Think of it: a man with yellow eyes stole the Central Committee keys, walked in and sat down at old Ilich’s desk, picked up the telephone, and said: ‘Proletarians, it’s Me.’ And the same radio which the day before repeated: ‘Proletarians of all countries, unite,’ began shouting: ‘Listen to us, obey us, we can do anything, we are the Revolution …’ Perhaps he believes it, but in that case he is half insane, probably he only half believes it, because mediocrities reconcile their conviction with the situations in which they find themselves. Behind him, like a swarm of rats, rise the profiteers,
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