion of publication of a very significant
theoretical study on American novel: Lawrence Buell, The Dream of the
Great American Novel, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2014. He is
Professor of American Literature Emeritus at Harvard University, and an
outstanding author of a few books of criticism on Ecocriticism, American
Romanticism, and American Literature and Culture.

Story about the Artist
11. 05. 2016
Grigor Gurzadya

Grigor Gurzadya

I finished two essays – “Andromeda’s Paradox” and “Mysteries of Saturn”.
Andromeda is a galaxy and Saturn is a huge planet. Then I turned to
Paravon’s paintings are done in the three traditional spheres – por-
trait, landscape and still life. So I am fascinated with the forth sphere of
his activity, the revelation of a woman’s body.
The creation of a woman’s body in art, in the sculptures of the Hel-
lenistic epoch has a history of two thousand and five hundred years,
and in the frescoes it has a history of about two thousand years (Pom-
peii, Rome). Traditions in this sphere in Armenian art are scarce, and
they are beyond my aesthetic predilections.
What I seek is the charm, poetry, and lyrics of a woman’s body as a
cosmic fancy… as a dream, as a melancholy. Rodin’s works are my ideal…
Thus Paravon appeared and brought the poetry of a woman’s body
with him. It is a new phenomenon in our art. It’s the nude body painted
with wide brushstrokes, wholly with great generalizations, the poetry
of a body like a space creation…
Body in whole is depicted in the same tone, with simplicity which
reaches up to hypnotization. The nude body in the surrounding nature
and on the blue sky is sometimes blue, sometimes reddish and some-
times yellow like orange… This is the poetry, a vision belonging to an-
other world, from which you don’t know how to take away your glance.
Nude bodies are not repeated in Paravon’s paintings. They are dif-
ferent in their posture and mood, in colour solutions and especially
in their images. The most difficult of all these is to depict a back of a
woman, when means of expressions are very scarce. A woman’s body
from the back…Marvelous is “Venus before the Mirror” by Velázquez
(The National Gallery in London). Paravon’s paintings are strange
enough, especially those of nude and mysterious women. I am aston-
ished with his brilliant imagination and great mastery. The emotions
are in the extreme colour harmony in his paintings. One should feel
rather than see the tenderness of the body. Paravon Mirzoyan is an
event in the history of our art.
He continues his searches and doesn’t consider himself to be ex-
hausted. He should create new surprises as a woman’s body is exactly
the space.
Paravon follows his inner voice, and the latter is true…
The diversity of means is obvious in Paravon’s paintings. The tech-
nique of pastel has great traditions. Thus we see Paravon’s series of
pastel works depicting women’s bodies. This small pastel series made
me stand long before each work every time. One can see every pastel
stroke, thus finding nothing odd in that turmoil, everything is in its
place-body, light, colour, shade, even the darkness and the pastel
strokes… I certainly knew what pastel was, but I didn’t know what
means of expression it could be…It was really a surprise.
In my opinion, this pastel series must have its permanent place in
the museum. This is something like an alarm of raising “The Armenian
Degas” from the horizon.
…In my house in Garni music plays till late into the night, sym-
phonies of different types…
There are pictures on the walls, and lower side by side stand big and
small volumes of classic artists. Paravon’s folio full of paintings found
its place among them…

Fine art
11. 05. 2016
Elen Gaifejyan

Paravon Mirzoyan

Modern art life when imaginary intellectual ingenuity of postmodern-
ism is somewhat hidden under the darnels of fake painting and just
charlatanism, has rather annoyed. Day by day nostalgia for classic art
and for the plasticity of it becomes obvious. Exactly this kind of art can
be viewed in the works of Armenian painter Paravon Mirzoyan. In the
midst of the 1970’s when painting was yet a confessing and an aesthet-
ic action, Mirzoyan came forward implicitly obeying his youth ideals.
However, he did not and could not avoid tricks of mind and his relation
to the radical peculiarity of postmodernism.
Yet, the creative person develops by the general cultural state of
exactly his time and not the other one. But that relation sometimes
viewed in foreign art references and characteristic for postmodernism,
is hardly noticeable with slight exceptions. This merely makes the rem-
iniscences of a stranger as if encoded on genetic level but not brutal and
aggressive intertextual tricks of their culminating phase eliminating all
the obstacles. Mirzoyan’s art has nothing to do with this sense of post-
It has merely a meaning of plasticity where the main aesthetic refer-
ence is the artistic trial of fauvism re-interpreted by the modern master.
But the background of the seemingly spontaneous creative impulse is
the great mastery and the strong school of the real professionalism. A
school, where many followers of so-called pictorial painting have stud-
ied in Yerevan, Moscow and Leningrad (now St. Petersburg) like Mir-
zoyan, and which still remains one of the main trends of Armenian
easel painting development. The basis of the artist’s skill and his free
brushstrokes make the intent study of visible reality.
Permanent model paintings, work in plain air and passionate sur-
veys-exactly these phenomena let him for decades freely reach to the
impressive generalization of created artistic images. During the de-
velopment of his whole creative activity not occasionally is that along-
side with oil paintings he has been perfectly mastering the technique
of pastel. The disciplined role of the latter is to specify the permissible
limits of pictorial licentiousness.
The development of Mirzoyan’s art is distinguished not by the
change of stylistic structures, forms and expressive means of painting
and different conceptions. It mainly stands out with deliberate colour
changings throughout the time.
As the rhythm and different tones of the same melody can change,
the palette innovations of the artist loyal to colours’ emotive signifi-
cance can only develop and deepen the perfect united meaning. Mir-
zoyan’s art is represented to us in all depicted works. The existential
world itself, which is composed on Mirzoyan’s canvases and cardboards
in new varieties, is actually unchangeable. Today they are green- and
violet-blue or light blue illusions of the beautiful and the mysterious.
At the time the artist perceived those illusion-dreams in another range
of colours. But then all the more as now they make the viewer think
about the existence, as well as about their unavailable and fascinating
“Neither the landscapes allure me/, nor do the colours notice my
greedy eyes/. It is what shines in those colours,/ Love and joy for life”.
These words of the poet can truly characterize the artist.
Paravon Mirzoyan was born in one of the most beautiful corners
of Sisian region, Armenia. It’s a mountainous region with a mystic
nature. The feeling of the nature’s great vital force was branded into his
heart becoming a basis for his pantheistic world perception. Here are
the roots of life-asserting poetics of his canvases, whether they are still
lifes, landscapes, works of genre art, and subject compositions of female
figures or female nudes. The latter works make exactly the sequence of
various modes of femininity. The artist’s confessional attitude towards
the world has found its most visible reflection in them. Their variabil-
ity and essence can certainly be compared with eternal masterpieces of
Armenian medieval love lyrics-with Nahapet Kuchak’s hayrens:
“They are about love without any rules, love, which has only one
power-the power of heart” (L. Mkrtchyan).
The majority of Armenian painters always gave tribute to the ma-
jestic beauty of women and to their power of giving birth. A. Bazh-
beuk-Melikian was the most faithful painter to this mission and con-
sidered women to be the only and universal theme for creating, which
seemed glorious in painting. In this constant range (in addition to the
vast group of female images in world art) Mirzoyan’s artworks have
their specific place. In this respect, the most significant are the canvases
made in the genre “New”, where the emotive perception of a woman’s
nudity prevails, free from any detailed studies. The nudes depicted by
Mirzoyan are unknown with their plasticity, triumph and erotic at-
tractiveness; the majority of his paintings are unusually imaginary as
well. Nothing concrete, no individuality and which is more, there is
nothing from the inner world which could have been reflected in their
appearance. It is just a Woman, a generalized and an abstract image
including characteristic features. The artist is not interested in personal
peculiarities. He is quite indifferent towards the concrete model. This,
by the way, is distinctly viewed in his women portraits. They express
not the lyrical contemplation and poetic inner world of the model, but
exactly those of the artist himself. When the artist makes the main sub-
ject of his artworks sensual, which is strictly incomparable with publi-
city, then the nature of the depicted nudity itself lowers the accent, thus
moving the observation of the nude to another notional level.
The deliberate “blurriness” of extensive painting style, the condi-
tionality of plastic forms, outlines and omissions are the store of means
which make Mirzoyan’s improvisations diverse and which mentally
take us out of the reality. The reason is (as well as in landscapes, still lifes
and in paintings of genre art) that the most tender range of violet, tur-
quoise, blue-emerald, lilac, wine-red, ruby, dark blue and crimson-pur-
ple colours creates the imaginary space of the artist, which is out of time
and where there is nothing trivial and earthly.
Groups of diverse paintings related to female images of Paravon
Mirzoyan – the real interlocutor of midnight moon and stellar sky can
be characterized by poetic words of Ivan Bunin:

And I do not forget this starry night,
When I loved the whole world for the one!
Though I am living the useless dream,
Vague and deceptive dream,

I look for unity of beauty
And secret in this world as a dream.
Love her for the joy of confluence
Of one love with the love of all days.

Paravon Mirzoyan’s whole creative world seems to be inspired exactly
by this true feeling. This is the world of an artist, endowed with the per-
ception of the mysterious.

Paravon Mirzoyan
Dates of Life and Chronology
1949 – Born on December 2, in Salvard village (Sisian region, Armenia)
1975 – Graduated from the Leningrad State Academy of Fine Arts after I. Repin
1975 – Participations in republican, all-union and international exhibitions
1975 – Lecturer at Yerevan State Academy of Fine Arts
1976 – Member of Union of Artists of the USSR
1977-79 – Scholar of Union of Artists of the USSR
1986 – Awarded the medal “For Labour Virtue”
Since 1989 – Head of the art studio of Yerevan State Academy of Fine Arts
1989-2002 – Head of the Chair of Painting and Composition at Yerevan State Academy of Arts
1995 – Professor of the Chair of Painting and Composition (Russian Federation)
Since 2002 – Director of the National Gallery of Armenia
2005 – Decorated with the title “Honoured Citizen of Sisian”
2005 – Awarded the “Gold Medal” of the Ministry of Culture of RA
2005 – Awarded the medal “Aksel Bakunts” (Syunik Region)
2006 – Honoured Art Worker of the Republic of Armenia
2006 – Full member of the Petrov Academy of Fine Arts and Sciences (Saint Petersburg)
2007 – Awarded the State Reword of the Republic of Armenia
2008 – Awarded the order of “Chevalier des Arts et des Lettres”
2009 – Awarded the gold medal “Fridtjof Nansen”
2014 – People’s Artist of the Republic of Armenia
Since 2014 – Head of the chair of Fine Arts at Yerevan State Pedagogical University after Khachatur Abovyan
2015 – Honorary Member of the Russian Academy of Arts
2015 – Awarded the medal “Grigor Narekatsi”

P. Mirzoyan’s works are preserved in the museums of Armenia, Russia,
the Ukraine, USA, France, India, Syria, Spain, Poland, Lithuania, as
well as in private collections.

Personal Exhibitions
1989 – Permanent Mission of Armenia in Moscow
1995 – Union of Artists of Armenia, Yerevan
2000 – National Gallery of Armenia, Yerevan
2005 – National Gallery of Armenia, Yerevan, Sisian and Etchmiadzin
2005 – Exhibition of pastel artworks, National Gallery of Armenia, Yerevan
2007 – Exhibitions in Vanadzor and Gyumri
2010 – Union of Artists of Armenia, Yerevan and Stepanakert (Nagorno Karabakh)
2010 – Personal Exhibition in Stepanakert (NK), exhibition of “Artsakh” panel in the Liberty Square
2010 – Personal exhibition dedicated to the 300th anniversary of Armenian Community of Saint Petersburg, hall of Union of Artists of Saint Petersburg
2010 – Personal exhibition in Novi Sad city (Serbia)
2014 – Personal exhibition in the State Central Museum of Contemporary History of Russia, Moscow
2014 – Personal exhibition at the National Gallery of Armenia, Yerevan
2015 – Personal exhibition at the State Art Gallery of Sopot, Poland

Страна 1 од 2



Претплатите се и дарујте независни часописи Људи говоре, да бисмо трајали заједно


Људи говоре је српски загранични часопис за књижевност и културу који излази у Торонту од 2008.године. Поред књижевности и уметности, бави се свим областима које чине културу српског народа.

У часопису је петнаестак рубрика и свака почиње са по једном репродукцијом слика уметника о коме се пише у том броју. Излази 4 пута годишње на 150 страна, а некада и као двоброј на 300 страна.

Циљ му је да повеже српске писце и читаоце ма где они живели. Његова основна уређивачка начела су: естетско, етичко и духовно јединство.


Мило Ломпар
главни и одговорни уредник
(Београд, Србија)

Владимир Димитријевић
оперативни уредник за матичне земље
(Чачак, Србија)

Радомир Батуран
оперативни уредник за дијаспору
(Торонто, Канада)

Александар Петровић
уредник за културу
(Београд, Србија)

Жељко Продановић
уредник за поезију
(Окланд, Нови Зеланд)


Небојша Радић
уредник за језик и писмо
(Кембриџ, Енглеска)

Жељко Родић
уредник за уметност
(Оквил, Канада)

Никол Марковић
уредник енглеске секције и секретар Уредништва
(Торонто, Канада)

Џонатан Лок Харт
уредник енглеске секције
(Торонто, Канада)


Душица Ивановић

Сања Крстоношић

Александра Крстовић

Графички дизајн

Антоније Батуран

Технички уредник

Радмило Вишњевац


Часопис "Људи говоре"
The Journal "People Say"

477 Milverton Blvd.
Toronto ON,
M4C 1X4 Canada


Мила Фокас


Никол Марковић, секретар
т: 416 823 8121

Радомир Батуран, oперативни уредник
т: 416 558 0587

477 Milverton Blvd. Toronto,
On. M4C 1X4, Canada

ISSN 1925-5667

© људи говоре 2019