"All this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered."
The Capital City of Warsaw in Polonia sits on the River Vistula, and it’s perhaps unsurprising to see a mermaid on its coat of arms. What catches the attention is that this mermaid is brandishing a blade and carrying a shield, and her story is indeed worth telling. You can read her story, and a focus on two of the possible sources for the emblem, today on the Patreon.
Pablo Picasso depicted the protecting mermaid on a mural in Obrońców Street: it’s the picture in the header.
Mikhail Bulgakov (Kyiv, 1891–1940) was a novelist, playwright, and former physician, whom I’m sure you know for The Master and Margarita, published posthumously. His work blends sharp satire, fantasy, grotesque comedy, and moral seriousness, often targeting Soviet bureaucracy and ideological hypocrisy, but I had no
Conclusion Kovrin received a professorship at the University. The inaugural address was fixed for the second of December, and a notice to that effect was hung up in the corridor at the University. But on the day appointed he informed the students’ inspector, by telegram,
Chapter 7 One long winter night Kovrin was lying in bed, reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in the evenings from living in town, to which she was not accustomed, had been asleep a long while, and, from time to time, articulated
Mikhail Bulgakov (Kyiv, 1891–1940) was a novelist, playwright, and former physician, whom I’m sure you know for The Master and Margarita, published posthumously. His work blends sharp satire, fantasy, grotesque comedy, and moral seriousness, often targeting Soviet bureaucracy and ideological hypocrisy, but I had no
Conclusion Kovrin received a professorship at the University. The inaugural address was fixed for the second of December, and a notice to that effect was hung up in the corridor at the University. But on the day appointed he informed the students’ inspector, by telegram,
Chapter 7 One long winter night Kovrin was lying in bed, reading a French novel. Poor Tanya, who had headaches in the evenings from living in town, to which she was not accustomed, had been asleep a long while, and, from time to time, articulated
No Comments