Handbook for the Working Revolutionary

It is not enough to analyze revolution, to draft manifestos and publish pamphlets. Every student of the revolution starts out a virgin, but even by declaring himself such he has set himself on a long path that can lead to only one place. Looking back he will ask himself, Was this or that or such-and-such the moment I became a revolutionary? And he will always answer his own question – No, by then I was already a revolutionary. But, he will then say, it is obvious that my entire life before this moment was trivial and of no consequence to this, my revolutionary lifestyle.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Revolution is not a state of affairs in society, revolution is a state of the mind of a single liberated individual. Most certainly you are a leaf being blown by colossal winds, but this is a leaf that feels an itch – has always felt that itch.

Something is wrong. You have always felt that itch – in your darkest moments you are that itch. Some choices are yours to make, but this itch was not yours to bestow, and is not yours to banish.

Why do you feel this revolutionary urge? You are possessed of the faculties of a man, but you are denied their use and full expression. In this vast hive your spark is dim and your will lies unspent. There is no place for you in this world, yet simultaneously you are absorbed into the horde and smothered by its complacent mechanics. Your hands, feet, mouth, brain are hemmed in from every direction. Your actions are dictated from above. You tell yourself that you live for yourself, but truly you live for no-one, least of all your self, and no-one lives for you. You cooperate routinely with your fellow men, but the interaction is mundane and your combined efforts only seem to cancel each other out. A strange miasma has come over you, has always been with you, but has become steadily worse. You are part ant and part man, but you have the worst from each. All of this and more you know is true, and you feel it every morning upon leaving your slumber. It is so constant that you sometimes forget it is there, you have forgotten the sharpness of the itch.

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