During the last three decades of the tsarist regime the business tax system became the experimental vanguard of the entire tax structure. Thirty-one years before a general income tax on all estates (sosloviia) was confirmed in April 1916, Russia's first permanent income taxes on business were imposed in January 1885.

The term Old Believers (or Old Ritualists) refers to a number of groups that arose as a result of Russian church reforms, 1654-1666, when Patriarch Nikon sought to make Russian practices conform to their contemporary Greek counterparts. Conscious of both a departure from tradition and an encroachment of central control over local autonomy, Old Believers endeavored to maintain the rites, symbols and prerogatives of traditional Russian Orthodoxy. With support of the tsar, Nikon began bloody persecutions that lasted, though in lesser degrees, until the decree of religious tolerance in 1905.

At the height of World War II, General Wfadyslaw Sikorski visited Dr. Edvard Beneš at his London residence. The Polish prime minister warned the Czechoslovak president that if the Red Army were to occupy central Europe it would impose communist governments there. Beneš conceded that this was so but he added that there was nothing they could do about it. Sikorski continued pressing Beneš: "Why are you so friendly with the Soviets?" he demanded. He then invited the president to harmonize his foreign policy with that of the democracies. Beneš replied that he was unable to share Sikorski's confidence in the west for the simple reason that he had experienced the horror of Munich. "What partitions of Poland mean for the Poles, that is what Munich is for us," said Beneš forcefully.

Bakhtin must surely be regarded as the most remarkable modern thinker to examine time in narrative. For him, the problem was no mere exercise in literary theory. Rather, it was a way to examine ultimate questions—or in the Russian phrase, “accursed” questions—about human existence. In this respect, his work is representative of the Russian tradition, in which literature and criticism served as forms of—a skeptic would say, substitutes for—philosophy. In this Russian view, the task of philosophy is to examine the relation of ideas to the way people live. Novels are a supreme form of philosophy because, unlike the terribly thin accounts of life found in philosophical tracts, they offer a rich and “thick” description of human thinking and action.

While several authorities have held that the shamanism of indigenous Finno-Ugric and Turkic peoples influenced the Russians with whom they lived in close proximity, particularly via pagan Slavic volkhvy or sorcerers, little concrete evidence of that influence persisting in the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries has been discovered. However, several early eighteenth century woodcuts (lubki) which refer to sorcery reveal concrete links to shamanic cosmology and practice in what are otherwise enigmatic textual references and visual symbols.

Rainer Maria Rilke's widely celebrated fiftieth birthday in December 1925 and his sudden death on 29 December 1926 framed his correspondence with members of Boris Pasternak's family and Marina Tsvetaeva- Efron, for which Leonid Pasternak's initial greetings to his old Moscow friend and Rilke's prompt reply had set the stage. It was agreed that Rilke's letters from Switzerland would be sent to Boris Pasternak in Moscow via Marina Tsvetaeva in Paris. Against all historical and political odds, the three poets decided to form a union, the last one, perhaps, of an era which still believed that the making of poetry equaled the making of life. Rilke's participation in this association reassured uprooted Russian writers of their continuing link with European culture and history.

In the preface to her 1980 collection Desire in Language, Julia Kristeva acknowledged her ongoing debt to the pioneering linguistic theories of Roman Jakobson, a scholar who, in her phrase, "reached one of the high points of language learning in this century by never losing sight of Russian futurism's scorching odyssey through a revolution that ended up strangling it." Kristeva's statement takes us in two directions at once, both of which I will explore in this essay: it draws attention to Jakobson's sustaining roots in the avant-garde experimentation in poetic language that flourished in Russia in the early part of this century; and it tacitly underscores Kristeva's own ties to Russian avantgarde theory and practice. For Jakobson, Kristeva has suggested, the brief, febrile period of artistic experimentation that Marjorie Perloff has called "the futurist moment" continued to inform his writing in vital ways long after its unnatural death at the hands of the Soviet state. Certainly Jakobson, like Kristeva, is preoccupied throughout his work— from his exploration of Khlebnikov's "transsense" in "Recent Russian Poetry" to his 1980 study of Holderlin's schizophrenia—with the relationship between abnormal or "trans-normal" language and poetic language that lay at the heart of formalist theory and futurist practice in early twentieth century Russia.

Of all of Blok's works, The Puppet Show (Balaganchik) is perhaps the most recalcitrant in terms of interpretation. Despite the considerable scholarship that has grown up around the play, many basic questions perplex critics. For instance, the motivation and, to a significant degree, the effect of Blok's decision to incorporate elements of the commedia dell'arte into his little "fairy play" (feeriia) remain unresolved problems. Such lacunae in our knowledge of the play stem from either biographical or socio-economic assumptions behind two traditional approaches to the play.

It is often the mark of a writer's sophistication and innovative powers that certain of his/her key works present difficulties in the area of genre. Pushkin's Evgenii Onegin, Dostoevskii's Diary of a Writer, Tolstoi's War and Peace and Belyi's Kotik Letaev serve as instructive examples from Russian literature. To this list one could certainly add the late writings of Vasilii Rozanov. The genre of Rozanov's trilogy Solitaria, Fallen Leaves and Apocalypse of Our Times is notoriously resistant to definition and generates a host of competing alternatives. Should they be treated as collections of fable-like anecdotes, as autobiographies, confessions, fictions or as something that combines elements from all of these genres? Each answer has validity.

The legacy of ancient writers to western culture since the Renaissance has long been acknowledged as a cornerstone of contemporary humanism. Yet within the vast territory of studies of the classical tradition there remains a large piece of uncharted terrain, and that is Russia, the significance of whose participation in the reception of antiquity has been largely excluded from investigation by foreign scholars and has only recently energized Russian scholars, particularly in the field of medieval studies.

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) has been hailed by followers in many countries as a forerunner of symbolism, if not as the father of modern poetry tout court. In Russia, Andrei Belyi celebrated him together with Nietzsche in 1909 as a "Patriarkh Simvolizma"; and Valerii Briusov wrote in the same year: "Is it possible to question the importance of Baudelaire's Fleurs du mal for the formation of the whole worldview of modernity?" Ellis (L.L. Kobylinskii), the most zealous of all Russian symbolist "Baudelaireans," even tried to convince the menshevik social democrat, N. Valentinov, that Baudelaire was "the greatest revolutionary of the nineteenth century, in comparison with whom all Marxes, Engelses, Bakunins, and the rest of the brotherhood which they created, are simply nothing."

Since the early days of perestroika, explanations for the Soviet opening to reform have emphasized the critical role of post-Stalin social transformation. Rising levels of education, changing patterns of social mobility and increasing urbanization seemed to create a new set of values and expectations by 1985 at odds with the Soviet system's traditional controls. If the initiative for restructuring came from the upper reaches of the political hierarchy, the pressures for change appeared to come from below. In contrast, assessments since the Soviet collapse have been more mixed. With the costs of reform mounting, calls for an “iron hand” and local resistance to market mechanisms suggest doubts about both capitalism and democracy: the results of Russia's April 1993 referendum seemed to be an endorsement of radical reform but only a minority of eligible voters actually approved Yeltsin's program; and survey data a few months earlier had indicated public support for a new coup in Moscow. Either the grand social and political transformation that unleashed perestroika was quickly reversed or its impact was exaggerated.

Ivan IV was the head of a theocratic state and an ardent participant in the spiritual culture of his church. He nevertheless seems to have deliberately flaunted the religious standards which were the basis of his legitimacy, especially during the Oprichnina (1564-1572). He reveled in blasphemy and his cruelties often manifested the ironic twist of what is termed "glumlenie": he denigrated his victims, ostentatiously violating their status by immersing them in inverted worlds of carnival. Although scholars have explored Ivan's motivations, no one has adequately explained the contradiction between his affirmation of his official status as model Christian and his blasphemous and immoral behavior.

When the State Committee on the State of Emergency (henceforth the Emergency Committee) seized power in the early morning of 19 August 1991, it took steps immediately to assert control over Central Television, radio and the press. At one o'clock in the morning on 19 August, Gennadii Shishkin, first deputy director of TASS, was awakened by a phone call from Leonid Kravchenko, the conservative director of Gosteleradio (the State Committee on Television and Radio) and asked to come to Central Committee headquarters.2 By 2 a.m., the chief editor of the nightly news program "Vremia" had been awakened. Then, at dawn, military vehicles and paratroopers surrounded the Gosteleradio building at Ostankino.