We

by Yevgeny Zamyatin

Thoughts rapping quietly, metallically, distinctly: a mysterious aero carries me to the blue heights of my favorite abstractions. And here in this cleanest sharp air, I see my rationale about my “rights” burst with a light pop, like a pneumatic tire. And I can see clearly that these ideas about “rights” were merely a throwback from a ridiculous superstition of the Ancients.

I was free again—that is, rather, I was included again in the well-constructed, infinitely stretching Assyrian rows.

“Well, which final revolution do you want then? There isn’t a final one. Revolutions are infinite. Final things are for children because infinity scares children and it is important that children sleep peacefully at night . . .”