And Thou Too The Hurricane At the Grave in Waldheim Ut Sementem Feceris, Ita Metes The Dirge of the Sea I Am Love’s Ghost Life or Death The Toast of Despair Mary Wollstone Craft John P. Altgeld In Memoriam The Feast of Vultures The Suicide’s Defense Germinal Santa Agueda The Road Builders Ave Et Vale Marsh-Bloom “Light Upon Waldheim” Written — in — Red And Thou Too... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)
Some time ago, in one of my essays in "Record of Random Thoughts," I recorded a conversation I had had with a friend. I declared that a museum of the "Cultural Revolution" should be established. I did not have anything specific in mind, no formal project, but I was driven by a strong conviction that such a museum should be found, and it was the responsibility of every Chinese. I had just mentioned this, anticipating that others would add their support. I believe that the many who passed through the crucible of the "Cultural Revolution" could not remain silent. Each individual had a unique experience. But nobody can depict the "cowshed" prison as a paradise, nor depict inhuman massacre as a "Great Proletarian Revolution." Although our opinio... (From : CND.org.)
The next morning when Delesof was awakened to go to his office, he saw, with an unpleasant feeling of surprise, his old screen, his old servant, and his clock on the table. "What did I expect to see if not the usual objects that surround me?" he asked himself. Then he recollected the musician's black eyes and happy smile; the motive of the Melancholie and all the strange experiences of the night came back into his consciousness. It was never his way, however, to reconsider whether he had done wisely or foolishly in taking the musician home with him. After he had dressed, he carefully laid out his plans for the day: he took some paper, wrote out some necessary directions for the house, and hastily put on his cloak and galoshes. As he went by the dining-room he glanced in at the door. Albert, with his face buried in the pillow and lying at full length in his dirty, tattered shirt, was buried in the profoundest slumber on the saffron sofa, where in abso...
During my ninety days in the United States old friends and new, including people I had never met before, spoke much of my years in exile. It seemed incredible to them that I had been able to withstand the vicissitudes of banishment and come back unbroken in health and spirit and with my ideal unmarred. I confess I was deeply moved by their generous tribute. But also I was embarrassed, not because I suffer from false modesty or believe that kind things should be said about people only after their death, but rather because the plight of hosts of political exiles scattered over Europe is so tragic that my struggle to survive was hardly worth mentioning. The lot of political refugees, even prior to the war, was never free from stress and povert... (From : University of Berkeley.)