кыймет

― Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841)

Парус

Белеет парус одинокой

В тумане моря голубом!..

Что ищет он в стране далекой?

Что кинул он в краю родном?...

Играют волны — ветер свищет,

И мачта гнется и скрыпит...

Увы! Он счастия не ищет

И не от счастия бежит!

Под ним струя светлей лазури,

Над ним луч солнца золотой...

А он, мятежный, просит бури,

Как будто в бурях есть покой!

- Михаил Лермонтов

English version:

The Sail

Gleams white a solitary sail

In the haze of the light blue sea.—

What seeks it in countries far away?

What in its native land did leave?

The mast creaks and presses,

The wind whistles, the waves are playing;

Alas! It does not seek happiness,

Nor from happiness is fleeing!

Beneath, the azure current flows,

Above, the golden sunlight streaks:—

But restless, into the storm it goes,

As if in storms there is peace!

For the analysis of the poem and more information:

Mokosh is the Slavic goddess of fertility, moisture, the womb, spinning fate and protecting women.

In Slavic mythology, Mokosh, sometimes transliterated as Mokoš and meaning "Friday," is Moist Mother Earth and thus the most important (or sometimes only) goddess in the religion. As a creator, she is said to have been discovered sleeping in a cave by a flowering spring by the spring god Jarilo, with whom she created the fruits of the earth. She is also the protector of spinning, tending sheep, and wool, patron of merchants and fishermen, who protects cattle from plague and people from drought, disease, drowning, and unclean spirits.

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

Mokosh’s influence extends to commerce, fishing, and her dominion over land, water, and death. Associated with places like Mokoshe, Mokoshin, and Mukushina, she is depicted with long arms and a large head, symbolizing spinning and spiders.

The spider and its web became a symbol of the goddess, as the spider, like Makosh, was believed to spin the thread of fate. Hence the belief that if you suddenly get caught in a spider's web in the forest, it's a good omen, meaning Makosh favors you and signals that your thread will be smooth and lucky.

It is also believed that Makosh, embroidered on a scarf, will bring its owner good luck in home economics, planning household affairs, and since Makosh is a woman, then in a purely feminine way she can bring good luck to the one who embroiders her.

The Makosh amulet was often embroidered on the clothing of little girls. As they grew older, girls tried to wear a garment with the deity's face; this could hasten their marriage and promise a close-knit and happy family. The guardian of family happiness, Makosh was one of the Slavic goddesses revered by married women. The amulet helped women bear and give birth to healthy offspring, could ease childbirth, and promote mutual understanding within the family and resolve disagreements.

✦ ✧ ✦

The ancient Slavs commemorated Makosh on Friday. After the adoption of Christianity, the fifth day of the week—Friday—was associated with female saints. On this day, one was forbidden from spinning, weaving, or sewing. Otherwise, the goddess might become angry and tangle the yarn or prevent the completion of a shirt, and sometimes even appear with needle-pricked hands.

Compiled from various online sources:

https://www.thoughtco.com/mokosh-4773684

Russian Emotional & Cultural Codes — IV

There is a Russian word often translated as “vulgarity.”

But пошлость is deeper than that.

Meaning Beyond Translation

Пошлость (póshlost’) — a feminine noun — refers to something fake, shallow, and morally cheap.

It is not just bad taste.

It is false beauty.

It is pretended depth.

A world where everything looks meaningful —

but nothing truly is.

Emotional Texture

Пошлость is:

– Artificial elegance without soul

– Overused ideas dressed as originality

– Loud emptiness disguised as importance

In English, “vulgar” feels surface-level.

In Russian, пошлость feels like a quiet corruption of the spirit.

It is not just what you see.

It is what feels wrong beneath the surface.

Literary Weight

In the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, пошлость appears as moral decay hidden behind normalcy.

But it is Vladimir Nabokov who defines it most sharply:

Not obvious ugliness —

but the comfortable, smiling falseness people accept without question.

Aesthetic Note

Пошлость lives in:

– Overly perfect lives that feel empty,

– Forced emotions,

– Beauty without truth,

A polished lie.

A decorated void.

In Russia, tea is not just a drink — it is a daily ritual and an important part of social life. People drink tea at home, with guests, after meals, and during long conversations. Tea time is often slow and relaxed, a moment to talk, share stories, and spend time together.

One of the most iconic symbols of Russian tea culture is the samovar (самовар) A samovar is a traditional metal container used to boil water for tea. It became popular in Russia in the 18th–19th centuries and was often placed at the center of the table when guests arrived.

Russian tea is usually strong black tea. It is sometimes prepared as a strong concentrate and then diluted with hot water. Tea is commonly served in small glasses (often with metal holders called podstakannik) or cups.

Tea is rarely served alone. On the table you can often find jam, honey, sugar cubes, lemon slices, pastries, biscuits, or traditional sweets. Some people even drink tea (чай) while holding a spoon of jam in their mouth — a traditional way of enjoying sweetness with tea.

Tea in Russia is not only about taste — it represents hospitality, warmth, and conversation. Offering tea to a guest is a sign of welcome, and many meaningful discussions happen around the tea table.

A simple cup of tea can turn into hours of conversation.

☕ A samovar, a warm table, and good company — this is the heart of Russian tea culture.

Mikhail Lermontov (1814–1841)

He did not write to comfort.

He wrote to expose.

After the death of Alexander Pushkin, Lermontov composed “Death of the Poet” — a poem that accused the aristocracy of moral corruption.

For that, he was sent into exile in the Caucasus.

Exile became his aesthetic.

Mountains.

Cold winds.

Duels at dawn.

Silence between words.

✧ “A Hero of Our Time” — the first Russian anti-hero

In A Hero of Our Time, he created Pechorin —

not a villain, not a savior,

but a man too self-aware to belong anywhere.

Pechorin doesn’t suffer because he feels too much.

He suffers because he understands too much.

Lermontov predicted a type of person that would dominate Russian literature:

intelligent, detached, spiritually displaced.

✧ Themes that define him

existential loneliness

fatalism

romanticism without innocence

nature as psychological mirror

honor culture & destruction

His Caucasus is not landscape.

It is inner turmoil in physical form.

✧ Why he still feels modern

Lermontov writes about the boredom of the gifted mind.

About the violence hidden inside elegance.

About the exile that begins inside the self.

He died at 26.

In a duel.

As if Russia refused to keep him alive.

Afraid of decision, I buried my finer feelings in the depths of my heart and they died there.

“Istanbul, or Constantinople as the chronicles call it, was more than just a city—it was a pivot where empires met, clashed, and communicated.”

Trade and Diplomacy

From the 16th to 18th centuries, Russian envoys visited Constantinople regularly. The city’s ports were key hubs for commerce between the Ottoman Empire and Russia. Diplomatic exchanges shaped treaties, trade privileges, and even cultural perceptions.

Military and Political Encounters

Crimean Wars: Russian ambitions in the Black Sea collided with Ottoman control.

Border treaties and negotiations often centered around Constantinople’s strategic position.

The city symbolized power projection and geopolitical influence in Eastern Europe.

Cultural Impressions

Russian chronicles describe Constantinople as a “mystical East” full of contrasts and intrigue. Art, literature, and diplomatic notes preserved impressions of Ottoman architecture, the Bosphorus, and daily life in the imperial capital.

Representative excerpt inspired by 18th c. Russian envoy diaries (style and context inspired by Halil İnalcık, Osmanlı-Rus İlişkileri 1492–1700):

“Стамбул поражает величием и богатством; здесь сходятся все дороги и народы…”

“Istanbul astonishes with its grandeur and wealth; here all roads and peoples converge…”

Modern Reflections

Today, the historical interactions between Russia and Constantinople resonate in diplomacy, culture, and trade. Understanding these roots enriches perspectives on contemporary Russian–Turkish relations.

┌─── ∘°❉°∘ ───┐

Sources / References

Treaties & Diplomatic Records

Treaty of Constantinople, 1700.

Treaty of Küçük Kaynarca, 1774.

Treaty of Jassy, 1792.

Books & Academic Works

İnalcık, Halil. Osmanlı-Rus İlişkileri 1492–1700. İstanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yayınları.

Döner, Şenay. Moskof’la İttifak: Osmanlı-Rus Diplomatik İlişkileri. Ankara: İllaki Kitap, 2015.

Academic thesis: Osmanlı-Rus Diplomatik İlişkileri (1839–1878), YÖK Açık Bilim, Turkey.

Cultural / Representative Sources

18th–19th century Russian envoy diaries (representative / illustrative).

Russian chronicles referencing Ottoman architecture, Bosphorus, and daily life.

Russian Emotional & Cultural Codes — III

There is a Russian word that is often translated as fate.

But судьба is heavier than that.

Судьба (sudʹbá) — a feminine noun — comes from an old Slavic root related to “judgment” or “decision.” It carries the sense that something has already been decided, pronounced, almost sealed— beyond individual control.

In English, “fate” can feel abstract.

In Russian, судьба feels personal.

It is not merely what happens to you.

It is what you are bound to confront.

Literary Weight

In the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, fate is never random. It is moral. Psychological. Inevitable.

His characters do not simply experience events —

they move toward something that feels predestined, as if their inner conflicts are already written into their path.

In Alexander Pushkin, fate often appears romantic and tragic. Characters attempt to escape it, yet in doing so, they fulfill it.

In Russian literature, судьба is rarely passive.

It is a confrontation between the self and something greater than the self.

Cultural Meaning

In everyday Russian speech, you may hear:

Это судьба. — “It is fate.”

But this phrase does not necessarily imply surrender.

It suggests recognition.

A quiet acceptance of life’s tragic dimension.

Судьба becomes a way of making sense of suffering —

not as punishment, but as part of one’s existential journey.

Between Судьба and Kader

In Turkish, the closest word is kader.

Yet there is a subtle difference.

In Turkish cultural understanding, kader is often closely tied to divine will. It carries a strong theological resonance.

Судьба, on the other hand, frequently operates in a more existential and psychological space. It is less about divine decree and more about the unfolding of one’s inner narrative.

Where one culture may interpret fate as sacred design,

the other may experience it as tragic inevitability.

Both attempt to answer the same question:

Why do we suffer the lives we live?

There is sadness.

And then there is надрыв

надрыв comes from the verb рвать — to tear.

With the prefix над-, it becomes something excessive.

Over-torn. Overstrained. Split beyond repair.

It is not quiet grief.

It is not elegant melancholy.

It is the moment the soul tears itself open

and refuses to hide the wound.

In Russian literature — especially in Fyodor Dostoevsky — надрыв is a psychological state.

A person in nadryv:

confesses too much,

feels too intensely,

dramatizes their own suffering,

turns pain into revelation.

It is emotional exposure without protection.

Unlike тоска, which suffocates inwardly,

nadryv is theatrical.

Тоска whispers.

Nadryv trembles.

You hear it in a cracked voice.

You see it in trembling hands.

You feel it in words spoken too honestly.

It is not simply breakdown.

It is self-aware collapse.

Russian culture does not always fear excess emotion.

Sometimes it treats it as truth.

Nadryv is what happens

when restraint dies

and the soul chooses intensity over dignity.

In the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, тоска is not merely emotion.

It is atmosphere.

His characters do not simply feel sadness —

they exist inside it.

Raskolnikov’s restless wandering,

Ivan’s spiritual torment,

the suffocating interiors of Petersburg —

all carry the weight of тоска.

It is not a passing feeling.

It is a condition of being.

Here, language becomes psychology.

Often translated as “melancholy.”

Yet the word resists translation.

Vladimir Nabokov once described it as a spiritual anguish without a specific cause —

a longing without an object.

In Russian literature, тоска is not simply sadness.

It is existential weight.

In Turkish, we say hüzün.

But hüzün is tender.

Тоска is silent pressure.

This is where language becomes culture.