Introduction

The present volume is yet another book about nationalism. By character and genre, however, it is rather different from other volumes that engage with this topic: by character, it is a biography, and by genre, a microhistory. Indeed, the genre of microhistory arose from biographies—the life stories of people (peasants, millers, prostitutes, monks, and others) about whom no one would have known, had later researchers not uncovered their life stories in the archives. Still, while the linking of biography and microhistory is not so unusual, the main protagonist of this volume is. Ivan Franko, the main hero of this book, was a person of a different calibre. His literary, scientific, and journalistic contributions amount to about four thou-sand works. Several of these have been introduced into the curriculum of Ukrainian schools and into the canon of Ukrainian literature. They have had massive print runs, both in Ukrainian and in translation. It would be impossible for Ukrainians and their neighbors not to know about him. He was famous in his lifetime and glorified after his death. Figures like Franko deserve great histories, like the biographies written about other great authors—Shakespeare, Voltaire, Dostoevsky, and others.

However, Franko’s life can also be related to research into the common folk. For comparison, we can turn to the hero of one of the most popular microhistories—the French peasant Martin Guerre, or rather the man who pretended to be him.¹ The real Guerre went to war, and for several years his accidental acquaintance inserted himself into his family. The most surprising thing in this story was that Guerre’s parents, relatives, and even his wife did not see through the deception—and who knows how long it would have lasted, had not the real Martin Guerre returned from the war.

One of the most intriguing aspects of Franko’s life was similar to the story of Martin Guerre. Franko was, perhaps, the first Ukrainian writer who gives the reader the impression that his heroes are contemporaries: they speak the same language, discuss the same topics, and react in the same manner in which contemporary (to us) Ukrainians or (through translation into other languages) Poles, Russians, French or Germans would. But the world of Franko’s heroes has little in common with the world contemporary to him. Indeed, critics of his time repeatedly wrote about this. “The first thing that impresses every reader of his stories is a striking untruth: we hope to see the real world, but we see Franko’s world; we hope to see real people, but we see purely Franko’s people,” wrote one of them. In Franko’s writings, wrote another, “there is a lot of something that is too fantastic, is not commensurate with or even incredible in the circumstances of Galician life.” (For more on this, see chapter 15, “Franko and his Readers.”)

Despite what critics wrote, however, contemporary readers believed Franko, similar to the way that the false Martin Guerre’s new relatives believed him. Further, while this belief held merely local significance for Guerre’s contemporaries, Franko’s contemporaries saw in his biography and creativity a model for creating their own identity. In order to under-stand the causes of this self-suggestion, we need to understand his story in detail. Usually, these are such details that you will not see in historical works, where the canvas of the past is painted with broad brush strokes.

Therefore, this book examines Franko’s life against the background of very small communities: his family, native village, school comrades, the editorial boards of newspapers and journals for which he worked, illegal circles into which he introduced his own propaganda, and others. In other words, it attempts to show the interrelations between the individual and the societal in the creation of modern identities. Franko was born into a region that, at the turn of the twentieth century, played a special role in nation building. His native Galicia—an Austrian border province which, over the course of Franko’s life (1856–1916), was a flashpoint for a severe struggle between the Habsburgs and Romanovs—was also the object of the particular hopes of Ukrainian, Polish, Jewish, and Russian nationalisms. No stars in the sky could reveal the outcome of this contest. Everything was unclear, and depended to a great extent upon accidents—as one might expect when it comes to nation building in the borderlands. However, the future geopolitical order of Central and Eastern Europe seemed to depend on the resolution of this contest, contained in the last third of the nineteenth century.

For anyone interested in the formation of identities in the borderland, biography is an ideal objective of research. Franko was an indisputable leader among those who influenced the establishment of a modern Ukrainian identity, as this barely literate, agrarian society was transformed into a literate, industrial one. The difference between these two societies, as Ernest Gellner—one of the most important theorists on nationalism—asserted, is absolutely central to an understanding of the present world.² According to Gellner, the appearance of nationalism and modern nations was tightly connected with the newly industrialized world; or, as Benedict Anderson, not without irony, explained the essence of his theory, “industrialism was a piece of machinery that demanded the oil of nationalism to function.”³ The history of Austrian Galicia in Franko’s time both confirms and undermines the thesis about the connection between nationalism and modernity. It confirms it because until the mid-nineteenth century—the moment of Franko’s birth and the beginnings of large-scale modernizing changes—the number of people who thought of themselves as Ukrainians could be counted only in the hundreds, if not tens. By the time of his death the number had grown so great that it was acceptable to talk about the “Ukrainian conquest of Galicia.” Yet, the success of the Ukrainian nation creation undermines Gellner’s formula, because in this region, only lightly touched by industrialization, nation building should have been weak, or not occurred at all. However, it did—and it was quite strong.⁴ Because Franko’s biography spans the time of these changes, the study of his life brings us to the very core of the debates about the circumstances of the appearance and development of modern nations.

It is important to note that this story takes us to the halfway point of Franko’s life, when he was thirty years old. This division was motivated by several considerations. The first is rather technical: a microhistory is a quite painstaking type of investigation, requiring a lot of time. The writing of Franko’s whole biography in this genre would have meant several more years before the publication of this book, and the book itself would have been transformed into a “Grossbuch,” which might have frightened off readers.

The second consideration is of an academic character. One of the greatest temptations in historical writing is teleology—the reduction of diverse variants of the development of events to the single one that was realized. In this case, this would mean to write the biography of Franko exclusively as a national leader, who intended to transform a peasant society into the modern Ukrainian nation. Indeed, he truly was like this in the last decades of his life; still, at least to the end of his second decade, he did not yet have the intention to write “for peasants and about peasants” and was not even certain about his own Ukrainian-ness. And even after he had undergone a national conversion, he adhered to the principle “not to curse or slander any other ‘isms’” for the sake of nationalism (see chapter 9, “Journals, We Still Need Journals!”). Thus, writing about Franko only as a Ukrainian nationalist would be only as true as Soviet writings about Franko, which struggled to portray him exclusively as the predecessor of the communist tendency in Ukrainian intellectual history. The young Franko managed to be a socialist, a feminist, and an atheist, as well as a proponent of free love (see chapters 8, “At the Forefront of the Socialist Movement”; 10, “Franko and His World Perception”; 12, “Franko and His Boryslav”; and 13, “Franko and His Women”), and he created his own formulation of Ukrainian-ness, while also reflecting on the Jewish question (see chapter 14, “Franko and His Jews”). Therefore, Franko cannot be understood if one reduces his whole biography only to who he was in his final years. This biography takes a completely opposite approach: as much as possible, it is written as though Franko suddenly disappeared in his thirtieth year, as if we do not know what happened to him thereafter.

Finally, the third cause: the attraction of Franko’s Ukrainian ideas is based not only upon his creative works, but on certain facets of his biography. In particular, his status as a young poet played an important role. And this, in its turn, also justifies the limitation of our story to his younger years.

This consideration, however, begs the question: how long does a poet’s youth last? Of course, youth is not merely a biological idea, but also a social concept—its meaning changes alongside societal changes. The nineteenth century brought forth the start of a vast demographic transition. From the time of Christ to that of Napoleon, the average life expectancy remained around twenty-five years, but over the next century it grew to forty-five years.⁵ In the nineteenth century, a reader would be completely unsurprised to read in a novel about “an old woman of forty-five years”—in those times, people lived shorter lives, and old age came sooner. Franko at age twenty-eight was already considered an “old cavalier,” and with the approach of his fiftieth birthday, the younger generation viewed him as a person of advanced age. Researchers of poetic creativity consider that the youth of a poet in the nineteenth century concluded with the attainment of a stable livelihood—when his level of income allowed him to settle down, have a family, a home, and so on.⁶ From this viewpoint, it is completely justifiable to conclude the story about the young Franko with his marriage in 1886.

This book is an academic monograph, but my goal has been to present a text that will appeal to a broader readership not limited to scholars. To accomplish this, wherever possible, I have dispensed with academic jargon. Furthermore, all the scholarly apparatuses such as footnotes, indexes, and tables have been placed in the end section of the book. In the notes, the reader will also find more detailed argumentation of certain theses and specific subjects ‘not for general use.’ Nonexperts are not obliged to peruse this part—unless the details of the research interest them.

A brief discussion about terms: throughout the book they are used in a strictly neutral sense, irrespective—as far as possible—of the ideological framework, which acquires various meanings in public discussions. Let us begin, for example, with the word “nationalism”—one of the most ideologically weighty terms. In this book it is used similarly to other “isms”: socialism, liberalism, conservatism, feminism—that is, as one of a variety of ideologies and modern political movements. Each “ism” has a tendency to be turned into an “asm” (as in “miasma”). Here, however, we are interested not so much in the evolution of this movement as we are in its essence. In this book, following Gellner, I understand nationalism as an ideology and political movement, the main organizing principle behind the demand that political and ethnic borders should coincide.⁷ This definition brings together all available types of nationalism—liberal, integral, state, of nonstate peoples, and so on—leaving to propagandists such adjectives as “militant,” “liberational,” “bloody,” and the like.

Another concept used here is “traditional society.” Generally speaking, “tradition” covers the whole cultural inheritance that one generation passes on to another. Its existence is the ultimate condition for the functioning of every society. Hence, each society is, to a certain degree, traditional. In this book, however, “traditional society” refers only to the type of society in which tradition is passed from an older to a younger generation directly, through direct personal contact and orally.⁸ This definition allows us to avoid unjustified simplifications, such as the frequent broad identification of traditional society with a particular stratum (for example, the peasantry) or with particular concrete material or spiritual manifestations of traditional culture (such as clothing, songs, and the like). According to this proposed definition, it is not only an illiterate peasant who could be traditional—so could a skilled artisan, a nobleman, or a married priest of the Orthodox Church, as long as he acquires professional knowledge not through a school, gymnasium, or university, but through the teachings of his father or an experienced master, following the principle “do it as I do.”⁹ By this same logic, traditions can appear and disappear, and be transformed according to new changes—but, as long as the means of transmission of knowledge does not change, such a world remains traditional.

In the juxtaposition of “traditional versus modern,” the main problem lies not with the first, but with the second component. The term “modern” is highly ambivalent. It has both a temporal meaning (modern as some-thing that took place not long ago) and an ideological one(modern as the highest or best way to organize social life).¹⁰ Most often the two meanings are combined—as, for example, by the proponents of modernization theories. They reduce modernity to a list of concrete criteria, such as the level of urbanization and industrialization of a society, education, social and geographical mobility, the level of political structuring, and so on. Problems emerge, however, when one applies this categorical apparatus to concrete historical investigations. First, in the past there have always been periods that, according to one or another criterion, were more modern than later periods (see chapter 2, “The Riddles of Franko’s birth”). Second, there are important reasons not to consider these criteria as universal. They reflect the concrete, real conditions of particular countries—generally speaking “white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant”—where modernization brought the most tangible and rapid results. It is not clear how to apply these criteria outside the “historical fatherland” of their first appearance to societies with differing cultural and political environments.¹¹

The way out of this impasse is to move away from an emphasis on objective criteria to the subjective perception of the very fact of change. If the temporal meaning of the term “modern” is significantly older than the modern world (its appearance dates at least to the sixth century CE), then the positive connotation of the term is relatively recent. From its very first appearances, this word was used overwhelmingly in a pejorative sense, meaning something recognizably worse, and not very ideal compared to the “good old days.” The scientific and industrial revolutions of the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries fundamentally changed its meaning. During that period, it became clear that while the poetry of Homer and Virgil remained unsurpassed, the modern discoveries of Copernicus and Newton surpassed the knowledge of Archimedes and Ptolemy.¹² Hence, a modern society can be defined in the broadest sense as not simply a society undergoing rapid changes, but as a society that is conscious of these changes,¹³ and (this is most important) a society that views them positively. This definition allows us to explain how it is possible for strong, modern political and intellectual movements to appear in traditional societies, which were under the pres-sure of transformation. The force of these movements reflected the desire for change, which, in the minds of their leaders and followers, had to bring improvement in living conditions. The more backward the society was, the more loudly their battles cries sounded, and the higher they raised their flag. Equally, the proposed definition helps us to understand modernization processes as the sum of more or less autonomous components, not necessarily interrelated. In particular, I consistently distinguish between “modernization” and “modernity” in this volume: modernity means new political, cultural, and intellectual currents, while modernization denotes social and economic development. Corresponding to this distinction, this book understands Galicia as an historical region, where there was a lot of modernity but little modernization. By analogy, we could say that at the other end of those Ukrainian lands, in industrial Donbas at the turn of the twentieth century, there was plenty of modernization but only a little modernity.¹⁴

One could go a step further and present the binary opposition “traditional–modern society” not necessarily as a dichotomy, but as a certain symbiosis, or even as a synthesis. The modern world is best imagined as a palimpsest, where the traditional structures appear distinctly beneath the surface of modern phenomena. This book proposes a perspective that is not so popular in the social sciences and humanities, but is justified in the case of many countries of Central and Eastern Europe—the very recognition that alongside modern political structures, social and economic transformations, and new cultural practices, old (“traditional”) religious and cultural differences play a very important role. Moreover, there exists a certain “path dependency” between old and new structures, with the understanding that the former limit the number of possible scenarios for the latter’s development, or make some of them more likely than others. Nationalism and national identity, credibly, came historically out of a Christian tradition.¹⁵ Still, the question remains: did they spread with the same force in the Western and Eastern Christian worlds? This book’s material leads its author to answer, most likely, in the negative. This thesis remains a working hypothesis, not supported by sufficient argumentation, but it helps us to understand important episodes of Franko’s biography.

Identification with one group or another means setting borders—borders to which this group of identities is attributed. Almost always, these borders are imagined—not in the sense that they do not really exist, but in that the only real means of their existence is imagination. Correspondingly, they are not prescribed once and forever, but instead are constructed, changed, and dependent on circumstances. To be Ukrainian in the nineteenth century did not necessarily signify the same set of values as it did in the twentieth century. The absolute majority of Franko’s compatriots during his youth called themselves Ruthenians (Rusyny in Ukrainian), and it was in no way predetermined that Ruthenians would necessarily turn into Ukrainians. Such a transformation was the goal of only one cultural and sociopolitical group—the so-called Ukrainophiles. Hence, in this book I use three different terms to refer to three different groups: Rusyns, Ukrainophiles, and Ukrainians. The relationship between all three can be explained briefly as follows: Ukrainians were those who Rusyns had to become in accordance with the intentions of the Ukrainophiles. Analogously, one might distinguish between Hebrews and Jews, Masurians and Poles. In each case, the Hebrews had to become Jews, and the Masurians had to become Poles, in accordance with the intentions of the corresponding contemporary Jewish and Polish nationalists.

Identities, more often than not, signify a projection of imagined groups onto a certain historical space. The borders upon which this imagining took place were the object of desire of various national and imperial projects. As a result, the majority of regional names and national father-lands that are employed in this book—Rus’, Russia, Poland, Ukraine—were not neutral geographic concepts, and it is not possible to establish them a priori. Rather, they are the result of the situational interaction of various actors, and only through this interaction is it possible to define them. Such an approach is becoming widespread in the most recent investigations of the history of national movements in Central and Eastern Europe.¹⁶ The author agrees with this approach and strives to employ it with a few significant amendments. First, researchers of nationalism are often and justifiably accused of having a narrow investigative framework: they fail to place national identities within a broader spectrum of all possible forms of group identification—professional, gender, ideological, religious, and the like.¹⁷ Franko’s biography is a convincing example of the falsity of this narrow focus. In the historical theater of Central and Eastern Europe, nationalism was not the only drama. Franko’s identity was the result, first of all, of the interaction of various modern political ideologies, among which national-ism was important, but not the sole one. Thus, the first amendment to this approach builds in the requirement for a maximal possible widening of the circle of actors involved.

A second amendment is that the drama itself developed to a great extent on an old stage with old decorations. Therefore, the number of actors that could have influenced Franko’s choice cannot be limited to modern ones—modern bureaucrats, socialists, liberals, conservatives, nationalists, and the like. At least until the First World War, traditional society provided the decorations and the actors. It is important to see how the inclusion of traditional actors (in the first case, peasants and traditional Jews) in the world of modern politics influenced the change of the very field and the rules of play.

A third amendment and reservation relates to the very means of investigating this drama. Most important, especially after the so-called linguistic turn in historical scholarship, one is led to an analysis of the very scenario—or in other words, a discursive analysis. The value of such analysis cannot be denied. Investigations that begin and end with this type of analysis are, however, problematic. Though they are interesting, they create the impression of going through revolving doors, but still ending back where one started.¹⁸ The scenario or script is not the whole of the drama. The very play of the actors and their interaction with the viewers are also important. Franko was precisely one of those authors who actively created new discourses with his texts. However, analysis of the social reception of his works shows that even the most provocative and widely discussed texts had influence only within a small sphere of people. Therefore, to ascertain the causes of Franko’s popularity—and its limits—we are required to move beyond the discursive fields and to analyze the structures of the life of people who did not have a voice in these discussions, either through illiteracy or indifference.

In any case, the writing of a biography requires one to consider a variety of contexts, and therefore anticipates interdisciplinarity. This book was written at the intersection of history, literature, sociology, and ethnography. Of all these disciplines, I can claim a degree of expertise only in history. In the others, I have been, and remain, a dilettante. The experienced reader will easily tease out the sum of these techniques and methodologies, whether applied with expertise or as a dilettante. Here, I will dwell only on the one that had the most influence upon the general design of the investigation: the theory of fields, advanced by the French social scientist Pierre Bourdieu. Bourdieu introduces the concept of a field of play (jeu), the rules of which are not completely clear or codified. The main thing in this play are the stakes (enjeux), which mostly arise during competition among the players. The players agree that the game is worth playing and invest their energies in it. Trump cards also exist (economic, social, cultural, and symbolic capital, for instance), the value and hierarchy of which can change in the process of the game itself. In an empirical study, one must determine what the field of the game is, where its boundaries lie, and what types of capital are involved. It is most difficult to determine the borders of the field itself, since they themselves are the object and the stakes of the game. Game participants—economic firms, fashion designers, writers—constantly strive to distinguish themselves from their closest competitor and to establish their own monopoly over a certain section of the field.¹⁹

Bourdieu proposes the metaphor and images of a card game (bets, trump cards). In the case of mass political movements, I think it more relevant to compare them with a game in which there are more players, as well as fans, many of whom, although not playing, consider the course of events essentially important for themselves. Soccer is such a game. In developing this metaphor, one could think of the main intrigue of the book as follows—with the downfall of the old regime on the European continent in the nineteenth century, a great tournament began among various ethnic, religious, social, and other groups for the right to enter the twentieth century. Events unfolded in such a way that in Franko’s time Galicia became the field where one of the semi-final matches was held. In order to win, one of the outsiders—the Ukrainophile intelligentsia—attempted to master the rules and techniques of the game, to accumulate social and symbolic capital, and to transform the passive inhabitants of their province into a mass group of supporters. All these efforts could have been in vain, however, if the team did not have a good forward, one who could score goals. This history is a story about how Franko became that forward—thanks to circumstances that require separate explanation and are impossible to understand without comprehending the logic of the game itself.

Finally, we will briefly describe the state of another field in which this book aspires to position itself: Franko Studies. The study of the life and creative work of Ivan Franko has a long history and established traditions. The first studies of Franko appeared during his lifetime.²⁰ The richness of Franko’s legacy, combined with relatively well-preserved archives and enduring research traditions, have created a unique situation, one of which the biographers of not every well-known person can boast: in the current state of research, the life of Franko can be noted down all the way to the daily basis.

The paradox is that, despite such detailed knowledge, there is still no satisfactory academic biography of Franko. In part, this can be explained by political circumstances. Even during his lifetime, and still more after his death, Franko became the object of struggle of various political cur-rents, each of which strove to establish a monopolistic right to him as its ideological progenitor. Therefore, Franko’s life and activities were often described in accordance with ideological schemes that allowed for the deliberate silencing or distortion of certain facts. The most distinguished in this regard was Soviet scholarship, which, in the apt words of Yevhen Sverstiuk, wrote biographies with an apparent obligation to show their heroes’ “usefulness for state service.”²¹ This tendency has remained alive, even after the fall of communism, when Franko Studies has been formally liberated from political pressure and, in principle, nothing limits researchers’ freedom.

Another obstacle is the general attitude that the pursuit of new facts excludes broad conclusions. This was such a noticeable phenomenon that society paid attention to it and began—mostly in interwar Galician newspapers—a campaign against historians who write about “what” and not about “why.”²² In the overall hierarchy of scholarly values, I place the discovery of new ways of thinking about already known facts above the gathering of new facts. Among the works on Ivan Franko that take this approach, this book is not the first and, of course, will not be the last. Over the past decade, several first-class studies have been published, which are opening the field for new interpretations of his life and creative work. Some of these have appeared outside of Franko Studies, but any serious biography of Ivan Franko must also take into account these studies’ results and conclusions. After their publication, to write about Franko has become, if not easier, at least much more interesting than it was at the beginning of the 1990s.²³

This biography of Franko is also the culmination of my almost twenty years of research. In 1990, I published a small book as a first attempt at a new biography of Franko.²⁴ Over the twenty-eight years that have since passed, our knowledge about Franko has significantly broadened. However, this has only made it more possible to clearly realize how much we still do not know or understand. Therefore, my credo remains in harmony with the Latin proverb with which I concluded the introduction to that earlier work: “I did what I could; let whoever can do better.”

Footnotes

1. See Natalie Zemon Davis, The Return of Martin Guerre (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983).

2. See John Davis, “An interview with Ernest Gellner,” Current Anthropology, 32:1 (1991): 67.

3. “We Study Empires as We Do Dinosaurs: Nations, Nationalism, and Empire in a Critical Perspective, Interview with Benedict Anderson,” Ab Imperio 3 (2003): 64.

4. Tom Nairn, “The Curse of Rurality: Limits of Modernization Theory,” in The State of the Nation: Ernest Gellner and the Theory of Nationalism, ed. John A. Hall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 107–34.

5. Iván T. Berend and György Ránki, Economic Development in East-Central Europe in the 19th and 20th Centuries (New York: Columbia University Press 1974), 17.

6. Roman Loth, Młodość Jana Kasprowicza. Szkic biograficzny, (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 1962), 5.

7. Ernest Gellner, Nations and Nationalism (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1983), 1.

8. Kazimierz Dobrowolski, “Peasant Traditional Culture,” in Peasants and Peasant Societies, ed. Theodor Shanin (Middlesex: Penguin, 1971), 277–8.

9. See Ivan Franko, “Do istorii rus’koi tserkvy v poslidnykh chasakh Richypospospolytoi pol’s’koi,” Zoria, no. 4 (1886): 67–68.

10. Barry Smart, “Modernity, Postmodernity, and the Present,” in Theories of Modernity and Postmodernity, ed. Bryan S. Turner (London: Sage Publications, 1990), 16–17.

11. Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Die Gegenwart als Geschichte. Essays (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1995), 13–59.

12. Jacques Le Goff, History and Memory (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 21–50.

13. Zygmunt Bauman, “Modernity,” in The Oxford Companion to Politics of the World, 2nd ed., Joel Krieger, ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 551.

14. See Theodore H. Friedgut, Iuzovka and Revolution, vol. 1, Life and Work in Russia’s Donbass, 1869–1924 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989).

15. Adrian Hastings, The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); see also Anthony Smith, “Adrian Hastings on Nations and Nationalism,” Nations and Nationalism 9, no. 1 (2003): 25–28.

16. See Alexei Miller, The Ukrainian Question: The Russian Empire and Nationalism in the Nineteenth Century. Authorized translation by Olga Poato (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2003).

17. Shmuel N. Eisenstadt and Wolfgang Schluchter, “Introduction: Paths to Early Modernities—A Comparative View,” Daedalus 127(3): 14.

18. I borrowed this metaphor from Nancy F. Partner, “Historicity in an Age of Reality-Fictions,” in A New Philosophy of History, ed. Frank Ankersmith and Hans Kellner (London: Reaktion Books 1995), 22.

19. Pierre Bourdieu and Loїc J. D. Wacquant, An Invitation to Reflexive Sociology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 98–100.

20. Omelian Ohonovskyi, Istoriia literatury ruskoi, vol. 3 (Lviv: Tovarystvo imeni Tarasa Shevchenka, 1893).

21. Ivan Sverstiuk, “Ivan Kotliarevs’kyi smiiet’sia,” Suchasnist’ 5 (1972): 40.

22. Bohdan Krupnyts’kyi, Istorioznavchi problemy istorii Ukrainy (zbirnyk statei) (Munich: Ukrains’kyi Vil’nyi Universytet, 1959), 120–121.

23. Here I want to mention three books: Tamara Hundarova, Franko—ne Kameniar, 2nd ed. (Kyiv: Krytyka, 2006); Oksana Zabuzhko, Filosofiia ukrainskoi idei ta ievropeis’kyi kontekst, 2nd ed. (Kyiv: Fakt, 2006); Yaroslava Melnyk, I ostatnia chast dorohy…Ivan Franko: 1908–1916 (Lviv: Kolo, 1999).

24. Yaroslav Hrytsak, “…Dukh, shcho tilo rve do boiu…” Sproba politychnoho portreta Ivana Franka (Lviv: Kameniar, 1990).