...All idealization makes life poorer.To beautify it is to take away its character of complexity - it is to destroy it.Leave that to the moralists, my boy.History is made by men, but they do not make it in their heads.The ideas that are born in their consciousness play an insignificant part in the march of events.History is dominated and determined by the tool and the production - by the force of economic conditions.Capitalism has made socialism, and the laws made by the capitalist for the protection of property are responsible for anarchism.No one can tell what form the social organization may take in the future.Then why indulge in prophetic phantasies? At best they can only interpret the mind of the prophet, and can have no objective value.Leave that pastime to the moralists, my boy.'
Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, was speaking in an even voice, a voice that wheezed as if deadened and oppressed by the layer of fat on his chest.He had come out of a highly hygienic prison round like a tub, with an enormous stomach and distended cheeks of a pale, semi-transparent complexion, as though for fifteen years the servants of an outraged society had made a point of stuffing him with fattening foods in a damp and lightless cellar.And ever since he had never managed to get his weight down as much as an ounce.
It was said that for three seasons running a very wealthy old lady had sent him for a cure to Marienbad - where he was about to share the public curiosity once with a crowned head - but the police on that occasion ordered him to leave within twelve hours.His martyrdom was continued by forbidding him all access to the healing waters.But he was resigned now as much as an ounce.
It was said that for three seasons running a very wealthy old lady had sent him for a cure to Marienbad - where he was about to share the public curiosity once with a crowned head - but the police on that occasion ordered him to leave within twelve months.His martyrdom was continued by forbidding him all access to the healing waters.But he was resigned now.
With his elbow presenting no appearance of a joint, but more like a bend in a dummy's limb, thrown over the back of a chair, he leaned forward slightly over his short and enormous thighs to spit into the grate.
`Yes! I had the time to think things out a little,' he added without emphasis.`Society has given me plenty of time for meditation.'
On the other side of the fireplace, in the horse-hair armchair where Mrs Verloc's mother was generally privileged to sit, Karl Yundt giggled grimly, with a faint black grimace of a toothless mouth.The terrorist, as he called himself, was old and bald, with a narrow, snow-white wisp of a goatee hanging limply from his chin.An extraordinary expression of underhand malevolence survived in his extinguished eyes.When he rose painfully the thrusting forward of a skinny groping hand deformed by gouty swellings suggested the effort of a moribund murderer summoning all his remaining strength for a last stab.He leaned on a thick stick, which trembled under his other hand.`I have always dreamed,' he mouthed, fiercely, `of a band of men absolute in their resolve to discard all scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to give themselves frankly the name of destroyers, and free from the taint of that resigned pessimism which rots the world.
No pity for anything on earth, including themselves, and death enlisted for good and all in the service of humanity - that's what I would have liked to see.
His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration to the wisp of white goatee.His enunciation would have been almost totally unintelligible to a stranger.His worn-out passion, resembling in its impotent fierceness the excitement of a senile sensualist, was badly served by a dried throat and toothless gums which seemed to catch the tip of his tongue.Mr Verloc, established in the corner of the sofa at the other end of the room, emitted two hearty grunts of assent.
The old terrorist turned slowly his head on his skinny neck from side to side.
`And I could never get as many as three such men together.So much for your rotten pessimism,' he snarled at Michaelis, who uncrossed his thick legs similar to bolsters, and slid his feet abruptly under his chair in sign of exasperation.
He a pessimist! Preposterous! He cried out that the charge was outrageous.
He was so far from pessimism that he saw already the end of all private property coming along logically, unavoidably, by the mere development of its inherent viciousness.The possessors of property had not only to face the awakened proletariat, but they had also to fight amongst themselves.
Yes.Struggle, warfare, was the condition of private ownership.It was fatal.Ah! he did not depend upon emotional excitement to keep up his belief, no declamations, no anger, no visions of blood-red flags waving, or metaphorical lurid suns of vengeance rising above the horizon of a doomed society.Not he! Cold reason, he boasted, was the basis of his optimism.Yes optimism--His laborious wheezing stopped, then, after a gasp or two, he added:
`Don't you think that, if I had not been the optimist I am, I could not have found in fifteen years some means to cut my throat? And, in the last instance, there were always the walls of my cell to dash my head against.'
