Cruelty, As A Fine Art, Has Attained

Darn The Wheel Of The World! Why Must It Continually Turn Over? Where Is The Reverse Gear?

The Scab Is A Traitor To His God, His Mother, And His Class.

The Aim Of Life Was Meat. Life Itself Was Meat. Life Lived On Life. There Were The Eaters And The Eaten. The Law Was: Eat Or Be Eaten. He Did Not Formulate The Law In Clear, Set Terms And Moralize About It. He Did Not Even Think The Law; He Merely Lived The Law Without Thinking About It At All.

As For Me, You Wonder Why I Am A Socialist. I'll Tell You. It Is Because Socialism Is Inevitable; Because The Present Rotten And Irrational System Cannot Endure; Because The Day Is Past For Your Man On Horseback. The Slaves Won't Stand For It. They Are Too Many, And Willy-nilly They'll Drag Down The Would-be Equestrian Before He Gets Astride. You Can't Get Away From Them, And You'll Have To Swallow The Whole Slave-morality. It's Not A Nice Mess, I'll Allow. But It's Been A-brewing And Swallow It You Must.

When, On The Still Cold Nights, He Pointed His Nose At A Star And Howled Long And Wolf-like, It Was His Ancestors, Dead And Dust, Pointing Nose At Star And Howling Down Through The Centuries And Through Him. And His Cadences Were Their Cadences, The Cadences Which Voiced Their Woe And What To Them Was The Meaning Of The Stillness, And The Cold, And Dark.