A friend of mine recently decided to enroll in an MBA program. I was curious as to why. From my experience, I’ve noticed that while MBA holders often have solid foundational knowledge, they frequently lose out to those who have acquired these skills independently, especially through hands-on experience.
So, I checked out the course content and its requirements. It states that a certificate of English proficiency is absolutely essential. The thing is, in all my life, I’ve never bothered to get any such certificate. Yes, my English is far from perfect, I know. I work on it continuously, but I never got around to obtaining a certificate. Nonetheless, I work at a large international company and communicate with colleagues and partners in English daily, both verbally and in writing.
Kirill Yeskov is a paleontologist, and writing science fiction and speculative literature is a hobby for him. The Gospel of Afranius is his first work, written in 1995, for which he received the “Big Zilant” award in Kazan. However, he became widely known to science fiction fans in 1999 with the release of The Last Ringbearer, which completely reinterprets the events of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. I would argue that Yeskov laid the groundwork for this approach in The Gospel of Afranius.
This book is an attempt to view the death and ascension of Christ through the lens of cold logic. The “novella” essentially consists of two parts. In the first, the author tries to assess the known facts and inconsistencies in the story as we know it from surviving sources and the Bible, making it more of an analytical essay.
The book Flying Colors: A guide to flags from around the world caught my attention with its title. After all, it’s genuinely interesting to learn why each country has its particular flag and what significance lies behind it. The cover even promised to delve into the history of all these colors and shapes. I was intrigued enough to buy the book in print, which I rarely do these days. But I had no choice, as there’s no digital version available.
The book is quite small, just 112 pages. And even those pages don’t contain much text—there’s a lot of graphic content. Plus, early on, the author introduces little helper figures of different colors (they’re even on the cover, raising flags like American marines). It’s unfortunate, though, that these helpers don’t play much of a role later on. They appear in nearly every illustration, but quickly fade into the background, becoming “white noise” that you barely notice. I had expected each one to serve a unique purpose, but that wasn’t the case.
I’m somewhat hesitant to read all of Fredrik Backman’s books at once, even though his first two really resonated with me, more than I expected. Maybe that’s exactly why I’m hesitant. Additionally, both of the books I’ve read left a lasting impression, and I feel the need to give myself time to process those emotions and let them settle.
That’s probably why, instead of jumping into his third novel, I decided to start with three short novellas that were recently published in Russian under the “unexpected” title—Three Novellas.
These are really just three very short stories, more like sketches. And all of them are quite sad. I’ve heard some readers refer to them as “stories about illnesses,” and in a way, that’s true.
The first one is about cancer and a little girl. And it’s quite unsettling how Backman, with such brevity and simplicity, conveys the inevitability of death, while also evoking a certain calm acceptance.
The song is already four years old and has even been performed at many official events in Belarus. Nothing particularly special, but it somehow resonated with me. I came across it thanks to the new (third) BSU team in KVN.
If there were a bit more Belarusian language in the lyrics, it would hit even harder.
The As*trobiologists series by Olga Gromyko, which started off with a bang, gradually began to grow dull over time. The last novel, in which the main characters of the series didn’t participate at all, was a particularly tough read for me. However, I generally enjoy Olga’s books, so I decided not to give up on the series, even though, to be honest, I was afraid that this eighth book would be a real slog. But the novel See You on Cassandra! turned out to be livelier and more fun than the previous one. With this book, Olga has taken a few experimental steps.
First of all, the book was released only in digital format and hasn’t been printed on paper yet.
Secondly, in this novel, she seems to have decided to bring together practically all the characters previously mentioned in the series—both from the novels and the short stories.
The main focus, however, is not on the primary heroes, the crew of The Space Brain-Eater, but on the organization protecting cyborgs, which was gifted an entire planet—Cassandra—in one of the earlier books. The plot revolves around this very gift, as many are eager to share in such a fortune. So, at the center of the story are the guardians of the sentient cyborgs and their intelligent (and not-so-intelligent) wards, who find themselves embroiled in legal and other shenanigans to defend their property and good name. All the other characters either lend a hand or drop by for a visit.
The capital of Cyprus is known to all Russian speakers as Nicosia. Similarly, it was called Nicosia in English for many years.
However, in recent years, this toponym (Nicosia) as the name of the capital of Cyprus has become less and less common. About five years ago, the name started to be replaced on all the signs on the island. According to rumors, this change was driven by some policy of the European Union, which aimed to replace the Latinized names of geographical locations in different countries with names closer in sound to their original pronunciation in the local language, rather than names imposed by colonial governments, for example.
The fact is, in Greek, the city is called Λευκωσία, which is pronounced Lefkosia, not Nicosia. Turkish Cypriots call it Lefkoşa in Turkish (pronounced Lefkosha). The name means “White City.” For example, Belarus in Greek has the same linguistic roots and is pronounced Lefkorossia, which literally means “White Russia.”
On road signs, all names are given in two languages—Greek and English. When I first moved to the island, the signs said Nicosia, but a few years ago, when the changes started being implemented, they initially showed dual names: Lefkosia (Nicosia), Lemesos (Limassol). Gradually, the older names were phased out everywhere.
Now, even many online maps show Lefkosia instead of Nicosia.
Interestingly, in official documents in English, the Greek Cypriots themselves can’t seem to decide how to write it—sometimes it’s Lefkosia, sometimes Nicosia. However, the postal service doesn’t mind how you address something—parcels and letters arrive in both “cities” just fine. 😉
What’s interesting is that there’s no such trend toward change in the Russian language. And even when Lefkosia finally becomes the standard in English, the city will most likely still be called Nicosia (Никосия) in Russian.
There are plenty of examples of this: we still call Beijing Pekin (Пекин) in Russian. And English speakers call Moscow Moscow, which is close but still sounds a bit different from Russian Moskva (Москва).
Asia has always attracted the “white man” with its otherness. America, by and large, isn’t that different from Europe these days. There’s almost nothing left of its authentic culture, and everything else has been imported from the Old World, though slightly transformed over time. Russians also differ culturally from Europeans and Americans. But none of these differences compare to how distinct we are from Asian cultures. For millennia, they developed in their own way, and this has influenced their way of life, traditions, and even values.
Modern globalization is blurring these boundaries, and cities like Tokyo resemble other major metropolises in America. However, there are still many things that can’t be changed in just a hundred or two hundred years.
Japan is one of those countries. That’s why it was so fascinating to read the thoughts of someone born in Japan, who then left, only to return to live there again after turning forty.
Well, I continue to follow the history of Russia as interpreted by Boris Akunin, contrary to the opinion of some acquaintances who think it’s not worth doing.
This volume is dedicated to two emperors—Alexander I and Nicholas I. It covers the time when Russia was already recognized as a superpower, claiming the right to shape the world’s destiny.
Unfortunately, the closer the author gets to modern times, the more superficial the narrative becomes. And it raises more and more questions.
Even the first chapter suffers from uneven storytelling. Alexander is portrayed with quick strokes from different angles, but before we even get a proper description of his reign. We haven’t been told in detail about the significant events of his time, yet those events (the War of 1812, Austerlitz, etc.) are constantly referenced. We are tossed back and forth across decades, and due to this lack of sequence, a full picture doesn’t quite come together.
The two-volume novel Diomedes, Son of Tydeus by Andrey Valentinov is formally considered the second in Valentinov’s Mycenaean cycle. However, it doesn’t have much connection with the first book, The Grey Kite. In fact, there’s not much about Mycenae in this book either—Mycenae is just another city-state here. It could just as easily be called part of a Trojan cycle since most of the story focuses on Troy.
What does connect it, though, is the parallels with H. L. Oldie’s Odysseus, Son of Laertes. Both books were written at the same time, with the authors collaborating during the writing process. The events overlap significantly, though in Valentinov’s novel, they are shown through the perspective of a different hero, Diomedes.
Both novels also share a similar narrative style. They begin with the heroes’ childhoods and trace their lives through their coming of age and the crucible of the Trojan War. Both books are a bit more challenging to read compared to other works by these authors.
Diomedes as a Greek hero is much less well-known compared to other figures. He didn’t perform any grand feats, so why should anyone remember him? He wasn’t Perseus, the slayer of Medusa. He wasn’t Heracles with his twelve labors. He wasn’t Theseus, the conqueror of the Minotaur. And he wasn’t Odysseus, who spent ten years returning to his beloved Penelope while encountering numerous adventures. Diomedes was just one of the many participants in the Trojan War.
