Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 190 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision. He’s not just an Indian author but a global voice, challenging readers to confront the complexities of existence while offering hope through art and ethics.
If Tagore is the serene sage of a colonial past, Anand is the fiery prophet of a chaotic present. Recently he dedicated his collection of 12 epics Epicacia Vol 1 and Vol 2 to Serbia and Dr Maja Herman Sekulic. His evolving oeuvre, from the Mahakaal Trilogy to the Cosmic Trilogy cements his status as a visionary poet-philosopher, comparable to Wordsworth in his moral and philosophical depth, yet distinctly modern in his focus on technology and globalization, particularly his interest in alternate realities.
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Advertising and the Language of Advertising: A Powerful Tool of Modern Society
By Dinora Sodiqova, a student of Termez State University
In today’s era of globalization, advertising has become an inseparable part of our daily lives. From street banners to mobile apps, from television and radio to social networks — advertising occupies almost every corner of the information space. Yet advertising is not merely a tool for introducing a product; it is a powerful social phenomenon that shapes public opinion, influences consumer culture, and even affects social attitudes.
The main weapon of advertising is language. Effective advertising sells not just a product, but an idea. That is why the language of advertising must be persuasive, brief, clear, and memorable. A single word or slogan can determine the success of an entire brand. Phrases such as “Quality is our top priority!”, “Chosen by those who trust themselves!”, or “New convenience every day!” demonstrate the essential features of advertising language: simplicity, clarity, and emotional impact.
The language of advertising works directly on human psychology. It widely uses attention-grabbing techniques, metaphors, exaggeration, rhythm, repetition, and vivid imagery. Moreover, modern advertising is closely linked with professional psychology: the meaning of colors, the tone of voice, visual elements — all are intended to influence the consumer’s subconscious mind.
However, advertising is not limited to commercial goals alone. Social advertisements aim to promote a healthy lifestyle, raise awareness about environmental issues, encourage observance of traffic rules, and draw attention to various public concerns. The language of such advertisements is more sincere, realistic, and educational in tone.
At this point, an important issue must be addressed: advertising not only informs but also shapes consumer behavior. Therefore, its language should remain honest, free from unnecessary manipulation or deception. Advertising that earns people’s trust lasts long; advertising that loses trust quickly loses its impact.
In conclusion, advertising is the heart of the modern economy, and the language of advertising is its powerful voice. Carefully chosen words, clear ideas, creativity, and honesty reveal the true strength of advertising. The quality of today’s advertising culture plays a significant role in shaping the consumer culture of future generations.
Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.
Short biography: Amb. Dr. Priyanka Neogi from Coochbehar. She is an administrative Controller of United Nations PAF, librarian, CEO of Lio Messi International Property & Land Consultancy, international literacy worker, sports & peace promoter, dancer, singer, reciter, live telecaster, writer, editor, researcher, literary journalist, host, beauty queen, international coordinator of the Vijay Mission of Community Welfare Foundation of India.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Crossroads Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review and Misfit Magazine. You can find him most days at his home in Ohio, taking care of his disabled mother and trying to hit another crazy 20 team parlay. He still has a blog, evil delights, although he rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
They called him Buster before he could walk, a name bestowed mid-flight.
The small body airborne… tumbling across a tent floor, Thud! Landing against a wall. Splat!
The crowd gasps. His father grins. His mother braces for the next throw.
Little Buster learned the language of flight and fall, of prat and pathos, his bruises spelling destiny in slapstick form.
Even before the tiny tyke could talk he knew the music of collapse, how a tumble, timed just right, could make the audiences roar.
A suitcase handle sewn into his shirt so he could be caught — whoosh! — or hurled, or lifted once more toward the lights.
Tossed and tossed again.
No wings held him aloft – only force. Applied gently, they said. He knew how to land without getting hurt, they said.
Whack! — the floor met his shoulder. Clunk! — the chair gave way.
No one blinked as he sailed through the air with the greatest of ease. Whoosh! Crash! Oof!
Poor little beggar. If he wept, he saved it for the wings.
Every gesture a theorem, every stumble a lesson in physics. He mapped the universe in pratfalls, angles, arcs, impossible collisions.
The film sets became his instruments. He built cathedrals of collapse, stood ghostly-serene at their altars of debris.
The house closed around him — Boom! — but he did not move.
The General thundered beneath him, Chuff-chuff! Hiss! Steam! Screech!
He rode its spine through fire and wreckage, choreographing peril with the calm of a monk.
If the world was falling apart, he would stand at its center – unblinking, his hat flat as a crushed box.
He rose through skylights, swung from cranes, rode locomotives like comets through smoke — Bang! Clang! Crash!
When sound arrived it struck him mute.
The clatter of words drowned the music of motion. The studios – deaf to grace – bound him in contracts and broke his heart.
Yet film remembers what men forget. Decades later — click-whirr-flicker — there he was, forever falling, forever rising, forever young, the universe collapsing in perfect rhythm around that impassive, ghostly face.
They said he was reckless. They didn’t see the math — the quiet calculus of momentum and grace, the prayers murmured in angles.
The man was broken. His body a grieving testimony to fractured bones and battered necks. Crack. Pop. Groan.
Fame has no loyalty. The applause faded. The wife who once adored him bled him dry.
He gave her laughter; she returned silence.
Yet his sons, God bless them, saw the angel in their father’s battered frame, the kindness behind the mask, the gentleness no camera could steal.
It is said he lost a forefinger to a clothes wringer. Whirrrr! Snap! Gashed his head with a brick that boomeranged — Thunk! And was once sucked from an upstairs window by a passing cyclone — Whoooosh! — carried floating through the air, and set down, unhurt, in the middle of a street a few blocks away.
That face — oh, that face — the stillest face in motion pictures, an angel carved from exhaustion and grace.
Eyes like cloud light before a storm, mouth a straight horizon line against which the world could crash.
He did not flinch. He never would.
In the twilight reels of his life, Buster walked once more into the light, a man stitched together by falls, patched with laughter, tempered in silence.
The world had turned to color and chatter, but he remained black-and-white and eternal. A ghostly flicker of silver drifting upward through the hum of the projector.
Samuel Beckett once said he had “the perfect face for the condition of being.” And it was true. His face a canvas where absurdity met grace, silence met survival.
Click. Whirr. Flicker.
And there, amid the hiss of the film, the shimmer of dust — a single line escaped him, soft as breath:
“I think I have had the happiest and luckiest of lives.”
