TEACHING METHODOLOGY OF THE UZBEK LANGUAGE FOR FOREIGN STUDENTS

Abdusalimova Zukhraxon Bakhtiyor qizi
1st-year student, Faculty of Philology, Andijan State University
E-mail: zuxraxon2603@gmail.com

Abstract
This article explores the specific features of teaching the Uzbek language to foreign students and analyzes effective methods and approaches used in the process. Since Uzbek is taught as a second or foreign language, communicative methodology and the use of modern teaching materials play a crucial role in the classroom. The study focuses on developing foreign learners’ speech competence, pronunciation, and gradual acquisition of lexical units. Furthermore, it discusses the implementation of innovative technologies in Uzbek language teaching and examines the changing role of the teacher in the modern educational environment.

Introduction

In the current era of globalization, as the international prestige of the Republic of Uzbekistan continues to grow, the number of foreign students studying in our country is steadily increasing. This naturally makes the teaching of Uzbek to foreigners one of the most pressing issues. In higher educational institutions, the need to teach the Uzbek language effectively, using modern and innovative methods, has become increasingly important.
Teaching Uzbek to foreigners is not merely the process of imparting grammatical and lexical knowledge; it is also an educational and cultural process aimed at helping learners understand the rich history, national culture, customs, and values of the Uzbek people.

Therefore, teachers of Uzbek as a foreign language must possess high professional competence, methodological expertise, communicative competence, and a thorough understanding of modern teaching technologies.
Language is the main mirror of human thought, worldview, and national identity. From this perspective, teaching Uzbek to foreigners involves developing their linguistic, communicative, cultural, and sociolinguistic competencies. In turn, this contributes to raising the international status of the Uzbek language and expanding intercultural communication among nations.

The main goal of this research is to help foreign learners communicate fluently in Uzbek, develop a culture of speech, think independently, and foster respect and interest toward Uzbek culture. Furthermore, using modern information and communication technologies, interactive methods, and multimedia tools in teaching Uzbek to foreigners significantly increases the effectiveness of the learning process.
In conclusion, teaching Uzbek to foreigners is one of the most important directions of today’s education system. It serves not only as a linguistic process but also as a vital cultural and spiritual bridge that strengthens Uzbekistan’s international cooperation and promotes national values worldwide. Therefore, scientifically studying this topic, developing effective teaching methods, and applying them in practice are among the priority tasks of the modern education system.

Main Part
For many years, the Uzbek language has been taught as a foreign language in numerous higher educational institutions, and this process continues to develop gradually. Currently, the number of foreign students in our country’s universities is steadily increasing. According to official sources, there are 34,767 foreign students studying in higher education institutions in Uzbekistan.
In his congratulatory message on the 35th anniversary of the Uzbek Language Day, President Shavkat Mirziyoyev stated: “There are still many tasks ahead to reveal the unique potential of the Uzbek language and to enhance its prestige and attractiveness on a global scale.” These words emphasize the need for new approaches in the process of teaching and developing the Uzbek language.

Today, many studies and practical experiences are being conducted on teaching Uzbek to foreigners. Positive changes can especially be seen in the development of methodological foundations, modern textbooks, and educational materials. Among them, the textbook “Uzbek Language for Foreigners (A2 Level)”, published on the TSUULL website, stands out for its methodological excellence.
This textbook consists of 12 topics, with grammatical materials arranged logically based on national and cultural texts. Each lesson includes exercises, QR codes linking to video clips and audio materials, as well as explanations translated into English, French, Korean, Turkish, and Russian. The topics are adapted to real Uzbek communicative situations, and special attention is given to lexical units and expressions. These features make the textbook an effective tool for learners transitioning from the A1 to the A2 level.

However, foreign students face several challenges in learning Uzbek. The most common ones include:

•Lack of language environment,
•Errors in listening comprehension and pronunciation,
•Differences in intonation and vocabulary,
•Limited opportunities for real communication.

To overcome these issues, teachers should actively engage students in communication, consider their individual characteristics, and make extensive use of multimedia technologies to improve learning outcomes.

The following methodological directions are particularly significant in this process:

1. Phonetic and Phonological Training
Studying the vowel and consonant system of the Uzbek language, mastering stress and intonation patterns, and developing correct speech through pronunciation exercises.
2. Lexical and Phraseological Approach
Gradually expanding vocabulary, teaching phrases and idiomatic expressions in context, and encouraging their active use in communication.
3. Integrative Approach and Use of ICT Tools
Developing students’ independent learning skills through the use of QR codes, video lessons, audio materials, and online platforms (forums, chats, Zoom, Google Classroom).
4. Cultural Approach
Organizing lessons based on Uzbek folklore, literature, customs, and national holidays, thereby familiarizing students with Uzbek communication culture and traditional values.
These approaches make learning Uzbek both effective and engaging for foreign students. As a result, learners not only master the language but also gain insight into the cultural world of the Uzbek people.

Conclusion
Teaching the Uzbek language to foreign students today has become not only an educational process but also an important form of cultural cooperation. The Uzbek language opens new doors of opportunity for foreigners — through it, they can learn not only the language but also the rich culture, values, and spiritual heritage of our people.

Therefore, in teaching Uzbek to foreign audiences, it is essential to apply modern pedagogical technologies, interactive methods, and digital learning resources. Each teacher should choose an individual approach that takes into account the psychological, cultural, and social characteristics of the learners to ensure a more effective learning process.
In the future, it is necessary to further improve educational materials, electronic platforms, and audio-visual resources designed for foreign learners, as well as to continuously enhance teachers’ methodological training. This will help increase the global prestige of the Uzbek language and strengthen the interest in learning it worldwide.

References
1. Shavkat Mirziyoyev. Congratulatory message on the 35th anniversary of the Uzbek
Language Day. https://president.uz/oz/lists/view/7628
2. Article: “Innovative approaches in teaching Uzbek to foreigners.”
https://zenodo.org/records/15206498/files/209-212.pdf?download=1
3. Official website of Tashkent State University of Uzbek Language and Literature. “Uzbek
Language for Foreigners (A2 Level)” textbook.
https://tsuull.uz/uz/content/xorijliklar-uchun-ozbek-tili-a2-daraja-uchun-darsligi-yaratildi
4. Inlibrary.uz — “Methodology of teaching Uzbek to foreigners.”
https://inlibrary.uz/index.php/archive/article/download/45332/45780
5. Rasulov Namoz Murodullayevich. “Some features of presenting lexical and grammatical knowledge in teaching Uzbek to foreign students.” National University of Uzbekistan.

The Lonely Warrior: In the Wings of the Condor, the new novel by Alexandros Stamatoulakis, has been released by Adrahti Publications. This is the second novel in the saga of the Lonely Warrior, Alex Kosmatos. (In the first novel, Alex turns from a young kid, scared and isolated, into a winner of life in the hands of Akira, a descendant of the Samurai).

In the luminous city of New York, the Lonely Warrior continues his initiation in the high Art of Living after having infiltrated the colorful world of advertising, under the guidance of his boss, Peter Drakos, and Laura the beautiful director. At his side is Akira, the incomparable mentor.

The love of his life, Sogia Aguile, is stressed out at work in the women’s magazine of the bossy and perfectionist Maggy Smith. Sofia’s grandfather, Don Giovanni, is the target of lethal threats.

At the same time, in the shadow of the defeat in Vietnam and the big economic interests, a conspiracy is brewing.

But then, a shocking event sends Alex away to Peru, where he encounters the samans of the Andes and meets his spirit animal, the condor.

The footnotes in the final section of the book constitute a valuable guide to survival and everyday life.

For My Mother

Anora’s life did not start easily. Her father abandoned her from infancy. Her mother, Yulduz, had also lost her parents early in life. Instead of comforting them, her only brother blamed her for everything: “It’s all your fault; if you had given birth to a son, not a daughter, he wouldn’t have thrown you out of the house. You shamed him in front of his friends, that’s why he kicked you out,” he said, refusing to let her into his home, as if Yulduz was to blame for bringing a daughter into the world.

The poor woman was left on the street with her little daughter. Life seemed to be utterly dark, yet a light appeared within that darkness. A kind person gave them shelter and even gifted Yulduz a sewing machine. She spent her days cleaning and her nights sewing, managing to enroll her daughter in kindergarten. Every morning, holding her daughter’s hand, she would say, “Behind every dark day, there is light.” Anora was still young then and didn’t fully grasp the meaning of those words, but she etched them into her heart.

Time passed, and Anora turned 5. Although she was not yet school-aged, her mother, wishing for her daughter to be educated, sent her to school. Despite being smaller than her classmates, Anora amazed everyone with her intelligence, shrewdness, and diligence. Every day after returning from school, she would run to her mother and proudly announce, “They praised me at school today.”

As the mother and daughter were living happily, God sent them another trial, and this trial was harder than any before. Anora was 14 years old, studying in the 10th grade, when her mother suddenly fell gravely ill. Doctors said that her heart function had significantly weakened and that a large sum of money was needed for treatment. Anora studied during the day, worked at night, and borrowed money from friends to spend on her mother’s health. Crying, she pleaded with the doctors, “Please save my mother’s life; I have no one else but her.” They comforted her, saying, “Your mother will surely recover, just pray.”

But her mother did not recover; she departed from this bright world. Her last words to her daughter were, “My daughter, I will die, but you will live. You will surely achieve your dreams. Be patient, bright days are still ahead.”

Unable to bear her mother’s death, the poor girl fell gravely ill herself. The kind person who had given them shelter and the girl’s teachers treated her. They told her, “If you want your mother’s spirit to rest in peace, you must pull yourself together and continue your education. We will never leave you alone.” She diligently strived to be the daughter her mother had dreamed of, achieving several great successes. Each time she received an award, she would think, “If my mother were alive, I would share this pride with her.” Her teachers had become like a second mother to her. But still, she missed her mother every single moment.

Years passed, and she fulfilled her mother’s biggest dream… she became a doctor. Now, every day, standing by her patients, she sees hope in their eyes. She treats every patient with kindness, as if she were saving her mother’s life.

Now people refer to her as “Doctor Anora.” And the young doctor hears a voice in her heart every time… “I am proud of you…”

My name is Zarina Oʻrinboyeva. I  was born in 2011 in Oqdaryo district, Samarkand region. In 2018, l went to school No. 43 in Oqdaryo district to begin my education. I am currently an 8th grade student at this school, and I am 14 years old.
My favorite subjects are English, Russian, chemistry, Uzbek, literature, and law. In my free time, l enjoy reading books and writing stories. With my knowledge and hard work, l have won several high places in various republican competitions.
I still have many dreams ahead of me, and insha’ Allah, l will achieve them one by one.

Timothee Bordenave – Paris, France.

India – Haryana State University – Dr. Dalip Khetarpal

THE ELECTRICITY FAIRY

Dear friends, let’s begin by presenting these ideas, which may seem to have come to you relatively randomly, because they reflect what I’ve published online over the months…

The first concepts I’m going to develop relate to electricity, and I’ll list them here one after the other.

First of all, a note about electrical insulation in the transmission of electricity from one point to another. Yes, because while this energy can very easily be transported by cable, an electric wire, a metal wire that carries the precious electricity through its conductive properties, we have never yet, for technical reasons related to the difficulty of insulating the current, succeeded in distributing it otherwise than by using an overhead network of suspended electrical wires.

However, this is very expensive to maintain, it’s dangerous and fragile, and it also costs a lot in terms of energy loss because air is not a good insulator. Therefore, this system, which is still poor and unsightly for the natural environment of the facilities, is ultimately only a last resort, which satisfies no one.

My proposal is to use ceramic insulation to design tubes of what is called “technical ceramic” in chemistry, surrounded, for example, by rubber, an elastic material that is very resistant to temperature variations, to bury electrical cables rather than suspending them.

“Technical ceramic electrical insulation” is becoming increasingly cheaper to produce, thanks to advances in our chemistry. It is a material that is already well known today for other uses.

The rubber-like material surrounding the tube will be easy for experts to define, produce, and install, and this solution for burying wired cables, long sought after by everyone in the sector, would thus be within our reach.

I had this idea as a child, observing the insulating properties of ceramic and reflecting that its production costs would soon, and increasingly, decrease. Today, burying electrical installations thus insulated would undoubtedly cost much less than maintaining our suspended cables.

And the electricity fairy certainly still has much to offer us; we still have so much to discover! One of my development ideas, which I will present to you now, relates to this again: the photovoltaic-powered lamp.

Wouldn’t it be possible for us to design a lamp that, connected to a rechargeable battery and a photovoltaic cell capable of transforming its light into electricity, would be virtually perpetual?

You probably understand well that with a dedicated photovoltaic cell, which would serve as its main power supply in a short circuit, such a lamp would provide light almost in perpetuity.

And the answer to the question of whether it would be possible with our current technology to design and then manufacture such a tool is simply: yes!

It would even be very easy for us, apparently, since most modern photovoltaic cells react to the electric light emitted by a light bulb.

The battery that would serve as the lamp’s switch and for the eventual replacement of the cell could be recharged through the same circuit, making the device particularly durable.

It’s a brilliant idea, isn’t it? I urge my contemporaries to implement it.

One last remark concerning electricity, which I can make here, would be to consider increasing the radiation of light bulbs by covering them with mirrors.

This is what we do for flashlights and headlights.

I therefore urge you to consider that it would be very easy to design “nightlights” that, by simply covering them with one or more light-emitting diodes, would provide satisfactory supplemental lighting equal to or better than that of a current, bare light bulb, for example, with a single diode.

One or two diodes, powered by small batteries, for example, or by the mains, would then undoubtedly demonstrate great longevity and cost their users almost nothing in terms of energy consumption or maintenance.

This idea, which I myself have already seen developed at the artisanal level, would make it possible to provide electric lighting to populations that are either disadvantaged or deprived of access to distribution networks.

It would undoubtedly also prove very practical for anyone who needs outdoor lighting, and I’m thinking here in particular of the military, who would see the advantages of a mirror-clad LED lamp in terms of portability and ease of powering or repair.

Mirror-clad light sources have been used since ancient times. It was already mentioned at the legendary lighthouse of Alexandria.

As for LED bulbs, they are booming today, becoming increasingly cheaper and more efficient!

(…)

A text by Timothee Bordenave in Paris, France.

Autumn 2025. For Dr. Khetarpal at the Afflatus Creations Peer Review, in India.

Swamp Gift

they say he lives

in the low water

where cypress knees rise like knuckles

air full of moss and rain

nobody remembers when he first showed up

some call him a hermit

or don’t even mention him

just part of the place

like the dark water or birds

he never takes things

just leaves them

a sack of sand on a front porch

a jar of prune pits by a back door

a single smooth rock on a windowsill

children grow up knowing

to wake early and check the steps

like it’s the weather

some say he’s a ghost

or a lunatic

most don’t say anything

I finally see him once

walking out of the swamp barefoot

moving slowly and sure

like someone who belongs

his eyes catch mine

steady as still water

he hands me a small tin box

turns without a word

disappears into the trees

I hold it like it might explain everything

open it, look inside

a bent nail, a handful of mulch
two mismatched buttons

and no explanation at all

Rain at Tipperary Station

I left the city before dawn,

bags light but exhausted

a sheep grazes by the fence

no timetable posted

the train comes once a week

or maybe not at all

I approach the small brick building

stone platform damp with moss

Tipperary sign flaking green paint

rails dark with rain

cupping my hands

to breathe warmth

into the cold iron smell

a single gull drifts over the hill

and disappears into fog

in my coat pocket

a ring of keys I forgot to return

the station clock still ticks

but no one waits

only a paper cup rolling

end to end along the platform

rain my only company

Obedience

I found myself sitting still

the litter box in the corner

hours gone before I noticed

the sour aroma rising

I had not moved to clean it

the cat began to watch me

a calm stare unblinking

as if he understood the change

his eyes fixed steady on mine

quietly saying obey me

soon I was skipping work

to refill his dish with chicken

ordering catnip in bulk

canceling dates and dinners

for extra hours of petting

my mother wrinkled her nose

father scowled at the box

he said this is no joke

toxoplasma gondii lives in there

it gets inside and bends the will

he spoke of rodents drawn to cats

of lives cut short in teeth and claws

I only stroked the warm fur

calm as a priest at prayer

my father said one day you will not know

where the parasite ends and you begin

I shouted for them to leave

kicked the door shut

their footsteps fading on the stairs

perhaps it is my own desire

to serve this harmless pet

or perhaps it is a parasite

humming in my head

telling me I am happiest this way

Baskin Cooper is a poet and visual artist based in Chatham County, North Carolina. A PhD in psychology who lived in Cork, Ireland, he explores folklore, lyricism, and personal history through multiple art forms. His work has appeared in Ink & Oak, Verse-Virtual, O2 Haiku, and ONE ART, with new work forthcoming in The Khaotic Good and The Woodside Review.

Nobel Literature Laureate László Krasznahorkai and the Light Within Ruins: The Enduring Power of Literature in Times of Crisis 

Emran Emon

When the Swedish Academy announces that László Krasznahorkai wins the 2025 Nobel Prize in Literature, the citation—“for his compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art”—resonates with remarkable timeliness. In an era marked by uncertainty, war, climate anxiety, and the slow erosion of collective meaning, the Academy’s choice of the Hungarian novelist feels almost prophetic. Krasznahorkai, often called the “writer of the apocalypse,” has long been the literary chronicler of chaos—yet he is also, paradoxically, one of its most powerful antidotes.

Born in 1954 in Gyula, Hungary, Krasznahorkai belongs to a Central European lineage haunted by totalitarianism, despair, and disillusionment. He follows the literary footsteps of Kafka, Musil, and Bernhard—writers who dissected the human psyche amid societal collapse. With this Nobel Prize, he becomes the second Hungarian laureate, after Imre Kertész in 2002, whose own work bore the moral scars of the Holocaust. But whereas Kertész chronicled survival under tyranny, Krasznahorkai explores the spiritual desolation that follows it.

His debut novel, Satantango (1985), which took seven years to publish due to censorship, announced the arrival of a writer unlike any other. This postmodern masterpiece portrays a decaying village awaiting the return of a mysterious figure—a narrative of false prophecy, collective delusion, and moral decay. The story unfolds through pages-long sentences, each a labyrinthine reflection of confusion and decay. When Béla Tarr adapted the novel into a seven-hour cinematic epic in 1994, the two artists became inseparable in the public imagination—Tarr giving visual form to Krasznahorkai’s textual apocalypse. 

Krasznahorkai’s prose style is both ‘his weapon and his world.’ His sentences are famously long, unbroken, and rhythmically relentless, sometimes extending across several pages. To read him is to enter a current that refuses to let go—a sustained meditation, an intellectual marathon. This stylistic audacity is not ornamental; it is existential. His syntax mirrors the chaotic continuity of consciousness, the endless unraveling of perception. In his world, there are no safe pauses. The absence of paragraph breaks traps readers in the same feverish continuum that entraps his characters. The result is hypnotic—exhausting, yes, but profoundly immersive.

Critics have called this approach “obsessive.” Krasznahorkai once responded by describing his method as “reality examined to the point of madness.” Indeed, his writing feels like an inquiry stretched to its breaking point—a sustained stare into the abyss until form itself begins to tremble.

In this respect, Krasznahorkai’s art recalls Proust’s interior infinity and Faulkner’s density, yet it is distinctly his own: not memory’s labyrinth, but apocalypse’s slow unfolding. His syntax makes the reader experience disorientation as a moral act—forcing us to inhabit confusion rather than flee from it. If one were to distill the essence of Krasznahorkai’s fiction, it would be the persistent nearness of collapse. His worlds are suspended between hope and ruin—often rural, provincial spaces that serve as microcosms for humanity’s larger failures.

In The Melancholy of Resistance (1989), the arrival of a mysterious circus and a dead whale in a small Hungarian town triggers chaos, paranoia, and moral dissolution. The novel’s absurd premise unfolds into a profound allegory about society’s vulnerability to hysteria and demagoguery. Adapted by Béla Tarr into the film Werckmeister Harmonies, the story becomes almost biblical in tone—a meditation on collective blindness and the failure of enlightenment.

For Krasznahorkai, apocalypse is not a future event but a permanent condition of existence. His characters—fallen intellectuals, wanderers, monks, derelicts—inhabit a world perpetually on the verge of collapse. Yet, he resists nihilism. Beneath his darkness lies a persistent belief in the redemptive force of art and moral contemplation. His more recent works, such as Seiobo There Below (2008) and A Mountain to the North, a Lake to the South, Paths to the West, a River to the East (2018), signal a spiritual evolution. Moving beyond European decay, these texts draw on Japanese and Buddhist aesthetics, embracing the idea of eternal recurrence, sacred precision, and aesthetic humility. Through them, Krasznahorkai seems to shift from apocalypse toward illumination—from despair to the fragile beauty of being.

The Nobel Committee’s phrasing—“reaffirms the power of art”—is crucial. Krasznahorkai’s worldview, though soaked in ruin, insists that art remains the final refuge of meaning. His works argue that literature’s endurance lies precisely in its ability to face darkness without flinching.

In his 2015 Man Booker International Prize acceptance speech, Krasznahorkai said that literature is the last space where “the complexity of the human soul is still allowed to exist.” This conviction radiates through every sentence he writes. His novels challenge a world of simplification and speed—a world increasingly allergic to ambiguity. His art is not escapist; it is resistant. It resists simplification, commodification, the flattening of experience. In that resistance lies a politics of the spirit—a subtle defiance against conformity and amnesia. By making readers dwell in discomfort, Krasznahorkai reminds us that true art should disturb before it consoles.

No discussion of Krasznahorkai is complete without acknowledging his deep collaboration with filmmaker Béla Tarr, whose visual language mirrors the author’s prose. Films such as Satantango and Werckmeister Harmonies are not mere adaptations; they are extensions of a shared vision—long takes, grayscale landscapes, and slow pacing echo the rhythm of Krasznahorkai’s sentences. This partnership between writer and filmmaker redefined how literature and cinema can converse. Tarr’s camera, like Krasznahorkai’s pen, denies instant gratification. Both invite the viewer—or reader—to confront time itself, to witness the erosion of meaning and the endurance of beauty in the same frame.

The Nobel Committee described Krasznahorkai as “a great epic writer in the Central European tradition that extends through Kafka to Thomas Bernhard.” Indeed, Krasznahorkai redefines what “epic” means in the modern age. Gone are the heroes, the conquests, and the gods. In their place stand weary villagers, failed intellectuals, anonymous bureaucrats—all trapped within absurd systems or meaningless waiting. His epics unfold not across battlefields but across the corridors of consciousness, where doubt replaces destiny.

In this, Krasznahorkai revives the moral grandeur of the epic form within the despair of the modern condition. His protagonists may not triumph, but their persistence to perceive—to see clearly even in darkness—becomes its own kind of heroism. Though deeply rooted in Hungarian soil, Krasznahorkai’s imagination is global. His later works draw inspiration from Japanese temples, Chinese landscapes, and Buddhist philosophy. This cosmopolitan evolution positions him as a rare bridge between Western metaphysical pessimism and Eastern contemplative serenity.

Whereas his early novels depict the failure of human systems, his later ones seek harmony beyond them. In Seiobo There Below, art itself becomes divine—a force through which human beings glimpse eternity. The novel’s episodic structure, spanning from Kyoto to Venice, portrays art as an act of devotion, not production. This Eastward gaze expands the emotional and philosophical scope of European modernism. It suggests that the answer to apocalypse may not lie in reconstruction but in attentive stillness—in seeing, in silence, in art.

The Nobel Prize now secures Krasznahorkai’s position among the literary titans of our age. But his true legacy lies not in institutional recognition, rather in his courage to write against the grain of the times. In an age of brevity, he writes long sentences. In an age of clarity, he embraces confusion. In an age of distraction, he demands attention. His art thus becomes an act of resistance—not only against despair but against superficiality.

His readers, scattered across languages and continents, share a common experience: the exhaustion that gives way to revelation. Reading Krasznahorkai is to endure, but in that endurance, one feels the renewal of attention, the recovery of depth, the reawakening of wonder.

The world of 2025—fractured by wars, rising authoritarianism, digital addiction, and ecological grief—may seem far from the obscure villages of Krasznahorkai’s fiction. Yet his novels speak directly to our condition. When the social order disintegrates, when meaning feels lost, what remains? For Krasznahorkai, art remains. The act of describing, of perceiving—of refusing to turn away—is itself a moral stance. His literature becomes both a mirror and a sanctuary: it reflects collapse but also shelters the human capacity for awe.

In awarding him the Nobel Prize, the Swedish Academy implicitly recognized this truth: that art’s endurance amid ruin is not decorative but essential. Krasznahorkai’s fiction does not escape catastrophe; it redeems it through attention. In every long sentence, every moment of delay, there is resistance to erasure.

László Krasznahorkai is the writer of the end who writes for the future. His Nobel Prize is not only a triumph for Hungarian letters but for the idea of literature as a spiritual vocation. His works are reminders that art’s highest duty is not entertainment but revelation—to confront, to clarify, to sustain. He has shown that even amid “apocalyptic terror,” the written word can remain a light—trembling, flickering, but unextinguished. And perhaps that is his ultimate gift: the belief that beauty endures, even when the world does not. As the great Hungarian laureate once said, “The apocalypse is not coming—it has already arrived.” But in his prose, we discover something else, something the Nobel Committee, too, must have felt—that in the very ruins of language, there still rises the stubborn flame of art.

Emran Emon is an eminent journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst.

Skinny Skyscrapers

1)

City cubicles

crying cells

2)present past

century crammed

3)

families forced

cloud capped

4)

window watchers

drone drills

5)

weakened walls

downward dumps

6)

sores spit

blood bombs

7)

changes coming

decisions done

8)

street singers

healing hearts

9)

river routes

easy escapes

10)

sea shores

promises prayed.