Every historical period creates its own literary environment, aesthetic views, and standards. However, evaluating the literary process correctly understanding its essence rather than its surface requires profound thought, independent opinion, and a critical eye. One of the figures of such high intellect in the development of Uzbek literary criticism was Ozod Sharafiddinov. He was an intellectual who viewed literature not merely as a creative product, but as a force that educates the mindset of society.
In the eyes of Ozod Sharafiddinov, literature is not just a tool for aesthetic pleasure; it is an arena that shapes human spirituality and awakens social consciousness. For this reason, in evaluating a work of art, he paid special attention to internal content, ideological depth, and the author’s responsibility rather than external beauty. In his critical activities, the priority was not to belittle or deny the author, but to encourage them to think more deeply.
Although Ozod Sharafiddinov’s literary views were closely linked to his time, he never chose the path of conforming to the era. He sharply criticized artificiality, formality, and stereotyped thinking in the literary process. According to him, true literature is valuable not only for responding to the demands of the times but for its ability to reveal the internal world of a human being. Therefore, he saw the creator as a person responsible first before society, and even more so, before their own conscience.
Ozod Sharafiddinov considered criticism an essential tool for the development of literature. He understood criticism not as passing judgment, but as analysis and dialogue. In his articles, justice is clearly felt alongside sharpness, and objectivity alongside demandingness. It is this very aspect that made his school of criticism unique and enduring.
In today’s era of globalization and rapid information, Ozod Sharafiddinov’s views are crucial for the youth. He valued contemplation over haste and independent thought over imitation. His literary heritage teaches today’s students and young people to look at a work with a critical eye and to feel the responsibility behind every word.
In my opinion, Ozod Sharafiddinov was not a critic who evaluated literature from the outside, but a thinker who lived within it and felt its pain. He approached the literary process not as a spectator, but as an active participant. His ideas continue to serve as an important resource in shaping the literary thinking of young creators and students today.
In conclusion, in the eyes of Ozod Sharafiddinov, time is transient, while literature is an eternal phenomenon. He sought to change the mindset, not the era. Therefore, his literary views remain relevant today and are recognized as the solid foundation of Uzbek literary criticism.
By Nozima Gofurova
3rd-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan, specializing in Travel Journalism.
“Why are all of these people ghosting me?” Steven exclaimed, addressing an empty room.
“People have things to do,” counseled Willy, Steven’s inner self. “They’re busy. They can’t just wait around breathlessly for your emails and then respond accordingly.”
“Why not?” challenged Steven hotly.
“Because, lover, they have lives.”
“I’m sixty-eight years old, an old man,” protested Steven. “Who cares about someone like me experiencing cognitive dissonance? No one.”
“Ginny is the only one who gives a darn,” Willy reminded him. “She may live way the heck over on the other side of the continent, but she cares.”
“But, that’ll turn out to just be a mistake of some kind, probably,” thought Steven dourly.
“Why do you say that?” asked his inner self.
“Because, self,” explained Steven, “Ginny’s never met me in person, only online and on the telephone. She thinks that I’m that character in the pages of my novel, not the flesh and blood person that you see.”
“Well, I can understand your perspective,” remarked self.
“You’re very helpful,” said Steven sarcastically, “and you can’t see anything. You are a non-corporeal side of me, not a separate person.”
“What happens with the passage of time?” asked Willy philosophically.
“You only get older,” snapped Steven crossly. He had decided that no one gave a darn, that indifference, especially with respect to him, was endemic.
Steven hadn’t had a good buzz on for twenty years and was grateful to achieve that state tonight, courtesy some hydrocodone and a beer chaser. He was presently almost incapable of speech and rued the intoxication he had achieved; it made him incapable of expressing his frustration.
Suddenly the land line jangled off the hook.
“Pick up,” urged Willy, hovering like a specter over the phone. “It could be Ginny.”
Moving sluggishly, Steven slapped his hand down on the receiver, jarring it in place. Screwing his features up in concentration, he succeeded in lifting the instrument to his ear. “Hef…hello?” he croaked.
“Ellie?” said a boisterous, up-beat voice on the other end of the line.
Steven scowled. His mother, Ellie, had died nine years before. He wondered, who could this possibly be?
“Ellie? Ellie? Is Ellie there?” the voice badgered him.
Steven took a deep breath and let it out. “Sh…she’s not here,” he managed to utter.
“That’s okay,” the voice replied. “This message is for any resident at this phone number.” Then the voice went on to tell Steven how bright his shirts could be, should he only use Gorilla Wax stain remover in his laundry. And the message went on and on.
Finally Steven found his voice again. “Look, my mother died nearly ten years ago,” he said.
After a measured beat, the salesman continued. “How many boxes of Gorilla Wax can I put you down for?”
Steven and Willy both had had enough. Steven slammed down the phone, had another beer and passed out.
When Steven woke up at 4am, he panicked before realizing it was Saturday and he didn’t have to go to work.
Willy had a suggestion on how to spend the day. “Listen loser, I’ve got a long shot suggestion for you. Call up every girl that you ever dated, wanted to date, or made you horny. If you call up ten and with each one you have a 10% chance of success, you still have some chance of getting a date. I forgot how to calculate it, but you have some chance.”
Steven liked the idea. He made a list of ten. Of the ten calls, three didn’t go through and had no forwarding number, and the next four consisted of:
“You disgusted me then and you still do.”
“I married your best friend.”
“I’m married to a woman.”
“Who the hell are you? Leave me alone!”
Next, Steven phoned Ginny. When she picked up, Steven explained his mental confusion, his loneliness and told Ginny he wanted to meet in person at last.
There was an awkward pause on the line and then Ginny came clean. She explained that she was happily married and only vicariously grooved on Steven, based on the lurid descriptions contained in his novel. She hoped he understood, and abruptly hung up.
The tenth call was a winner, or so he thought. June still lived in the area, was unmarried and happy to hear from him. She invited him over. He showed up on her doorstep in thirteen minutes flat.
“Come in Steven,” said the woman. He could still recognize her as the girl he knew so many years ago, although at the time she was a skinny, pimply-faced girl, whereas now she was a beautiful, full-figured woman. He didn’t even notice she was missing a leg for almost a full minute. He stared.
June was used to the double-take. The next thing she said was “Right, I’m not the leggy beauty you remember.”
After a silent pause, they both burst out laughing, breaking the ice.
Willy started to give Steven advice, but he told Willy to back off, he would try to handle this himself.
Oddly, a puzzled June accepted Steven’s explanation of Willy’s presence.
Steven and June did the standard history conversation: Steven’s 40-year insurance career and his two divorces; June’s car accident that cost her a leg, 20 years ago. But, she got a fat insurance settlement which meant she could live out the rest of her life without working. She had become something of a recluse after the accident.
When they got into specifics, they discovered that Steven’s insurance company gave June her payout.
June asked “Want to see my other leg?” A puzzled Steven said okay.
June went to the closet and brought out her prosthesis. “Want to feel it?” She asked.
“Sure.”
Willy whispered something only Steven could hear. Steven said, “How does that compare to your good leg?”
June pulled up her dress and said, “you tell me.”
Steven had no discrimination against the disabled, and June was not put off by a two-time loser. Steven stayed the night, and the spectral pervert Willy was a happy onlooker.
Steven and June were wed in a civil ceremony, with Willy standing up for the groom. There are no happily ever afters, but the two of them–three, if you count Willy–did a respectable impression of one.
Jerrice J Baptiste is a visual artist, poet, author of nine books. Her watercolor drawings on paper have been accepted or forthcoming in Synchronized Chaos, Las Laguna Art Gallery exhibit in California, MER, Spirit Fire Review, Jerry Jazz Musician Magazine. She’s presented her art work at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY in 2025. She’s been featured as a solo artist at The Mountain Top Library in Tannersville, NY in 2025 & 2026. Her most recent poetry book called Coral in the Diaspora is published by Abode Press in 2024. Her poetry has been published in numerous magazines and journals, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Kosmos Journal and hundreds of others.
So may I someday, sitting at play in my little unknown courtyard.
-A line from the poem “The Last Romantic” by John Ashbery.
May I, I pray,
someday, say TIME.
My mouth open, but breath stopped.
No air twisted by my language.
Not the word, but the event. TIME.
Its meaning will be conveyed by rote memory
directly into the minds of the people. TIME.
My name will be undead.
From then on, my name will be foreknown
by every baby born, by every deathbed rosary grip,
as the philosopher who knew how to tongue the name of Saturn
that no mortal had ever pronounced before. TIME.
The soundless rote memory of each molecule
and flexed in crystalline chirality. The turn of a closing sarcophagus jar,
screwed into the body of a helical protein. TIME.
The cousin of those twins, Heat and Pressure,
who would hear my call, and would answer,
by vibrating the hollow bones of birds, BIRDSONG TRIUMPHANT,
in simultaneous exultation.
Their talons on the ledges of the rows of ossuaries
that line the psychic riverbanks of the city.
Saturn returns a kiss. Lovingly.
Placing his expressionless lips on the forehead of my skull.
Willard van Dyke, Funnels, 1932
Photo in Phaidon, The Photo Book, p. 127.
If one is intake and the other is output,
they circulate ironies.
On the right, boater hat straight to the sky,
one attentively waits on an arrival.
On the left, face bending the first,
a gossip attends only to its companion.
Sky setting for HVAC,
Denver periscope and snorkel extended in ether,
either one pipe-fitted to purpose,
differently, anatomically differentiated,
completely interchangeable.
Below the photographer’s frame
there has to be a maze, anatomically has to be,
in architecture, on a rooftop, a circulatory system
and unseen rhythms of building inspectors,
repairers, roofers, breathers, odors,
all breathing in timetables, calendars, municipal bylaws,
chartable but not really charted except by Willard van Dye
who looked up to a sunless cloudless unbirdened sky
without the draw of church steeple or billboard or neon light
and the shadow of the pie-plate topper on the straight one
indicates the Sun it shining in its face and on van Dyke’s back
and from this angle he must be lying down on the roof,
Willard’s camera as far away from the base of the Funnels
as inches are between the soles of his feet and his eyes
the hypotenuse thereof ridden by the focus of his lens –
the only straight line of the entire picture
that is not hooked by a corner and recycled forever in circles.
Canadian farmer Terry Trowbridge’s poems have appeared in CV2, The New Quarterly, Dalhousie Review, Nashwaak Review, The Great Lakes Review, Pamenar Press, The Ex-Puritan, Studies in Social Justice, and ~200 more places. He is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for funding during the polycrisis.
I write from the gutter I write from the gutter my poems belong in a trash fire and even if I had the choice to write from an ivory tower my legs couldn’t climb it they’d give out at the first step
Art snobs and theater kids Art snobs and theater kids always rubbed me the wrong way and I still don’t understand 90% of the poems I read in journals even though I write them, too
beauty isn’t made by people with an education
when a bum on the street throws up on the sidewalk that’s real art
If you can play If you can play the guitar you can make someone else happier when they’re down on their luck and need a good tune to keep them from drowning in a river of sadness
I like cheese I like cheese I always liked cheese because mice eat cheese and I’m quiet like a mouse
Mean like the grinch Mean like the grinch Bitter like Scrooge Sour like Mencken Bah humbug
—-
Dmitriy Kogan is a short story writer, poet, and essayist from Staten Island, New York. His work has appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Oddball Magazine, and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s a 3 time Best of The Net nominee and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy and Crossroads Magazine. His most recent book, to live your dreams, was published by Whiskey City Press. You can find more info on the book by going here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/245883678-to-live-your-dreams.
