There probably is no single work about Russian literature and the Caucasus that does not start with or feature Belinskii’s infamous pronouncement of Pushkin ‘inventing’ the Caucasus. Neither do I want to deny myself the pleasure of quoting it:
The grandiose image of the Caucasus with its bellicose inhabitant was recreated for the first time in Russian poetry – and only in Pushkin’s poem did the Russian public become acquainted for the first time with the Caucasus, known long before to Russia as an arena of war.
An arena of war it was also to Pushkin when he first came to the Caucasus in 1820. In the very beginning of the 19th century a part of Transcaucasian lands (the Christian Georgian kingdoms and the Azeri Muslim khanates) joined the Russian empire. However, a stripe of rebellious lands still separated the center from its new domains. Their peoples nominally made an oath to the empire but de-facto were independent; they practiced Islam, and they lead a non-stop guerilla war against the empire. Moreover, some also received support from the Persians or the Ottomans, which strained the situation even further. Just a few years before Pushkin’s exile, in 1816, general Ermolov, one of the most odius figures in imperial history, and certainly the most hated figure in the Caucasus, arrived to the theatre of war. Having assessed the situation on the forefront, he saw the inefficiency of trying to fight guerilla war with regular forces, and opted for a different strategy.
Ermolov’s plan was to advance in conquering new territories in ‘bites’, affirming the Russian foot in every newly seized piece of land by building infrastructure and moving Russian forts further anf further out. The manner in which this campaign developed, thus, in itself laid the specificity of conceiving the Caucasus within the Empire. It was not conquered by Russia in one step; the campaign lasted decades, and, unlike in traditional warfare, at no point was an agreement made, which would immediately claim the annexation of all territories. This way, the Caucasus entered and consolidated in the Russian imagination as a land, which was never completely appropriated and pacified.
The Prisoner of the Caucasus (1821) was Pushkin’s greatest lifetime success, and his three ‘Southern’ poems in general were extremely well received by the public. The primary reason for this was, beyond any doubt, the poem’s aesthetic splendor. Pushkin’s poetic mastery, dressed in The Prisoner of the Caucasus into ‘stremitel’nyi potok ne razbitogo na strofy chetyrekhstopnogo iamba,’ makes for a powerful, captivating read. His verse is fresh and seems to flow free beyond any restraints – a noticeable move in early nineteenth-century Russian verse, which was at that time still on its way to the fluidity and smoothness that glorified it later.
Literary fashion certainly contributed to Pushkin’s success, too. The timing of his first exile coincided with his infatuation with Byron’s romantic poetry, and he openly admitted that ‘Southern’ poems were largely inspired by Byron. Europe was then obsessed with Byron, and Pushkin brought the craze to Russia. With the image of prisoner, he introduced the Byronic hero – a rebellious, passionate, arrogant character, whose defiance of social conventions and hierarchy, along with his narcissism, make him a magnetic character, who is ‘ne v ladakh i s raem, i s adom, i s bogom, i s lud’mi’. He also took over from Byron his fascination for Orient, its flowery imagery and exotic style, its poetic richness, and, last but not least, the possibilities it opened in poetry.
Russia’s ‘Other’, however, was constituted not by East proper but rather by its South. So geographically its Orient was vaguely set in the Caucasus, whose mountainous landscapes and tenacious inhabitants became the bearing element of literary tradition engendered very soon by The Prisoner of the Caucasus. At the same time, rather than the actual location, the general exoticism and otherness were the definitive features for the Orient, which was flexible enough to include the Crimea or even the abstract world of Pushkin’s Tsygane, whose almost lunar landscape was anything but oriental. Therefore, despite their huge stylistic variation, Pushkin’s three ‘Southern’ poems, with their exotic setting among the Circassians, the Crimean Tatars, and the gypsies, were all perceived as an integral aesthetic phenomenon. Their similarity, in Proskurin’s words, lay in that they were all imagined worlds based on the literary models, which Pushkin adapted for his fabulae. 
Still, of the three, The Prisoner of the Caucasus is perhaps the closest to quintessentially Byronic. Pushkin openly admitted the influence, saying that he wanted to depict in the poem the indifference and weariness of a young yet decrepit soul. And Viazemskii in his critical response to the poem compares it to Byron’s Child-Harold.
The plot of the poem is very simple. The protagonist, a nameless Russian officer, is taken prisoner by a group of Circassians – a collision which was probably borrowed from similar stories which were not unheard of in the Caucasus at the time. Interestingly enough, a few years later, when Pushkin travels to Arzrum, he writes about seeing a shepard in the mountains at some point, and contemplating whether that could be a Russian man once captured by the locals and grown old in captivity.
Very little is known about the prisoner, not even his name (none of the characters have a name, in fact), but what seems definitive both to his character and the whole poem is his longing for freedom and desire to escape the restraints the civilized world puts onto men. It is revealed that he came to the Caucasus in hope of gaining freedom. A Circassian girl, who has assumed taking care of him, falls in love with the prisoner, but he rejects her saying that his sold has been depleted, and he is not capable of loving anymore. At some point the tribesmen go on a raid, and the girl helps the officer break free; however, she refuses to run away with him. As the prisoner is leaving the village, the girl drowns herself in the river.
The framing idea of the poem is the issue of freedom vs. confinement, developed both at the level of an individual human (the prisoner) and at the political (the controversial finale of the poem). Moreover, precisely this dilemma and Pushkin’s image of a captive have become axiomatic to the tradition of literary Caucasus established by the poem.
While ‘prisoner’ can refer merely to a captured person; a method of artistic self-fashioning; a popular type of literary character; a poet’s stance and pose towards the world outside; in addition to all these option, ‘the prisoner of the Caucasus’ as Paul Austin argues, also became a literary device signifying the position of exclusion from the society. He argues that in the 1820s-1840s Russia was seized by the cult of exotic prisoners, whose longstanding literary tradition was re-defined and completely re-invented anew by Pushkin.
Pushkin’s innovation lay in connecting the idea of captivity to the Caucasian topos, where the ‘prisoner’ gets the prefix ‘exotic’; and simultaneously revising the idea of imprisonment: moving away from its direct meaning of being imprisoned by others, it also comes to mean a willful or forced escape and separation from the society.
Austin argues that this image, introduced by Pushkin, itself imprisons Russian literature for the next two decades, culminating in Bestuzhev-Marlinskii and reaching its highest point of maturity and sophistication in Lermontov’s image of Pechorin (specifically, in Bela). I would, however, trace this heritage further to Tolstoy’s Kavkazskii plennik as well as Khadzhi-Murat, whose protagonists’ undoubtedly exotic image and willful imprisonment originated from the same line, even if Tolstoy deliberately reversed the plotline by switching the traditional sides of prisoner and captive.
What is noteworthy about Pushkin’s idea of exotic captive setting the tone in the imagery of Caucasus in Russian literature is that it implies an inherent connection between the captivity, that is, a state of being ‘suspended’, and the exotic geographical background. Precisely this connection gives birth to literary Caucasus emerging as liminal space, and close-reading ‘Southern’ poems shows how they all, despite differences in plot, setting and style, demonstrate affinity in this matter. Some of the defining properties of liminal timespace are ambiguity (the abstract, generic picture of orientalized Caucasus in The Prisoner of the Caucasus; the ‘nowhere land’ setting in Tsygane’; the interrupted storyline of Bakchisaraiskii fontan); the disorientation and deviation of normative societal structures and modes of behavior (the prisoner goes to the Caucasus to escape the structure of the ‘civilized’ society; similar reasons prompt Aleko to join the gypsies; the harem of khan Girai becomes both for Maria and for Zarema the place where they have to negotiate not only their habitual lifestyle but also religious beliefs); and, finally, the effacement of established world outlook including its basic props such as morals, ethics and, once again, religion (both Aleko and the prisoner commit murder; Zemfira and the gypsies in general reject conventional morals; Zarema converts to Islam and allows jealousy to drive her as far as killing an innocent girl out of rivalry; the prisoner virtually neglects the suicide of the girl who saved his life).
The narrative construction of The Prisoner of the Caucasus is fairly schematic, so its founding elements are very prominent and easy to discern. It can, in essence, be brought down to a story of a nameless, homeless, ‘storyless’ personage, who left the world and society he used to live in, and came to the Caucasus looking for a different self. Being taken hostage, he loses both the freedom to physically move on with his journey, and the opportunity to develop his identity, being confined, thus, to the state of erased identity. This in itself pinpoints him as a possible trickster – however, merely identifying a state of suspension in a text is not enough to denote its whole structure as liminal; liminality may well be just one element inside the larger topos. We also need to identify whether any structure-level events are taking place in the poem to determine whether transgression is possible across the border of what we outline as liminal space.
This, indeed, is not fulfilled within the poem’s space. The prisoner shows sign of interest towards the lifestyle of the tribe he lives with, but despite taking up the role of shepherd and spending considerable time with the Circassians, he nonetheless shows no sign of changing or growing closer to them. Neither does he show any feelings, be it romantic interest, friendship, or gratitude towards the girl who saved his life. Even when she helps the prisoner escape, and he makes an attempt to persuade her to leave together, the girl’s refusal stirs him in no way. He leaves the village and the story the way he entered it, without a discernible identity or any emotions or attachments. For the girl, however, their encounter turns out to be a calamity. We cannot infer from the text whether she is pushed by unrequited love, or loneliness, or the reasons of maidenly honour and modesty (which, in the Caucasus are regulated strictly, especially as it comes to outsiders and particularly those who practice different religion) – however, it is made clear that these reasons are strong enough for her to kill herself once the prisoner is gone. And while the prisoner becomes aware of her death, it does nothing to evoke any emotions or change in him.
It is ascertained, hence, that no event, involving a semantic transgression, is taking place within the poem, and that we can talk of its spatiotemporal organization as liminal in character. And while in subsequent texts we are looking at, the quality of liminality will grow more and more embedded and inseparable of the Caucasian setting in general, at the level of this tradition’s foundation, we can still see how this idea of topos consolidated in Russian literary imagination.
Returning to the overwhelming success of The Prisoner of the Caucasus’s, it is important to mention some factors of non-artistic nature, which also contributed enormously both to Pushkin’s triumph, and to the success many of his progenies and epigones (of significantly more modest poetic talents) enjoyed on the way of making Caucasus their literary home. The choice of place is of enormous importance here, since in the early 19th century the informational space was sparse, and news traveled extremely slow. Therefore, aside from understanding that somewhere in Russia’s most exotic location, a major military conflict is taking place, involving people of different religion, culture and lifestyle, largely living in the mountains, little was known of the situation in the south. Outside of the real opportunity for the public to follow the development of the campaign, it is no surprise that public interest in Caucasus thrived in the beginning of the 19th century so much. The Prisoner of the Caucasus, with its epilogue openly framed by the discussion of imperial expansion and colonial war, addressed some of the pressing queries and gaps inside Russia’s public sphere. And even though the poem’s finale was extensively criticized by many, including members of Pushkin’s closest milieu, it stipulated its popularity much more than precluded.
Contiguous to the informational hunger, ethnographic curiosity was an equally strong contribution to the ‘Caucasian’ boom.’ It is quite remarkable, though, how this situation developed among the Russian readership. There was some, if not many, nonfiction literature about the Caucasus already published in the 1920s, and more became increasingly available as military men, ethnographers, and various other scholars published journals, travelogues, ethnographic research and war memoirs. In addition to that, as the oriental studies rocketed in Russia that decade, one would expect this fashion to contribute to interest in nonfiction on Caucasus. Yet the latter was in no demand, and texts such as Bronevskii’s A New geography and history of the Caucasus (1823) could not even remotely challenge the grip of romantic literature.
These were fictional texts that Russian readership chose to satisfy its intellectual hunger and dominate imagination for the years to come, and these texts were to be shaped once and forever by The Prisoner of the Caucasus, which as Susan Layton wrote, ‘started the production of an imaginative geography which took a fierce hold on the readership.’
One aspect of the poem’s fame, which went through a transformation over time as Caucasus became more and more intellectually reclaimed and integrated as part of Russia’s public sphere, is its ethnographic accuracy. For a present-day observer, the inner space of the poem may seem somewhat bare and unsettled; compared to the more realistic later images of the Caucasus, which looked more ‘dense’ or ‘replete’, Pushkin’s universe appears rather airy.
For Pushkin’s contemporaries, however, that would not be the case. In its time, The Prisoner of the Caucasus was considered to be not only a literary but also an ethnographic achievement, and even scholars such as Mirsky (a century later!) regarded it very highly for its factual accuracy as ‘rasskaz o voinskikh obychaiakh cherkesov, tochnyi i fakticheski dostovernyi, kak rasskazy umneishego puteshestvennika XVIII veka.’ Today is does not quite read like that – in fact, all the three ‘southern’ poems have revealed topographic distortions and other factual mistakes which became some of the contributions to the process of re-assessment of their historical reliability. These are, for example, some elements of the Circassians’ clothing in The Prisoner of the Caucasus, or the details of the behavior of the young Circassian girl. In La poetique de l’espace, Gaston Bachelard gives another example from ‘The Caucasus’ poem: the lyric hero in it is simultaneously observing both Aragva and Kura, the two rivers, which are geographically quite distant. On a more joking note, one can re-visit skeptically the very idea of the courageous, fearless traveler, a loner like the captured officer in The Prisoner of the Caucasus, or Aleko in Tsygane. The image of a brave young man making his way through life – and through Caucasus or Bessarabia on his own – seems so natural in the heart of a romantic, Byronic poem. However, this is not how the reality of travelling in the Orient looked like, or, at least, not for Pushkin himself. In fact, when Pushkin and Raevskii set out for south Crimea in 1920, they were accompanied by a convoy of sixty Cossacks; even so, Pushkin was very reserved when later describing to his brother the this trip through the ‘hostile lands of the free mountainous people’. He rounded off the letter, though, by adding: ‘You realize what appeal this specter of danger has for an active imagination.’
Similarly in Bakhisaraiskii fontan, the descriptions of the palace make its memory and personal impression-based nature very transparent even if the poet’s letters fail to do this job:
V Bakhchisarai priehal ia bol’noi. Ia prezhde slykhal o strannom pamiatnike vliublennogo khana. K ** poeticheski opisyvala mne ego, nazyvaia la fontaine des larmes. Voshed vo dvorets, uvidel ia isporchennyi fontan; iz zarzhavoi zheleznoi trubki po kapliam padala voda. Ia oboshel dvorec s bol’sho dosadoiu na nebrezhenie, v kotorom on istlevaet, i na poluevropeiskie peredelki nekotorykh komnat. NN pochti nasil’no povel menia po vetkhoj lestnitse v razvaliny garema i na khanskoe kladbishche. […] Chto kasaetsia do pamiatnika khanskoi liubovnitsy, o kotorom govorit M., ia ob nem ne vspomnil, kogda pisal svoiu pojemu, a to by nepremenno im vospol’zovalsia.
Moreover, despite the widely held belief that Pushkin spent some time living with gypsies and traveled with their camp in Bessarabia, it appears that his knowledge of gypsy life was largely literature-based. In ‘Russkii poet, nemetskii uchenyi I bessarabskie brodiagi’ Oleg Proskurin proves very persuasively that Pushkin’s portrayal of the gypsies was based on several specific historical works rendered authoritative at the time. Proskurin names three titles: Kantemir’s Opisanie Moldavii; Svin’in’s Opisanie Bessarabskoi oblasti; and Vel’tman’s Vospominaniia o Bessarabii. Furthermore, Proskurin demonstrates, through line-by-line close reading, that Pushkin was well acquainted to Grellman’s History of the Gypsies but used it very selectively picking exclusively the facts which complied with Pushkin’s ‘antiprosvetitel’skaia programma’. By the latter, Proskurin means Pushkin’s evident intention to show the gypsies both as more ‘wild’ and more ‘pure’ – the two seemingly incompatible qualities, which, however, have a common origin. The combination of wild and pure can be summarized as ‘uncivilized’; moreover, uncivilized in a very specific, Russoist interpretation.
This, and similar instances constitute the second reason for reading Pushkin more critically than his contemporaries did. In a 1925 letter to Viazemsky Pushkin made the following comment about Bakhchisaraiskii fontan:
Slog vostochnyi byl dlia menia obraztsom, skol’ko vozmozhno nam, blagorazumnym, kholodnym evropeitsam. Evropeets i v upoenii vostochnoi roskoshi dolzhen sokhranit’ vkus i vzor evropeitsa.
Pushkin’s treatment of his ‘southern’ material demonstrates precisely this Eurocentric taste and touch. The idea of bon sauvage derived largely from Rousseau (Emil, 1762) but also from Chateaubraind (Atala, 1801, and Rene, 1802) underlies all three of his romantic poems and has been another element of the set of the ‘Caucasian tropes’ which Pushkin’s many romantic artist followers inherited from him. In fact, this device of philosophical distortion – ascribing and securing to certain social entity the qualities, lifestyle and Weltanschauung which are foreign to it, while arguing uncompromisingly that the latter are intrinsic to the community – has become another commonplace in Russian literary portrayals of Caucasus, and one which is much more difficult to discern, disclose and obliterate than the general ethnographic roughness. Starting with Pushkin, the concept of the people of the Caucasus as the noble savages persists throughout most of the 19th century, and recurs, time and again, over the course of 20th century.
Those people’s mental outlook, however, could have been very different from what it was believed to be, and their lives were subject to plentiful rules and regulatory systems. The Caucasus at the time was populated by a blend of Christians, pagans, and Muslims. The Muslim population was not heterogeneous and included practitioners of the traditional branches of Islam, Sunni and Shia, and other schools such as Sufi mysticism, whose school had a very broad presence in the Caucasus. For one thing, some in the Caucasus have always observed adat (the traditional pre-Islamic law which varied from one kin to another), whether on its own or in conjunction with the law of the Quran, shariah. Shariah spread as the Islamization of Caucasus went on; yet it was Sufism that gave it a major spur.
There is no decisive scholarly opinion on the advent of Sufism in the Caucasus; versions vary from as early as 7th-8th century to 15th century; one credible benchmark, however, is Matsuzato’s and Ibragimov’s dating it with 12th century. Russian sources record in abundance that in the end of the 18th century, Sheikh Mansur dedicated his life to preaching Sufism in the Caucasus. His short life ended tragically but he paved the way for many more Sufi figures to come.
So by the time Pushkin was writing his first romantic poem, the propagation of Sufism was going fast in the region. Knowing this is important in interpreting the poem and understanding how it constructs the mountaineers’ world outlook and sense of freedom. Sufism models the relationship of its subjects and the outer world in a very specific way. It assumes for a human four levels of spiritual development. The lowest level is ‘shariah’, the rigorous following of the Quranic law, which leads to the highest fulfillment mundane life can give. However, there also exists a mystical path, which can advance the believer towards understanding the truth and merging with God. This path starts with ‘tariqah’, the name for the second level in Sufism and for the Sufi brotherhood.
A tariqah affiliate was expected to give up any and all mundane attachments, that is, to become a faqeer, a dervish, as well as any passions, will and even personality per se. He would then start a probation with a murshid – his teacher and imam. They key aspect of murid-murshid relationship was the absolute, unquestioning obedience of murid. A murid was supposed to follow any one of murshid’s commands, without questioning then or thinking whether they were good or evil. It is this unquestionable nature of the relationship between the murshid and murid, which made Sufi sheikhs powerful political figures in the Caucasus. The next step of the mystic path was called ‘maarifah’, and it came with the ability to experience ‘hal’, a mystical ecstasy. The utmost stage of perfection is ‘haqiqah’, the complete detachement of the mundane and unity with the Allah. At this stage, the believer would enter the stage of direct interaction with God, and those few who reached the state of haqiqah could become imams and murshids.
This elaborate structure gives a clear proof of the idea of wild, unlimited freedom being largely alien to the society mistakably conceived as wild and savage. And nothwithstanding Sufi structures, influential yet far from ubiquitous, the kin system with its traditional legal arrangements played a strong regulatory role in the Caucasus. If anything, these regulations could have been obscure and unintelligible for an outsider, especially that with a strong Eutocentric mentality. Which, however, still not make the Caucasus a land of unrestrained freedom, merely a land whose behavioral code was different and therefore misread.
These doubts and considerations, however, did not penetrate the imagery of the Caucasus that was bulding up in Russian imagination. The novelty, the exoticism, the satisfaction of the readership’s ethnographic and political interests drove the success of the romanticized Caucasus; topped with Pushkin’s outstanding poetic mastery, it was doomed to settle in public sphere. Distorted or not, perfect or faulty, Pushkin’s word ultimately designed the topos of the Caucasus in Russian literature, and set in stone the nascent literary paradigm.
 See V. Belinskii. ‘Sochineniia Aleksandra Pushkina’, p. 372.
 See D. S. Mirskii. Istoriia russkoi literatury s drevneishikh vremen do 1925 goda, transl. by R. Zernovaia (London: 1992), p. 141.
 See V. Nabokov. Kommentarii k romanu A. S. Pushkina “Evgenii Onegin” (Saint Petersburg: 1998), p. 213.
 See V. Nabokov. Eugene Onegin: Commentary on preliminaries and chapters one to five. Part 2. Bollingen Foundation, 1964. Page 356.
 See A. S. Pushkin. Sochineniia (ed. by D. M. Bethea), vyp. 1. Poemy i povesti. Ch. 1, comm. By O. Proskurin (Moscow: Novoe izdatel’stvo: 2007).
 See D. Iakubovich. ‘Kavkazskii plennik’ in Putevoditel’ po Pushkinu (Moscow, Leningrad: 1931), pp. 163—164.
 See P. A. Viazemskii. ‘O “Kavkazskom plennike”, povesti soch. A. Pushkina’ in Syn otechestva, 1822, ch. 2, N 49 [available online at] http://dugward.ru/library/pushkin/vjazemsk_kavk_pl.html
 See P. Austin. The Exotic Prisoner in Russian Romanticism. Middlebury Studies in Russian Language and Literature. Book 9 (New York: Peter Lang, 1997), ix.
 It is striking, though, that the idea and the phrase ‘the prisoner of the Caucasus’ persevered not only through nineteenth century, but further across times and very different political situations all over the twentieth-century literature and infiltrating other types of cultural production, such as cinema or visual arts. Remarkably, a total of five different cinema productions in the 20th century used the phrase as a title: the now lost 1911 film by Vitrotti; the 1930 film by Ivanovskii; the 1975 production by Kalatozishvili; the 1996 film by Bodrov, which recontextualizes Tolstoy’s story, setting it in Chechnya during the first Russian-Chechen War; and finally, a comedy variation of 1976, Gaidai’s Kavkaskaia plennitsa. Some of the notable literary reiterations of the motif in recent literature include Makanin’s Asan and Prilepin’s Patologii.
 Paul Austin makes an interesting observation: in the 19th century, he argues, Europeans traveled to the Caucasus much more than Russians did.
 For example, Viazemskii wrote to Pushkin: ‘Что за герои Котляревский, Ермолов? Что тут хорошего, что он, как чёрная зараза, «губил, ничтожил племена»? От такой славы кровь стынет в жилах, и волосы дыбом становятся. Если мы просвещали бы племена, то было бы что воспеть. Поэзия — не союзница палачей… гимны поэта никогда не должны быть славословием резни.’ Quoted in D. Iakubovich. ‘Kavkazskii plennik’ in Putevoditel’ po Pushkinu (Moscow, Leningrad: 1931), pp. 163—164.
 See Layton, p. 51.
 See D. S. Mirskii. Istoriia russkoi literatury s drevneishikh vremen do 1925 goda, transl. by R. Zernovaia (London: 1992), p. 142.
 Paris: PUF, 1957; quoted in D. S. Blagoi. Tvorcheskii put’ Pushkina (1826-30), (Moscow: Sovetskii pisatel’, 1967), pp. 366-67.
 Quoted in Layton, 28.
 See A. S. Pushkin. Sobranie sochinenii v 10 tomakh (Moscow: 1962), pp. 280-1.
 See: O. Proskurin. ‘Russkii poet, nemetskii uchenyi I bessarabskie brodiagi (Chto Pushkin znal o tsyganakh i pochemu skryl ot chitatelei svoi poznaniia)’ in NLO No. 123 (5/2013) [also available online at] http://www.nlobooks.ru/node/3980.
 See A. S. Pushkin. Polnoe sobranine sochinenii, v. XIII (Moscow: 1937), pp. 177-178.
 A whole century later, D. S. Mirsky writes about Tsygane: the main theme of the poem is ‘трагическая неспособность сложного, цивилизованного (my emphasis) человека отбросить привычные чувства и страсти, в особенности чувство собственника по отношению к своей избраннице’. D. S. Mirskii. Istoriia russkoi literatury s drevneishikh vremen do 1925 goda, transl. by R. Zernovaia (London: 1992), p. 144.
 Matsuzato K. & Ibragimov M.-R. ‘Islamic Politics at the Sub-Regional Level in Dagestan: Tariqa brotherhoods, Ethnicities, Localism, and the Spiritual Board’, in Europe-Asia Studies, v, 57, No, 5, 2005, pp. 757-758.
 See A. Krymskii. Ocherk razvitiia sufizma (Moscow: 1986), p. 56.